The Paris Option - Страница 81

As the sentry smoked and yawned, Jon signaled the others again. They waited as he slid softly up behind the man and struck hard with the barrel of his Uzi. The guard dropped like a stone, unconscious. Peter and Jon dragged him into an empty room, gagged him, and tied him up with his own clothing and belt. But not before Randi thought to look and found an oversized iron key in his pocket. Jon appropriated the FAMAS assault rifle and extra ammunition, and they returned to the door that had been under guard.

Peter listened at it. "Someone's moving around inside," he whispered. He tried the door and shook his head. Locked. "They wouldn't guard Chambord."

"Unless it was for protection," Randi said.

"What would they protect him against?" Marty wondered.

"The Crescent Shield attack down below," Randi explained.

"Let's find out." Jon put the key into the lock. The lock had been freshly oiled and turned easily.

Randi pressed the door just wide enough and edged through. Peter slipped after her, while Jon and Marty stayed in the hall, guarding the rear.

Inside, the room was warmer than most, with a fire burning in a large fireplace. Furnished with an odd mixture of heavy medieval pieces and mundane modern, the small room appeared empty. Randi and Peter trained their weapons right and left, standing nearly back to back inside the doorway. Seeing no one, they advanced warily.

Thérèse Chambord arose like a white apparition from behind a long, massive chest of drawers, a heavy candlestick in her hand.

She said in surprised English, "Agent Russell?"

Randi demanded brusquely, "Where's your father? The DNA computer?"

"In the armory. I can take you." She put down the candlestick and hurried forward, tugging a blanket around her shoulders, still dressed stubbornly in her tattered white evening suit. Her bruised face was dirtier. "I heard gunfire. Was that you? Have you come to stop La Porte and my father?"

"Yes, but the gunfire isn't us. The Crescent Shield's outside."

"Oh, dear." Thérèse looked quickly around. "Jon? Is he"

Jon stepped into the room. "What time's the attack planned for?"

"Midnight. We don't have much time."

"Eight minutes," Jon agreed grimly. "Tell us what you know."

"From what I've overheard, and what my father hinted, they're going to shoot a missile at the United States. I don't know the exact target."

"That'll do for now. Here, take this."

He handed her a FAMAS assault rifle, and they ran from the room.

Air Force One, Aloft over Iowa

Inside the conference room, President Castilla listened to the steady throb of the four powerful jet engines and checked the clock on the wall. Set to the Naval Observatory Master clock, which was based on fifty-eight atomic clocks, it was phenomenally accurate to within ten nanoseconds. As the president stared at it, the numbers changed to 0552. When were the killers going to strike? The long day had worn them down, grinding nerves raw.

"So far, so good," he announced lightly to no one in particular, although the faces of his military and staff advisers were weary and anxious as they watched him.

"Yessir." Admiral Stevens Brose managed a wan smile. He cleared his throat as if he were finding it difficult to swallow. "We're prepared. STRATCOM is aloft, all our aircraft are on alert, and the new antimissile system's in place and ready to attack the instant there's a target. Everything's been done."

Samuel Castilla nodded. "Everything that can be done."

Through the hush that descended like a shroud over the long table, the National Security Adviser, Emily Powell-Hill, who carried the name of one of the greatest and most tragic Confederate generals of the Civil War, answered, "That's all anyone can do, Mr. President."

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chateau la Rouge, France

In the old armory with its ancestral swords, maces, and battle axes, General La Porte stood beside Emile Chambord, his large hands grasped behind his jacket, as he stared at the computer screen where rows of numbers scrolled. La Porte's broad face was intense, his immobile gaze focused, although he understood nothing that Chambord was doing.

"Is the Americans' antimissile system down yet?" he asked impatiently.

"Another minute." Chambord touched more keys. "Yes there we are. Got it." He leaned back, flushed and exultant. "One very annoying antimissile system shut off and locked up tight."

La Porte's face radiated pleasure. He nodded. Still, his mouth was set in a hard, grim line, and his voice was harsh and demanding: "Finish programming the missile, Doctor. I want it activated and ready to launch."

