Somewhere far away he heard Klein reply, “Yes. The compact has been broken.”
Epilogue
According to the media reports, General Frank Richardson and NSA Deputy-Director Anthony Price were killed in a tragic crash due to faulty brake lines. Richardson was given a warrior’s burial at Arlington National Cemetery while Price was interred in his family’s plot in New Hampshire. The president, citing overseas commitments, was absent on both occasions.
Subsequent reports dealt with the crash of a private jet over the Pacific Ocean. The plane, belonging to the Bauer-Zermatt pharmaceutical company, went down six hundred miles west of Los Angeles on its way to the Big Island of Hawaii. There was only one passenger onboard: Dr. Karl Bauer.
President Castilla led the nation in mourning its greatest space tragedy since the Challenger disaster. Investigators determined that the explosion onboard the shuttle Discovery was linked to fuel-pump problems during the craft’s descent into Edwards Air Force Base.
“What will happen to Megan?” Randi Russell asked.
She stood beside Smith in a small cemetery called Tsarsoye, overlooking Moscow and the river.
“She’s not Megan anymore,” Smith replied. “She has a new name, a new face, new identity.” He paused. “She survived, but in the end she was counted among the dead. There was no choice. She had to give up her old life if the secret of what really happened was to remain intact.”
Randi nodded. Through the CIA grapevine she had heard rumors that one or more of the shuttle astronauts had survived. But after a while, the whispers died away. When Smith had arrived in Moscow, she turned to him for the truth. Megan Olson had been a longtime friend of Sophia’s…and of hers as well. Randi felt she had a right to know if Megan was still alive somewhere.
“Thank you for telling me about her,” she said.
Smith looked over the rows of headstones. “Without your help, everything would have ended differently,” he said softly.
Smith stepped forward and laid flowers on Yuri Danko’s grave.
“Without the brave, where would any of us be?”
Read on for
an excerpt from
ROBERT LUDLUM’S
THE PARIS OPTION
by Robert Ludlum and Gayle Lynds—the next
electrifying installment in
the Covert-One Series…
PROLOGUE
Paris, France
Monday, May 5
The first warm winds of spring gusted along Paris’s narrow back streets and broad boulevards, calling winter-weary residents out into the night. They thronged the sidewalks, strolling, linking arms, filling the chairs around outdoor café tables, everywhere smiling and chatting. Even the tourists stopped complaining—this was the enchanting Paris promised in their travel guides.
Occupied with their glasses of vin ordinaire under the stars, the spring celebrators on the bustling rue de Vaugirard did not notice the large black Renault van with darkened windows that left the busy street for the boulevard Pasteur. The van circled around the block, down the rue du Dr. Roux, and at last entered the quiet rue des Volontaires, where the only action was of a young couple kissing in a recessed doorway.
The black van rolled to a stop outside L’Institut Pasteur, cut its engine, and turned off its headlights. It remained there, silent, until the young couple, oblivious in their bliss, disappeared inside a building across the street.
The van’s doors clicked open, and four figures emerged clothed completely in black, their faces hidden behind balaclavas. Carrying compact Uzi submachine guns and wearing backpacks, they slipped through the night, almost invisible. A figure materialized from the shadows of the Pasteur Institute and guided them onto the grounds, while the street behind them remained quiet, deserted.
Out on the rue de Vaugirard, a saxophonist had begun to play, his music throaty and mellow. The night breeze carried the music, the laughter, and the scent of spring flowers in through the open windows of the multitude of buildings at the Pasteur. The famed research center was home to nearly three thousand scientists, technicians, students, and administrators, and many still labored into the night.
The intruders had not expected so much activity. On high alert, they avoided the paths, listening, watching the windows and grounds, staying close to trees and structures as the sounds of the spring-time gaiety from the rue de Vaugirard increased.
