Paris Match

“I’ll certainly remember that,” Holly said, getting into some jeans.

—

LANCE CAME downstairs dressed, but unshaven. “All right, Stone, tell me about this.”

“Didn’t Holly tell you?”

“You tell me.”

“I saw the airplane, first in Santa Monica, then I saw it at Le Bourget when we arrived on Mike Freeman’s Gulfstream. I just couldn’t remember where I had seen it before—now I do.”

Lance produced a cell phone and pressed a number. “Rick? We’re on. Stone says for us all to meet at Le Bourget, at Landmark Aviation.” He listened for a moment, then hung up. “All right,” he said, “let’s get going.”

Lance had, apparently, been on the phone before, because there was a Mercedes armored van waiting for them in the mews.

“How far is it to Le Bourget?” Holly asked.

“Seven miles,” Lance replied. “It seems like a lot farther in traffic, but there’s no traffic this time of the day. Driver, step on it—use the flashing lights if you have to, but no siren.”

Stone was pressed into his seat by the acceleration.

54

They didn’t bother with the Périphérique; they went straight north, through the heart of Paris. It astonished Stone how little traffic they saw along the way.

“Director,” the man in the front passenger seat called, “where at Le Bourget?”

Lance gave him directions to a security gate near Landmark Aviation. “Rick LaRose will meet us there.”

Ten minutes later they drew up at a security gate bearing a large sign in several languages, to the effect that admittance was available only to those with the proper credentials. At their appearance, the gate slid open, beeping loudly. Just inside, next to a small guardhouse, Rick stood waiting for them with half a dozen other men.

Lance slid open a door. “Rick, I assume you have the proper credentials for us to be admitted.”

“I do,” Rick replied. “A two-hundred-euro note satisfied that requirement.” He produced a map of the airport and a small flashlight. “Here’s Landmark,” he said, then pointed at a lighted ramp a quarter of a mile away. “There are several large hangars. I’ve sent some men to reco

“How long do we have to wait?” Lance said.

“Until they call us. The airplane could be in any of the Landmark hangars, or it could have already departed. That seems unlikely, however. We checked with the tower, and no flight plan for a Gulfstream jet has been filed since sundown yesterday.”

“Check with the tower again,” Lance said.

Rick produced a cell phone, dialed a number, and, in excellent French, conducted a brief conversation, then hung up. “A Gulfstream 450 has filed for Saint Petersburg”—he consulted his watch—“departure in thirty-five minutes.”

“Can you see it on the Landmark ramp?” Lance asked.

Rick got a pair of binoculars and trained them on the FBO. As he did, a voice was heard from his radio. He listened. “That’s our guy,” he said. “An FBO employee tells him a Gulfstream is being pre-flighted by three pilots, a stewardess, and a maintenance crew in Hangar Two.” He pointed. “The doors are closed.”

“Tell your guy,” Lance said, “to find a way to observe—only observe—the interior of the hangar. I want to know if there are any passengers in the hangar or on the airplane, and I want to know if any vehicles bearing such persons arrive at the hangar.”

Rick transmitted the orders. “He’ll get back to us. Do you want us to go over there now?”

“Not until we know what we’re getting into,” Lance said. “I don’t want a firefight on French soil.” He turned around. “Stone, you’re a pilot—what’s the best way to temporarily disable a jet airplane without causing a fire or an explosion or much of a fuss?”

“Fire a round into the nosewheel,” Stone said. “It would take at least an hour, perhaps much longer, to replace it, even if they have a tire readily available.”

“An hour to change a tire?”

“It’s not a car,” Stone said, “it’s an airplane, and the mechanics who work on it have to follow strict procedures in the maintenance manual. It’s time-consuming.”

“Would the pilots start the engines in the hangar?”

“No, the thrust from those two big engines would likely blow out the back of the hangar. They’ll tow it onto the ramp with a tractor, and they’ll start the engines there.”

Lance turned back to Rick. “If or when any attempt is made to tow the airplane from the hangar, tell your guy to shoot out the nosewheel tire, employing stealth, preferably with a silenced weapon. He should not fire at any person, even if fired upon.”

Rick transmitted the order. “Tell me when you want me to go,” he said to Lance.

“I want to know if any passengers are on that aircraft before I make any decisions.”

“My guy is working on it.”

Lance sat very still and waited, his eyes closed. Stone thought he might be napping.

Presently, Rick’s radio squawked, and he put an ear to it. Then he leaned into the van. “Two large vans just arrived at a door on the other side of the hangar. Six men and two women went inside, and their luggage is being taken into the hangar, as we speak.”

“Tell your guy to do his work on the nosewheel, then report back.”

A minute passed, and the radio squawked. “The tire is out,” Rick said.

“Right,” Lance said. “How many men do you have at your disposal?”

“Eleven,” Rick replied, “not including you, Stone, and Holly.”

“That should be enough. Let’s get over there, and I want your men to cover the large doors at the front and any other egress. No one is to leave the hangar—should anyone try, shoot to wound, not kill. Go!”

“Now, driver,” Lance said, “give their vehicles a two-minute head start, then drive over to the hangar they are covering and park this van to the right of the main door, where there’s a smaller door in the big door.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said.

They all sat and waited for two minutes, by Stone’s watch. “Lance,” he said, “what is your plan?”

“Plan?” Lance asked, as if surprised. “I plan to be reasonable, if I can.”

“And if you can’t?”

“Then all hell will break loose,” Lance said. “Time to go,” he called to the driver.

The van began to move toward the hangar.

55

As the armored van rolled across the tarmac toward the hangar, the huge doors began to rise and fold, and from the left, a tow tractor appeared from the darkness and moved toward the big jet.

The van pulled up to the position Lance had ordered. They had a very good view of the front of the Gulfstream, to just past the main door. Lance produced an iPhone, tapped the Contacts icon, then tapped in a name. “Ah,” he said, then tapped the resulting phone number. He put the instrument to an ear and listened for several rings, then he apparently got an answer. “Yevgeny!” he said, smiling, as if the man were an old friend. “It’s Lance Cabot here. Good morning! Yes, I know it’s rather early, but I wanted to speak to you before you abandoned Paris.” He listened. “On your way, are you? Well, not quite. If you will be kind enough to send someone to inspect your nosewheel, you’ll find that it’s in no condition to roll, and thus, neither is that beautiful Gulfstream of yours. Go ahead, I’ll wait.” He held the phone a few inches from his ear, and shouting in Russian could be heard. The door of the airplane swung down, and a uniformed pilot ran down the air stair and to the nosewheel, which was quite flat. He ran back up the stairs into the aircraft.

“Had a look, have you?” Lance said into the phone. “Did your pilot explain to you that, with a deflated tire, your airplane ca