by John Denis
Mrs Wheeler sat in a comfortable chair in the VIP room, hands clasped to stop them trembling. She had resolutely refused to speak to Leah who had locked the door and left. She had no idea what Mister Smith required of her — apart from the obvious ransom for her release. She suspected, though, that he had chosen the location badly. If she was trapped on the Eiffel Tower, then so was he. She had a premonition — which, surprisingly, was not too distasteful — that she would not survive the day.
Tourists arrived in their droves from above, and huddled together on the gallery, and in the open spaces and restaurant, as Smith took a loud-hailer and addressed them. ‘All visitors and tower personnel, listen to me. You will be released safe and unharmed if you do not panic, and if you do precisely as you are instructed. You will shortly enter the elevators in small groups, as directed by my staff. Once on the ground, please leave the area of the tower immediately. If you do not, you will place yourselves in very grave danger indeed. Now — get to the elevators, and wait your turn as my men tell you.’
Sabrina, perched precariously on the scaffolding of the tower midway between the first and second levels, put the finishing touches to her bracket welding. From the landing below, Mike peeped out and saw her. He signalled to C.W., who ran to join him. ‘There she goes,’ Mike said, and he and the black man took the Lap-Laser over the rail and knotted the rope round it. A commando team from above began to haul it on its long trip up the side of the tower.
Police and bystanders stood in anxious groups watching with mounting curiosity as the slim black gun rose into the air, hugging the girders. Sabrina looked down on the swaying Lap-Laser with equal concern. She knew what the crowd didn’t know: that any hard knock from the metal struts to the delicate firing mechanism — particularly to the circular, side-mounted radar detectors — could put the wonder-weapon out of commission. Sabrina muttered a silent prayer that if it was going to happen, it should happen quickly — before the need arose for her to fumble the bolting of the laser-gun to its bracket.
For that was the plan she had in mind: a last, desperate bid to immobilize at least one of Smith’s toys and even up the odds for Philpott.
But the gun reached Sabrina safely, and as the commandos detached it from its sling, she steeled herself to drop it back down the tower. Then Smith’s voice floated down to her. ‘No slips now, Sabrina. I shall hold you personally responsible if anything happens to that gun.’
* * *
In the maintenance areas, Pei and his band of electronic specialists were tapping into the main power cables supplying the tower, as Pei had shown them in the practice sessions at the Château Clérignault. This time, there were no accidents, and within minutes, stewardship of the electricity supply to the entire tower and its environs had passed into Pei’s capable hands.
The first trippers were leaving the tower. They streamed away, ignoring the incoming policemen brought there by the sudden lack of communication with the tower, by isolated bursts of gunfire, and by the fact that the security men augmenting Mrs Wheeler’s guards had failed to report. Women in the crowd sobbed as they tried to cope with hysterical children. Men looked back grimly, and talked excitedly among themselves of their good fortune in getting away. The policemen pushed impatiently at the elevator buttons, but there was no response. Pei had seen to that. He was now the Eiffel Tower’s sole liftman.
The steel-helmeted Riot Police arrived, all shields, blast-guns and machismo. They listened to the tragic tales of the common flics, then grouped in a spear-head at the entrance to the tower, and rushed the stairs. Their shields, however, proved not to be impervious to high-velocity, armour piercing bullets, and they retreated in disorder, leaving dead and wounded littering the steps.
Smith heard the shooting as he descended to his command position near the first landing elevators. ‘Keep it to the minimum,’ he yelled through the loud-hailer to the group manning the stairs. ‘Tell that to the Riot Cops,’ called out a commando.
Smith turned inquiringly to one of his principal lieutenants, who supplied the commando’s name. ‘He did not address me correctly,’ Smith said, in a voice so urbane that it chilled his subordinate, ‘and he was impertinent. When the operation is concluded, shoot him. Through the spine. Make sure he lives.’
The tower was clearing fast now. The only people Smith kept there under lock and key were the more daring among the guards — those who still lived, that is — and the security men of both nationalities, who were beaten senseless as a precaution.
