by John Denis
‘Taking the air, Mike?’ Smith enquired.
‘Money bores me, Mister Smith,’ Graham replied. ‘It’s only spending it that I like.’
‘Then you’ll enjoy the — uh — aftermath of this splendid little caper,’ Smith promised. Mike thought he heard the grunt of C.W.’s exertions below, and coughed to cover the tiny sound.
‘Shall we go in with the others?’ he suggested. Smith stood by and ushered first Leah, and then Graham, into the brightly lit café. He stayed for a second on the gallery, head cocked to one side, trying to make sense of the melange of buffeting wind and noises of the city and the night. Then he, too, walked into the restaurant …
Although his rest, and the exchange with Mrs Wheeler, had re-charged his batteries, C.W. knew with total certainty that he could not face a prolonged, slow descent of the tower.
He gambled everything on his enormous strength. Grasping a horizontal, he bowed his body again and searched for the next cross-beam, perhaps eight feet away.
‘Fasten your safety belt,’ he shouted to Adela above the wind. The pressure on his throat and chest increased. He gritted his teeth, and launched himself into thin air down the concave curve of the tower. His grasping hands clutched the cold beam, and he let out a shriek as the tremendous inertia cruelly racked his biceps and shoulder muscles.
‘Are you going to do that again, C.W.?’ Adela whispered.
‘Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘And again, and again — and again.’ As the last word left his mouth he threw himself out once more, and dropped like a stone to the next horizontal strut.
Two to go … He half-shinned, half-slid down one, and triumphantly dropped the last few feet to the tarmac, with Mrs Wheeler still desperately leeched to his back. C.W. took most of the impact, but the President’s mother came in for her share, and she almost shouted as the breath was forced from her lungs.
C.W. said, ‘Whatever else you do, don’t let go of me. We’re on the ground, and the difficult part could begin right now.’
‘Are we really there?’ she asked, plaintively. ‘Did we climb down all that way — you with me on your back?’
‘We sure did, Ma’am,’ C.W. grinned. ‘We sure did — though when we tell people about it, they’ll never believe us.’ C.W. felt like singing, but wisely resisted the impulse. Adela Wheeler kept a tight hold on him, and he turned in her arms to face her.
She saw the unimaginable strain in his face and said ‘Did I hurt you?’ solicitously.
‘Strangled would be nearer the mark,’ C.W. winced. ‘Now, though, we have a problem.’
He explained that he had lost his safety tag, and although the laser-guns had not interfered with them when they were glued to the tower, it could be vastly different for the trip in open territory from the base to the perimeter.
‘We’ve got just one tag between us,’ he said. ‘The one you’re wearing — that Mike took from Claude. Now I don’t know whether one safety strip held between two people is going to work or not. But we’ve got to try it. Having come this far, it’d be silly to stay here and get caught like rats in a trap whenever Smith decided to send somebody below. What do you say?’
Adela composed herself. ‘As I said on that dreadful man’s television broadcast — and incidentally that was quite the worst I’ve ever made — I’m too ancient to start worrying about death now. If those — those things up there are going to kill us … then let them. I’ll be dying with a man I admire — and that means a lot to a silly old woman like me. And in a good cause: the destruction of Smith. So — let’s go, shall we?’
They started out, arms linked around each other, the safety tag held up by C.W. between their heads, his dark, tight curls resting on her soft but now straggling hair.
As they left the safety of the tower’s bulk, C.W. glanced up, and could have sworn he saw the Lap-Laser start to quiver.
Pei, back at the computer key-board, shouted to Smith, ‘The lasers are tracking something! It’s on the ground. It’s got to be human. Moving erratically, but going away from the tower. A big blob!’
Smith rushed to the console, and cased the flickering screen. Then he shouted ‘Searchlight!’ and ran out to the gallery rail.
Adela Wheeler and C.W. walked slowly but purposefully, measuring each other’s paces, keeping their feet carefully aligned. C.W. felt his neck-hairs rise in the sights of the Lap-Lasers.
And although he did not look round, he was right. Both laser-guns had locked on to the shuffling pair. Both were now sending messages to the computer: does one tag cover two human beings?
