It was the taxicab in the tunnel, in the wrong lane. The cabbie had made a U-turn and had come after him. So far as he’d been able to tell, there’d been just the driver, no passenger in the back seat. But he couldn’t be sure.
He’d peeled off his coveralls. He was dressed in tan slacks and a light sweater, but he was conspicuous in the terminal for his lack of luggage, even a briefcase or small bag. And the big Sig-Sauer stuffed in the waistband of his trousers made a telltale bulge beneath his sweater, which he had to cover with one hand.
Steeling himself to act normally, as if he was not on the run, as if he belonged here, Boorsch calmly made his way across the main passenger hall, past the ticket and checkin counters to the escalators leading up to the mezzanine level where the shops, restaurants, lounges and money changing booths were located. There were a lot of people in the terminal, and there seemed to be a general movement toward the windows that faced south, where the Airbus had gone down. The paging system was abnormally silent, and there was a muted hum of tense, and in some cases nearly hysterical conversations.
On the escalator Boorsch watched the front doors. A well-built man dressed in dark slacks and a tweed sportcoat entered the terminal, stepped to one side and waited, apparently studying the crowded arrivals hall.
The same one from the taxi? Boorsch hadn’t got a clear look, but whoever this one was he was a professional, and he had cop written all over him. Boorsch could almost smell it from here.
Just before Boorsch stepped off the escalator, the man looked his way, hesitated for just a moment, and then started forward.
Boorsch knew he’d been made. The bastard was definitely a cop. Either that or CIA.
He hurried left, along the broad concourse, immediately losing himself in the crowds. When he was certain that he was out of sight of anyone down on the main floor, or coming up on the escalator, he sprinted around the corner down a corridor to the public restrooms and a bank of coin-operated storage lockers.
The blond hair and light blue sweater were unmistakable. McGarvey had got only one brief glimpse of the man’s shoulders and head as he’d started to take off his white coveralls in the tunnel, but it was enough.
But the bastard had been sharp enough to put himself in a position to spot anyone coming after him.
He was armed, no doubt, while McGarvey was weaponless. The balance of power here had definitely shifted. If the terrorist had the presence of mind to stage an ambush somewhere above, or if he had help, McGarvey wouldn’t have one chance in ten of surviving the encounter.
But Mati had been on the flight that the son of a bitch had shot down. There was little doubt she was dead. All of them were probably dead. It wasn’t likely anyone could have survived the kind of fire that had produced that much smoke.
The bastard’s target had been the CIA. But he’d been too much of a coward to face them one-on-one. Instead he’d opted for the methods of the terrorists. Mindless violence against mostly innocent people. McGarvey’s jaws tightened with the thought of it.
He reached the escalator, and raced up the moving stairs, taking them two at a time, shoving people out of the way. At the top he darted across the broad concourse, out of any possible line of fire.
Pulling up just within a nearly empty cocktail lounge he scanned both ways, but there was no sign of the man nor any indication which way he had gone.
The bartender had come out from behind the bar. “What is it? What is happening?”
“Did you see the blond man wearing the blue sweater get off the escalator just a moment ago?” McGarvey demanded.
The bartender, an older man with long handlebar moustaches, shrugged. “Who are you? What is going on?”
“I’m an American policeman. There has been a plane crash, and the blond man may have had something to do with it. Did you see which way he went?”
“Mon Dieu,” the barkeep shouted throwing up his hands. “He was holding his stomach, as if he were about to be ill.”
“Which way did he go?”
“A droite. To the right, with everyone else.”
“Merci,” McGarvey said, then stepped back out onto the concourse and headed toward the right.
A large crowd had gathered along the broad expanse of windows about one hundred feet farther down the corridor. The windows looked south, toward where the Airbus had gone down.
It was possible the terrorist had merged with that crowd, or was trying to do so now. All he needed was a little time. To do what? Go where?
The man knew that he was being followed. He’d been looking directly down at McGarvey, and for a moment their eyes had locked before he’d disappeared onto the concourse.
The question was, had he spotted McGarvey in the cab, or the police helicopter overhead and run here to the terminal in blind panic, or had this been planned? Did he have a bolt-hole, or perhaps help standing by? There were a thousand places to hide here, and as many escape routes.
A slightly built man wearing a cap and jacket, its collar turned up to cover the back of his neck, emerged from a corridor fifty feet away and without looking back headed immediately toward the crowd in front of the windows. He carried a small overnight bag slung over his shoulder.
The same man? There was no way of making sure, short of catching up with him and pulling the cap off his head. But if he was armed, he would probably not hesitate to open fire. More people would be hurt or killed.
McGarvey pushed his way through the people and hurried into the corridor the man had just come out of. A bank of coin-operated lockers and public telephones lined one wall, while on the other side were the doors to the men’s and women’s restrooms.
No one was around. Everyone was rushing to the nearest windows to catch a glimpse of the crash.
Shoving open the men’s room door, McGarvey stepped inside. There was no one there, and he was starting to back out when he spotted something on the floor in front of the last toilet stall at the end, and he went back in.
