The general frowned. “The important question is, will it do the job?”
“With a competent operator, it sure looks like it.”
“Then what’s the difference? They have this damn thing, and we have bubkes. Now, ain’t that a kick in the eye.”
“Yessir. In fact, I’d say that was a serious mule kick.”
Henze nodded soberly. “So get it out of my eye, Colonel.”
“I’ll do my best, General.”
“Do better. I’m going to have my Deputy Commander at NATO—that’s General La Porte to you—get in touch. He’s a Frenchman. Their military is naturally concerned. Since this is their country, the White House wants to keep them feeling happy, but not give them any more than we absolutely have to, understand? La Porte has already been sniffing around about you and Dr. Zellerbach. I get the impression he senses he’s being left out of the loop everywhere—that’s the French again. I told him you’re here as a friend of Dr. Zellerbach, but I can see he’s skeptical. He’s heard about that little fracas at the Pompidou Hospital, so be prepared for a bunch of personal questions, but stick to your story.” Henze crossed to the door, opened it, and held out his hand. “Keep in touch. Whatever you need, call. Sergeant Matthias over there will walk you out.”
Smith shook the iron hand. Out in the corridor, the short, stocky sergeant was not happy to leave his post. He opened his mouth to argue with the general—a career master sergeant, for sure—but caught his boss’s eye and thought better of it.
Without a word, he escorted Smith down the stairs and past the concierge, who was smoking a Gitane behind her counter. As Smith passed, he spotted the butt of a 9mm pistol in the waistband of her skirt. Someone was taking no chances with the security around General Carlos Henze, U.S.A.
The sergeant stopped at the door, watching until Smith walked safely across the courtyard, through the archway that led to the street, and on out to the sidewalk. Smith paused beside a tree and gazed all around at the thick traffic, the few pedestrians…and his heart seemed to stop. He whirled.
He had caught a glimpse of a face in the backseat of a taxi as it turned from the street to the courtyard. Chilled, Smith counted to five and slipped back around to where he could get a view of the pension’s entrance through bushes.
Although the fellow wore a hat, Smith had recognized the dark features, the thick mustache, and now he recognized the lean figure as well. It was the fake orderly who had gone to the hospital to kill Marty. The same man who had knocked Smith unconscious. He had just reached the pension’s door. The same door through which Smith had left. The sergeant was still standing there. He stepped politely aside to let the killer enter. An utter professional, the sergeant looked protectively around, stepped back, and closed the door.
Chapter Seven
A heavy spring twilight settled like a darkening blanket on Seine-St-Denis on the north side of Paris, beyond the boulevard Périphérique. Smith paid his taxi driver and got out, smelling the metallic odor of ozone. The warm air was close, almost stifling with humidity, threatening rain.
Pausing on the sidewalk, he jammed his hands into his trench-coat pockets and studied a narrow, three-story beige brick apartment building. This was the address Mike Kerns had given him for Thérèse Chambord. The place was quaint, picturesque, with a peaked roof and decorative stonework, and it stood in a row of similar structures that had probably been constructed in the late fifties or early sixties. Her building appeared to be divided into three apartments, one to a floor. There were lights on in windows in each story.
He turned and surveyed the street, where cars were parked with two wheels up on the curbs in the French way. A sporty Ford cruised past, its headlights shooting funnels of white light into the dusk. The block was short, porch lights and street lamps glowed, and at the end, near an elevated rail service, rose an ultramodern, eight-story hotel of poured concrete, also painted beige, perhaps to blend in with the lower apartment buildings.
Wary, Smith turned on his heel and walked to the hotel. He stood in the lobby a half hour, cautiously watching through the glass walls, but no one followed him onto the street or into the hotel. No one went into or left Thérèse Chambord’s building either.
He searched through the hotel until he found a service entrance that opened onto a cross street. He slipped out and hurried to the corner. Peering around, he saw no sign of surveillance at the lobby entrance or anywhere else in the neighborhood near Thérèse Chambord’s apartment. There were few, if any, places to hide, except for the cars parked on both sides. But all appeared empty. With a nod to himself, he moved briskly back to Mlle. Chambord’s address, still surveying all around.