Suddenly the man and woman were bathed in light from above. They could hear Smith snarl, ‘It’s the black. He’s got Mrs Wheeler. Damn him. Oh, damn him.’
Light came from the perimeter, too. Philpott danced in ecstasy. ‘You can make it, C.W., you can make it, sweetheart. Just a few more steps, you lovely guy. Just a few more.’
C.W. grinned and shouted, ‘Would you shut the hell up. It’s awkward enough without you capering around like a lunatic.’
On the gallery, Smith bellowed, ‘Why aren’t the guns firing, Godammit?’ Pei replied, ‘They’ve got a tag, sir. Whitlock’s holding it above them. Claude’s, I guess.’
Tote uttered a roar of fury, and snatched a Kalashnikov from the man nearest him. He brought it to his shoulder and, before Smith could stop him, let off a stream of bullets at the sluggishly moving pair.
The tracer rounds followed the direct path on to which the Lap-Lasers had already locked, and gleefully the guns recognized a viable target. Both barrels glowed, and the light-beams cut the bullets from the air like fireflies snuffed out by marauding wasps.
Smith said, savagely, ‘That only makes us look foolish. We’ve lost them. Save your energy, and your ammunition. Cut the lights and come back inside, everyone. We still have work to do — and it’s getting late.’
Graham and Sabrina, standing next to Leah at the railing, exchanged glances. Graham found Sabrina’s hand and squeezed it. She looked steadily at him and, not for the first time, liked very much what she saw. ‘First round to us,’ Mike whispered. She sniffed, cautiously. It was an eloquent reply.
As children would in a three-legged race, the President’s mother and the Black Spider-man alternated their steps, and crossed the still shining line of the perimeter, to be engulfed in a wildly excited throng. Adela Wheeler chose, however, to stay with her arms around C.W.’s neck, hugging him closely, sobbing at last, deeply and pathetically.
Then she released him, blinked back her tears, and surrendered to Philpott’s welcoming embrace, while Sonya cuddled C.W. and told him how marvellous he was.
‘Malcolm,’ said Adela, ‘I am grateful to you for arranging my release, and I am more than grateful to this wonderful boy here for carrying me down that tower, even though he treats me like a sack of potatoes.’
Philpott chuckled, and said, ‘As long as you’re safe, Adela — that’s all that matters.’
‘But it’s not,’ she insisted. ‘I meant what I said on television. I wouldn’t have cared what happened to me. The important thing is to stop that atrocious man Smith. He’s not human, Malcolm. He deserves to die.’
‘He’ll be stopped, Adela,’ Philpott assured her. ‘Is there anything we can do for you now?’
‘A bath,’ she considered, ‘something to eat, a stiff drink … that’s enough to be going on with. But first, I want to talk to Warren.’
‘He’s holding on for you now,’ Philpott replied. ‘He’s over the moon.’ And he led her to the communications van, where she picked up the telephone receiver and talked in gentle, stumbling tones to the President of the United States.
* * *
Philpott had installed a large colour television set in the corner of the command van, and the unending banality of the fare, even with the sound turned down, was weighing on his nerves. But it had to be kept on; with his hostage plans thwarted, Smith, they felt, would need to re-establish his superiority in his customarily dramatic way.
Philpott looked up from the river plan he had been studying. ‘Ah, nice to see you, General,’ he observed. ‘I am pleased that you managed to curb the — ahem — laudable impetuosity of your renowned paras earlier this evening. If they had been permitted to proceed with their lunatic murder of Smith’s commandos, I have no doubt whatsoever that Mrs Wheeler would not be safe and well among us now.
‘In answer to your question — no,’ Philpott went on firmly, ‘you may not attack the tower. I still believe that we can bring this operation to a successful conclusion without damaging either the Eiffel Tower or too many of the people in it. So please — withdraw to base. War, as somebody awfully clever once said, is too serious a business to be left to generals. We are at war with Smith. Should another delivery of money be planned, I shall be grateful if you do not interfere with it.’
‘But then, Monsieur,’ Jaubert put in cuttingly, ‘it is not your money, is it?’
Philpott considered the proposition. ‘That,’ he conceded, ‘is a fair point. However, if we are to save any of it, I must insist we do it my way — and President Giscard D’Estaing agrees with me.’
