“That’s an unpleasant thought. A second group. Damn.”
“Hope I’m wrong.” Klein sounded frustrated.
“Yeah. Swell. But we’ve got to keep it in mind. What about the police report about me and Theacute;regrave;se Chambord? Do I need to take a new cover?”
“So far you’re clear. They’ve questioned a taxi driver who took a man fitting your description to the Champs Elyseacute;es, where he got out and went into a nightclub. Luckily for us, no one in the nightclub recalls exactly what you look like, and of course you didn’t give your name. The police have no other leads. Nice work.”
“Thanks,” Smith said tiredly. “I need some help with the meaning of a symbol I found: It’s a tree with a broad canopy, and there are three flames burning at its base as if fire is about to consume it.” He explained how he had found the picture tooled lightly into the kidnapper’s leather pistol grip.
“I’ll check on the image. How did your meetings with Mike Kerns and General Henze go?”
Smith relayed what he had learned from both men, including the black Citron that periodically was seen picking up Chambord. “And there’s something else you need to know. I hope it’s not what it could be.” He told the head of Covert-One about the “hospital orderly” who had been welcomed by the master sergeant into the highly secure pension where General Henze was staying.
Klein swore under his breath. “What the devil’s going on? It can’t mean the general’s mixed up in anything. Not with his record. If it’s anything more than some bizarre coincidence, I’d be shocked. But it’s got to be looked into. I’ll handle it from my end.”
“Could the sergeant be a security problem? A mole of some kind?”
Klein’s voice hardened. “That’s unthinkable, too. You stay away from it. We don’t want anything to hurt your cover. I’ll have Sergeant Matthias investigated from this end, too, and I’ll find out about that tree symbol.” Klein clicked off.
Smith sighed, exhausted. He hoped an explanation of the tree graphic would lead him to Theacute;regrave;se. With luck, the terrorists would not be far away. He moved his suitcase from the bed and pushed down on the familiar mattress. The bed was springy but firm in the French way, and he looked forward to spending some quality time in it, sleeping.
In the bathroom, he stripped off his clothes and plunged into the shower. It had been installed in the ancient tub since he was here last. Once he had washed off the trip and the exertions of the day, he wrapped himself in a terry-cloth robe, sat at the window, and pushed open the shutters so he could gaze out across the steepled rooftops of Paris.
As he sat there, his mind wandering and weary, the black sky suddenly split open with a bright bolt of lightning. Thunder crashed, and rain poured down. The storm that had threatened all day had finally arrived. He lifted his face outside his window and let the cool raindrops splash him. It was difficult to believe that only yesterday he had been in his laboratory at Fort Collins, the dawn rising over the sweeping prairies of eastern Colorado.
Which made him think of Marty. He closed the shutters. As the rain made a rhythmic tattoo, he dialed the hospital. If anyone was listening in, they would hear the concerned friend they expected, using the phone innocently. No suspicions nor subterfuge.
The ICU nurse told him Marty’s condition was basically unchanged, but he was still showing small signs of progress. Feeling grateful, he said bonsoir, hung up, and dialed the hospital’s security office. The chief was gone for the day, but an assistant reported nothing alarming or suspicious had happened involving either Marty or the ICU since the attempt on his life this morning. Yes, the police had increased the security.
Smith was beginning to relax. He hung up, shaved, and was about to climb into bed when his cell phone gave off its low buzz. He answered it.
Without preamble, Fred Klein reported: “The tree and fire are the emblem of a defunct Basque separatist group called the Black Flame. They were supposedly broken up years ago in a shootout in Bilbao where all their leaders were killed or, later, imprisoned. All but one of those locked up committed ‘suicide’ in prison. They haven’t been heard from for years, and Basque terrorists usually claim responsibility for their acts. However, the more violent groups don’t always. They’re more focused on real change, not just propaganda.”
“So am I,” Smith said, and he added, “And I’ve got one advantage.”
“What would that be?”
“They didn’t really try to kill me. Which means they don’t know what I’m actually doing here. My cover’s holding.”
“Good point. Get some sleep. I’ll see if I can come up with anything more on your Basques.”
