“How far to open pastureland?”
“Twenty miles.”
He checked his fuel. The gauge showed fifty liters, the tanks nearly full. Apparently, whoever planned this wanted a load of gasoline to aid the C-83.
“Find me a runway,” he told Stephanie. “We need this plane on the ground.”
“There’s a private strip thirty miles ahead at Evry. Isolated, nothing there. We’re alerting them to clear the area.
How’s the plane?”
“Like a woman tamed.”
“You wish.”
The prop suddenly sputtered.
He focused out the windshield, beyond the engine cowling, and watched as the propeller wound to a stop.
The engine, on its own, refired and started again.
The control column wrenched from his grip as the plane banked hard right. The engine roared to nearly full throttle and flaps deployed. Something, or somebody, was trying to regain control.
“What’s happening?” Stephanie asked.
“I assume this thing didn’t like my derogatory remark. It has a mind of its own.”
He twisted in the seat as the cockpit leveled, then the plane hooked left. Perhaps its electronics were confused, the transceiver searching for the signal it had previously been following to the Eiffel Tower.
The Skyhawk sought altitude and started a climb, but just as quickly stopped. The airframe bucked like a horse. The yoke vibrated hard. Rudder pedals pounded in and out.
“This isn’t going to work. Tell that fighter to stand ready to fire. I’m going to take this thing as high as I can then bail out. Tell him to give me a little clearance, then let loose.”
For once Stephanie did not argue.
He angled the nose straight up. He forced the flaps to retract and held on tight, compelling the Skyhawk to climb against its will. The engine started to labor, like a car struggling up a steep incline.
His eyes focused on the altimeter.
4,000 feet. 5,000. 6,000.
His ears popped.
He decided 8,000 should be enough and, when the gauge passed that mark, he released his grip. While he waited for the plane to level, he yanked off the headset and slipped the wool cap back over his face. He wasn’t looking forward to the next few minutes.
He reached for the latch and opened the door.
Cold air rushed in as he forced the panel open. Not giving himself time to be scared, he rolled out, making sure to push off with his feet so momentum would send him clear of the fuselage.
He’d only jumped from a plane twice, once in flight school, and a second time last year over the Sinai, but he remembered what the navy taught him about a punch-out. Arch the back. Spread the arms and legs. Don’t let the body roll out of control. He carried no altimeter and decided to estimate his free fall by counting. He needed to open the chute around 5,000 feet. His right hand reached to his chest and searched for the rip cord. Never wait, his flight instructor had always cautioned, and for one frightening moment he could not find the handle, but then his fingers wrapped around the D-ring.
He glanced up and watched the Skyhawk continue its erratic journey, searching for its target, engine sputtering, altitude ever changing.
Time seemed to slow as he fell through the winter air.
A collage of fields and forest extended below. He caught sight of the helicopter to his right as it kept him in view.
He reached ten in his count and yanked the rip cord.
ELIZA HEARD FOOTSTEPS AND TURNED TO SEE SECURITY MEN rushing their way from around the deck’s corner.
“Everyone here okay?’” the lead man asked in French.
She nodded. “We’re fine. What is happening?”
“We’re not sure. It appears that someone locked the doors to this upper platform and that a small plane almost crashed into this location.”
Everything she heard simply confirmed what Thorvaldsen had already made clear.
She stared over at the Dane.
But he was not paying any attention. Instead, the older man simply stood at the platform’s edge, hands inside his coat pockets, and gazed past the enclosure, toward the south, where the plane had exploded in the sky. The pilot had bailed out just prior, and was now descending on a chute, a helicopter keeping a watchful eye, circling.
Something was wrong here.
Way beyond Graham Ashby’s treachery
THE CHUTE EXPLODED OUTWARD AND MALONE’S GAZE WENT up to the cords hoping none tangled. A mad rush of wind was instantly replaced by the flap of cloth as the chute grabbed air. He was still high, probably above 5,000 feet, but he didn’t care, the thing opened and he was now gently falling toward the ground.
About a quarter mile away he spied a rocket trail and followed the missile on its trajectory. A moment later a huge fireball ignited in the sky, like a star going supernova, as the C-83 obliterated the Skyhawk.
The greater explosion confirmed what he’d suspected.
This plane was the problem.
The Tornado streaked by overhead, the helicopter remaining about half a mile away, following him down.
He tried to decide on the best place to land. He gripped the toggles and forced the rectangular canopy downward, like flaps closing on wings, which spiraled his descent and increased speed.
