Chuck Ouray’s complexion paled. “You’re not serious. Tell me you’re not serious. Even the Hoover Dam’s floodgates are accessible?”
The president said simply, “Yes. They’re computerized, and the computer’s connected to the Western utilities power grid.”
There was an appalled silence in the room.
The president adjusted his weight. His solemn gaze swept over his three advisers. “Of course, as Emily said earlier, we still aren’t certain there is a fully functioning DNA computer. We’ll take it one step at a time. Chuck, see what the CIA and NSA can tell us. Contact the Brits and find out what they know, too. Emily and Stevens, get the latest from your people. We’ll meet again later today.”
As soon as the door closed behind the NSA director, the head of the Joint Chiefs, and the chief of staff, the side door that led into the president’s private study opened. Fred Klein stepped into the Oval Office, wearing a rumpled gray suit and chewing on his empty pipe.
Klein took the pipe from his mouth and pronounced dryly, “I thought that went well.”
The president sighed and returned to his big leather desk chair. “It could’ve been worse. Sit down, Fred. Don’t you know something more than your intuition and Diego Garcia about this mess?”
Klein took the seat that Admiral Brose had vacated. He ran a hand over his receding hairline. “Not much,” he admitted. “But I will.”
“Has Jon Smith found out anything yet?”
Klein told the president about the attack on Martin Zellerbach that Smith interrupted. “When we hung up, Smith was going to the Pasteur to interview a colleague. After that, he’ll see General Henze.”
The president pursed his lips. “Smith’s obviously good, but a few more people over there might be better. You know I’ll authorize whatever or whoever you need.”
Klein shook his head. “A terrorist cell is small and moves fast. It’ll spot a large effort, which means that if the CIA and MI6 kick up any of their usual dust, their usefulness is over. We designed Covert-One for surgical situations just like this. Let’s give Smith a chance to be the fly on the wall, a piece of the scenery no one notices. Meanwhile, as you know, I’ve got other Covert-One operatives on special leads and tasks. If Smith needs help, I’ll let you know, and we’ll act accordingly.”
“We need something from himhellip;from someonehellip;soon, dammit.” The president’s brows knit together with worry. “Before we get a taste worse than Diego Garcia.”
Paris, France
Private and nonprofit, L’Institut Pasteur was one of the great scientific centers of the world, with some twenty branches located on five continents. It had been at least five years since Smith had been to its headquarters here in Paris for a WHO conference on molecular biology, one of the Pasteur’s prime areas of research. He was thinking about that and what he would find now as he stopped his taxi at 28 rue du Docteur Roux, named for one of the institute’s earliest researchers. He paid the driver and walked toward the annex’s kiosk.
Located in the eastern part of the Fifteenth Arrondissement, the Pasteur Institute stretched into the distance on both sides of the heavily trafficked street. In one of life’s ironies, the grounds on the east were called simply the institute or the old campus, while the grounds on the west, although significantly larger, were known as the annex. The whole leafy place gave off the feel of a gracious college, and Smith could see many of its buildingseverything from nineteenth-century ornate to twenty-first-century sleekrising among the trees on either side of the street. He could also see French soldiers on patrol on the institute’s streets and sidewalks, an unusual sight but no doubt in response to the horrific bombing.
Smith showed his identification to the Pasteur security guard at the annex’s kiosk, where one of the soldiers stood sentry, a 5.6mm FAMAS assault rifle in his arms. Behind the man, gray tendrils of smoke rose above the rooftops.
As Smith put away his ID, he nodded at the smoke and asked the Pasteur guard in French, “Is that where Dr. Chambord’s lab was?”
“Oui.
