| have to be. They’re probably in the Pasteur’s data bank. Don’t tell me the entire computer system was destroyed.” “No, the mainframe’s fine. It’s located in a bomb-proof room, but he hadn’t entered any data in it for more than a year.” Smith scowled. “He was keeping longhand records?” “If he kept any at all.” “He had to keep records. You can’t do basic research without complete data. Lab notes, progress sheets. Your records have to be scrupulous, or your work can’t be verified or reproduced. Every blind alley, every mistake, every backtrack has to be chronicled. Dammit, if he wasn’t saving his data in the computer, he had to be keeping it longhand. That’s certain.” “Maybe it is, Jon, but so far neither the Pasteur nor the French authorities have found any records at all, and believe me, they’ve been looking. Hard.” Smith thought. Longhand? Why? Could Chambord have gotten protective once he realized he was close to success? “You figure he knew or suspected he was being watched by someone inside the institute?” “The French, and everyone else, don’t know what to think,” Klein said. “He was working alone?” “He had a low-level lab assistant who’s on vacation. The French police are searching for him.” Klein stared toward the east, where the sun was higher now, a giant disk above the prairie. “And we think Dr. Zellerbach was working with him, too.” “You think?” “Whatever Dr. Zellerbach was doing appears to have been completely unofficial, almost secret. He’s |
and ran barefoot into the vegetation where he soon found a tiny glade, dark and shadowy, filled with the scents of rich earth and growing plants. Under a date palm, he dressed quickly, stuck his Walther into his waistband, strapped the stiletto into a sheath Velcroed to his calf, and hid the bucket. He moved through the trees and bushes, keeping the beach in sight, until he ran into a dirt trail. He crouched to study it. There were footprints with treads characteristic of athletic shoes like the ones he wore. The most recent printsa jumble of several different sets of feetled away from where the raft and dinghy were tied. Encouraged, he took out his Walther and followed the trail inland for another fifteen yards until it ended at a vast open area in the grip of night’s growing shadows. There were olive trees and date palms and beyond them a rise of land. On it stood a large white villa crowned by a white dome inlaid with mosaic tiles. He had seen that dome from the boat. The sprawling villa appeared completely isolated, and at first glance it seemed deserted, too. No one worked or strolled in the gardens, and no one sat in the blue, wrought-iron furniture that was arranged artistically on the long terrace. Neither could he see anyone through the open French doors. No cars or other vehicles were visible. The only movement was from gauzy curtains, billowing from the open windows. But then voices |
