knows you're assigned to investigate, but he thinks you're working for army intelligence. The president called him personally to set this up. Henze's got his contacts at work, and he'll fill you in on what he's found out over there. He doesn't know anything about me or Covert-One, of course. Memorize this: Pension Ceacute;zanne, two p.m. sharp. Ask for M. Werner. The password is Loki."
Chapter Five
Washington, D.C.
It was early morning, and a spring breeze blew the scent of cherry blossoms across the Tidal Basin and in through the open French doors of the Oval Office, but President Samuel Adams Castilla was too distracted to notice or care. He stood up behind the heavy pine table he used as a desk and glared at the three people who sat waiting for him to continue. He was just a year into his second term, and the last thing Castilla needed was a military crisis. Now was the time to solidify his accomplishments, get the rest of his programs through a fractious Congress, and build his historical image.
"So this is the situation," he rumbled. "We haven't got enough evidence yet to determine whether a molecular computer actually exists, and if it does, who has it. What we do know is that it's not in our hands, dammit." He was a big man with thick shoulders and a waist that had spread as wide as Albuquerque. Usually genial, he glared through his titanium glasses and worked at controlling his frustration. "The air force and my computer experts tell me they have no other explanation for what happened on Diego Garcia. My science adviser says he's consulted top people in the field, and they claim there could be many reasons for the blip in communications out there, starting with some rare atmospheric anomaly. I hope the science folks are right."
"So do I," Admiral Stevens Brose agreed promptly.
"So do all of us," added National Security Adviser Emily Powell-Hill.
"Amen," said Chief of Staff Charles Ouray from where he leaned against the wall near the fireplace.
Admiral Brose and National Security Adviser Powell-Hill were sitting in leather chairs facing the president's desk, which he had brought with him from Santa Fe. Like all presidents, he had chosen his own decor. The current furnishings reflected his rural Southwestern taste, now modified by five years of the cosmopolitan sophistication he had unexpectedly found he enjoyed in this loftiest seat of federal government, plus all the official trips to capitals, museums, and banquets around the planet. The ranch furniture from the New Mexico governor's residence had been thinned and joined with elegant French side tables and a comfortable British club chair before the fireplace. The red-and-yellow Navajo drapes and the Amerindian vases, baskets, and headdresses now blended with Senegalese masks, Nigerian mud prints, and Zulu shields.
Restless, the president walked around the desk. He leaned back against it, crossed his arms, and continued, "We all know terrorist attacks tend to be by people whose main goal is to get attention for their cause and expose what they consider evil. But this situation has at least two kinks so far: This bomb wasn't against the usual symbolic targetan embassy, a government building, a military installation, a famous landmarkand it wasn't some lone suicide bomber taking out a crowded bus or busy nightclub. Instead, the target was a research and teaching facility. A place that helps humanity. But specifically, the building where a molecular computer was being built."
Emily Powell-Hill, a former U.S. Army brigadier general, raised her perfect eyebrows. In her fifties, she was slender, long-legged, and highly intelligent. "With all due respect, Mr. President, the information you have about a DNA computer's being completed appears to be largely speculation, projection from insufficient data, and plain old guesswork. It's all based on a rumor about what might easily have been a random bombing with random victims. Is it possible your source's disaster scenario comes from paranoia?" She paused. "In an attempt to put it delicatelyhellip;everyone knows the counterintelligence mentality tends to jump at the smallest shadow. This sounds like one of their knee-jerk ideas."
The president sighed. "I suspect you've got something else you'd like to say on the subject."
"As a matter of fact, Mr. President, I do. My science people assure me DNA computer technology is stuck in the early developmental stages and treading water. A functional unit isn't expected for at least a decade. Maybe two decades. Which is just one more reason to cast a very suspicious eye on what may be an