In the recessed entryway, there was a white calling card with her name engraved on it, slid into the address slot for the third floor. He rang her bell and announced his name and purpose.
He rode the elevator up, and when it opened, she was standing in her open doorway, dressed in a slim white evening suit, a high-necked, off-white silk blouse, and high-heeled, ivory pumps. It was as if she were an Andy Warhol painting, white on white, with a violent and focusing touch of blood-red in a pair of long, dangling earrings and again at her full lips. Then there was the contrast of her hair, satin black, suspended in an ebony cloud above her shoulders, theatrical and appealing. She was an actress all right. Still, her dramatic flair could also be the simple reflex of talent and experience.
A large black handbag hung over her left shoulder as if she were about to go out. He walked toward her.
She spoke flawless English, no trace of an accent. “I don’t know what I can tell you about my father, or that poor man in the hospital they say might’ve been in his lab with him when…when the bomb exploded, Mr…. Smith, is it?”
“Dr. Jon Smith, yes. Can you give me ten minutes? Dr. Zellerbach is a very old and close friend. We grew up together.”
She studied her watch, biting her lower lip with small, incredibly white teeth, as she calculated in her head. At last she nodded. “All right, ten minutes. Come in. I have a performance tonight, but I’ll forgo a few minutes of yoga.”
The apartment was not what he expected from the building’s quaint facade. Two walls were composed entirely of glass, giving it a very modern feel. On a third wall, tall glass doors opened onto a wraparound balcony with a railing of stark, geometric wrought-iron patterns.
On the other hand, the rooms were large but not enormous, with elegant period furniture from Louis Quatorze to Second Empire, haphazardly mixed and heavily packed into the room in the Parisian fashion that never seemed cluttered and somehow ended up being totally, and improbably, harmonious. Smith glimpsed two bedrooms through half-open doors as well as a small but efficient kitchen. Regal, warm, comfortable, and contemporary.
“Please.” Her swift glance looked him up and down, and she motioned to a sturdy Second Empire love seat.
He smiled. She had weighed him in that glance and seated him accordingly. She leaned back in a more delicate Louis Quinze armchair. At a distance, standing in the doorway, she had seemed tall, a large and imposing woman, but once she was up close and seated, he realized she was barely five foot six. It was her presence that was large. She filled a doorway and a room. He guessed that onstage she could appear any size she wanted, as well as coarse or delicate, young or old. She projected an image that was larger than she, a sense of self that could control a stage as it did a living room.
He thanked her and asked, “Did you know Marty—Dr. Zellerbach—was working with your father?”
“Not for sure, no. My father and I were close, but we lived such busy and separate lives that we didn’t see each other as much as we would’ve liked. We talked often on the telephone, though, and I recall he mentioned once he’d gotten the oddest and most wonderful collaborator—an eccentric recluse from America who suffered from an obscure autistic disorder. But the fellow was also a computer genius. He implied that this Dr. Z, as he called him, had simply walked in one morning, fresh from the a
irport, and volunteered to be part of the research. When Dad realized who he was, and what he could do, he showed him everything. Dr. Z was soon advancing Dad’s work with the most original innovations. But that’s all I know about your friend.” She added, “I’m sorry.”
She was sorry. Smith could hear it in her voice. Sorry for Marty, for her father, for herself, and for Smith. It was in her eyes, too, the impact of her father’s shocking disappearance, the conclusion that it must mean he had been killed. An impact that left her walking in a mental limbo neither in the present nor in the past, but suspended between.
He saw pain in her eyes. “It’s a lot harder for you,” he said. “At least Marty has a good chance.”
“Yes.” She gave a vague nod. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Did your father say anything that led you to think someone might’ve wanted to murder him? Someone whom he was afraid might try to steal his work?”