Thirty seconds later his feet found a plowed field and he folded to the ground. His nostrils filled with the musty smell of turned earth.
But the stench didn’t matter.
He was alive.
THORVALDSEN STARED AT THE DISTANT PARACHUTE. NO NEED to continue appearances any longer. Graham Ashby had shown his true colors. But so had Malone. What just happened involved governments. Which meant Malone was working with either Stephanie, the French, or both.
And that betrayal would not go unanswered.
FIFTY-EIGHT
ASHBY HUSTLED DOWN THE STAIRS TOWARD GROUND LEVEL. He’d timed his escape closely, knowing that he’d have only a precious few minutes. The plan was to cross the Avenue Gustave Eiffel and make his way through the Champ de Mars, toward the Place Jacques Rueff, the nucleus of the former parade ground. Just east, a car with Caroline inside was waiting on the Avenue J. Bouvard. He’d have to finally explain a few things, considering what she was about to see, but his lies were ready.
He kept descending the stairs.
His deal with Peter Lyon had been clear. Never had Lyon been contracted to do what Larocque had wanted—crash a plane into the Church of the Dome and carry out two other simultaneous attacks in Avignon and Bordeaux. Instead, Ashby had confined their arrangement to Paris only, modifying the target to the Eiffel Tower. He’d never understood what Larocque intended, though after listening to her presentation earlier he now appreciated at least some of it.
Terror apparently could be profitable.
He came to the last flight of stairs. He was winded, but glad to be on solid earth. He told himself to calm down and walk slow. Several virile-looking males dressed in camouflage fatigues and toting automatic rifles patrolled the pavement. Beneath the iron base hundreds of people, in long lines, awaited the elevators opening at one PM.
Unfortunately, that would not happen today.
The Eiffel Tower was about to be no more.
In his altered version of Eliza Larocque’s plan, he’d arranged with Lyon for the Invalides to be a diversion, a way to create as much confusion as possible. Lyon had always been told the tower was his primary target. He didn’t need to know that he’d be killing the entire Paris Club—Larocque included. Not important. And what would Lyon care? He only provided the services a client requested. And to Lyon, Ashby was the client. It should be an easy matter to blame Lyon for everything that was about to happen. His explanation to the Americans as to why he hadn’t been with the others on the summit was simple. Larocque had excused him from the rest of the day’s gathering. Sent him on a mission.
Who would contradict him?
He passed beneath the southeast arch and cleared the tower. He kept walking, ticking off the seconds in his head. He checked his watch. Noon.
He had no idea where the plane was coming from, only that it should be here any moment.
He crossed the Avenue Gustave Eiffel and entered the Champs de Mars.
He was well clear, so he told himself to relax. Peter Lyon was one of the most experienced murderers in the world. Sure, the Americans were involved, but they’d never get near Lyon. And now, with the tragedy that was about to un
fold, they’d have plenty extra to deal with. He’d reported about the Invalides, kept his part of the bargain. The burning vehicle he’d seen earlier in front of the Church of the Dome was surely part of Lyon’s show, which should also provide him the perfect excuse for the Americans. Lyon had changed the plan. Apparently, the South African deceived everyone, himself included.
And the end result?
He’d be free of the Americans and Eliza Larocque, and, if all went well, he’d retain all of the club’s deposits and find Napoleon’s lost cache, which he could also now keep for himself.
Quite a payout.
His father and grandfather would both be proud.
He kept walking, waiting for the explosion, prepared to react as any shocked bystander would.
He heard the drone of a plane, growing louder.
And the dull thump of rotors.
A helicopter?
He stopped, turned, and gazed skyward just as a single-engine plane, its wings banked nearly perpendicular to the ground, missed the third-level platform by a few hundred meters.
A military chopper followed, in hot pursuit.
His eyes widened in alarm.
THORVALDSEN EXITED THE ELEVATOR WITH THE OTHER PARIS Club members. Everyone was now back on the first-level platform. The security men who’d opened the glass doors high above had offered no explanation as to how they became locked. But he knew the answer. Graham Ashby had planned another mass murder.
He watched as the others made their way into the meeting room. Most of the members were shaken, but maintaining a confident façade. He’d purposefully not kept his comments at the summit to himself and had seen the reaction of the others to his observations about Graham Ashby. He’d also noted Larocque’s anger—at both he and Ashby.
He stood near the outer railing, gloved hands in his coat pockets, and watched as Larocque marched toward him.
“The time for pretense between us is over,” he said to her. “I have no more patience to humor you.”