But in his laboratory, all outside activity was lost on Dr. Émile Chambord, who sat working alone at his computer keyboard on the otherwise unoccupied second floor of his building. His lab was large, as befitted one of the institute’s most distinguished researchers. It boasted several prize pieces of equipment, including a robotic gene-chip reader and a scanning-tunneling microscope, which measured and moved individual atoms. But more personal and far more critical to him tonight were the files near his left elbow and, on his other side, a spiral-bound notebook, which was open to the page on which he was meticulously recording data.
His fingers paused impatiently on the keyboard, which was connected to an odd-looking apparatus that appeared to have more in common with an octopus than with IBM or Compaq. Its nerve center was contained in a temperature-controlled glass tray, and through its sides, one could see silver-blue gel packs immersed like translucent eggs in a jelly, foam-like substance. Ultra-thin tubing connected the gel packs to one another, while atop them sat a lid. Where it interfaced with the gel packs was a coated metallic plate. Brooding above it all stood an iMac-sized machine with a complicated control panel on which lights blinked like impulsive little eyes. From this machine, more tubing sprouted, feeding into the pack array, while wires and cables connected both the tray and the machine to the keyboard, a monitor, a printer, and assorted other electronic devices.
Dr. Chambord keyboarded in commands, watched the monitor, read the dials on the iMac-sized machine, and continually checked the temperature of the gel packs in the tray. He recorded data in his notebook as he worked, until he suddenly sat back and studied the entire array. Finally, he gave an abrupt nod and typed a paragraph of what appeared to be gibberish—letters, numbers, and symbols—and activated a timer.
His foot tapped nervously, and his fingers drummed the lab bench. But in precisely twelve seconds, the printer came to life and spat out a sheet of paper. Controlling his excitement, he stopped the timer and made a note. At last he allowed himself to snatch up the printout.
As he read, he smiled. “Mais, oui.”
Dr. Chambord took a deep breath and typed small clusters of commands. Sequences appeared on his screen so fast that his fingers could not keep up. He muttered inaudibly as he worked. Moments later, he tensed, leaned closer to the monitor, and whispered in French, “…one more…one…more…there!”
He laughed aloud, triumphant, and turned to look at the clock on the wall. It read 9.55 P.M. He recorded the time and stood up.
His pale face glowing, he stuffed his files and notebook into a battered briefcase and took his coat from the old-fashioned Empire wardrobe near the door. As he put on his hat, he glanced again at the clock and returned to his contraption. Still standing, he keyboarded another short series of commands, watched the screen for a time, and finally shut everything down. He walked briskly to the door, opened it onto the corridor, and observed that it was dim and deserted. For a moment, he had a sense of foreboding.
Then he shook it off. Non, he reminded himself: This was a moment to be savored, a great achievement. Smiling broadly, he stepped into the shadowy hall. Before he could close the door, the four black-clothed figures from the van surrounded him.
Thirty minutes later, the wiry leader of the intruders stood watch as his three companions finished loading the black van on the rue des Volontaires. As soon as the side door closed, he appraised the quiet street once more and hopped into the passenger seat. He nodded to the driver, and the van glided away toward the crowded rue de Vaugirard, where it disappeared in traffic.
The lighthearted revelry on the
sidewalks and in the cafés and tabacs continued. More street musicians arrived, and the vin ordinaire flowed like the Seine. Then, without warning, the building that housed Dr. Chambord’s laboratory on the legendary Pasteur campus exploded in a rolling sheet of fire. The earth shook as flames seemed to burst from every window and combust up toward the black night sky in a red-and-yellow eruption of terrible heat visible for miles around. As bricks, sparks, glass, and ash rained down, the throngs on the surrounding streets screamed in terror and ran for shelter.
Chapter One
Diego Garcia Island, Indian Ocean
At 0654 hours at the vital U.S. Army, Air Force, and Naval installation on Diego Garcia, the officer commanding the shift at the control tower was gazing out the windows at the warm blue waters of Emerald Bay on the lagoon side of the U-shaped atoll and wishing he were off duty. His eyes blinked slowly, and his mind wandered. The U.S. Navy Support Facility, the host command for this strategically located, operationally invaluable base, kept all of them busy with its support of sea, air, and surface flight operations. The payback was the island itself, a remote place of sweeping beauty, where the easy rhythms of routine duty lulled ambition.