‘Another politician,’ Jaubert snorted. Philpott was about to frame a barbed response when Poupon raised his hand for silence, and jumped to the TV set. As he turned up the sound, Smith’s face appeared, replacing a young girl singer with a deeply-cleft bosom and frizzy green hair, whom the Commissioner secretly admired. Smith was as relaxed and urbane as ever.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of France,’ he began. ‘Once more, I have to apologize to you for breaking so rudely into your evening’s enjoyment of television, but I have some news for you. I also wish to address a few remarks to Interior Minister Ducret — and to the United Nations Anti-Crime Organization and its commander, Malcolm Philpott.’
There was only one place, Smith knew, where that bombshell would explode — and he was right. The atmosphere inside the command post was electric. Philpott faltered and turned appealingly to Poupon — then the frown left his face. His gaze, bitter and resentful, switched to Jaubert. ‘Of course,’ he gritted. ‘I had to unmask myself in dealing with your bloody paras. Obviously Smith’s man took the word back to him. Now the whole world knows about us.’
‘Do not worry, mon ami,’ cautioned Poupon softly. ‘People forget these things. They’ve probably forgotten already.’ Jaubert, for once, was suitably cowed.
Smith went on,’ I wish to thank Minister Ducret, Finance Minister Le Grain, and indeed the entire French Government, for the fifteen million US dollars you have so kindly donated to my worthy cause. Many of you watching me may not yet be aware that my hostage, Mrs Adela Wheeler, has elected to leave the tower. I had always intended that she should go from here unharmed, but I would have chosen a safer and less painful mode of exit for her.
‘And incidentally, Mr Philpott, I’m glad your agent, Whitlock, got back to you. Your other people here may not be so lucky.’
It was a pure guess — inspired intuition from a master of deception. Philpott leapt to his feet, swearing. Poupon rose swiftly and caught his arm. ‘He’s probably bluffing, Monsieur,’ the Commissioner urged. ‘I can see you’re not a poker player.’
Philpott breathed deeply and nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘he could be. And you’re right about me; I don’t play poker. University professors seldom do.’
‘Then relax,’ Poupon advised. ‘Smith hasn’t finished with us yet.’
Smith had a condescending sneer on his face. ‘Don’t take it too hard, Philpott,’ he continued. ‘You have never crossed swords with someone of my calibre before. Maybe this will teach you a salutary lesson.’
Philpott mumbled, ‘Christ, if he’s not bluffing, then I’ve sacrificed two very fine people.’
Ducret shook his head. ‘No, Malcolm,’ he said, they’ve sacrificed themselves. As you yourself put it, this is war. Your people are soldiers. They are expected to know the odds, and to take the risks. I am sorry, but soldiers are expendable. It was ever so, and it always will be.’
Philpott grinned, wryly. ‘Perhaps I’m in the wrong job,’ he said.
‘I don’t think so,’ Ducret rejoined, ‘I really don’t think so.’
Their attention returned to the television set. Smith was saying, ‘This — uh — turn of events has, however, forced a change in my plans. As I said, I have received half of my thirty million dollar ransom. Well, I am not a vindictive man, nor a particularly greedy one, despite what the lately departed Mrs Wheeler said about me earlier.
‘The fact is, the French authorities are growing increasingly devious. Given a few more hours,’ he smiled patronisingly, ‘and Heaven know’s what mischief they’d get up to. In effect, I do not choose to wait around and find out.
‘I and my followers will leave the Eiffel Tower in —’ he glanced at his watch ‘— in about fifteen minutes. I have observed that there are television outside broadcast units here. I have little doubt that they will take out the scheduled programme, and keep you tuned to our escape. It will, I assure you, be worth the effort. It will also, from my point of view, be entirely successful.
‘So, for the last time, I bid you good night, and thank you for your immensely kind co-operation. I shall miss my beautiful Loire château — which I bequeath to the nation. Au revoir, mes amis.’ And he was gone.
Jaubert groaned theatrically, and Philpott muttered, ‘Fifteen minutes. It’s not long.’ To Sonya he said, ‘Get C.W. Let’s think this thing through properly.’
