The Paris Vendetta

“Just what I needed to hear,” she said.

“Let’s get it on the ground,” Daniels added in his ear.

“The autopilot is off-”

Suddenly the Skyhawk angled right. Not a cursory move, but a full course change. He watched the yoke pivot forward, then back, foot pedals working on their own, controlling the rudder in a steep banked maneuver.

Another sharp turn and the GPS readout indicated that the plane’s course had altered more westerly and rose in altitude to eight thousand feet, airspeed a little under a hundred knots.

“What’s happening?” Stephanie asked.

“This thing has a mind of its own. That was a tight sixty-degree turn.”

“Cotton,” Daniels said. “The French have calculated your course. It’s straight for the Invalides.”

No way. They were wrong. He’d already determined the end point of this venture, recalling what had fallen from the Selfridges bag last night.

He stared out the windshield and spotted the true target in the distance.

“That’s not where we’re headed. This plane is going to the Eiffel Tower.”

FIFTY-SIX

ELIZA APPROACHED THE GLASS DOOR AND TRIED THE LATCH.

She stared down through the thick glass panel and saw that an inside lock had been engaged. No way that could have happened accidentally.

“The one on the other side is the same,” Thorvaldsen said.

She did not like the Dane’s calculated tone, which conveyed that this should be no surprise.

One of the other members turned the corner to her left. “There’s no other way down from this platform, and I saw no call box or telephone.”

Overhead, near the top of the caged enclosure, she spotted the solution to the problem. A closed-circuit television camera that angled its lens toward them. “Someone in security is surely watching. We simply have to gain their attention.”

“I’m afraid it’s not going to be that easy,” Thorvaldsen said.

She faced him, afraid of what he might say, but knowing what was coming.

“Whatever Lord Ashby pla

MALONE FELT THE PLANE DESCEND. HIS GAZE LOCKED ON THE altimeter.

7,000 feet and falling.

“What the-”

The drop halted at 5,600 feet.

“I suggest that fighter be sent this way,” he said into the headset. “This plane may need to be blown out of the sky.” He glanced down at the buildings, roads, and people. “I’m going to do what I can to change course.”

“I’m told you’ll have a fighter escort in less than three minutes,” Daniels said.

“Thought you said that wasn’t an option over populated areas?”

“The French are a bit partial to the Eiffel Tower. And they don’t really care-”

“About me?”

“You said it. I didn’t.”

He reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed the gray box, and studied its exterior. Some sort of electronic device, like a laptop that didn’t open. No control switches were visible. He yanked on a cable leading out, but it would not release. He tossed the box down and, with both hands, wrenched the co

He threw the cable aside and reached for the yoke.

His feet went to the pedals and he tried to regain control, but the aileron trim and rudder were sluggish and the Skyhawk continued on a northwest vector.

“What happened?” Stephanie asked.

“I killed the brain, or at least one of them, but this thing is still on course and the controls don’t seem to work.”

He grabbed the column again and tried to veer left.

The plane buffeted as it fought his command. He heard a noticeable change in the prop’s timbre. He’d flown enough single-engines to know that an altered pitch signaled trouble.

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.