Covert One 3 - The Paris Option Read Free

past the gleaming test tubes and equipment that crowded the line of lab benches, which soon would be occupied by other CDC-USAMRIID researchers and assistants. He stopped at Smith's bench, lifted his left hip, and sat on the edge of the stone top, arms crossed, face grim. Around six feet tall, he was dressed as usual in one of his rumpled suits, this one brown. His skin was pale; it rarely saw the sun for any length of time. The great outdoors was not where Fred Klein operated. With his receding hairline, wire-rimmed glasses, and high, intelligent forehead, he could be anything from book publisher to counterfeiter.
    He contemplated Smith, and his voice was compassionate as he said, “Your friend's alive, but he's in a coma. I won't lie to you, Colonel. The doctors are worried.”
    For Smith, the dark pain of Sophia's death could still weigh heavily on him, and Marty's injury was bringing it all back. But Sophia was gone, and what mattered now was Marty.
    “What the hell was he doing at the Pasteur?”
    Klein took his pipe from his pocket and brought out his tobacco pouch. “Yes, we wondered about that, too.”
    Smith started to speak againhellip;then hesitated. Invisible to the public and to any part of the government except the White House, Covert-One worked totally outside the official military-intelligence bureaucracy and far from the scrutiny of Congress. Its shadowy chief never appeared unless something earthshaking had happened or might happen. Covert-One had no formal organization or bureaucracy, no real headquarters, and no official operatives. Instead, it was loosely composed of professional experts in many fields, all with clandestine experience, most with military backgrounds, and all essentially unencumberedwithout family, home ties, or obligations, either temporary or permanent.
    When called upon, Smith was one of those elite operatives.
    “You're not here because of Marty,” Smith decided. “It's the Pasteur. Something's going on. What?”
    “Let's take a walk outside.” Klein pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and tamped tobacco into his pipe.
    “You can't light that here,” Smith told him. “DNA can be contaminated by airborne particles.”
    Klein sighed. “Just one more reason to go outdoors.”
    Fred Kleinand Covert-Onetrusted no one and nothing, took nothing for granted. Even a laboratory that officially did not exist could be bugged, which, Smith knew, was the real reason Klein wanted to leave. He followed the intelligence master out into the hall and locked his door. Side by side, they made their way downstairs, past dark labs and offices that showed only occasional light. The building was silent except for the breathy hum of the giant ventilation system.
    Outside, the dawn sunlight slanted low against the fir trees, illuminating them on the east with shimmering light while on the west they remained tarry black, in shadows. High above the campus to the west towered the Rocky Mountains, their rough peaks glowing. The valleys that creased the slopes were purple with night's lingering darkness. The aromatic scent of pine filled the air.
    Klein walked a dozen steps from the building and stopped to fire up his pipe. He puffed and tamped until clouds of smoke half-hid his face. He waved some of the smoke away.
    “Let's walk.” As they headed toward the road, Klein said, “Talk to me about your work here. How's it going? Are you close to creating a molecular computer?”
    “I wish. The research is going well, but it's slow. Complex.”
    Governments around the world wanted to be the first to have a working DNA computer, because it would be able to break any code or encryption in a matter of seconds. A terrifying prospect, especially where defense was concerned. All of America's missiles, secret systems at NSA, the NRO's spy satellites, the entire ability of the navy to operate, all defense plansanything and everything that relied on electronics would be at the mercy of the first molecular