It was blood, he could see that as he approached. The lock on the stall door had been forced, as if someone had put his shoulder to it.
Pushing the door open, McGarvey looked inside. The man seated on the toilet, his trousers and shorts down around his ankles, had been shot in the middle of the forehead at close range. The bullet had exited the back of his head, and a good deal of blood had run down the tiled wall and across the floor.
It was him! The green jacket and black overnight bag to help him blend in, and the cap to hide his blond hair. He’d come in here, taken the man’s things and killed him.
McGarvey raced back up the corridor to the still-crowded concourse, and, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, worked his way to the big knot of people gathered in front of the line of windows.
The fire was almost out and the smoke was clearing, leaving behind a long line of debris in the distance at the far end of the airport. The tail section from the Airbus jutted up in silhouette on the horizon, and seemingly everywhere there were hovering helicopters, firetrucks, ambulances, police units, and hundreds upon hundreds of people.
McGarvey just caught a glimpse of the scene and he was brought up short. No one could have survived, as he had feared. But the thought that Marta’s body was down there, possibly burned beyond recognition, or damaged so massively that a positive identification might never be made, made him shiver.
He stepped back a pace as an older man, dressed in a three-piece gray suit, suddenly stumbled and fell down.
For an instant McGarvey thought the man might have suffered a heart attack or a stroke, but then he saw the line of blood down the side of his face, and he reared to the left in time to see the man in the cap and green jacket disappear around the corner at the far end of the concourse.
10
THE SHOT HAD BEEN FIRED FROM A SILENCED PISTOL, AND there was enough background noise on the concourse so that only a handful of people nearest the downed man had any idea that something was happening.
“Someone ca
ll a doctor,” McGarvey ordered and he pushed his way through the crowd and started after the gunman. He was not familiar enough with Orly’s terminal to know exactly what was back here, except that the boarding gates were off to the right somewhere.
Possibly offices, no doubt with a rear exit or exits from the terminal down to the employee parking area. But how did the man expect to get clear from the airport? He had to know that by now security would have sealed the entire area.
Unless, of course, he did have help. Someone waiting for him, in which case McGarvey, unarmed, would be rushing into a definite no-win situation.
He pulled up short at the end of the concourse, and eased around the corner in time to see the shooter disappear down a corridor about fifty feet away without looking back. The man definitely knew where he was going.
McGarvey sprinted after him, running up on the balls of his feet, careful to make as little noise as possible. Out here in the open corridors like this he’d have no chance against an armed man or men, whose shots would be framed by the walls, just like a shooting gallery. But if he could get the man in a situation where a clear shot was difficult or impossible, there might be a chance of stopping him.
He pulled up again at the corridor the shooter had gone down and took a quick look around the corner. The man had reached the far end where he was knocking on a door.
Another door halfway up the corridor opened and a woman stepped out.
“Get back,” McGarvey shouted to her.
The gunman half-turned and fired at McGarvey, the shot smacking into the wall at head height just as McGarvey ducked back out of sight.
He heard a second shot, what sounded like the woman, grunting or crying something, and then a buzz. For a split second McGarvey couldn’t identify the sound, but suddenly he understood that the gunman had knocked at a security door, which was being buzzed open for him.
“Arrêter!” McGarvey shouted, looking around the corner again.
A man had come out of one of the offices and was kneeling down over the woman, as the same moment the gunman fired three shots through the open doorway at the end of the corridor and then disappeared inside, the door closing behind him.
McGarvey rushed down the corridor and the man kneeling over the woman looked up and then reared back in alarm.
“She’s been shot!”
“Call an ambulance,” McGarvey shouted, racing past him, to the end of the corridor.
The door the shooter had gone through was of heavy steel construction, with an electric lock operated from inside. He put his shoulder to it only once, realizing immediately that there was no way for him to break it down.
Another man wearing a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, his tie loose, had come out of the same office as the woman.
“What’s behind that door?” McGarvey shouted hurrying back to them.
Both men moved back as if they thought they were going to be the next victim.
“Where does it lead?”
“It is security,” the man standing stammered.
“Security for what? Where does it lead?”
“The VIP boarding lounge.”
“How do they get out there? Is there a service corridor?”
“Ghislane is dead,” the kneeling man cried.
“Oui. Yes, there is a service corridor at the rear.”
“Is there another way of getting back to it? Without going through security?”
The man was shaking his head, but then he nodded. “Yes, yes, from Armand’s office. He is our public relations Chef de Service.”
“Show me!” McGarvey demanded. Precious seconds had passed and by now the killer could be long gone.
“She’s dead,” the man on the floor cried again. “Why? Why has this happened?”
McGarvey followed the second man into a large office furnished with a half-dozen desks. Two women were huddled together in the corner behind a few filing cabinets.
“Just here,” the Frenchman said opening a door at the rear. A plaque read: M. Coteau. Chef de Service. Publicité.
The office was fairly small but very well appointed. A middle-aged man with graying hair was seated at his desk, speaking on the telephone. He looked up in surprise.
