From studying the videotapes, the men had ascertained that the armor used in the cars hadn't changed in the months since Vandal had left his post. In the military, upgrades of vehicles were ongoing in order to keep up with new ammunition ranging from armor-piercing plasma jets to more powerful land mines, as well as strategic needs such as lighter weight for greater speed and mobility. However, the private sector was slower to make changes.
Careful to avoid the acid that was still burning through the dashboard, Reynold Downer slid into the cab. Between the seats, on the floor, was a deep, narrow well that was used to store extra ammunition. It was accessible from both the front and back of the armored car. Downer pushed the dead guard against the cab door and opened the panel that accessed the ammunition chamber. Then he reached down to his belt and removed a small chunk of C-4 from one of the pouches. He snaked his right hand into the well, fixed the C-4 to the panel that opened into the rear of the van, and plugged in a small timer. He set it for fifteen seconds, then dropped a tear gas canister behind it and shut the door. Climbing over the dead guard, he opened the door and stepped onto the roadway.
While Downer was doing that, Vandal knelt on the hood. He took a pair of tin shears from his equipment belt and pulled back the driver's right-hand sleeve. The key that unlocked the back of the van was on a metal band attached to the driver's wrist. Vandal pulled the man's forearm toward him and snipped through the band. As he did, the C-4 exploded. It not only ripped a hole in the rear panel, it destroyed the container of tear gas. Though some of the gas leaked into the cab, the bulk of it poured into the back.
Traffic had stopped well behind the armored car. The road was clear and the backup would slow police even more. When Vandal was finished, he slid from the hood and joined Downer around back.
Neither man spoke. There was always a chance that the open radio would pick up their voices. As Downer stood watch, Vandal unlocked the door. Gas rolled out as he opened it, along with the gasping security guard. He had tried to get the gas mask that was stored in a chest in the back. Unfortunately, the mask had been placed there with the expectation that a gas strike would be made outside the van, not inside. He never reached the chest, let alone the mask. The guard hit the asphalt and Downer stomped hard on the side of his head. The man stopped moving, though he was still breathing.
As Vandal climbed inside, Downer heard the distant hum of an approaching helicopter. The black Hughes 500D swung in from over the river, which was where Sazanka's family owned a waterfront shipping facility. The Japanese pilot had stolen the helicopter so it couldn't be traced to them. He slowed as he flew over the boulevard. The Hughes has exceptional flight stability in slow and hover modes, as well as a tolerable downdraft. It also has room for five people and cargo, which was perhaps the most important consideration.
Barone, who had been driving the truck, ran back. As the Uruguayan pulled on his gas mask, Georgiev opened the aft door of the helicopter. He lowered a line with a hook. Attached to the iron hook was a twelve-by-seven-foot metal platform with large nylon nets along the sides. While Downer made certain that no one interfered, Vandal and Barone stood in the thinning clouds of tear gas and loaded the sacks of money onto the platform. At five minutes into the operation, Georgiev hauled up the first load.
Downer glanced at his watch. They were running slightly behind schedule. "We need to speed things up!" he shouted into the specially built-in mask radio.
"Calm down," Barone said. "We're within the safety net."
"That's not good enough," Downer said. "I want to be dead center, in the sweet spot."
"When you're in charge, then you give the orders!" Barone said.
"Same goes for you, mate," Downer snapped.
Barone shot him a look through the faceplate of his gas mask just as the platform came back down. The men threw in a second batch. They heard police sirens in the distance, but Downer wasn't worried. If necessary, they had the unconscious guard as a hostage. Fifty feet above, Sazanka watched the skies. The only event that would cause them to abort the mission and move out was the arrival of a police helicopter. Sazanka was looking out for that with the cockpit radar unit. Downer was watching Sazanka. If there was a blip, Sazanka would signal, and they'd move out.
The second load of bags went up. There was one more to go. Traffic had backed up nearly a quarter mile when people realized what was going on. There was no way to get through. The police would have to respond either with members of La Brigade Equestre or by air. The men continued to work quickly but efficiently. There was no sense of panic.