Chambord glanced up at La Porte and resumed working, although he felt uneasy. He decided that the great general was not merely impatient, he was agitated. Chambord understood impatience and respected it. After all, it arose from eagerness. But agitation was another matter. Something about the general had changed, or perhaps it had been there all along, and now that they were so close to success, the general was revealing himself.

* * *

Jon and Randi raised their heads from the tower stairwell and studied the landing outside the armory. The air was less ventilated here, full of the dank odors of mold and old stone that seemed to permeate the castle. In the dim lighting, anyone watching would not see them unless their eyes were drawn by the faintest of movements among the shadows.

Jon checked his watch. Seven minutes until midnight. Too little time.

Impatiently he studied the door to the armory, which Thérèse Chambord had described. It was about twenty feet away. Two soldiers guarded there, but they were unlike the bored, careless sentry at Thérèse's door. Alert and ready, they stood with their feet spread and their weapons two more stubby FAMAS assault rifles conveniently in their hands as they watched all around and glanced periodically back at the door. They would be a lot harder to surprise, and there could be more soldiers inside the armory.

Jon and Randi lowered themselves and ran down the steps. Outside the stairwell on the floor below, the others were gathered, waiting anxiously.

Jon described the layout for them. "The stairs continue circling up into the tower. The landing outside the armory is deep, about twenty feet. It's lit by electric lights, but there aren't enough of them. There are a lot of shadows."

"Any way to flank them?" Peter asked.

Randi answered, "No way to get behind them."

Her words were almost obliterated by a violent escalation of the distant gunfire. It sounded closer, loud and echoing, as if the Crescent Shield had finally broken through some important defense. Perhaps they had finally fought their way into the castle itself.

Jon continued, "From the way the two guards kept looking at the door to the armory upstairs, my guess is that the general is in there with Chambord."

"I agree," Randi said.

"Might be just Captain Bonnard," Peter said. "Or both."

"Someone has to be leading the resistance against the Crescent Shield," Randi said. "Captain Bonnard's the logical one to do that."

"Right," Peter said. "My big worry is those two guards could retreat inside and hold it all night. After all, it's an armory. Armories always had the best defense in a castle. Let's reconnoiter. We've got to find some way to get into that room without alarming them."

"It's six minutes to midnight," Randi said worriedly.

"Oh, dear!" Marty whispered.

With nods all around, they dashed along the corridor toward the moonlight of the far window and a cross corridor. There was movement ahead where the corridors met. Jon saw it just in time to save them from being discovered.

His whisper was a bark, "Down!"

Ahead, figures began to move through the intersection, two and three at a time. Moonlight illuminated their faces as they crossed. One shone like ebony.

"Abu Auda," Randi said in a low voice. "It's a small group. They're being quiet, but I can hear doors opening and closing. They're looking for someone or something."

"Mauritania," Jon decided.

"Yes, Mauritania," Randi agreed. "They're a cutting-out party to free Mauritania."

"But first they've got to find him," Peter said. "That's why they're checking rooms."

Jon paused. "This can work to our advantage. If there were a firefight, it'd bring La Porte and maybe all his other men who aren't already battling the Crescent Shield."

"Once they're gone, getting into the armory will be a cinch," Randi said.

Peter nodded. "Let's give the buggers a firefight."

With Marty following gamely, they ran on toward the intersection. Jon peered around the corner. Far down the hall, just before it turned, Abu Auda worked with what looked like picklocks to open a door, while his men guarded the corridor.

Jon whispered a description of what he saw. Then: "Abu Auda's pushing in the door. They're all busy with what's inside the room. Now's our chance." He gave them quick instructions, and they ran from their hiding places and into the shadowy passageway.

He and Randi knelt, while Peter, Marty, and Thérèse stood behind. They opened fire at the Crescent Shield terrorists.

The volley whined and slammed against the walls and ceiling. One terrorist fell with a scream. Abu Auda and the rest whirled, dropped flat across the corridor, and returned fire. Mauritania crawled from the room and into the hall. He grabbed the fallen man's weapon and joined in. The din reverberated and magnified along the stone passage.