by John Denis
At the communications van, Sonya, Philpott and Poupon took advantage of the remaining light to train binoculars on the tower. ‘Any luck?’ Philpott grunted. ‘Nothing,’ Sonya replied. ‘There are miles of ironwork there. It’s like — well, you know.’
‘I know,’ Philpott sighed. ‘The light’ll be gone in a few moments,’ Poupon chipped in helpfully.
‘Thanks a million,’ Philpott said sourly. He concentrated on scanning the tower, and muttered, ‘Come on C.W., come on baby.’
The black man felt it was safe to move again. He swung out and shinned across the frame until he was pressed against the girders facing Philpott’s van. He had long since spotted Philpott, although neither he nor Sabrina had needed any prompting to make contact. The trick had been getting away from the restaurant and the ever-vigilant Claude. C.W. had pleaded a call of nature, and slipped through the toilet window. It had been as easy as hanging off an iron tower from your finger-tips.
Now he unclipped the metal tag on his chest, and held it out in front of him. There was still the odd ray of sunlight streaming through the gather ing clouds, and C.W. twisted the metal strip back and forwards, this way and that, praying that a light beam would strike the tag.
Sonya spotted the brief flash, and screamed out, ‘There it is! Just below the second landing. A flash of light! C.W.’s signalling to us. I can even see him, just about.’
Philpott and Poupon swivelled their binoculars. ‘Where?’ Philpott demanded. ‘Opposite that little staircase, right by the support beam.’ Sonya pointed.
‘Got him,’ Philpott breathed. Then, ‘Jesus Christ, he’s using sign language. Sonya, get a pad!’ C.W.’s fingers moved with amazing dexterity, and Philpott translated just as fluently.
‘Take this down,’ he ordered. ‘… incredible — security — precautions … shit, missed that one. Wait … Mrs — Wheeler — OK — so — far. All — personnel — disarmed — except — Smith — and — lieutenants.’
The light had held long enough for C.W. to complete his report. Sonya read it out breathlessly: ‘Smith hasn’t told us escape plan, but training included everything from aqualungs to high wire. Also they have six-berth helicopter at Château Clérignault, in Loire —’ she stopped.
‘What’s next?’ Philpott demanded.
‘Nothing,’ Sonya replied, ‘that’s all. It ended there.’
Philpott rubbed his jaw. ‘A bit abruptly,’ he mused. ‘Could anything have happened to C.W.?’
A hand clamped over C.W.’s mouth and jerked him back into the shadows behind a girder. Graham whispered into his ear, ‘Don’t make a sound.’
C.W.’s eyes snapped upwards. Claude was descending the staircase, a torch in his hand. He paused within feet of C.W. and Graham, and stared fixedly out at the communications van. The light had failed totally now, and Claude whistled under his breath. He shrugged, and climbed back up the staircase to the second level, and took the elevator down to the restaurant. He was still troubled by C.W.’s absence, and it occurred to him that he had not seen Mike Graham, either, in the past ten minutes or so. Or Sabrina Carver.
Mike eased his hand off C.W.’s mouth and hissed, ‘Your fairy godmother has just saved your hide.’ At that instant, a vicious judo chop landed on the side of his neck. He grunted and staggered, his knees buckled, and Sabrina, standing over him, prepared to chop him again.
C.W. caught her descending hand. ‘Not him! He just saved my life.’
Sabrina breathed out. ‘So, you’re even, because you’ve just saved his.’
Graham rubbed his neck ruefully and remarked, ‘You’re a lot tougher now than you were the first time we met. That unarmed combat course you took after I left must have taught you a hell of a lot.’
‘So you did recognize me,’ she gasped. Mike grinned amiably. ‘Once seen, baby …’ he said. ‘Could I forget a form like yours?’ Sabrina sulked.
‘And whose side are you on these days, Mike?’ C.W. enquired.
‘Mine,’ Graham replied, ‘and the CIA’s. Undercover. Effectively, I’ve been working with you.’
‘Then why have you been such a miserable, moody …’ Sabrina burst out.