The third load went in. Suddenly, Sazanka raised his finger and moved it around in a quick circle. Then he pointed to the left. There was a police helicopter en route from the west. Georgiev lowered the platform again. As they'd planned, Barone climbed in, followed by Vandal. The Bulgarian didn't reel the net in. Instead, the men all removed their gas masks, hooked them to their equipment belts, and began climbing the line. When the men were respectively twenty and ten feet up, Downer hopped onto the platform. Now Georgiev began reeling it in. While it rose, Downer steadied himself by holding the net siding with one hand while with the other he pulled the grenade launcher from his shoulder. Then he pulled off his gas mask so he could see more clearly, lay on his side, removed a projectile from the grenade pouch on his belt, and loaded the weapon. Above him, Georgiev helped Barone and Vandal climb back into the helicopter.
Sazanka climbed, quickly pushing the chopper to its maximum cruising speed of 160 mph. As he did, Downer made sure that both the barrel and the exhaust of the launcher were poking through the mesh siding. He didn't want to incinerate the net and fall to his death.
Georgiev secured the platform with cables run through two eye hooks on the front and back side nearest the helicopter, but he left it hanging three feet below the open door of the helicopter's aft compartment. From here, Downer could cover pursuit from any direction. Being close to the underbelly would also keep him from being knocked around by the winds and by the downdraft from the rotor. And it would be much more difficult for a sharpshooter on the ground or in the air to notice him in the shadow of the chopper.
While they waited for a possible pursuit, Sazanka held them to one thousand feet and took them northwest along the river. A small plane was waiting for them at a tiny airstrip outside of Saint-Germain. Once the men and money bags had been transferred from the chopper, they would fly south into Spain. There, the chaos of the simmering civil war would make it easy for them to buy their way in and then out of the country.
"There it is!" Georgiev shouted down. The big man was pointing toward the southwest.
Downer didn't have to look up to see where the Bulgarian was pointing. He'd also just spotted the police helicopter. It was about two thousand feet up and a half mile away. As Vandal had expected, it was from the French Gendarmerie's Special Intervention Group.
The white and blue police chopper flew toward them in a sweeping, downward arc. The SIG team would follow their usual operating procedure. They'd attempt to raise the fleeing chopper by radio, which they were probably doing now. When the men didn't respond, the police chopper would stay in constant radio contact with ground forces. Even if they had medium-range weapons, the police wouldn't attempt to shoot the chopper down. Not as long as it was over a populated area and carrying a million dollars in currency. When the Hughes landed, both air and land units would close in on it.
Vandal knew that the Paris police department relied on radar from the two nearby airports to monitor the skies over the city. They used Charles de Gaulle to the northeast in Roissy-en-France and Orly to the south. Vandal also knew that when an aircraft dropped under two hundred and fifty feet, radar was ineffective due to interference from surrounding buildings. He had Sazanka keep the Hughes at one thousand feet.
The police chopper came closer. The hotels of the northern bank of the river passed beneath them in quick succession. To his right, across the river, Downer saw the Eiffel Tower, dark and spid
ery in the misty morning. They were flying level with the top of the structure.
The pursuing helicopter closed to within a quarter mile. They were still several hundred feet higher than the vehicle they were pursuing. The range of the grenade launcher was one thousand feet. According to the readout on the digital sight, the chopper was just out of range. Downer looked up at Georgiev. Vandal and Georgiev had both agreed that conversation over radios and cellular phones was too easy to intercept. Thus, once their gas masks were off, communication had to be muscular and old-fashioned.
"I need to be closer!" Downer yelled.
The Bulgarian cupped his thick hands around his mouth. "How much closer?" he shouted.
"Two hundred feet higher, three hundred feet back!"
Georgiev nodded. A door separated the cockpit from the aft cabin. The Bulgarian leaned through it and told Sazanka what Downer needed.