On the rusty-red iron scaffolding members, Sabrina Carver and C.W. Whitlock clamped a third Lap-Laser-gun into place. Another team, led by Pei, handled the fourth and last dreaded super-weapon on the opposite flank. Smith assembled his entire task force on ‘level one’, and handed over temporarily to Leah. She took a large bundle of metal tags from a box.
‘You all know what these are,’ Leah said. ‘They’re laser safety tags. Wear them at all times, please. It’s probably unnecessary to caution you about this, since you all know what will happen to you if you don’t wear them. We’ll be arming the Lap-Lasers in a very few moments. In case you have any remaining doubts about their powers, let me assure you that they will automatically destroy anything that moves on this tower, or near it, which doesn’t have one of these metal protective code-tags. I’ll hand out the tags now. After that, it’s up to you.’
‘Thank you, Leah,’ said Smith, taking the tag she offered him, and pinning it ostentatiously to his breast on the lapel of his suit. ‘I’ll see you in the restaurant when we’ve set up?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Mister Smith,’ she replied.
The last load of trippers left the tower, and scampered away to join the crowd, now held in check by a police cordon at a respectful distance. On his way back to the restaurant, Smith peered over the side cautiously. He had instructed his commandos to keep well out of sniping range; once the laser-guns were operative, they would, of course, have no need to observe such caution.
The scene was bizarre, looking upwards or downwards. Going up, the sole occupants of the Eiffel Tower above the first level were pigeons, gulls and smaller birds. They wheeled in and out of the stanchions and cross-members, and buzzed the top observation platform like Macbeth’s temple-haunting martlets.
Below, there was a cordon sanitaire around the tower. Nothing inside it moved. Traffic had been halted, the access roads and main junction were sealed off, the walkways from the Champ de Mars and the Palais de Chaillot cleared, even of animals. The fountains were stilled, and every eye in the vast and growing crowd turned upwards in tribute, Smith’s mad brain told him, to his remarkable genius.
He withdrew, and walked towards the restaurant. As he reached the door, Pei stepped forward and delivered the crucial message. ‘The Lap-Lasers are fully armed and functioning, Mister Smith.’ Smith replied, ‘Excellent, Pei, excellent.’
The central command post had been set up in the restaurant, and apart from the busy commando leaders, probably the most valued people there were the French television crew, who were destined to play in the drama a role of which none of them had dreamed when they left that morning on a routine assignment.
Under Pei’s direction, and to Mike Graham’s secret amusement, cables had been dragged in bunches into the cleared dining area, and the little bandstand was now the setting for a bank of TV monitors, covering every aspect around the tower. A group of three colour monitors stood to one side, showing, for the moment, RTF test cards. Smith looked appraisingly at the scene, occasionally glancing at his stop-watch.
Finally, he summoned the French TV cameraman who, like most continental network operators, used a small, portable ENG (Electronic News Gathering) camera, rather than the unwieldy Arrieflexes and other film cameras of old.
‘You will operate the ENG camera at my direction, and inject straight into the network, as you have been instructed?’ Smith asked.
‘Oui, Monsieur,’ the man replied.
‘If you do not,�
�� Smith warned, ‘or if in any way you attempt to cross me … I have no need, I am sure, to tell you what will happen to you.’
The cameraman assured him hastily that he would do as he was told. ‘No tricks, Monsieur,’ he added, ‘I have a wife and kids, and RTF does not pay me enough to die for them.’
‘Good,’ Smith returned. ‘Then make the preparations.’
‘What exactly is it you wish me to do, Monsieur?’ queried the technician.
‘That’s simple,’ Smith said. ‘I want to make a broadcast to the world. I want to tell them that I have stolen the Eiffel Tower, and that I am holding as my prisoner the mother of the President of the United States of America.’
EIGHT
Sonya ordered lunch to be sent up to Suite 701, and the Ritz’s room service obliged with omelettes, side salads, light desserts and a bottle of Chablis. Neither she nor Philpott were in the mood to sample the celebrated déjeuner mondain or the delights of the Espadon Grill.
They had not been idle during the morning. Philpott maintained a steady contact with the message drop points in Paris, with INTERPOL and the Sûreté, with the Élysée Palace, and with the CIA and the duty monitor at UNACO. So far, they had drawn blanks.