‘So that, if the pair of you goofed, and got yourselves dead, you wouldn’t take me with you,’ Graham returned. He asked if Philpott had been able to reply to C.W.’s message, and the UNACO agent explained that there had been no time.
‘Pity,’ Mike said. ‘We’ll have to go it alone, then.’
‘You have a plan?’ Sabrina asked.
‘Sort of,’ Mike answered. ‘We’ll have to busk it through … ad lib, if you get my meaning. I’ll tell you what I’ve got in mind, and then we’d better beat it back to the restaurant by separate routes before Claude goes bananas.’
* * *
Apart from a suspicious glare from Claude — who, fortunately, had not confided his uneasiness to Smith — their return to the first landing aroused no interest. They drifted in one by one, Graham to resume a hand of cards with Tote and Pei, Sabrina to chat with two pretty Japanese girls who, for Red Army commandos, were well up in Western fashion trends. C.W. slumped in an arm-chair, feigning sleep. Half an hour passed, during which Smith talked briefly with Claude and Leah, and left the room. Ten minutes later, C.W. dragged himself to his feet and announced he was going off to find something that more closely resembled a bed. Nobody appeared to mind.
C.W. took the elevator up, and passed the routine second landing gallery patrol of two men, disarmed now but still under orders to be watchful and report regularly. C.W. calculated it would be three minutes before they reached that spot again.
The sentries returned on time: when you have nothing to do but walk round in circles, it becomes a matter of pride to do it well. Directly they had passed, a coil of rope smuggled on to the tower by C.W. in a cold box, snaked down from above, and dropped clear to the first level. The rope lay in the hollow of a box girder and, but for the projection of the rail, which it loosely rounded, would not be noticed by anyone from the tower — unless they were leaning out. C.W. shinned down the rope, and glided past the landing to the primary level.
The first — and most important — part of Mike Graham’s plan was to get Mrs Wheeler off the tower. If that could be accomplished, they would only have fifteen million pounds of badly-organized metal to worry about. C.W. hung suspended from the dark thread of the slim nylon rope, and inched his way down to the VIP room.
He drew level with the window. Mrs Wheeler, as expected, was there, sitting grim-faced in her chair, staring directly across the room, away from the window. C.W. was on the point of tapping the glass to attract her attention, when she opened her mouth and spoke — apparently to no one.
Right on cue. Smith came into the picture, walking in the direction of the window — but looking at Mrs Wheeler. C.W. froze and made to take himself and the rope out of sight. As he moved carefully across the face of the tower, Mrs Wheeler’s eyes shifted towards the window and locked on to C.W.’s. She gave not the slightest flicker of a response, but looked back at Smith, and held his gaze with hers.
‘I wish I could convince you, Mrs Wheeler,’ Smith was saying, ‘that a heartfelt appeal from you to the authorities would speed up the entire process, avoid possible bloodshed, even loss of life, and totally ensure your own freedom. I do not wish you to betray anyone, least of all yourself; merely to appear on television once again, or speak on the telephone.’
Mrs Wheeler drew herself up grandly. ‘I find the idea that I should plead for my life utterly repulsive, Mister Smith,’ she said. ‘I am a grandmother, I have brought up a man who is now President of the United States, and I will not demean myself by appearing to toady to a barbarian like you. If you want your money, you’re going to have to get it without my help. That is my last word on the subject.’
Smith replied, slyly, ‘I can be very insistent when I wish to be.’
Adela Wheeler laughed, genuinely amused. ‘Thumbscrews?’ she jeered. ‘The Iron Maiden, the Chinese bo
ot, water torture? Perhaps the strappado? Really, Mister Smith, I’m too old and too obstinate for that sort of childish twaddle. Now run along and threaten someone your own age.’
C.W. had braced himself against the girders to ease the pressure on his arms. His hold on the rope relaxed. What he had not reckoned on was that the wind would pick up — had, indeed, been threatening to do so since sun-down, but he had been too preoccupied to notice. The rope was caught by a gust, and flapped against the external metal wall of the room.
Smith’s head whipped round, like a striking snake’s. Quickly Adela Wheeler boomed, in her most formidable voice, ‘Mister Smith! I have asked you to leave. Surely even a prisoner has the right not to be bored by her jailer. Now please go! We have no more to say to each other.’