The Japanese pilot slowed and climbed. Downer watched the police chopper through his sight. The ascent brought them level with the other helicopter, and the decrease in speed narrowed the distance between them. The platform was jiggling up and down from the force of the rotor while the wind caused it to bump toward the stern. Aiming was difficult.
Downer sighted the cockpit of the police chopper. The optics of the grenade launcher did not magnify the target. Even so, Downer could see that someone was standing in the cockpit, leaning between the pilot and copilot and watching them with binoculars. Now that the two helicopters were level, they would finally be able to see Downer.
There was no time to wait for the police to get closer.
The Australian hunkered down on the platform, curling as tight as possible against the far side brace for the recoil. Again he sighted the cockpit of the pursuing aircraft. The shot didn't have to be pretty; all he had to do was hit the enemy vehicle. He pulled hard on the heavy trigger.
The grenade left the barrel with a rush of air and a very loud pop. The launch knocked the platform backward with a sharp jolt, causing Downer to slide against the mesh siding. He lost the grenade launcher, which hit the platform with a ringing thunk. But he kept his eye on the projectile as it cut a thin, off-white contrail through the sky.
The grenade's flight took three seconds. It struck the cockpit on the port side and exploded. There was a bright cotton-ball burst of red and black smoke, with slivers of fire close to the core. The smoke and glass that blew upward were dispersed by the main rotor. A moment later, the helicopter listed to the starboard side and began to roll over. There was no secondary explosion. Then, with the crew dead or disabled, the helicopter simply nosed down and plunged earthward. It reminded Downer of a shuttlecock with busted feathers on one side. The police helicopter spun in a lopsided way as the tail rotor pulled it first to one side and then another. It was almost as though the small propeller were single-handedly trying to keep the crippled chopper aloft.
Meanwhile, Georgiev had reactivated the pulley that raised the cable holding the platform. Downer finished his journey to the open door. He handed the Bulgarian the grenade launcher, and then Barone extended a hand to help him back in. Vandal helped Georgiev pull the platform inside.
Barone continued to hold Downer's hand. The Uruguyan's expression was taut with anger.
"I should have pushed you the other way," Barone said.
Downer glared at him. "What you should have done was say, 'Nice shooting, mate.' "
"You broke my concentration down there with all your talk!" Barone cried. He angrily released Downer's hand.
"Didn't take much, did it?" Downer said. "I know soldiers who can do your job in their sleep."
"Then I suggest you work with them next time," Barone snarled.
"Enough!" Vandal said over his shoulder.
Georgiev and Vandal had been watching as the police helicopter crashed into a block near the river. There was a small, white explosion. A muffled boom reached them a moment later. They began to shut the door.
"An arrogant ass," Barone muttered. "That's what I'm working with. An arrogant, Australian ass!"
Before Georgiev and Vandal could finish closing the hatch, Reynold Downer suddenly slapped both hands on the front of Barone's uniform. The Australian grabbed it so tightly that his fingertips sank into the meat of the smaller man's chest. Barone screamed in pain as Downer swung him around and pushed him toward the still-open hatchway. He leaned Barone back so that his head and shoulders were hanging over Paris.
"Jesus!" Barone yelled.
"I've had enough of this!" the Australian shouted. "You've been riding me for weeks!"
"Stop it!" Vandal shouted. He ran over to the men.
"I spoke my mind is all I did!" Downer said. "I also did my job and took down the bloody damn chopper, so climb off!"
Vandal forced himself between them. "Get away!" he said as he grabbed Barone's arm with his left hand. At the same time, he used his right shoulder to nudge Downer back.
Downer pulled Barone inside, then stepped away willingly. He turned and faced the bags stacked against the other side of the cabin. Behind him, Georgiev quickly shut the door.
"Everyone calm down," Vandal said quietly. "We're all excitable right now, but we've accomplished what we set out to do. All that should matter now is finishing the job."
"Finishing it without any more complaints," Barone said. He was shaking with anger and fear.