Little’s left. A few exterior walls and heartbreak.” The man gave a sad, Gallic shrug. Smith felt like walking. There was much to sort through, and Marty’s condition preyed on his mind. He looked up. As if echoing his thoughts, the day had grown somber, the sun lost behind a thick cloud cover that cast a monochromatic pall. He waited for a car to drive into the annex, then he crossed the street to the sidewalk, heading toward the smoke, which was the first physical sign of the disastrous attack. Soon he saw the second signpewter-gray ash and soot that dusted vegetation and structures. An alkaline stink stung his nose. Finally there were the corpses of wild birdssparrows, hawks, jayswhich lay scattered on the lawns, broken dolls flung from the sky, killed by the blast or resulting fire.
The farther he went, the heavier the ash grew, a ghostly blanket over buildings, trees, bushes, signshellip;everything and anything. Nothing was spared, left unsullied. At last he turned a corner and the site itself appearedlarge, haphazard mounds of blackened brick and debris, above which three exterior walls towered precariously, dismal skeletons against the gray sky. He shoved his hands deep into his trench-coat pockets and halted where he was to study the dispiriting scene.
The building must have been spacious, about the size of a warehouse. Dogs sniffed the ruins. Rescue workers and firemen dug grimly, and armed soldiers patrolled. The charred remains of two cars stood at the curb. Beside them, some kind of metal sign had been melted into a distorted fist of steel. Nearby, an ambulance waited, in case another survivor was found or one of the workers injured.
Heart heavy, Smith waited as a soldier with a careful face approached and demanded identification. As he handed it over, he asked, “Any sign of Dr. Chambord?”
“I can’t talk about it, sir.”
Smith nodded. He had other ways to find out, and now that he had seen the devastation, he knew there was nothing he could learn here. It was lucky anyone had survived. Lucky Marty had. As he left, he thought about the monsters who had done this. Anger built in his chest.
He returned to the rue du Docteur Roux and crossed the street to the old campus. Calming himself, he showed his identification at the kiosk there, where another Pasteur security guard and armed soldier controlled access. After a thorough check, they gave him directions to the office and lab of his old friend and colleague Michael Kerns.
As he headed off past the old building where Louis Pasteur had lived and worked and was now buried, he was struck by how good it was to be back in this cradle of pure science, despite the circumstances. After all, this was where Pasteur had conducted his brilliant nineteenth-century experiments in fermentation that had led not just to pioneering research in bacteriology but to the principle of sterilization, which had forever changed the world’s understanding of bacteria and saved untold millions of lives.
After Dr. Pasteur, other researchers here had gone on to produce critical scientific breakthroughs that had led to the control of virulent diseases like diphtheria, influenza, the plague, polio, tetanus, TB, and even yellow fever. It was no wonder the institute boasted more Nobel Prize winners than most nations. With more than a hundred research units and labs, the complex housed some five hundred permanent scientists while another six hundred from all corners of the globe worked temporarily on special projects. Among those was Michael Kerns, Ph.D.
Mike’s office was in the Jacques Monod Building, which housed the department of molecular biology. The door was open. When Smith stepped inside, Mike looked up from his desk, where a mass of papers covered with calculations were spread before him.
Kerns took one look at Smith and jumped up. “Jon! Good Lord, man. What are you doing here?” White lab coat flapping, Kerns came around the desk with the athletic grace of the Iowa Hawkeye running back he had once been. A few inches under six feet and sturdy, he pumped Smith’s hand vigorously. “Damn, Jon, how long’s it been?”
“Five years, at least,” Smith reminded him with a smile. “How’s the work going?”
“So near and yet so far.” Kerns laughed. “As usual, right? What brings you to Paris? More viruses for USAMRIID to hunt down?”
Taking the opening, Smith shook his head. “It’s my friend Marty Zellerbach. He was hurt in the bombing.”
“The Dr. Zellerbach who they say was working with poor Chambord? I never met him. I’m so sorry, Jon. How is he?”
“In a coma.”
“Damn. What’s the prognosis?”
“We’re hopeful. But he had a nasty cranial injury, and the coma’s hanging on. Still he’s showing signs he may come out of it.” Smith shook his head again, his expression glum. “Is there any news about Chambord? Have they found him yet?”