The Paris Option - Страница 77

Nearby stood the crumbled, skeletal ruins of a ninth-century Carolingian castle, which had been built on the site of a Prankish fort, which in turn was on the remains of the fortified Roman camp that had preceded it. The history of this land, its structures, and his family were entwined. They were the history of France itself, including its rulers in the early days, and it never failed to fill him with pride and a sense of responsibility.

As a child, he longed for his periodic visits to the castle. On nights like these, he would eagerly close his eyes in sleep, hoping to dream of the bearded Prankish warrior Dagovic, honored in family lore as the first of the unbroken line that eventually became the La Portes. By the age of ten, he was poring over the family's Carolingian, Capetian, and illuminated medieval manuscripts, although he had yet to master Latin and Old French. He would hold the manuscripts reverently on his lap as his grandfather related the inspiring tales that had been handed down. La Porte and France, France and La Porte they had been the same, indistinguishable in his impressionable mind. As an adult, his belief had only strengthened.

"My General?" Darius Bonnard emerged through the tower door onto the high parapet. "Dr. Chambord says he will be ready in an hour. It's time for us to begin."

"Any news of Jon Smith and his associates?"

"No, sir." Bonnard's firm chin lifted, but his gaze was troubled. He was bareheaded, his short, clipped blond hair almost invisible in the moonlight. "Not since the clinic." He thought again of the murder of his man in the underground garage.

"Unfortunate that we lost one," La Porte said, as if reading his mind. But then, good commanders were all alike in that respect. Their men came second only to the mission itself. He made his voice kind, magnanimous, as he continued, "When this is over, I'll write the family personally to express my gratitude for their sacrifice."

"It's no sacrifice," Bonnard assured him. "The goal is noble. It's worth any price."

On the Highway to Bousmelet-sur-Seine

Once they were safely out of Pans and certain they were not being followed, Peter stopped the car at a large petrol station. In the bright fluorescent lights, Jon, Peter, and Randi ran to phone booths to report their suspicions about La Porte, Chambord, the castle, and the strike to their bosses. They had learned nothing from the pockets of the man whom Peter had shot. He had carried no identification, just cigarettes, money, and a package of MM's. But on one of his fingers had been a telling detail a ring with the insignia of the French Foreign Legion.

Jon arrived first and lifted the phone to his ear. There was no dial tone. He dropped in coins. No dial tone again. He tapped the tongue of the phone, but still the line gave no response, just as there had been no response from the phone in Marty's room. Puzzled, beginning to worry, he stepped away. Soon Peter and Randi joined him.

"Did you get a line out?" But even as he asked the question, Jon knew the answer from their concerned faces.

Randi shook her blond head. "My line was dead."

"Mine, too," Peter said. "Silent as a graveyard at four a.m. Don't like this one bit."

"Let's get daring." Randi took out her cell phone, turned it on, and entered a phone number. As she lifted it to listen, her face seemed to crumble. She shook her head angrily. "Nothing. What's going on!"

"Best if we could report in," Peter said. "A bit of help from our various agencies would be pleasant."

"Personally," Randi said, "I wouldn't object if someone high up sent an army battalion or three to meet us at La Porte's castle."

"Know what you mean." Jon trotted toward the station's shop. Through the plate-glass window he could see a clerk inside. Jon entered. Hanging from a wall was a television set. It was not turned on, but a radio was playing. As he approached the clerk, who was working behind the counter, the music stopped, and an announcer identified the local station.

Jon told the youth in French that he had tried to use the telephone outside. "It's not working."

The young man shrugged, unsurprised. "I know it. Lots of people have been complaining. They stop here from all over, and they don't have phone reception either. TV's off, too. I can get local stations on it and the radio, but nothing else. Cable's not working. Awful boring, you know."

"How long have you had the problem?"

"Oh, since about nine o'clock. Almost an hour now."

Jon's face showed no change in expression. Nine o'clock was when Marty's phone line in Paris had died. "Hope you get it fixed soon."

"Don't know how. Without the phones working, there's no way to report it."