Smith rose from the chair before the television camera, and said to the French crew. ‘Your usefulness is at an end. Thank you for what you have done.’ The cameraman looked pale; his sound-man hid his face in his hands. Smith smiled crookedly, and motioned to Leah. ‘It is time.’ he said. ‘I slipped a coded message into the TV script to bring the helicopter in ahead of time. So now — I must go.’
‘Be careful, then,’ she warned.
‘Am I not always careful?’ Smith quizzed her. She nodded her head slowly. ‘Of course. Shall I see you below?’
‘You go ahead,’ Smith ordered, ‘I will join you down there. Use the stairs; they’re lit now.’
With a thoughtful, even regretful, expression on his face, he watched her body sway down the iron steps …
* * *
C.W. elbowed his way past a press of soldiers and climbed into the communications van. ‘Mrs W.’s OK,’ he announced. ‘She’s resting. Say, she’s really something.’
‘So are you, according to her,’ Philpott grinned. ‘But we’ve got more important things to attend to.’ He filled the black agent in on the latest developments arising from Smith’s telecast. C.W. whistled. ‘Jeeze, that barely leaves us time to come up with something.’
‘Think, then, C.W.,’ Philpott urged. ‘We know he’s being lifted up from the river by the helicopter: but how in God’s name is he getting to the river? Think, man, think.’
C.W. protested, ‘I am, for Christ’s sake, I am.’ He pulled a face, scratched his woolly head, and spat out a shred of tobacco.
‘He can’t just disappear,’ Philpott persisted. ‘There has to be a clue, somewhere. Something we’ve all overlooked. Now what is it, C.W.? Huh?’
C.W. swore and ran his hands over his aching head. ‘He’s — he’s been a step ahead of us all the time,’ he ventured hesitantly. ‘We haven’t really known what he’s been up to at all.’ He looked at Philpott, Sonya and Poupon anxiously. ‘There was only one thing that I found out which I honestly felt I wasn’t meant to learn. I don’t know, though. It may mean nothing — you know, it could be a wild goose chase, and while we’re on it, Smith could be getting clean away by some other means.’
‘What is it?’ Philpott demanded. ‘Tell us, C.W. It doesn’
t matter if you’re wrong, because it’s the only thing we’ve got to go on.’
‘W-e-l-l,’ the agent began, with infuriating slowness. ‘it’s this: I stumbled into something curious in the basement inspection chamber. You know, the power lines are there. We were lacing cable into the mains supply; it was thirsty work, and I wanted a beer.’ He stopped. They waited. ‘Well?’ Philpott spluttered.
‘I spotted a couple of beer tanks — cylinders with taps. They came in with the caterers. They were standing in the corner of the inspection chamber. I went to one and stuck my head under it. I turned the spigot — but nothing came out. Just — air.’
‘Air?’
C.W. nodded. ‘Compressed air. Oxygen.’
Philpott’s mouth opened and closed. He gnawed a fingernail; Poupon looked totally perplexed. Then Philpott snapped his fingers, and a look of sheer delight possessed his face.
‘Oxygen cylinders!’ he roared. ‘That’s it! By George, C.W., that’s it.’ He rushed to the table and yanked the distinguished-looking City Engineer’s superintendent out of his chair. Philpott thumbed through the maps, plans and sketches, and found the tower base section.
‘There!’ he speared the lattice-work of cables and pipes. ‘See? Water-mains. He’s going to get out through a water-main! That’s why he wants oxygen cylinders. The mains have got inspection and repair hatches, haven’t they?’ he barked at the public health man.
‘They have,’ the superintendent agreed. ‘There is one right here.’ He traced with the tip of his pencil a dotted-line section of the pipe passing through the Eiffel Tower’s basement chamber.
‘Where can he come out?’
‘Anywhere he pleases, if he’s got the right equipment,’ the superintendent said, fetching over a sewage and water system plan.
‘In the Seine?’ Poupon cut in.
The superintendent spread his hands eloquently. ‘Of course. The pipes empty straight into the river — the big main pipes, that is. It is much easier for a diver to examine them there than to dig up a length of road or install an inspection hatch under a manhole.’