He was seriously contemplating a long swim the instant he was off duty when, one minute later, at 0655 hours, the control tower lost contact with the base’s entire airborne fleet of B-1B, B-52, AWACS, P-3 Orion, and U-2 aircraft, on a variety of missions that included hot-button reconnaissance and antisubmarine and surveillance support.
The tropical lagoon vanished from his mind. He bawled orders, pushed a technician from one of the consoles, and started diagnostics. Everyone’s attention was riveted on the dials, readouts, and screens as they battled to regain contact.
Nothing helped. At 0658, in a controlled panic, he alerted the base’s commanding officer.
At 0659, the base’s commanding officer informed the Pentagon.
Then, oddly, inexplicably, at 0700, five minutes after they had mysteriously disappeared, all communications with the aircraft returned at the precise same second.
Fort Collins, Colorado
Tuesday, May 6
As the sun rose over the vast prairie to the east, the rustic Foothills Campus of Colorado State University glowed with golden light. Here in a state-of-the-art laboratory in a utilitarian, nondescript building, scientist Jonathan “Jon” Smith, M.D., peered into a binocular microscope and gently moved a finely drawn glass needle into position. He placed an imperceptible drop of fluid onto a flat disc so small that it was no larger than the head of a pin. Under the high-resolution microscope, the plate bore a striking—and seemingly impossible—resemblance to a circuit board.
Smith made an adjustment, bringing the image more clearly into focus. “Good,” he muttered and smiled. “There’s hope.” An expert in virology and molecular biology, Smith was also an army medical officer—in fact, a lieutenant colonel—temporarily stationed here amid the towering pines and rolling foothills of Colorado at this Centers for Disease Control (CDC) facility. On unofficial loan from the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID), his assignment was to continue basic research into evolving viruses.
Except that viruses had nothing to do with the delicate work he was watching through the microscope this dawn. USAMRIID was the army’s foremost military medical research facility, while the CDC was its highly touted civilian counterpart. Usually they were vigorous rivals. But not here, not now, and the work being done in this laboratory had only a peripheral connection to medicine.
Lt. Col. Jon Smith was part of a little-known CDC-USAMRIID research team in a worldwide race to create the world’s first molecular—or DNA—computer, therefore forging an unprecedented bond between life science and computational science. The concept intrigued the scientist in Smith and challenged his expertise in the field of microbiology. In fact, what had brought him into his lab at this ungodly early hour was what he hoped would turn out to be a breakthrough in the molecular circuits based on special organic polymers that he and the other researchers had been working night and day to create.
If successful, their brand-new DNA circuits could be reconfigured many times, taking the joint team one step closer to rendering silicon, the key ingredient in the wiring of current computer circuit boards, obsolete. Which was just as well. The computer industry was near the limits of silicon technology anyway, whereas biological compounds offered a logical—although difficult—next step. When DNA computers could be made workable, they would be vastly more powerful than the general public could conceive, which was where the Army’s, and USAMRIID’s, interests came in.
Smith was fascinated by the research, and as soon as he had heard rumors of the secret joint CDC-USAMRIID project, he had arranged to be invited aboard, eagerly throwing himself into this technological competition where the future might be only an atom away.
“Hey, Jon.” Larry Schulenberg, another of the project’s top cell biologists, rolled into the empty laboratory in his wheelchair. “Did you hear about the Pasteur?”
Smith looked up from his microscope. “Hell, I didn’t even hear you open the door.” Then he noticed Larry’s somber face. “The Pasteur,” he repeated. “Why? What’s happened?” Like USAMRIID and the CDC, the Pasteur Institute was a world-class research complex.
In his fifties, Schulenberg was a tan, energetic man with a shaved head, one small diamond earring, and shoulders that were thickly muscled from years of using crutches. His voice was grim. “Some kind of explosion. It’s bad. People were killed.” He peeled a sheet from the stack of printouts on his lap.