As he forked the first slice of omelette into his mouth, the telephone rang again. ‘Always happens,’ he grunted, ‘usually when I’m in the shower.’
Philpott picked up the receiver, announced himself, and listened for perhaps three minutes in total silence.
Then he said, ‘God in Heaven, François, I expected it to be bad, but nothing like this. Hang on a sec.’ He gestured towards the corner of the lavishly decorated room, where vast windows offered breath-taking views of Paris. ‘Sonya, switch on the television set,’ he said, urgently. Then back to the telephone. ‘Go on please, François.’
Philpott listened again, fired a couple of quick questions, made notes on a scribbling-pad next to the telephone, and finally said, ‘Me? I’ll get hold of the Ambassador straight away. I know more about Smith than probably anyone else alive. I shall be pleased to help. Indeed, I insist on offering my services. Thank you, Au revoir.’
He replaced the telephone as the colour TV screen flickered into life. ‘For God’s sake, Malcolm, tell me what’s happened,’ Sonya cried in exasperation. ‘The worst,’ Philpott answered. ‘The very worst. Smith, would you believe, has hi-jacked the Eiffel Tower — or so the police say … that was François LeMaitre, from the Sûreté.’
‘Hi-jacked the Eiffel Tower?’ Sonya echoed, incredulously.
‘Taken it with an armed force. But that’s not all. By Christ, that’s in no sense everything.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s got a hostage, Sonya, and I have no doubt whatsoever that in his insanity, he will not hesitate to sacrifice the hostage if things go against him.’
‘Who is it, Malcolm?’
‘Someone whose life we cannot afford to hazard,’ Philpott said, dully. ‘It’s Warren’s mother, Sonya. Adela Wheeler, mother of Warren G. Wheeler, President of the United States of America.’
The colour drained from her face. ‘Wh-what — what —’
‘What’s she doing here?’ Philpott supplied. ‘She’s over on invitation from the International Children’s Relief Fund — you know, it’s her pet charity. There’s a beano, a fund-raising lunch, at the Eiffel Tower — today.
‘God —’ he smashed his fist into his palm, ‘— how could I have overlooked that? How could I have been so stupid as not to check that, when Lorenz van Beck as good as told me it was the Eiffel Tower?’
‘Van Beck did?’ Sonya queried.
Philpott nodded, and ran his fingers through his hair. He wrenched open his top collar button and pulled down his tie. ‘Yeah,’ he murmured, disconsolately. ‘As van Beck said: what else has two and a half million rivets? I believed him, of course … that’s why we went to that little café this morning — just on the offchance that I might see something, or someone, which would give us a lead. But some hopes,’ he snorted in self-disgust. ‘Even if I’d tripped over Smith himself, I would probably have dusted him down and bought him a beer.’
Sonya rose and went to him. ‘Quitting?’ she asked. ‘Self-pity’s not your line, Philpott. Fight back, or we’re lost. Please?’ She straightened his tie, and smoothed back his hair. Then she noticed, past his shoulder as he held her and kissed her cheek, the TV set purring away in the corner.
Over the domestic tribulations of a particularly involved French soap opera a message repeatedly flashed: ‘EMERGENCY INTERRUPT.’ Sonya broke free with a start. ‘Look, Malcolm,’ she said, ‘something’s coming on TV about it, I think.’
Philpott turned, and studied the set. Then he crossed the room and sat on a chaise-longue within comfortable distance. ‘It’s Smith,’ he explained to Sonya. ‘Apparently he’s got himself a link straight into RTF from the tower. His communications boys have arranged it so that the Post Office can’t stop him, even if they wanted to. And at the moment, the French Government doesn’t want to stop him. Let’s hear what he’s got to say.’
Sonya joined him. The emergency signal became a permanent fixture as the trivial soap opera faded. After a minute the stark message blinked out, and the screen cleared. The next image on French and Continental Western European television was the face of Mister Smith.
‘I am sorry,’ Smith began, ‘to interrupt your normal television fare, but, as compensation, I bring you a real-life drama which I hope you will find even more absorbing.’ He spoke in faultless French, and repeated the sentence in English.