Smith evidently decided that the noise outside meant nothing. He returned Mrs Wheeler’s challenging stare, and gave her a mocking bow. ‘Madame,’ he said, courteously, ‘I can well see how you came to be the mother of a great president — and how President Wheeler came to be the man he is. For the moment, goodbye.’ He wheeled and left the room, locking the door behind him. Mrs Wheeler remained motionless for a long, long two minutes, hoping that the man outside the window would do the same.
Her innately suspicious mind reaped its reward. Smith crept noiselessly back to the room, and peered through the glass panel — first at Mrs Wheeler, then at the window. Adela felt his gaze burning into her, but did not deign to acknowledge him. She leaned back in her chair, composed her interlinked fingers on her lap, and closed her eyes. Smith’s never left the window. For another full minute and a half he stood there. Then, satisfied, he walked away.
C.W., who had been on the point of swinging back to contact Mrs Wheeler, saw Smith’s face reflected in a vanity mirror hanging on the wall behind her chair. He jerked the rope tight, and pressed himself into the ironwork until he felt he was becoming part of the fabric of the tower. It was excruciating, but it worked.
Adela breathed a sigh, and swiftly crossed to the window and opened it. ‘It’s all right,’ she called. ‘The wretched man is gone.’ C.W. hoisted himself on to the window-sill, tucked the rope back into the girder, and climbed into the VIP room.
* * *
The iron staircase, which spiralled at intervals, and broke on to platform landings of its own, actually connected the first and second levels of the tower. Claude, restless as always, and not being able to locate the supposedly sleeping black commando, had taken the elevator once more to the second level to check on things up there. He had his Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder.
He walked round the gallery, met and chatted with the patrol, and told them, unnecessarily, to keep their eyes peeled. When they left to resume their beat, Claude stepped to the rail and peered over. All was in darkness but for the lights from the first level, and the arc-lamps mounted on poles at the sizeable military encampment across in the palace gardens. The crowd appeared at last to have drifted away. The thousand-metre perimeter at that point was now marked by a series of road lamps and a hastily contrived electric fence, guarded by lines of police.
Claude grinned, and experienced a feeling of great well-being. His composure shattered when he heard the distinct slap of C.W.’s rope, caught once more by the rising wind, against the ironwork. Claude unslung his rifle, flipped off the safety-catch, and cautiously descended the stairway.
Mike Graham sensed his coming, then heard it. Graham was himself on the stairs, half-way between levels. He slid off the steps and outside the frame of the tower, wishing he had a gun — a knife — anything. Claude passed him. Soundlessly, Mike crept back on to the iron platform.
Claude felt his way down the steps, cursing his lack of foresight in not bringing a torch. Then he saw the rope, quite clearly. It had slipped from its mooring, and was pulling away from, and thudding back on to, the girder, as the wind raced and moaned through the latticework of the tower. Claude stepped on to a cross-beam, and peered downwards. He thought he saw something at the end of the rope. He lifted his rifle, and sighted on it, his finger curling round the trigger.
Graham’s full weight crashed down on his shoulders in a flying leap from the stairway. Claude screamed, and the rifle slipped from his grasp.
It struck a girder, and bounced off into the crisp night air on the still rising breeze. From overhead, a Lap-Laser tracked it, glowed white, and sent a beam of blinding light after it. The Kalashnikov, metal and all, was reduced to ashes in half a second.
Claude rose savagely to his feet, and tackled the man who had dive-bombed him They were matched for strength, and they clutched and fought in silence, to the howling of the wind.
Mike got a neck-hold on him, but the Frenchman suddenly relaxed his entire body. Mike’s grip loosened momentarily and Claude wriggled free. He jumped down to the next platform, which linked with a catwalk taking a path across the tower to the head of the next stairway … the last flight before the restaurant level.
There, Claude turned on Graham and snarled his defiance. He adopted a savate stance, and beckoned to Mike. ‘Venez, venez,’ he hissed. ‘Come, little one. I will take you to pieces.’
