The Lazarus Vendetta - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,118

her affiliation with another intelligence outfit meant Smith had to tread carefully around her, concealing whole aspects of his work - even from those who were his closest friends, people to whom he would entrust his life. He and Randi had managed to work together before, in Iraq and Russia, here in Paris, and most recently in China, but it was always awkward dodging her pointed questions.

"It's no great secret, Randi," he lied. He felt guilty for lying to her but did his best to hide it. "You know I've done some work for Army Intelligence in the past. Well, the Pentagon brass pulled me in again for this mission. Someone is developing a nanotech weapon, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff don't like the sound of that at all."

"But why you, exactly?" she demanded.

Smith looked her straight in the eye. "Because I was working at the Teller Institute," he said quietly. "So I know what this weapon can do to people. I saw it myself."

Randi's face softened. "That must have been terrible, Jon."

He nodded, mentally pushing away the sickening memories that still haunted his sleep. "It was." He looked across the table. "But I guess it was even worse here - at La Courneuve."

"There were many more deaths, and no apparent survivors," Randi agreed. "From the press accounts, what happened to those poor people was absolutely horrible."

"Then you should understand why I want a closer look at the men you spotted installing some kind of quote-unquote sensor equipment there the night before the attack," Smith told her.

"You think the two events are related?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Don't you?"

Randi nodded reluctantly. "Yes, I do." She sighed. "And we've managed to trace most of the vehicles those guys were using." She saw the next question in his eyes and answered it before he could speak. "Right, you guessed it: They're all tied to a single address right here in Paris."

"An address you've carefully avoided naming in any of your cables home," Smith pointed out.

"For some damned good reasons," Randi snapped back. She grimaced. "I'm sorry to sound so pissed off, Jon. But I can't fit much of what we've learned into any kind of rational, coherent pattern, and frankly, it's getting on my nerves."

"Well, maybe I can help sort out some of the anomalies," he offered.

For the first time, Randi responded with a faint smile. "Possibly. For an amateur spook you do have an uncanny knack for stumbling into answers," she agreed slowly. "Usually by accident, of course."

Smith chuckled. "Of course."

The CIA officer leaned back against the chair, absently studying the people strolling past them on the pavement. Suddenly she stiffened, plainly incredulous. "Jesus," she muttered in dismay. "What is this . . . old home week?"

Smith followed her gaze and saw what appeared to be an old, untidy Frenchman in a beret and an often-patched sweater ambling toward them, whistling, with both hands stuck into the pockets of his faded work-ingman's trousers. He looked more closely and hid a grin. It was Peter Howell.

The sun-browned Englishman sauntered across the street separating the restaurant from the square, came right up to their table, and politely doffed his beret to Randi. "A pleasure to see you looking so well, madame," he murmured. His pale blue eyes gleamed with amusement. "And this is your young son, no doubt. A fine, stout-looking lad."

"Hello, Peter," Randi said resignedly. "So you've joined the Army, too?"

"The American army?" Peter said in mock horror. "Heavens, no, dear girl! Merely a spot of informal collaborating between old friends and al-

lies, you see. Washing the hand that feeds me and all that. No, Jon and I simply popped by to see if you were interested in joining our little pact."

"Grand. I'm so glad." She shook her head. "Okay, I surrender. I'll share my information, but that has to work both ways. I want all of your cards on the table, too. Get it?"

The Englishman smiled gently. "Clear as crystal. Fear not. All will be revealed in due course. You can trust your Uncle Peter."

"Sure I can." Randi snorted. "Anyway, it's not as if I have much real choice, not under the circumstances." She pushed herself up slowly, carefully maintaining the illusion that she was an elderly woman somewhere in her mid-seventies. She tugged at the small poodle, dragging him firmly out from under the table where he had been futilely gumming one of Smith's shoes for the past few minutes. She switched back to her raspy, nasal French. "Come, Pascal.