As if to prove the point, a man wearing a British camouflage uniform and with an Afghan puggaree on his head appeared at the far corner of the house. He carried an AK-47 slung casually over his shoulder.
Jon felt his pulse increase. He sank down behind a bush to watch as a second guard appeared from the villa’s other corner. This man was bareheaded, dressed in denims and a flannel shirt, and looked Oriental. He cradled a U.S. M60E3 light machine gun in the crook of his left arm. The pair crossed paths below the terrace steps and continued on in opposite directions around the house, patrolling.
Jon made no move. Moments later, a third guard appeared, this one from inside the house. As well armed as the others, he stood on the terrace, cradling his assault rifle, his gaze sweeping the grounds, and then he returned inside. Five minutes later, the pair circling the villa reappeared, soon followed by a fourth sentry, who emerged from the villa onto the terrace. They were using four guards.
Now that Jon was beginning to see a pattern, it was time to work his way inside the villa. He circled back through the dense green growth until he found what appeared to be a secluded door near the building’s front. Here the rambling mansion was closer to the junglelike forest than at any other point. He still saw no cars or even a driveway, which was probably on the other side of the villa. The distant voices raised in a chanting chorus sent a chill up his spine. He could make out the Arabic words now, and they were a litany of hate for Israel and America, the Great Satan.
The instant the guard walked around the rear corner and out of sight, Jon stepped from the thick cover and sprinted to the hidden corner of the house. The door was unlocked. Considering the myriad access points through open windows to what seemed like every room, it was hardly a surprise. Still, he maintained his caution, and he opened the door an inch at a time. Through the widening gap, he saw a polished tile floor, expensive Arab furniture, modern abstract paintings that were far from traditional but would not offend Islamic sensibilities, small curtained alcoves for quiet reading and meditating, and no humans.
He eased inside, the Walther out in both hands. Another room, similar to the first, was clearly visible through a traditional Moorish archway. In this land, which had been overrun and occupied by a long series of conquerors and settlers, it was the Arabs who had left the most lasting influence. They were also still a majority. Despite the tenacity of the Berber tribes and the power of French bureaucrats and residents, some Arabs were still trying to take Algeria back to full Islamic control, a goal that had proved long, difficult, and particularly bloody. It also accounted for why so many Islamic residents supported and even harbored fundamentalist killers.
The next room was as empty as the first, and he continued to move cautiously through more cool, shadowed rooms. He encountered no one. Then he heard voices ahead.
Redoubling his caution, he closed in, the words growing steadily clearer. At last, he recognized a voiceMauritania’s. He had found a Crescent Shield hideout of some kind. Perhaps even a headquarters. Nervy and excited, he slid into a corner and listened. There was an echoing quality to the voices that told him they were in a large room with a high ceiling, higher than the ones he had passed through.
He moved again until the voices were obviously coming from the next archway. He flattened back against the wall next to it and peered around at the backs of some dozen men who were gathered in a great room under the building’s soaring dome. They were a wildly disparate group bedouins in their long robes, Indonesians wearing the latest in Levi’s and designer T-shirts, Afghans in pyjama pants with their trademark long-tailed puggarees wrapped around their heads. All carried weapons, which ranged from the most modern assault rifles to battered old AK-47s. At the front of the room, the small, deceptively mild-looking Mauritania was perched on the edge of an oak library table, dressed in long white robes. He was talking in French. The crowd of men were listening with rapt attention.
“Dr. Suleiman has arrived and is resting,” he announced. “He will report to me soon, and the moment Abu Auda arrives, the countdown will begin.”
The gathered terrorists erupted in excited cries of Alahu Akbar and other exclamations in a myriad of languages, most of which Jon did not understand. They waved their weapons overhead and shook them.
Mauritania continued, “They’ll call us terrorists, but we’re not. We’re guerrillas, soldiers in the service of God, and with God’s help we’ll triumph.” He raised the palms of his hands, silencing the tumult. “We’ve tested the Frenchman’s device. We’ve misdirected attention to America. And now we’ll blind and silence the Americans so they can’t warn their Jewish lackeys when the Russian tactical missile is stolen and sent on its glorious way to wipe the Zionists from our sacred land!”
The roar this time was so great, the fierce cries so loud and intense, that the dome seemed to shake.
As the noise subsided, Mauritania’s fair eyes darkened, and his face grew solemn. “It’ll be a great explosion,” he promised. “It’ll destroy them all. But the Great Satan’s reach is long, too, and many of our people will be killed as well. This saddens me. That we’ll lose a single son of Mohammed stabs me to the heart. But it must be done to cleanse the land, to end this bastard nation of Zion. We will erase the heart of Israel. Our people who die will be martyrs and go straight into God’s arms, in glory forever.”
Shouts burst forth again. Where he crouched in the next room, Jon’s blood was chilled. It was a nuclear attack, and it was not aimed at the United States. The target was Israel. From what Mauritania had said, the DNA computer was going to reprogram an old Soviet medium-range tactical nuclear missile and drop it on Jerusalem, “the heart of Israel,” erasing millions in that country as well as many others in neighboring nations, all Arab countries, sacrificed for Mauritania’s sick dreams.
Jon spun away from the wall. He had no more time. He had to find Dr. Chambord and destroy the DNA computer. They must be somewhere in this sprawling, whitewashed building. Peter, Marty, and Theacute;regrave;se might be here, too. Hoping he would find all of them, he circled through more empty rooms, searching.
The Naval Base, Toulon, France
In the spring twilight, Matre Principal Marcel Dalio left the Toulon naval base through the security gate. He was a nondescript man in many ways, of average height and weight, and circumspect in his demeanor. But his craggy face made him a standout. Although he was a virile fifty-year-old, he looked a good twenty years older. It came from the years at sea in the constant sun, wind, and salt air. The elements had etched his face into a Grand Canyon of ravines, crevices, and mesas.
As he walked along, his great face, handsome in its dramatic character, turned to take in all the sights of the Toulon harbor with its fishing boats, private yachts, and cruise ships, which were just beginning the season. Then his gaze swept out to sea where his own ship, the mighty carrier Charles de Gaulle, rode at anchor. He was proud to be a matre principal, similar to a chief petty officer in the American navy, and even prouder to serve on the grand De Gaulle.
Soon Dalio reached his favorite bistro, on a narrow back street off the quai Stalingrad. The proprietor greeted him by name, bowed, and ceremoniously led him to his favorite secluded table at the rear.
“What is best today, Ceacute;sar?” Dalio asked.
“Madame has outdone herself with the daube de boeuf, Matre Principal.”
“Then bring it, by all means. And a nice Cte du Rhne.”
Dalio sat back and glanced around the provincial bistro. As the naval petty officer had expected, since the season was spring the restaurant was not yet crowded. No one showed interest in him or his uniform. Tourists tended to stare at a uniformed Frenchman in Toulon, since many came principally to see the naval base, hoping to have a good view of the warships and, if very lucky, an onboard tour.
When his food and wine arrived, Dalio ate his daube de boeuf slowly, savoring the heavy flavor of the mutton stew as only the proprietor’s wife could create it. He made short work of his Cte du Rhne, its lovely mulberry color glistening like blood in his wineglass. He finished with a tarte au citron and lingered over his demitasse coffee. At last he left for the pissoir at the rear. Like all those near the quai Stalingrad, this bistro catered to tourists most of the year. For the sensibilities of the well-paying American crowd, it had not only installed separate facilities for men and women, it also included stalls in both.