Jon hurried back through to the car, where Randi had just finished pumping gas. Peter was opening the trunk, and Marty was standing beside him, looking a little giddy as he stared all around. He was staying off his meds, with the hope that they would find the molecular prototype and he would be in creative shape to stop whatever Chambord was setting in motion.

Jon told them what he had discovered.

"Emile!" Marty said instantly. "That despicable rat! Oh, dear. I didn't want to mention it, but I was very worried. This means it's finally happened. He's shut down all communications, wireless and regular."

"But won't that backfire on him?" Randi asked. "If we can't get online, how can he?"

"He has the DNA computer," Marty said simply. "He can talk to the satellites. Open a quick window to use them if he needs to."

"Must get a move on," Peter said. "Come here. Choose your poison."

Marty looked down into the trunk and jumped back with surprise. "Peter! It's an arsenal."

They gathered around. Inside was a polyglot cache of rifles, pistols, ammunition, and other supplies.

"Hell, Peter," Jon said. "You've got a whole armaments depot in here."

"Be prepared is my motto." Peter removed a pistol. "Old warhorse, you see. We learn a few things."

Jon already had the Uzi, so he chose a pistol, too.

Marty shook his head vehemently. "No."

Randi ignored him for now. "Do you have anything like a CIA climbing rig and air gun, Peter? That castle wall looked high."

"The very thing." Peter showed her a twin of the rig she had gotten from Barcelona CIA. "Borrowed it some time back, forgot to return it, tsk-tsk."

They climbed quickly back into the car, and Peter peeled it away, heading toward the highway again that would take them west toward the castle, where they fervently hoped they would find General La Porte and the DNA computer.

In the backseat, Marty was wringing his hands. "I assume this means we're on our own."

"We can't count on any help," Jon agreed.

"I'm very nervous about this, Jon," Marty said.

"Good that you are," Peter told him. "Keeps one alert. Buck up though. It could be worse. You could be sitting right smack in the middle of whatever unfortunate piece of terra firma those maniacs have targeted."

Outside Bousmelet-sur-Seine

Emile Chambord hesitated at the heavy, iron-studded door to the room where his daughter was confined. No matter how much he had tried to explain his views to Thérèse, she had refused to listen. This pained Chambord. He not only loved Thérèse, he respected her, admired her work and her struggle to excel at her art, without thought of financial reward. She had steadfastly resisted all invitations to go to Hollywood. She was a stage actress with a vision of truth that had nothing to do with popular success. He recalled an American editor saying, "A good writer is a rich writer, and a rich writer is a good writer." Substitute "actor" or "scientist" and one saw the shallow ethos of America, under which, until now, the world was doomed to live.

He sighed, took a deep breath, and unlocked the door. He stepped inside quietly, not bothering to lock it again.

Wrapped in a blanket, Thérèse was sitting at the narrow window across the small room in one of the high-backed baronial chairs that La Porte favored. Because the general prized historical authenticity, the castle offered few amenities beyond thick rugs on the stone floors and tapestries hanging from the stone walls. A fire was alight in the big fireplace, but its warmth did little to offset the cold that seemed to radiate from every surface in the cavelike chamber. The air smelled dank and musty.

Thérèse did not even glance at him. She gazed steadily out the window at the stars. He joined her there, but he looked down. The ground was awash in the moon's snowy glow, showing the dark grass on the filled-in moat and, beyond that, the rolling Norman farms and woodlands that spread out and around. A shadowy orchard of old, gnarled apple trees hugged the castle.

He said, "It's nearly time, Thérèse. Almost midnight."

At last she looked up at him. "So midnight is when you do it. I'd hoped you'd come to your senses. That you were here to tell me you've refused to help those unconscionable men."

Chambord lost his temper. "Why can't you see that what we're doing will save us? We're offering a new dawn for Europe. The Americans are crushing us with their crass, cultural desert. They pollute our language, our ideas, our society. With them in charge, the world has no vision and little justice. They have only two values: How much can a man consume for the highest possible price, and how much can he produce for the least possible pay?" His upper lip curled in loathing.