Suddenly the nose jerked and the Skyhawk started to climb.
He reached for the throttle and tried to close it down, but the plane continued to rise. The altimeter read 8,000 feet when the nose finally came down. He didn’t like what was happening. Airspeed was shifting at unpredictable rates. Control surfaces were erratic. He could easily stall, and that was the last thing he needed with a cabinful of explosives over Paris.
He stared ahead.
On present course and speed, he was two minutes, at most, from the tower.
“Where’s that fighter?” he asked either of his listeners.
“Look to your right,” Stephanie said.
A Tornado air interceptor, its wings swept back, was just beyond his wing, two air-to-air missiles nestled to its underside.
“You in communication with him?” he asked.
“He’s at our beck and call.”
“Tell him to fall off and stand ready.”
The Tornado dropped back and he returned his attention to the possessed plane.
“Get that chopper out of here,” he said to Stephanie.
He grabbed the yoke.
“Okay, darling,” he whispered, “this is going to hurt you far more than me.”
THORVALDSEN SEARCHED THE PARISIAN SKY. GRAHAM ASHBY had gone to a lot of trouble to trap the entire Paris Club. To the east, police and firefighters still battled the flames at the Invalides.
He walked around the platform, toward the west and south.
And saw them.
A single-engine plane, followed by a military helicopter, in close proximity, and a fighter jet veering off and climbing.
All three aircraft were close enough to signal trouble.
The helicopter drifted away, giving the single-engine plane room as it rocked on its wings.
He heard the others approach from behind him, Larocque included.
He pointed. “Our fate arrives.”
She gazed out into the clear sky. The plane was descending, its prop pointed straight for the deck upon which they stood. He caught a shimmer of sunshine off metal, above and behind the chopper and plane.
The military jet.
“Seems somebody is dealing with the problem,” he calmly noted.
But he realized that shooting down the plane was not a viable option.
So he wondered.
How was their fate to be determined?
MALONE WRENCHED THE COLUMN HARD LEFT AND HELD IT in position against a surprisingly intense force compelling a return to center. He’d thought the gray box was flying the plane, but apparently the Skyhawk had been extensively altered. Somewhere there was another brain controlling things, since no matter what he did the plane stayed on course.
He worked the rudder pedals and tried to regain some measure of control, but the plane refused to respond.
He was now clearly on course for the Eiffel Tower. He assumed another homing device had been secreted there, just as in the Invalides, the signal irresistible to the Skyhawk.
“Tell the Tornado to arm his missile,” he said. “And back that damn chopper farther off.”
“I’m not going to destroy that plane with you in it,” Stephanie said.
“Didn’t know you cared so much.”
“There are a lot of people below you.”
He smiled, knowing better. Then a thought occurred to him. If the electronics controlling the plane couldn’t be physically overcome, maybe they could be fooled into releasing their hold.
He reached for the engine cutoff and killed the prop.
The propeller spun to a standstill.
“What the hell happened?” Stephanie asked in his ear.
“I decided to cut blood to the brain.”
“You think the computers might disengage?”
“If they don’t, we have a serious problem.”
He gazed below at the brown-gray Seine. He was losing altitude. Without the engine powering the controls, the column was looser, but still tight. The altimeter registered 5,000 feet.
“This is going to be close.”
SAM RACED OFF THE ELEVATOR AT THE TOP OF THE TOWER. No one was inside the enclosed observation platform. He decided to slow down, be cautious. If he was wrong about Ashby, he’d have some impossible explaining to do. He was risking exposure. But something told him that the risk needed to be taken.
He scanned outside, past the windows, first east, then north, and finally south.
And saw a plane.
Closing fast.
Along with a military chopper.
To hell with caution.
He bolted up one of two metal stairways that led to the uppermost observation deck. A glass door at the top was closed and locked. He spied the bolt at the bottom. No way to release it without a key. He leaped down metal grates three at a time, ran across the room, and tried the other route up.
Same thing.
He banged a closed fist on the thick glass door.
Henrik was out there.
And there was nothing he could do.
ELIZA WATCHED AS THE PROP STOPPED TURNING AND THE PLANE lost altitude. The craft was less than a kilometer away and still closing on a direct path.
“The pilot is a maniac,” one of the club members said.
“That remains to be seen,” Thorvaldsen calmly said.
She was impressed by the Dane’s nerve. He seemed totally at ease, despite the seriousness of the situation.
“What’s happening here?” Robert Mastroianni asked her. “This is not what I joined to experience.”
Thorvaldsen turned to face the Italian. “Apparently, we’re meant to die.”
MALONE FOUGHT THE CONTROLS.
“Get that engine back online,” Stephanie said over the radio.
“I’m trying.”
He reached for the switch. The motor sputtered, but did not catch. He tried again and was rewarded with a backfire.
He was descending, the summit of the Eiffel Tower less than a mile away.
One more time and, with a bang, the engine roared to life, the spinning prop quickly generating airspeed. He did not give the electronics time to react, quickly ramming the throttle to full speed. He banked the wings, angled the plane into the wind, and flew past the tower, spotting people standing at the top, pointing his way.
FIFTY-SEVEN
SAM WATCHED AS A SMALL PLANE APPROACHED. HE FLED THE locked glass door and leaped down the stairs, then rushed across to the southern observation windows. The plane roared past, a helicopter in close pursuit.
Elevator doors opened and uniformed men rushed out.
One was the head of security he’d met earlier.
“The doors leading upstairs are locked,” he told them. “We need a key.”
THORVALDSEN FOCUSED ON THE COCKPIT OF THE CESSNA that skirted past, within a few hundred meters. Only an instant was needed for him to spot the face of the pilot.
Cotton Malone.
“I HAVE CONTROL,” MALONE SAID.
His altitude was climbing. He decided to level off at 3,000 feet.
“That was close,” he said.
“An understatement,” Stephanie said. “Is it responding?”
“I need an airport.”
“We’re looking.”
He didn’t want to risk landing at Orly or Charles de Gaulle. “Find a smaller field somewhere. What’s ahead of me?”
“Once past the city, which is only a few more miles, I’m told there’s a wood and a marsh. There’s a field at Créteil, another at Lagney, and one at Tournan.”