Covert One 3 - The Paris Option (43 page)

Paris, France

Marty was awake, gratefully out of his hospital gown, and dressed in clothes Peter had brought back after making contact with MI6a pair of shapeless dark brown cord pants, a black cashmere turtleneck despite the warmth of the hospital room, athletic shoes with racing stripes along the sides, and his ubiquitous tan windbreaker. He looked himself up and down and pronounced himself appropriately attired for anything short of a formal dinner with the prime minister.

Randi had returned to the room, too, and the three friends wrestled with the issue foremost in their mindshow to find Jon. Without any formal agreement, they had simply decided that Jon was alive. Eyes sparkling, Marty volunteered to go off his meds and devote himself to solving the problem.

Randi agreed. “Good idea.”

“Sure you're up for it?” Peter questioned.

“Don't be a dolt, Peter.” Marty looked offended. “Does a mastodon have tusks? Does an algebraic equation require an equals sign? Gee.”

“Guess so,” Peter decided.

The room phone rang. Randi picked it up. It was her boss at Langley, Doug Kennedy, on the secure scrambled surface phone line. He was not encouraging. She listened, asked some pointed questions, and as soon as she hung up, she reported what he had learned: The ground assets in Algeria said there was little unusual activity of any kind, not even smugglers, except perhaps in Tunis, where a known smuggler's high-speed boat had left some five hours after the strike for an unspecified destination with a dozen or so men on board. One of the men, however, was reported to be a European or American. There had been no women among them, which pretty much ruled out Emile Chambord, who was certainly traveling with Theacute;regrave;se. He would not have left her, or at least Randi and Marty did not think he would. Peter was not so sure.

Marty made a face. “No one like Emile abandons a child, you ridiculous man.”

“She's pushing forty,” Peter noted dryly. “She's no child.”

“To Emile she is,” Marty corrected him.

There had been few U.S. ships or aircraft in the eastern Mediterranean at the time, the Saratoga having left its position the instant it launched its missile. It had turned off all surface-to-air radar so as not to allow back-tracing and had run dark, steaming straight north to put as much deniability as possible between it and the Algerian coast before the certain uproar from the Arab countries began.

“That could have been Jon on the smuggler's boat,” Randi decided. “It was the kind of craft the Crescent Shield used to cross the Mediterranean to Algeria. On the other hand, the terrorists could have had some Americans among them.”

“Of course it was Jon,” Marty declared. “There can be no doubt.”

Peter said, “We'll wait for what my people tell me, shall we 7 ”

Marty was standing at the window, watching the Paris street below. His mind was in a race against time, soaring through the stratosphere of his imagination as he sought a solution for how to find Jon. He closed his eyes and sighed happily as lights flashed in a variety of vivid colors, and it seemed to him that he was lighter than air. He saw shapes and heard sounds in a kaleidoscope of excitement. His freed self was soaring toward the magical heights where creativity and intelligence joined, and ideas far beyond the scope of ordinary mortals were waiting to be born like infant stars.

When the phone rang, Marty jumped and frowned.

Peter headed for it. “My turn.”

He was right. The information was delivered in a crisp London accent: A British submarine, running deep, had surfaced less than ten miles from the Algerian villa moments after the blast. In fact, it was the blast's shock wave, transmitted through the water and picked up by the sub's sonar, that had prompted its rise. With its radar fixed toward the villa, it had identified a small Hughes scout helicopter leaving the vicinity some fifteen minutes after the strike. Five minutes later, the sub dove again, concerned it might be discovered.

Meanwhile, on land, a passing MI6 informant had spotted two pickup trucks exiting the area, driving west toward Tunis. The informant had reported the news to his contact in hopes of being paid, which he had been, and handsomely. It was not cost-efficient to be niggardly in the spy trade. Finally, the captain of a British Airways jet en route from Gibraltar to Rome had observed a small helicopter of the same model flying from the direction of Oran toward the Spanish coast in an area where the captain had never seen a helicopter. Thus, he had entered it in his log. A quick check by MI6 revealed that no scheduled, or even authorized, helicopter flights had been made from Oran or any place near it that night.

“He's alive,” Marty boomed. “There's now no doubt.”