Mike reached the platform, but went no further. He had seen Claude demonstrate his skill at French foot-fighting. At that, and at the Chinese martial arts, Claude was without peer in France.
He had to land but one vital kick, and he would send Graham hurtling down the tower to his death.
TEN
On tip-toe, but with his feet well spaced for balance, Claude advanced along the catwalk towards Graham. Mike was half-crouching, side on to Claude, in a classic judo stance to present as small a target as possible. Claude stood ramrod straight, hands sloping downwards at thirty degrees from his body, fingers extended, his poise and strength going into the preparation needed for the jump-kick which is the hallmark of the savate fighter.
All the light they had was the dim glow from the first level, the moon, and the phosphorescent haze that every city throws up. The first stabbing kick came from nowhere, too fast for Mike even to sense, though he ducked in anticipation. It landed on the upper part of his right arm, and Graham felt like he’d been injected with a road drill.
He hissed out his pain and leapt back on to the platform. The wind rose to mock him, whipping his hair over his eyes, and causing him to raise both arms as if he were fending off demons attacking him from every direction. But there was only one demon, and he was right in front of Graham, dancing in again, seeking for the one solid death kick that would put the contest beyond argument.
Mike nursed his right arm, knowing that he had been lucky the first time: Claude had tried for his belly, and Graham had unknowingly lurched too soon into a lower crouch.
Claude aimed next for the knee — the part of Graham nearest to him as Mike resumed his defensive hunch. Claude folded his own wiry body into a question mark, left the catwalk nine inches under his feet, snapped his frame back almost to the horizontal, and lashed out.
This time Graham was ready. He guessed where Claude would strike, skipped to one side and threw himself forward, chopping down viciously with his hand at the Frenchman’s extended leg.
But Claude’s leg was no longer there. He had executed a mid-air pirouette, and was now shooting out his other deadly foot backwards. This kick, too, found its mark: on Graham’s shin. But it lacked the power even of the first assault, and did no more than raise an ugly welt on the American’s leg.
Claude twisted his body again and, like a gymnast, landed perfectly balanced at the crouch, heels together, arms out-flung. Graham charged at him now in frustration and sheer rage, and aimed a kick at Claude’s apparently unprotected body. Claude laughed, and threw himself into a backwards somersault on the catwalk — jogging into an upright-striking stance.
Mike pounced once more — sure that his superior weight and reach must give him an irresistible momentum … it was the chance for which Claude had been waiting.
He crowed in delight, and left the metal floor
in the kick that would be the coup-de-grâce, the terminal move in an unequal struggle.
And the realization of the terrible danger into which he was rushing pell-mell, rampaged through Graham’s brain and brought his headlong charge to a sudden, numbing halt. Claude had already embarked on the movement that was to guarantee him a crushing victory — a kick that would strike with appalling force at Mike’s heart, killing him instantly, and sending his corpse tumbling through the spider’s web of metal struts to break itself on the concrete far below.
His aim was precise, the strength he summoned into his leg was more than sufficient to deliver the death-blow — but he was three inches short. Graham just wasn’t where his impetuous leap should have taken him.
Claude landed flat on his back, his hands taking most of the weight of the jarring fall. Stars swam before his eyes, and his next conscious feeling was of Graham descending on him like a maddened bear, no science or finesse, just a blind lunge that brought Mike where he most wanted to be — at close quarters with Claude, and out of reach of those damaging feet.
Mike’s knees drove into Claude’s stomach, and knocked the wind from him. Graham hauled the Frenchman to his feet, and smashed his fist into Claude’s face. Claude staggered back into a stout cross-girder — then grabbed on to it with both hands, and grinned again as Mike stampeded within kicking distance.
But Claude had nothing like the perfect balance his craft demanded. The girder pressed into the small of his back, and he was almost see-sawing on it, his head and upper torso well outside the frame of the tower as he aimed his right foot as far up Mike’s body as he could get it.
Graham took the kick in the stomach almost with contempt — and Claude’s armoury counted suddenly for nothing. Mike jinked inside his other foot, and brute force took him into a wrestling crouch over Claude’s body, now bent agonizingly back over the iron bar.
