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 himhellip;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, Theacute;regrave;se Chambord gave him a dazzling smile of the 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, Theacute;regrave;se 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 Theacute;regrave;se. 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 starshine. 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 Theacute;regrave;se 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 Theacute;regrave;se. 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 Theacute;regrave;se 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 Theacute;regrave;se.
“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 Theacute;regrave;se, 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 Theacute;regrave;se 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 mind. 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 Clock, 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 Clock, he hurried away.
The Htel 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 Theacute;regrave;se 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.”
“Merci beaucoup,
Hector.” In the pleasant although far-from-modern hotel room, he slung his bag and laptop onto the bed. Using his cell phone with its built-in scrambler, he dialed Fred Klein, waiting as the call bounced off innumerable relays around the world to finally be picked up wherever Fred was.
“So?” Fred Klein said.
“They’ve kidnapped Theacute;regrave;se Chambord.”
“I just got the news. One of her neighbors saw quite a bit of it, including some crazy man who tried to stop the kidnapping. The French police relayed the information. Fortunately, the neighbor didn’t get a good look at the man’s face.”
“Fortunately,” Smith agreed dryly.
“The police have no clue who the kidnappers are, or why, and it’s got them mighty unhappy. Why kill Chambord but only kidnap his daughter? If the bombers have full data for the molecular computer, why kidnap her at all? Was she taken by the same people who blew up the Pasteur and killed Chambord, or by other people entirely? Are there two groups involvedone that has the data and another that wants it, so they’ve snatched Mile. Chambord in the hope she has something to tell them?”