Read Covert One 3 - The Paris Option for Free Online Page B

somewhere in his family line.
    “You've brought them?” the Fulani asked in Arabic.
    “Naam.”
    The French captain nodded. He unbuttoned his tunic, opened his uniform shirt, and took out a letter-sized, zippered leather portfolio. Abu Auda's gaze followed each of the movements as Bonnard handed over the portfolio and reported, “Chambord's assistant is dead. What of the American, Zellerbach?”
    “We found no notes, as was expected, although we searched thoroughly,” Abu Auda told him.
    The man's strange eyes bored into Bonnard as if they could reach the Frenchman's soul. Eyes that trusted no one and nothing, not even the god to whom he prayed five times daily without fail. He would worship Allah, but he would trust no one. As Captain Bonnard's face held steadfastly impassive under the heat of the bedouin's examination, the hard eyes finally turned their attention to the portfolio.
    Abu Auda felt it all over with long, scarred fingers, then pushed it inside his robes. His voice was strong and measured as he said, “He'll be in touch.”
    “No need. I'll see him soon.” Bonnard gave a curt nod. “Stop the taxi.”
    The desert bedouin gave the command, the vehicle pulled to the curb, and the Frenchman stepped out. As soon as the door clicked closed behind him, the taxi peeled away.
    Captain Bonnard walked to the nearest corner, speaking into his cell phone again. “You followed?”
    "Oui.
    No problems."
    Seconds later, a large Citron with darkened windows slowed as it neared the corner. Its rear door opened, and the captain stepped inside. The expensive car made a U-turn, taking him to his office where he had phone calls to make before he met with Abu Auda's boss.
    As Jon Smith regained consciousness in the stairwell at the huge Pompidou Hospital, an image lingered in his mind. It was a face, leering at him. Swarthy, a thick black mustache, brown eyes, and a triumphant smile that faded away like the grin of the Cheshire Cat. But the eyeshellip;He concentrated on the eyes that accompanied the smile down the stairs, fading, fadinghellip; Voices speaking, what? French? Yes, French. Where the devil was hehellip;?
    “hellip; are you all right? Monsieur?”
    “How do you feel?”
    “Who was the man who attacked you? Why was he?”
    “Stand back, you idiots. Can't you see he's still unconscious? Give me room so I can examine”
    Smith's eyes snapped open. He was lying on his back on hard concrete, a gray cement ceiling overhead. A ring of concerned faces peered down female and male nurses, a doctor kneeling over him, a gendarme and uniformed security people above and behind.
    Smith sat up and his head swam with pain. “Damn.”
    “You must lie back, monsieur. You've had a nasty blow to the skull. Tell me how you feel.”
    Smith did not lie down again, but he allowed the white-coated doctor to aim his penlight into his eyes. He endured the examination with little patience. “Great. I feel absolutely great.” Which was a lie. His head pounded as if someone were in there with a sledgehammer. Abruptly, he remembered. He grabbed the doctor's hand in a vise grip, pushed away the light, and gazed all around. “Where is he?” he demanded. “That Arab orderly. Where is he! He had a submachine gun. He”
    “He wasn't the only one with a gun.” The gendarme held up Smith's Sig Sauer. His expression was severe, distrustful, and Smith sensed he was very close to being arrested. The gendarme continued, “Did you buy this here in Paris? Or did you, perhaps, find some way to sneak it into the country?”
    Smith patted his suit jacket pocket. It was empty, which meant his identification was gone. “You've got my ID?” When the gendarme nodded, Smith continued, “Then you know I'm a U.S. Army colonel. Pull the ID out of its case. Under it is a special permit to bring my gun in and carry it.”
    The policeman did as asked, while around Smith the hospital crew watched suspiciously. At last the gendarme gave a slow nod and