Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

“Eleven o’clock,” he told the pilot. “Swing in close.”

The chopper swooped around and quickly overcame the single-engine plane. Malone spied the cockpit through binoculars and saw that the two seats were empty, the steering column moving, as in the other plane, with calculated strokes. Just as before, something lay on the copilot’s seat. Beyond, the aft area was packed tight with more packages wrapped in newspaper.

“It’s just like the other one,” he said, lowering the binoculars. “Flying automatically. But this one’s for real. Lyon timed it so that there’d be little opportunity to deal with the problem.” He glanced toward the ground. Nothing but streets and buildings stretched for miles. “And few options.”

“So much for him telegraphing messages to us,” Stephanie said.

“He didn’t make it easy.”

Outside the helicopter’s window he spied a rescue hoist with steel cable.

What had to be done was clear, but he wasn’t looking forward to it. He turned to the corpsman. “You have a body harness for that winch?”

The man nodded.

“Get it.”

“What are you thinking?” Stephanie asked.

“Somebody has to go down to that plane.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

He motioned outside. “A gentle drop.”

“I can’t allow that.”

“You have a better idea?”

She shook her head. “No, but I’m the senior officer here. And that’s final.”

“Cotton’s right,” Daniels said into their ears. “It’s the only play. You have to get control of that plane. We can’t shoot it down.”

“You wanted my help,” he said to her. “So let me help.”

Stephanie stared at him with a look that said Do you really think this is necessary?

“It’s the only way,” he said.

She nodded her assent.

He wrenched the headset off and slipped on an insulated flight suit that the corpsman handed him. He zipped it closed, then tightened a harness around his chest. The corpsman tested the fit with a few stiff tugs.

“There’s big wind out there,” the younger man said. “You’re going to be swept back on the cable. The pilot’ll keep the distance tight to minimize drift.” The corpsman handed him a parachute, which he slipped on over the harness.

“Glad to see you have some sense,” Stephanie yelled over the turbines.

“Don’t worry. I’ve done this before.”

“You don’t lie well,” she said.

He donned a wool cap that, thankfully, shielded his entire face like a bank robber. A pair of yellow-tinted goggles protected his eyes.

The corpsman motioned, asking if he was ready.

He nodded.

The compartment door was slid open. Frigid air flooded in. He slipped on a pair of thick insulated gloves. He heard a snap as the steel hook of the hoist was affixed to the harness.

He counted to five, then stepped outside.

THORVALDSEN MADE HIS WAY AROUND FROM THE NORTH TO the west side of the caged deck. He passed windows on his right that exhibited wax figures of Gustave Eiffel and Thomas Edison, made to look like they were chatting in Eiffel’s former quarters. Everything loomed still and quiet, and only the wind accompanied him.

Ashby was nowhere to be seen.

Halfway, he stopped and noticed that the glass door for the exit was closed. When the group had passed here a few minutes ago, the door had been open. He gripped the handle and tested.

Locked.

Perhaps one of the staff had secured it? But why? The tower would soon be open to visitors. Why lock one of only two ways to the top deck?

He walked back to the east side, where the others stood gazing out at the panorama. The second exit door was closed, too. He tested its handle.

Locked.

He listened as Eliza Larocque pointed out some landmarks. “That’s the Invalides, there. Maybe three kilometers away. It’s where Napoleon is entombed. Seems some sort of disturbance has occurred.”

He saw a vehicle smoldering in front of the church, a multitude of fire trucks and police dotting the avenues that stretched away from the monument. He wondered if what was happening there was connected to the two locked doors. Coincidence rarely was coincidental.

“Madame Larocque,” he said, trying to catch her attention.

She faced him.

“Both exits leading down are locked shut.”

He caught the puzzled look on her face. “How is that possible?”

He decided to answer her question in another way. “And there’s one other disturbing piece of news.”

She stared at him with an intense glare.

“Lord Ashby is gone.”

SAM WAITED ON THE FIRST-LEVEL PLATFORM AND WONDERED what was happening five hundred feet overhead. When the Paris Club had vacated the meeting room, and the staff had returned to prepare for lunch, he’d blended into the commotion.

“How’d it go?” Meagan whispered to him as they adjusted the silverware and plates at the dining tables.

“These people have some big plans,” he murmured.

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Not now. Let’s just say we were right.”

They finished preparing the two tables. He caught an enticing waft of steaming vegetables and grilled beef. He was hungry, but there was no time to eat at the moment.

He readjusted the chairs before each place setting.

“They’ve been at the top about half an hour now,” Meagan said as they worked.

Three security men kept watch on the attendants. He knew that this time he could not remain inside. He’d also seen Henrik Thorvaldsen’s reaction as the Dane realized Sam was there. Surely he had to be wondering what was happening. He’d been told that Thorvaldsen was unaware of the American presence, and Stephanie had made it clear that she wanted to keep it a secret. He’d wondered why, but had decided to stop arguing with his superiors.

The chief steward signaled that everyone should withdraw.

He and Meagan left through the main doors with everyone else. They would wait in the nearby restaurant for the signal to return and clear away the dishes. He stared upward into the latticework of brown-gray pig iron. An elevator descended from the second level above.

He noticed that Meagan saw it, too.

They both hesitated at the central railing, near the restaurant’s entrance, as other attendants hustled inside from the cold.

The elevator stopped at their level.

The car would open on the far side of the platform, beyond the meeting room, out of sight from where he and Meagan stood. Sam realized they could only hesitate a few moments longer before drawing the suspicion of either the head steward or the security men, who’d retaken their positions outside the meeting room doors.

Graham Ashby appeared.

Alone.

He hustled to the staircase that led down to ground level and disappeared.

“He was in a hurry,” Meagan said.

He agreed. Something was wrong.

“Follow him,” he ordered. “But don’t get caught.”

She flashed him a quizzical look, clearly caught off guard by the sudden harshness in his voice. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

He had no time to argue and started off.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To the top.”

MALONE NEVER HEARD THE HELICOPTER DOOR SLAM CLOSED behind him, but he felt when the winch began to unwind. He positioned his arms at his side and lay prone with his legs extended outward. The sensation of falling was negated by the cable’s firm grip.

He descended and, as the corpsman predicted, was swept back. The Skyhawk was flying fifty feet below him. The winch continued to slacken the cable and he slowly eased himself toward the wing top.