The captain led him through a spacious entry foyer, where a graceful staircase curved upward to the second and third floors. They passed through a European-style doorway that had no frame and was wallpapered in the same French fleur-de-lis pattern as the grand entry. The room Smith entered was large, with a high ceiling on which were painted life-sized nymphs and cherubs on a pale blue background. There were gilded cornices, handsome moldings and wainscoting, and slender, delicate Louis Quatorze furniture. The place looked more like a ballroom than a coffee room.
A hulking man was sitting by the window, sunbeams dancing above his head. Nodding Smith to a simple straight chair with a brocaded seat, he said in good but accented English, “Sit over there, if you will, Colonel Smith. How do you take coffee?”
“Cream, no sugar, sir, thank you.”
General the Count Roland la Porte wore an expensive business suit that would have been large on a defensive end in the NFL, but it fit him perfectly. Besides his great girth, he had a regal bearing, dark, thick hair worn as long and straight as that of a young Napoleon at the siege of Toulon, and a broad Breton face with piercing blue eyes. The eyes were remarkable, as immobile as a shark’s. Altogether, his presence was formidable.
“My pleasure,” he said, smoothly polite. His oversized hands dwarfed the sterling coffee service as he poured and handed a bone-china cup to Smith.
“Thank you, General.” Smith took it and said shamelessly, “It’s a privilege to meet one of the heroes of Desert Storm. Your flanking maneuver with the French Fourth Dragoons was bold. Without it, the allies never would’ve been able to secure the left flank.” Smith silently thanked Fred Klein for the thorough briefing he had received before he flew out of Colorado, because while he was in Iraq patching up the wounded on all sides, he had never heard of La Porte, who had been a lieutenant colonel back in those days.
The general asked, “You were there, Colonel?”
“Yessir. With a surgical unit.”
“Ah, of course.” La Porte smiled at a memory. “Our tanks had not been camouflaged for the western Iraqi desert, so we French stood out like polar bears. But the Dragoons and I held our ground, ate the sand, as we say in the Legion, and turned out to be most lucky.” He studied Smith. “But you understand all that, don’t you? In fact, you have had combat experience, yes? Line command also, I think.”
So La Porte had his people looking into him, as General Henze had warned. “Only briefly, yes. Why do you ask?”
The general’s unblinking blue eyes fixed him like a butterfly on a pin and then retreated, still unblinking, but with a small smile. “Forgive me. It’s an old soldier’s vanity. I pride myself on my judgment of people. I guessed your training and experience from your carriage, your movements, your eyes, and your action at the Pompidou Hospital yesterday.” La Porte’s unmoving gaze peeled layers from his skin. “Few would have your unusual combination of medical and scientific expertise, and the skills and daring of a soldier.”
“You’re far too kind, General.” Also too nosy, but then, as General Henze had said, La Porte was suspicious that something was up, and he had the interests of his country to protect.
“Now to something far more important. Has there been any change in your friend’s condition at the hospital?”
“Not so far, General.”
“And what is your honest prognosis?”
“As a friend or as a doctor?”
A tiny furrow of annoyance appeared between the general’s hard eyes. He did not like fencing or hair-splitting. “As a friend and as a doctor.”
“As a doctor, I’d say that his coma indicates his prognosis must be considered guarded. As a friend, I know he will recover soon.”
“Your sentiments as a friend are, I’m sure, shared by all. But I fear it’s your medical opinion we value most. And that doesn’t give me confidence we can rely on Dr. Zellerbach to help us with information about Dr. Chambord.”
“I think that’s wise,” Smith agreed regretfully. “Tell me, is there any news about Dr. Chambord? I checked the newspaper as I rode over in the taxi, but it said that as of last night, there were no new facts.”
The general grimaced. “Unfortunately, they have found a part of his body, alas.” He sighed. “I understand there was an arm with an attached hand. The hand wore a ring his colleagues sadly identified, and the fingerprints have been confirmed as a match with those on file at the Pasteur. That won’t be in the newspapers for a few days. The officials are still investigating, and they’re keeping as much to themselves as they can for now. They hope to find the perpetrators without giving away everything. I’d appreciate your keeping that information to yourself.”
“Of course.” Smith contemplated the sad confirmation that Emile Chambord was indeed dead. What a pity. Despite every sign to the contrary, he had held out hope that the great scientist had survived.
The general had been silent, as if considering the frailty of the human condition. “I had the honor of meeting your Dr. Zellerbach. Such a shame that he’s injured. I’d be devastated if he doesn’t recover. I’d appreciate your conveying that to his family in America, should the worst occur.”
“I’d be happy to. May I ask how you met Dr. Zellerbach, General? I wasn’t aware myself that Marty was even in France or at the Pasteur.”
The general seemed surprised. “Didn’t you think our military would be interested in Dr. Chambord’s research? Of course they were. Intensely interested, in fact. Emile introduced Dr. Zellerbach to me during my last visit to his lab. Naturally, Emile would not allow any of us to just drop by. He was a dedicated and busy man, so an invitation was a grand event. That was two months ago or so, and your Dr. Zellerbach had just arrived. It’s a pity about Emile’s work being destroyed in that wretched bombing. Do you think any of it survived?”
“I have no personal knowledge, General. Sorry.” Two could play the fishing game. “I suppose I’m surprised you’d involve yourself personally. After all, you’ve got a great many important responsibilities at NATO.”
“I’m still French, no? Besides, I knew Emile personally for many years.”
“And was he close to success?” Smith asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. “A practical, working DNA computer?”
La Porte tented his fingers. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“It could be the key to who planted the bomb and why. No matter what happens to Marty, I want to do what I can to help catch the bastard who injured him.”
“A true friend.” La Porte nodded. “Yes, I’d like the miscreant punished, too. But, alas, I can be of little help to you there. Emile was close-mouthed about his work. If he had made ahow do you Americans say it?’breakout,’ he didn’t inform me. Nor did Dr. Zellerbach or poor Jean-Luc Massenet tell me or anyone else, as far as we know.”
“The research assistant? That was terrible. Have the police formed an opinion of why he killed himself?”
“A tragedy, too, to have lost that young man. Apparently, he was devoted to Emile, and when Emile died, he was cast adrift. He could not face life alone. At least that’s what I’ve been told. Knowing the charismatic power of Emile’s personality, I can almost understand the lad’s suicide.”
“So what’s your take on the bombing, General?”
La Porte gave the Gallic gesture of confusiona shrug with hands spread and head tilted. “Who knows what raving lunatic would do such a thing? Or perhaps it was some perfectly sane man with some personal hatred of science, or of L’Institut Pasteur, or even of France, to whom the bombing of a crowded building seemed a thoroughly reasonable response.” La Porte shook his large head, disgusted. “There are times, Colonel, when I think the patina of civilization and culture we all profess to share is cracking. We return to the barbarians.”
“The French police and Secret Service know no more than that?”
La Porte repeated his mannerism of tenting his long fingers. His unblinking blue eyes regarded Smith as if they could dissect his thoughts. “The police and the Second Bureau do not confide everything to a mere general, especially one who is, as you pointed out, on duty at NATO. However, my aide, Captain Bonnard, heard rumors that our police have evidence that the attack on the Pasteur could’ve been the work of an obscure Basque separatist group thought wiped out years ago. As a rule, the Basques confine their ‘events’ to Spain, but I’m sure you know there are many Basque people who live in three small regions of Basse-Pyrenees on the Spanish border with France. It was probably inevitable something would spill over across the border, even to Paris, sooner or later.”