“Armand, there has been a shooting,” the Frenchman who’d led McGarvey in, sputtered excitedly. “It’s Ghislane.”
McGarvey went directly across to a door at the rear of the Chef de Service’s office, and just eased it open so that he could look out into the long corridor. A door to the right, at the far end of the corridor, one hundred fifty feet or more away, slammed shut.
McGarvey looked back. “Which boarding gate does the door at the end serve?”
“E17 …” Coteau said, suddenly realizing the significance. “My God … the Swissair flight.”
“Call Security. Tell them that the man who shot down that flight just entered the VIP lounge down there. He’s blond, but he’s wearing a dark cap and green jacket. Hurry.”
McGarvey stepped into the corridor and raced down to the far end, aware that once again he was presenting himself as a perfect target. By now the gunman would have to suspect that his pursuer was not armed. McGarvey only hoped that the man would be so intent on making his escape that he wouldn’t take the time to wait in ambush. It was also possible that he didn’t know that there was an alternate way into this service corridor, other than through security. He might not be expecting company this soon.
At the end of the corridor McGarvey hesitated only long enough to listen at the door. There were no clear sounds from within.
Stepping to one side, out of the line of fire, he turned the knob and carefully opened the door.
He got a brief glimpse of the gunman, his green jacket off, holding his pistol on a policeman who was taking off his uniform. The cop looked up in surprise, and the terrorist turned and snapped off a shot as McGarvey ducked back.
Someone shouted something, and there was a crash and another silenced pistol shot. McGarvey looked through the door again as the cop, his arms wrapped around the gunman, blood streaming down his face, started to fall backward.
Someone was coming down the corridor in a great rush behind McGarvey as he leaped into the room.
The terrorist, knowing what was about to happen, was desperately trying to free himself from the already dead cop when McGarvey reached him, batted the pistol out of his hand, and hauled him off his feet, slamming him against the wall.
Boorsch. Karl Boorsch. McGarvey knew the man! Until a few years ago he’d worked in East Berlin as a STASI hitman. McGarvey had had a brief encounter with him about eight years ago. It had been a situation in which neither of them had had a clear shot, but McGarvey never forgot a face.
Boorsch whipped out a switchblade knife, flicked the blade open and lunged. McGarvey managed to sidestep the thrust, but the ex-STASI triggerman was younger and faster, and ducked McGarvey’s swing.
Suddenly recognition dawned in his eyes. “You,” he said, and an instant later a man in civilian clothes a big pistol in his hand appeared in the doorway.
“Put it down!” he shouted.
Boorsch stepped back and started to toss the knife underhanded, when Bellus fired three times, all three shots catching the East German in the chest, destroying his heart and left lung.
McGarvey stood perfectly still. His back was toward the door so he could not see what was going on in the corridor, but there were definitely several people out there now. Undoubtedly airport security; all of them armed, all of them jumpy because of what was happening. He wanted no mistakes.
“Are you carrying a weapon, Monsieur?” the cop in the doorway asked.
McGarvey recognized his voice from the telephone before Marta had boarded the plane.
“No, I am not, Monsieur Bellus.”
“Who are you?”
“Kirk McGarvey. We spoke on the telephone earlier.”
“Search him,” Bellus ordered. “And get the medics in here to see to Allain.”
&nbs
p; McGarvey moved his arms away from his body as a uniformed cop came up behind him and quickly patted him down.
“Nothing,” the cop said.
Another uniformed cop came over and was feeling for a pulse at the downed cop’s neck. But it was clear that the man was either already dead or soon would be. His head wound from the large-caliber pistol Boorsch had used was massive.
“You may put your arms down,” Bellus said coming the rest of the way into the lounge.
McGarvey turned to him. “This is the one who shot down that plane, I think.”
“You led me to believe that you were on the flight.”
“No,” McGarvey said. “I came to see a friend off.”
“Who?”
“A Swiss Federal Police officer named Marta Fredricks.”
“Did she board?”
McGarvey nodded.
“Then I am truly sorry. You must know that there is little possibility of any survivors.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“What are you doing here, Monsieur? Exactly?”
McGarvey told the security supervisor everything from the moment the cabbie had suddenly pulled over to the side of the highway, until now, leaving nothing out except the fact he’d recognized Boorsch.
“Are you a police officer?” Bellus asked. A young, attractive woman in a police uniform stood at his elbow taking everything in with wide eyes.
“No.”
“American Central Intelligence Agency?”
McGarvey shook his head.
“Do not toy with me, Monsieur. A great many people have died this morning. I will not play a guessing game here. You telephoned asking about two men who worked for the Agency, and minutes later the flight they boarded was shot out of the sky.”
“I used to work for the Agency,” McGarvey said. “Some years ago.”
“Yes?” Bellus prompted.
“I spotted their car out front and I wanted to speak to them.”
“About what?”
“Why they were here at the airport.”
Bellus looked at him through lidded eyes. “A curious question from a man who no longer is in their employ.”
Critical Mass Page 6