"Of course," Vandal said calmly.
"It was a bloody observation," Downer said through his teeth. "That's all it was!"
"All right!" Vandal said. He remained between the men and glanced back at Downer. "I would like to remind you, both of you, that in order to complete this part of the mission and move on to the next, we need every member of the team. Now, we all did our jobs here, and did them well. If we take a little extra care in the future, we'll be fine." He looked back at Barone. "Even if anyone heard his voice, I'm confident that we'll be out of the country before anyone can figure out which Australian that accent belongs to."
"Which Australian with commando experience to pull off a job like this," Barone shot back.
"They still won't find us in time," Vandal said. "If they heard him, the police will still have to go to Interpol, which will check with authorities in Canberra. We'll be long gone before they even have a list of possible suspects." Cautiously, he moved from between the men. He looked at his watch. "We'll be landing in ten minutes, and we'll be airborne again before nine o'clock." He forced a smile. "Nothing can stop us now."
Barone was glaring at Downer. He looked away and angrily smoothed the front of his uniform.
Downer took a long breath and then smiled back at Vandal. The Frenchman was right. They did do well. They'd gotten the money they needed to pay for bribes, for the plane, and for the documents they'd need for the next part of the operation. The part that was going to make them wealthy.
The Frenchman relaxed and walked toward the cockpit. Barone turned his back toward Downer and kept it there. Downer sat down on a stack of money bags and ignored Barone--once more. When the Australian reached the combustion stage, he burned hot but fast. He was cool again, no longer angry at Barone or at himself for having screwed up.
Georgiev locked the door and walked over to the cockpit. He didn't make eye contact with Downer as he walked past. It wasn't an intentional snub, just another habit that came from years spent working for the CIA. Always try to remain anonymous.
Vandal was once again in the copilot's seat, monitoring the French police radio communications. Georgiev stood behind him in the open cockpit door. Barone was looking out the window in the sliding cabin door.
Downer shut his eyes. He enjoyed the soothing vibration of the floor. He enjoyed the soft bed of money beneath his head. Even the slamming loud noise of the rotor didn't bother him.
He allowed himself the pleasure of forgetting the details they'd had to remember for this morning. The armored car's route, the timing, alternate plans in case the police got through, an escape by the river in the event
the chopper didn't make it. A deep feeling of satisfaction came over him, and he savored it the way he had never enjoyed anything in his life.
FOUR
Chevy Chase, Maryland Friday, 9:12 A.M.
Under a bright sky, Paul Hood, his wife Sharon, their just-turned-fourteen-year-old daughter Harleigh, and their eleven-year-old son Alexander eased into their new van and set out for New York. The kids were hooked to their respective Discmans. Harleigh was listening to violin concerti to get herself in the mood for the concert; every now and then, she would sigh or mutter a mild oath, awed by the composition or discouraged by the brilliance of the performance. She was like her mother in that respect. Neither woman was ever satisfied with what she'd accomplished, Harleigh on the violin, Sharon with her passion for healthy cooking. For years, Sharon had used her charm and sincerity to lure people away from bacon and doughnuts on a half-hour weekly cable TV show, The McDonnell Healthy Food Report. She had left the show several months before to devote more time to putting together a healthy-eating cookbook, which was nearly finished. She had also wanted to spend more time at home. The kids were getting older faster, and she felt they should all spend more time doing things as a family, from having dinner weeknights to taking vacations whenever they could. Dinners that Hood had missed more often than not and vacations that he'd had to cancel.
Alexander was much more like his father. He liked personal challenges. He enjoyed computer games--the more complicated, the better. He liked crossword puzzles and jigsaw puzzles. As they drove, he listened to some flavor-of-the-month singer and worked on an acrostic puzzle. Beneath the puzzle book, on his lap, was a short stack of comic books. To Alexander, there was no outside world right now. There was just what was in front of him. Paul couldn't help but feel proud of the kid. Alexander knew his own mind.
State Of Siege (1999) Page 4
