In the capital, Vaduz, twilight had cast dark shadows across the thoroughfare that edged the Rhine River. This suited Abu Auda. Still dressed in his Western clothes, he moved briskly along, avoiding eye contact, until he arrived at the door to the small, undistinguished private residence that had been described to him. He knocked three times, waited, and knocked four times.
He heard a bolt disengage inside, and the door cracked open.
In Arabie, Abu Auda spoke into the small space: “Breet bate.” I want a room.
A man’s voice answered, “May-fah-hem-tiksh.” I don’t understand.
Abu Auda repeated the code and added, “They have Mauritania.”
The door swung open, and a small, dark man stared worriedly up. “Yes?”
Abu Auda pushed his way in. This was a major European stop for hwalala, an underground Arab railroad for moving, banking, laundering, and investing money. Unregulated and completely secret, with no real accounts that regulators could track, the network financed not only individuals but causes. This past year, nearly a billion U.S. dollars had moved through the European system alone.
“Where did Mauritania get his money?” Abu Auda continued in Arabic. “The source. From whose purse did the financing come?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
Abu Auda removed the pistol from the holster under his arm. He pointed it, and as the man stepped backward, Abu Auda followed. “Mauritania is being held by the people with the money. They are not of our Cause. I know the money was paid by a Captain Bonnard or a Dr. Chambord. But I do not believe they are alone in this. So now you will speak, and you will be thorough.”
Aloft over France
A half hour after taking off again from Macon, Jon, Peter, and Randi finished the sandwiches they had bought at the small airport, and continued their analysis and discussion of the situation.
Peter said, “Whatever we decide to do to find Chambord and Bonnard, we’d best do it quickly. Time’s not on our side. Whatever they’re planning, they’ll want to make it happen very, very soon.”
Jon nodded. “Mauritania had planned to attack Israel this morning. Now that we know there’s still a working molecular computer out there somewhere, and that Chambord and Bonnard are free and traveling, my guess is that we’ve bought ourselves some time, but not much.”
Randi shivered. “Maybe not enough.”
The sun had set, and darkness was creeping across the land. Ahead, an ocean of lights sparkled in the gray twilight. Paris. As they stared at the great city’s sprawl, Jon’s mind went back to the Pasteur Institute and the initial bombing that had brought him to Paris and Marty. It seemed a long time ago, although it was just last Monday that Fred Klein had appeared in Colorado to ask him to take on this assignment, which had led across two continents.
Now the focus was narrowed, and the price for failure was still unknown, except, they all agreed, it would be high. They must find Emile Chambord and his molecular computer. And when they found them, they were going to need a healthy and alert Marty.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Paris, France
Dr. Lochiel Cameron could see that Marty was irritated and frustrated. Marty was coming off his meds, pacing the room in his stiff, awkward gait as Dr. Cameron observed from a comfortable armchair, a bemused smile on his face. He was an upbeat, easygoing man who had seen enough war and devastation to find turning back the clock for aging beauties of both sexes in his exclusive plastic surgery clinic a not-unpleasant career.
“So you’re worried about your friends,” Dr. Cameron prompted.
Marty stopped and waved his chubby arms with aggravation. “What could they possibly be doing? While I decompose in this plush and I’m sure usuriouslyif not criminallyoverpriced butcher shop of yours, where are they? How long can it take to reach Grenoble and return? Is it located on Pluto? I don’t think so.”
He resumed his rolling prowl across the room. The curtains were drawn against the night, and the place was cozy with nice furniture and warm lamplightnone of that overhead fluorescent glare that made most hospital rooms seem harsh. There was even the refreshing scent of a bouquet of newly cut peonies. But the comforting atmosphere was lost on Marty. He was thinking about only one thing: Where were Jon, Randi, and Peter? He was afraid that they had gone to Grenoble not to rescue Jon from possible death, but to all die together.
Dr. Cameron said mildly, “So you’re upset.”