“Let's assume that's true,” Peter said. “But we still have the problem of contacting him, and which course do we pursue? The unauthorized helicopter flying to Spain, or the smuggler's boat out of Tunis that carried a possible American?”

“Both,” Randi decided. “Cover all bases.”

Meanwhile, Marty had retreated blissfully again into the fertile fields of his mind. He could feel an idea forming. It was almost tactile, as if he could stroke it with his fingers and taste it on the tip of his tongue. His eyes snapped open, and he paced around the room, rubbing his hands with excitement. And skidded to a stop to do a little dance, his plump body as agile as an imp's. “The answer's been in front of us all along. Someday I need to study the nature of consciousness. Such a fascinating subject. I'm sure I could learn a thing or two”

“Marty!” Randi said, exasperated. “What's your idea?”

He beamed. “We've been utter fools. We'll do as we did before place a message on the Asperger's Web siteOASIS. After that unpleasant Hades mess, how could Jon forget that's how we stayed in touch before? Impossible for him to not remember. All we need do is compose a message that will baffle everyone but Jon.” He screwed his florid face into a knot as he considered.

Peter and Randi waited. It did not take long.

Marty cackled with joy. “I have it! 'Coughing Lazarus: Sex-starved wolf seeks suitable mate. Must have own location. Eager to meet, ready to go. What do you want to do?' ” He watched their reaction with eager eyes.

Randi shook her head. “I have no idea what that means.”

“I'm at sea, too,” Peter agreed, avoiding Marty's gaze.

Marty rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. “If you don't, no one else will either.”

“That's all fine,” Randi said, “but you'd better tell us the code anyway.”

Peter said, “Just a moment, I'm beginning to see part of it. 'Coughing Lazarus' must refer to 'Smith'Smith's Cough Drops, of course. And 'Lazarus' is Jon again, because like Lazarus we're hoping Jon's risen from the dead.”

Randi chuckled. “So, 'Sex-starved wolf implies a 'randy howl,' yes? Randi and Howell. 'Seeks suitable mate' is easy. A mate's a pal, a friend, and we're looking for our friend Jon. 'Must have own location' means we're asking where he is. 'Eager to meet, ready to go' is obvious. We want to meet him, and we'll go wherever necessary. But I don't quite get 'What do you want to do?' ”

Marty arched his brows. “That,” he announced, “was the easiest part. I thought better of you both. There's a famous movie line everyone knows: 'What do you want to do tonight' ”

“Of course,” Peter said, recognizing it. “From the movie Marty, 'What do you want to do tonight, Marty?' So that means you.”

Marty rubbed his hands. “Now we're getting someplace. So my message, translated, is simply: 'Jon Smith: Randi and Peter are looking for you. Where are you? They'll meet you wherever you say.' And it's signed Marty. Questions?”

“Wouldn't dare.” Peter shook his head.

They hurried downstairs to the office of Peter's friend, Lochiel Cameron, the hospital's owner and chief surgeon. Dr. Cameron listened, left his chair, and Marty took over the desk, where Dr. Cameron's computer sat at the corner. Marty's fingers flew over the keyboard as he quickly found www.aspergersyndrome.org and entered his message. Then he leaped up and paced behind the chair, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Dr. Cameron glanced at Peter as if to ask whether he should administer a new dose of Mideral. Peter shook his head, all the while watching Marty for a sign that he was slipping dangerously near detachment from reality. As time passed, Marty paced faster, grew more agitated, waved his arms wildly, and muttered to himself in a voice that grew louder as the words grew more meaningless.

Peter finally nodded to Cameron. He told Marty, “Okay, lad. We've got to face it. You've had a good run, but it's time to pacify those nerve endings.”

“What?” Marty spun around and narrowed his eyes.

“Peter's right,” Randi agreed. “The doctor has your pill. Take it, Mart. That way you'll be in good shape if things get tense.”

Marty frowned. He looked them both up and down with disdain. But at the same time, his quick mind registered their concern. He did not like it, but he knew that the medication bought him time for when he wanted to soar again.

“Oh, very well,” he said grumpily. “Give me that awful pill.”

An hour later, Marty had returned to sit quietly in front of the computer screen. Peter and Randi kept watch with him. There had been no answer from Jon.