“No. As I said, Dr. Smith, we saw each other infrequently, but even less so these last twelve months. In fact, we talked on the telephone less often, too. He was deeply immersed in his lab.”
“Did you know what he was working on?”
“Yes, the DNA computer. Everyone knew what the project was. He hated secrets in science. He always said there was no place for such ego-centered nonsense.”
“From what I’ve heard, that was true up until last year. Any idea what happened to change him?”
“No.” There was no hesitation.
“What about new friends? Women? Envious colleagues? A need for money?”
She almost smiled. “Women? No, I think not. Of course, a child, especially a daughter, never knows for certain, but my father barely had time for my mother when she was alive, even though he was devoted to her. She knew that, and it enabled her to put up with her giant rival—his laboratory. Dad was, as you Americans would say, a workaholic. He had no need for money and never even spent his large salary. He had few friends, only colleagues. None was new or particularly envious that I knew about. But then, they had no reason to be. All his associates had great reputations of their own.”
Smith believed her. The profile was prevalent among world-class scientists, especially the workaholic part. Enormous envy was unusual—their egos were far too big to envy anyone. Compete, yes. Competition was fierce, and nothing delighted them more than the false starts, wrong lines of reasoning, and errors of their rivals. But if a competitor got ahead on the same project, they would be far more likely to applaud—and then go to work improving on the other person’s success.
He asked, “When you did talk to him, was there a hint he was close to the goal? A working prototype?”
She shook her head, and the cloud of long black hair resettled on her shoulders. “No. I’d remember that.”
“How about your intuition? You say you and he were close.”
She thought about it long enough to glance nervously at her watch. “There was a sense about him…a feeling of elation the last time we had lunch. We were at a bistro near the Pasteur.”
“When?”
“Oh, perhaps three weeks ago, probably less.” She looked at the watch again and stood up. “I really must go.” She smiled at him, a bold, direct smile. “Would you like to come to the theater tonight? See the performance and perhaps talk over dinner later?”
Smith smiled in return. “I’d like nothing better, but not tonight. Rain check, as we Americans say?”
She chuckled. “You’ll have to tell me the derivation of that phrase sometime.”
“It’ll be my pleasure.”
“Do you have a car?”
Smith admitted he did not.
“May I drive you? I’ll take you wherever you want.” She locked the apartment door behind them, and they rode down in the elevator together.
In the intimate space, she smelled of spring lilacs. At the apartment building’s front door, Smith pushed it open and gallantly held it.
In appreciation, Thérèse Chambord gave him a dazzling smile of perfect white teeth. “Merci beaucoup.” She walked through.
Smith watched her step into the dark night, elegant and composed in her white evening suit. It was one of those moments of personal enjoyment that he would not have minded lasting. He repressed a sigh, smiled at himself, and started to follow. He felt the motion before it actually registered. The door slammed back into him. Hard. Caught completely off guard, he skidded back and landed awkwardly on the floor.
Outside in the night somewhere, Thérèse Chambord screamed.
He yanked out his Sig Sauer, jumped back up to his feet, and rammed into the door, knocking it aside as if it were not there at all.
He hit the dark sidewalk running, looking everywhere for Thérèse. Beneath his feet, glass crunched. His head jerked up. Above him, the entry lights were shattered, and out along the curb, the street lamps had also been shot out. Whoever they were, they were thorough. They must have used silencers, or he would have heard the noise.
Gathering rain clouds blocked all moonlight and star-shine. The whole street was dark, full of impenetrable shadows.
As his heart thudded against his ribs, Smith spotted four figures. From ski masks to athletic shoes, they were clothed completely in black and therefore almost invisible. They were heaving and wrestling a violently resisting Thérèse Chambord into an equally black van. She was a streak of white, tape across her mouth, as she valiantly tried to fight them off.
He altered course and put on a burst of speed, heading for the van and Thérèse. Faster, he told himself. Faster!