“One more favor? Dig deeper into Emile Chambord’s past, will you? His whole history. I’ve got a hunch something’s missing somewhere, and maybe it’s there. Or maybe it’s something vital that he could tell us, if he were alive. Theacute;regrave;se might know it, too, without realizing it, and that could be why she’s been taken. Anyway, it’s worth a shot.” He hung up.
Alone in the darkened room, he listened to the sound of the rain and of tires on the wet street below. He thought about an assassin, a general, and a band of Basque fanatics who might be back in action with a vengeance. Fanatics with a purpose. With a deep sense of disquiet, he wondered where they would strike next, and whether Theacute;regrave;se Chambord was still alive.
Chapter Eight
The hypnotic rhythms of a classical Indian raga floated on the hot, heavy air, trapped by the thick carpets and wall hangings that lined Mauritania’s apartment. Seated cross-legged in the exact center of the main room, he swayed like a sinuous Buddha to the gentle yet strident sound. His eyes were closed, and a beatific smile wreathed his face. He sensed rather than saw the disapproving look of his lieutenant, Abu Auda, who had just entered.
“Salaam alake koom.”
Mauritania’s eyes remained closed as he spoke in Arabic while continuing to weave back and forth. “Forgive me, Abu Auda, it’s my only vice. The classical Indian raga was part of a rich culture long before the Europeans developed what they claim to be classical music. I enjoy that fact nearly as much as the raga itself. Do you think Allah will forgive me for such indulgence and hubris?” “Better him than me. All it is to me is distracting noise.” Large and powerful-looking, Abu Auda snorted contemptuously. He was still in the same white robes and gold-trimmed kaffiyeh he had worn in the taxi when Captain Bonnard turned over to him the research notes of the dead lab assistant. Now, alas, the robes were not only dirty from too many days in the grime of Paris, but wet from the rainstorm. None of his women was in Paris to take care of him, which was irritating but could not be helped. He pushed back his kaffiyeh to reveal his long black face, strong, bony chin, small, straight nose, and full mouth set in stone. “Do you wish my report, or are you going to continue to waste my time?”
Mauritania chuckled and opened his eyes. “Your report, by all means. Allah may forgive me, but you won’t, yes?”
“Allah has more time than we,” Abu Auda responded, his expression humorless.
“So he does, Abu Auda. So he does. Then we’ll have this oh-so-vital report of yours, shall we not?” Mauritania’s eyes were amused, but beneath the surface was a glint that turned his visitor from complaints to the business at hand.
Abu Auda told him, “My watcher at the Pasteur Institute reports your person, Smith, appeared there. Smith spoke to Dr. Michael Kerns, apparently an old comrade. My man was able to hear only part of the conversation, when they were speaking of Zellerbach. After that, Smith left the Pasteur, drank a small beer at a cafeacute;, and then took the meacute;tro, where our miserable incompetent lost him.”
Mauritania interrupted, “Did he lose Smith, or did Smith lose him?”
Abu Auda shrugged. “I wasn’t there. He did report a curious fact. Smith appeared to wander aimlessly until he reached a bookshop, where he watched for a time, smiled at something, continued on to the meacute;tro, and went down into the station.”
“Ah?” Mauritania’s blue eyes grew brighter. “As if, perhaps, he noticed he was being watched when he left the Pasteur?”
The green-brown eyes snapped. “I’d know more if my idiot hadn’t lost him at the meacute;tro station. He waited too long to follow him down. By Allah, he’ll pay!”
Mauritania scowled. “What then, Abu?”
“We didn’t find Smith again until tonight, when he arrived at the daughter’s home. Our man there saw him, but we don’t believe Smith knew. Smith was upstairs in her apartment nearly fifteen minutes, and then they rode down in the elevator together. As soon as she stepped outside, four assailants attacked. Ah, the fine quality of their work! Would to God they were ours. They eliminated Smith from the action first inside the door, separating him from the woman, and then they dragged the woman away. By the time Smith recovered and came after them, they had her inside the van, even though she fought them hard. He killed one, but the rest escaped. Smith inspected the dead man, took his pistol, and left before the police arrived. He found a taxi at a nearby hotel. Our man trailed him to the Champs Elyseacute;es, where he also lost him.”