Marty stopped in mid-step and turned to the doctor in horror. “Upset? Upset! Is that what you think I am? I am distraught. They are in trouble, I know it. Injured. Lying somewhere desolate in their own blood!” He clasped his hands together and shook them in front as his eyes gleamed with an idea. “I’ll rescue them. That’s it. I’ll swoop down and pluck them from the talons of evil. But I must know exactly where they are. It’s so frustrating hellip;”
The door opened, and Marty turned, a sharp remark ready to be flung at whoever dared interrupt his misery.
But it was Jon standing there, tall, muscular, and imposing in his dark bomber jacket. Although his dusky face was battered, a grin as wide as the Atlantic Ocean was aimed at Marty. Crowded behind were Peter and Randi, also grinning. As he was growing up, Marty had not been good at reading people’s emotions. Learning that the corners of an upturned mouth were a smile, which meant happiness, and that a frown could mean sadness, anger, or a range of other less joyful feelings had taken some time. But now Marty saw not only that his three friends were happy to be here, but they also had a sense of urgency about them, as if they had arrived only to leave again. Things were not good, but they were putting a brave face on the situation.
They strode into the room, Jon talking: “We’re all right here, Mart. Great to see you. No need to worry about us.”
Marty let out a whoop and then drew back and scowled. “Well, it’s about time. I hope you three have been enjoying yourselves.” He pulled himself up to his full height. “I, however, have been vegetating in this boring abattoir with no one but thathellip;that”he glared at Dr. Cameron in the armchair”Scottish barber.”
Cameron chuckled. “As you can see, he’s in fine shape. Tiptop and well on his way to complete recovery. Still, best keep him from any more injuries. And of course, if he gets nauseated or dizzy, he’ll need to have his head examined.”
Marty started to protest, but Jon laughed and threw an arm around Marty’s shoulders. Marty grinned and looked Jon, Randi, and Peter up and down. “Well, at least you’re back. You appear to be all in one piece.”
“That we are, lad,” Peter agreed.
Jon added, “Thanks to Randi and Peter.”
“Fortunately, Jon was in a mood to be saved,” Randi explained.
Jon started to release Marty’s shoulder, but before he could, Marty turned quickly and hugged him. As he gave Jon one last little squeeze and moved away, Marty spoke in a low voice: “Gosh, Jon. You scared the willies out of me. I’m so glad you’re safe. It just wasn’t the same without you. For a long time, 1 really thought you were dead. Couldn’t you start living a more sedentary life?”
“You mean like you?” Jon’s navy-blue eyes twinkled. “You’re the one who got the concussion from the bombing at the Pasteur Institute, not me.”
Marty sighed. “I thought you might bring that up.”
As Dr. Cameron said his good-byes and left, the disheveled and weary trio sank into chairs. Marty returned to his bed, punched and patted his pillows into a white mound, and settled back against them, a plump sultan on a cotton throne. “I sense urgency,” he told them. “Does that mean it’s not over? I’d hoped you’d tell me we could go home now.”
“I wish,” Randi said. She pulled off the band that held her ponytail and shook her hair free. She massaged her scalp with both hands. Blue half-circles of weariness showed under her black eyes. “We think they’re going to try to strike again soon. I just hope there’s time for us to stop them.”
Marty asked, his eyebrows knit, “Where? When?”
To save time, Jon described only the high points of what had happened since his capture at the villa in Algeria, ending with their conclusion that Emile Chambord and Captain Bonnard had been using the Crescent Shield not only to do most of their dirty work, but to hide their complicity in a scheme to use the DNA prototype. Now the pair had disappeared with Theacute;regrave;se Chambord.
“My thought is,” Jon concluded, “that they’ve got to have a second prototype. Is that possible?”
Marty sat upright. “A second prototype? Of course! Emile had two so he could test various molecular sequences for efficiency, speed, and capacity at the same time. You see, molecular computers work by encoding the problem to be solved in the language of DNAthe base-four values are A, T, C, and G. Using them as a number system, the solution to any conceivable problem can be encoded along a DNA strand and”