He continued, ‘My name is Mister Smith, and I have just stolen the Eiffel Tower. No, I’m not joking. See for yourselves.’
The screen cut to another camera, which roamed the tower, concentrating on the first level, seeking out the armed guards, then wandering below, to the cordon of frustrated police, and the seething crowd. It avoided the laser-guns, and for a moment Philpott’s heart leapt: perhaps something had gone wrong. Perhaps C.W. and Sabrina had managed to immobilize the Lap-Lasers, to give the authorities at least a fighting chance … But then he reflected, ‘No, the bastard’s just playing with us.’
‘You see now, do you?’ Smith said, triumphantly. ‘I am speaking the truth. And that is not all. I have a prisoner here on the tower — a hostage, if you like, although I want to emphasize that she is in no danger. Provided, of course, that the French Government complies with my demands.’
The scene switched again. A hand-held ENG camera danced up to the VIP room. Adela Wheeler sat straight-backed and proud in her chair, her eyes downcast. The cameraman tapped on the glass door. She raised her head, and the camera caught her face, zoomed in on it, and held the shot.
‘Yes,’ Smith said, ‘it is Mrs Adela Wheeler, whom I dare say many among you will recognize as the mother of the American President. But to more pleasant considerations — for me, that is.’ The camera returned to Smith.
‘As you see — and I assure you that nothing you have witnessed is faked — I and my associates are in complete command of this structure, in a way which I shall demonstrate in a moment. We shall retain control of the Eiffel Tower until I receive what I consider to be a fair ransom for it — and naturally, for the life of Mrs Wheeler.
‘I am given to understand that the tower cost in the region of one million, six hundred thousand US dollars to build. I have calculated that today’s replacement value would be, say, sixty-eight million dollars.
‘Therefore, I propose to return the tower to the people of France, in the same excellent order in which I found it, for the bargain price of thirty million dollars. That, I think you will agree, is not profiteering. The presence of Mrs Wheeler should serve as sufficient — how shall I put it — inducement?’
Smith was clearly enjoying himself; Philpott sat dejectedly on the chaise-longue, waiting for the knockout blow. The telephone rang, and Sonya sprang to answer it. ‘Give him a moment, please, Mr Ambassador,’ she requested, ‘he wants to see the
end of the Smith telecast.’
Smith said, ‘Now observe closely. I want to show you why retaliation against me, the use of any force, military or civil, from the land or from the air, is completely useless.’
Once more his face left the screen, and the exterior camera caught the outer edge of the tower, and rose dramatically towards the second gallery level. It found one of the Lap-Lasers, and halted. The evil black snout came into centre-frame, and no one seeing it could doubt for a moment that it was a new and sophisticated weapon.
‘What you are seeing now,’ Smith continued smoothly, ‘is one of four laser-guns which guard the Eiffel Tower, its perimeter, and the immediate area. Also, naturally, the skies above it.’
A curious double vocal effect began to creep in as the outside camera lingered on the Lap-Laser. Smith’s message was being simultaneously piped through the tower’s broadcast system. Monstrously amplified, it boomed out over the silent crowds. The ENG’s sound camera picked it up and transmitted it, along with the clean feed from Smith’s ‘studio’.
From the telephone, Sonya said, ‘It’s Richard Ravensberg. I’ve asked him to wait.’ Philpott signalled ‘message received’. Smith’s message was indeed being received, all over Paris, all over France, and in Belgium, Germany and Luxembourg, all countries which can tune into French television channels.
‘Let me tell you a little about these guns, or Lap-Lasers, as they are known,’ Smith went on. ‘I borrowed them, as it were, from the United States Army, who were testing them at a base near Stuttgart. They are possibly the most destructive weapons, on a small scale, ever devised. Of course, they cannot rival a hundred-megaton hydrogen bomb — but then nobody profits from the use of nuclear weapons. No — what the laser-gun will do, fully armed as these are, is track and destroy, destroy utterly, anything entering the perimeter area of the Eiffel Tower, whether on the ground or in the air.’ Smith leaned forward, his expression solemn and concerned.
