The Paris Vendetta

But not today.

Larocque had bargained for the club to have an hour alone at the top, ending around twelve forty PM, twenty minutes before ticket booths opened 275 meters below and visitors flooded upward.

Quickly, he descended fourteen metal risers and crossed to the east side. Larocque and the others were still on the south side, taking in the sights. He climbed the metal stairs to the second door and quietly slid the thick glass panel closed, engaging its lock.

The Paris Club was trapped at the top.

He descended the stairs, entered one of the elevators that waited, and sent the car downward.

“I HAVE THE INFORMATION,” DANIELS SAID IN MALONE’S HEADPHONES. “Six planes currently in Parisian airspace. Four are commercial jetliners on approach to Orly and Charles de Gaulle. Two are private.” The president paused. “Both acting strange.”

“Define that,” Stephanie asked.

“One is not responding to radio commands. The other responded then did something different than was indicated.”

“And they’re both headed this way,” Malone guessed, knowing the answer.

“One from the southeast, the other from southwest. We have a visual on the one from the southwest. It’s a Beechcraft.”

Malone banged on the cockpit window. “Head southeast,” he ordered the pilot, who’d been listening to the exchange.

“You sure?” Daniels said.

“He’s sure,” Stephanie answered.

He caught an aerial explosion off to their right, maybe five miles away.

The Skyhawk had been destroyed.

“I’m just told that the first plane is gone,” Daniels said.

“And I’m betting there’s another Skyhawk,” Malone said. “To the southeast, headed this way.”

“You’re right, Cotton,” Daniels said. “Just received a visual. Same colors and insignia as the one we just took down.”

“That’s the target,” he said. “The one Lyon’s protecting.”

“And you have one more problem,” the president said.

“I already know,” Malone said. “We can’t blow this one up. It’s well over the city.”

He heard Daniels sigh. “Seems the son of a bitch plans well.”

ELIZA HEARD A BOOM IN THE DISTANCE, FROM THE TOWER’S opposite side. She stood on the south portion of the observation deck, gazing out toward the Champ de Mars. Private houses and blocks of luxury flats lined both sides of the former parade ground, wide avenues paralleling both sides.

A quick glance to her left and she saw the Invalides, the gilded dome of the church still intact. She wondered about the noise, knowing that what she’d pla

The plane would be loaded with explosives and, combined with its nearly full tanks of fuel, the resulting explosion promised to be quite a spectacle. She and the others would have an unobstructed view from nearly three hundred meters in the air.

“Shall we move to the east side for a final look before heading down?” she said.

They all rounded a corner.

She’d purposefully orchestrated their route around the platform, slowly gazing at the sights and the delightful day, so that they would end facing east, toward the Invalides.

She glanced around. “Has anyone seen Lord Ashby?”

A few shook their heads.

“I’ll take a look,” Thorvaldsen said.

THE WESTLAND LYNX SLICED ITS WAY THROUGH THE AIR HEADING toward the Skyhawk. Malone kept his eyes locked outside the windows and spotted the plane.

“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 do

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.

FIFTY-FIVE

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 co