Jon grabbed the paper. “My God. How did it happen? A lab accident?”
“The French police don’t think so. Maybe a bomb. They’re checking out former employees.” Larry wheeled his chair around and headed back to the door. “Figured you’d want to know. Jim Thrane at Porton Down emailed me, so I downloaded the story. I’ve got to go see who else is here. Everyone will want to know.”
“Thanks.” As the door closed, Smith read quickly. Then, his stomach sinking, he reread….
Labs at Pasteur Institute Destroyed
Paris—A massive explosion killed at least 12 people and shattered a three-story building housing offices and laboratories at the venerable Pasteur Institute at 10:52 p.m. here last night. Four survivors in critical condition were found. The search continues in the rubble for other victims.
Fire investigators say they have found evidence of explosives. No person or group has claimed responsibility. The probe is continuing, including checking into recently released employees.
The identified survivors include Martin Zellerbach, Ph.D., a computer scientist from the United States, who suffered head injuries.
Smith’s heart seemed to stop. Martin Zellerbach, Ph.D., a computer scientist from the United States, who suffered head injuries. Marty? His old friend’s face flashed into Jon’s mind as he gripped the printout. The crooked smile, the intense green eyes that could twinkle one moment and skitter off, lost in thought or perhaps outer space, the next. A small, rotund man who walked awkwardly, as if he had never really learned how to move his legs, Marty had Asperger’s Syndrome, a rare disorder at the less severe end of the autism spectrum. His symptoms included consuming obsessions, high intelligence, crippling lack of social and communications skills, and an outstanding talent in one particular area—mathematics and electronics. He was, in fact, a computer genius.
A worried ache settled in Smith’s throat. Head injuries. How badly was Marty hurt? The news story did not say. Smith pulled out his cell phone, which had special scrambler capabilities, and dialed Washington.
What was the shy computer wizard doing in Paris?
The last time Marty consented to leave was eighteen months ago, and it was far from gentle persuasion that convinced him. It was a hail of bullets and the beginning of the near catastrophe of the Hades virus that had caused the death of Smith’s fiancée, Sophia Russell.
The phone at Smith’s e
ar began to ring in distant Washington, D.C., and at the same time he heard what sounded like a cell phone ringing just outside his laboratory door. He had an eerie sense….
“Hello?” It was the voice of Nathaniel Frederick “Fred” Klein.
Smith turned abruptly and stared at his door. “Come in, Fred.”
The chief of the extremely secret Covert-One intelligence and counterintelligence troubleshooting organization stepped into the laboratory, quiet as a ghost, still holding his cell phone. “I should’ve guessed you would’ve heard and call me.” He turned off the phone.
“About Mart? Yes, I just read about the Pasteur. What do you know, and what are you doing here?”
Without answering, Klein marched past the gleaming test tubes and equipment that occupied the line of lab benches, which soon would be occupied by other CDC-USAMRIID researchers and assistants. He stopped at Smith’s bench, lifted his left hip, and sat on the edge of the stone top, arms crossed, face grim. Around six feet tall, he was dressed as usual in one of his rumpled suits, this one brown. His skin was pale; it rarely saw the sun for any length of time. The great outdoors was not where Fred Klein operated. With his receding hairline, wire-rimmed glasses, and high, intelligent forehead, he could be anything from book publisher to counterfeiter.
He contemplated Smith, and his voice was compassionate as he said, “Your friend’s alive, but he’s in a coma. I won’t lie to you, Colonel. The doctors are worried.”
For Smith, the dark pain of Sophia’s death could still weigh heavily on him, and Marty’s injury was bringing it all back. But Sophia was gone, and what mattered now was Marty. “What the hell was he doing at the Pasteur?”
Klein took his pipe from his pocket and brought out his tobacco pouch. “Yes, we wondered about that, too.
“Let’s take a walk outside.” Klein pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and tamped tobacco into the pipe.