But as he neared, a single, silenced gunshot made a loud pop in the quiet night. A bullet whined past so close that it singed his cheek. His ear rang, and a for a long moment he thought his head was going to crack open with pain. He blinked furiously as he dove to the street, made himself roll and then spring up, the Sig Sauer poised out in front of him, ready to fire. A wave of nausea wracked him. Had he reinjured his head?
He blinked harder, forced himself to concentrate, and saw they had forced Thérèse Chambord into the van. He ran again, his feet pounding, fury shaking him. He raised his Sig Sauer and fired a warning shot into the ground at the feet of one of the men who were trying to kidnap Thérèse.
“Stop!” Smith bellowed. “Stop, or I’ll kill you all!” His head throbbed. He kept blinking his eyes.
Two of the attackers spun expertly, crouched, and squeezed off rounds, forcing Smith to hit the ground again.
As he raised up, aiming the Sig Sauer, the pair leaped into the van next to Thérèse, while the third jumped into the passenger seat. The man in the passenger seat struggled to close the door as the van ground gears and sped backward out of the driveway. The side door was still open.
Smith aimed for the tires, squeezing off careful rounds. But there was a fourth man. As he ran alongside the van, preparing to leap inside through the open sliding door, the man fired back at Smith.
Two of the kidnapper’s shots bit into the pavement, sending chunks of concrete thudding into the back of Smith’s head. He swore, rolled away, and fired. His bullet hit the fourth man in the back just as he had turned to jump inside the van. Blood sprayed out into the dark air, and the man’s body arched in a bow. His hand slid off where he gripped the door handle, and he fell screaming as the rear wheel powered over him.
Tires screeching, the van sped on out into the street and away. Smith chased after it, panting. As his feet hammered, his muscles began to ache. He ran and ran until his heart thundered and the van turned the corner and disappeared, a pair of red taillights the only sign that it existed and had not been part of some twisted nightmare.
He stopped and leaned over, gasping for breath. He propped his empty hand and his gun hand on his thighs as he tried to fill his lungs. He hurt all over. And Thérèse Chambord was gone. At last he caught his breath. He filled his lungs and stood upright in a pool of yellow lamplight. His gun hand dangled at his side. He closed his eyes and inhaled, mentally testing his head. His m
ind. It did not hurt, and he was no longer dizzy.
He was beginning to think he did have a mild concussion from the gunman this morning at the hospital. He would have to be more careful, but he was not going to stop.
Cursing, he ran back to where the fourth attacker lay facedown and unmoving on the dark Seine-St-Denis driveway, blood oozing out beneath. Smith checked him. He was dead.
Sighing, he searched the man’s pockets. He found French coins, a wicked-looking clasp knife, a package of Spanish cigarettes, and a wad of loose facial tissues. No wallet, no identification. The dead man’s pistol lay on the pavement near the curb. It was a battered, old-model Glock, but well oiled and cared for. He examined it, focusing on the butt. A leather skin had been shrunk around the original grip, for comfort or silence, or maybe just as a mark of individuality. Smith looked closer. A design had been tooled faintly into the leather: It was a spreading tree with three points of flame rising over the base of the trunk, consuming it.
Smith was studying it when police klaxons began to wail in the distance. He lifted his head, listening. He must not be found here. Pocketing the dead man’s Glock, he hurried away.
The Hôtel Gilles was on the Left Bank, not far from the colorful shops and restaurants of the boulevard Saint-Germain. A discreet little hotel, it was where he had stayed many times when visiting Paris. He entered the tiny lobby and headed to the nineteenth-century registration desk, set in a hand-crafted, wrought-iron gilt cage. With every step, he worried more about Thérèse Chambord.
The manager greeted him with a Gallic cry of recognition, an emotional hug, and a stream of rapid English. “Colonel Smith! So much delight! I am without speech. You will be with us for long?”
“It’s good to see you, too, Hector. I may be here for weeks, but I’ll be in and out. Keep the room in my name whether I’m here or not until I officially check out. Okay?”
“It is done. I refrain from examining the reservations, they are as nothing for you.”