Aalst, Belgium

Outside the old market town of Aalst stood the country estate of the Brabant branch of the La Porte family. Although the town had grown into a bustling suburb of Brussels, the La Porte estate had retained its classic grandeur, an artifact from a long-ago time. It was called Hethuis, “Castle House,” in honor of itsand the family'smedieval heritage. Today the walled courtyard was filled with the chauffeured sedans and limousines of NATO military leaders and members of the Council of European Nations, which was meeting this week in Brussels.

Inside the main house, General the Count Roland la Porte was holding court. Like his pedigreed estate, La Porte appeared large and magnificent where he stood before the walk-in fireplace in the baronial main room. Around him, period weapons, heraldic coats-of-arms, and the canvases of great Dutch and Flemish painterseveryone from Jan van Eyck to Peter Brueghelhung from the dark, paneled walls.

EU Commissioner Enzo Ciccione, recently arrived from Rome, was giving his opinion in English: “These satellite problems of the Americans are frightening and have made many of us rethink our views, General La Porte. Perhaps we have indeed become too dependent upon the United States and its military. After all, NATO is essentially the same animal as the United States.”

“Still, our relationship with the United States has been useful,” La Porte responded in French, despite knowing that Ciccione did not speak the language. He paused as Ciccione's translator, who sat just behind him, finished his nearly simultaneous translation. “We weren't ready to assume our own destiny. Now, however, we've gained much-needed military experience in NATO operations. The point isn't simply to challenge the Americans, but to acknowledge our own growing power and importance. Which, of course, the Americans themselves have been urging us to do.”

“Military strength also translates into economic clout in the international competition for markets,” pointed out Commissioner Hans Brecht, who did speak French but chose to answer in English in deference to Ciccione. Brecht was from Vienna. “Again, as you've said, General, we're already competitors with the United States for world markets. It's unfortunate that we're so often constrained from going all out because of strategic political and military concerns.”

“Your views are encouraging,” La Porte acknowledged. “There are times when I fear we Europeans have lost the will to greatness that fueled our conquest of the world. We must never forget that we created not only the United States but all the other nations of the Western Hemisphere. Sadly, they now find themselves locked in the American sphere of ownership.” He sighed and shook his large head. “There are times, gentlemen, when I think we, too, will soon be owned by the Americans. Vassal states. To my mind, Britain already is. Who will be next? All of us?”

The others had been listening carefully. Besides the Italian and Austrian commissioners, there were also Belgian and Danish members of the Council of European Nations as well as the same NATO military leaders who had gathered on the Charles de Gaulle just a few nights ago: Spanish general Valentin Gonzalez, with his cautious eyes and the jaunty tilt to his army cap. Italian General Ruggiero Inzaghi of the flinty gaze and no-nonsense mouth. And German General Otto Bittrich, rawboned and thoughtful. Absent, of course, was British General Arnold Moore, whose untimely death had shaken them. Those who made the military their life found accidents offensive; if a soldier did not have the good luck to die at war, then he should be at least at home in his own bed with his medals and memories.

As General La Porte finished, they burst out with both agreements and objections.

General Bittrich was sitting apart, his bony face thoughtful as usual, but there was high intensity in his silence. He was watching no one but La Porte, and he had chosen a chair out of his easy line of sight for that reason. Under his thick, near-white hair, his ruddy face was so focused that he might be peering through a microscope at a specimen he was preparing to dissect.

But La Porte did not notice. He was concentrating on the speakers as they moved closer to seeing what he sawa United States of Europe, or, as the EU organization called itself, Europa. Once more, he made his point: “We can argue forever, but in the end we all know that Europe, from the Baltic to the Mediterranean, from the Atlantic to, yes, the Urals and possibly beyond, must take charge of its future. We must have an independent, united military. We are Europa, we must be Europa!”

The giant room rang with the stirring call, but in the end it fell on wary, pragmatic ears.

Commissioner Ciccione lifted his chin as if his collar were too tight. “In a few years, you'll have my vote, General La Porte. But not now. The EU has neither the wealth nor the will for such an immense step. Besides, it's dangerous. Considering the political instabilities we're facinghellip;the Balkans' quagmire, the continuing terrorist assaults everywhere, the shakiness of the Middle East, the problems in the various -stanshellip;we can afford no such large risk.”