by Steve Berry
“Indeed it is,” she said. “All we have to do is use it to our advantage.”
She reminded herself of something her mother had taught her. The best way to gain listeners’ confidence is make them think you have trusted them with a secret.
“We have the wisdom of the papyri. They taught Napoleon a great deal and, believe me, they can guide us as well.”
She settled her face into a thoughtful expression.
“The world is already scared. Terrorism is real. None of us can alter that. The issue is how that reality can be used.”
“Cui bono,” one of them said.
She smiled. “That’s right. Who benefits. That Latin principle describes this endeavor perfectly.” She raised a finger to add emphasis. “Have you ever considered who does benefit from terrorism? There’s an immediate increase in airport and building security. Who controls all those facilities? The flow of air traffic—not to mention data. Profits are made by those who provide these essential services. The economics of the insurance business is directly affected. The militarization of our air, land, water, oceans, and space is occurring at increased levels. Nothing is too expensive to protect us from a threat. The business of logistical support, engineering, and construction services related to the war on terror is staggering. This war is fought more by private contractors than the military itself. Profits made there are almost beyond comprehension. We’ve seen shares in companies that supply war-support services increase in value by five to eight hundred percent since 2001.”
She smiled, offering a lift of her brow.
“Some of that is obvious, I realize. But there are other, more subtle ways to profit. These I want to speak with you about after lunch.”
“What are you planning?” Ashby asked her. “I’m bloody curious.”
She did not doubt that observation. She was curious, too. Wondering if Ashby was a friend or foe.
“Let me explain it this way. In the late 1990s South Korea, Thailand, and Indonesia all experienced near financial collapse. The International Monetary Fund eventually bailed them out. Our own Robert Mastroianni was working with the IMF then, so he knows what I’m referring to.”
Mastroianni nodded in assent.
“While that bailout occurred, investors ransacked all three economies, reaping huge profits. If you possess the right information, at the right time, even in the risky derivatives and futures markets, millions in profits can be made. I’ve made some preliminary projections. With the nearly three hundred million euros we currently have on hand, a return of between four point four and eight billion euros can reasonably be expected over the next twenty-four months. And I’m being conservative. All of those amounts would accrue tax-free, of course.”
She saw that the group liked that prediction. Nothing appealed to a person with money more than the opportunity to make more money. Her grandfather had been right when he said, Make all the money possible and spend it, for there is much more to be made.
“How would we be allowed to get away with this?” one of them asked.
She shrugged. “How can we not? Government is incapable of managing the system. Few within government even understand the problem, much less how to fashion a solution. And the general public is totally ignorant. Just look at what the Nigerians do every day. They send out millions of emails to unsuspecting people, claiming that a huge return can be made on some sort of unclaimed funds, provided you forward a small administrative fee. Countless people around the globe have been bilked. When it comes to money, few think clearly. I propose that we think with crystal clarity.”
“And how are we to do that?”
“I’ll explain all of that after lunch. Suffice it to say that we are in the process of securing a source of financing that should provide us many more billions in untraced resources. It’s a cache of unrecorded wealth that can be invested and used to our collective advantage. Right now, it’s time for us to venture to the top of the tower for our few minutes of viewing.”
The group stood.
“I assure you,” she said, “the trip will be worth it.”
FIFTY-THREE
MALONE LISTENED AS THE ROLLS-ROYCE TURBOSHAFTS DROVE the blades of the Westland Lynx. The navy had taught him how to fly fighters and he’d logged a respectable amount of time in jets, but he’d never flown a helicopter. He settled back in the rear compartment as the chopper arched up into a cold midday sky.
Stephanie sat beside him.
A rap from the cockpit door window caught his attention. The pilot was pointing to his headset and motioning to two sets that hung on the wall. A corpsman handed the earphones over to both he and Stephanie.
“There’s an encrypted communication coming in for you,” the pilot’s voice said in his ears.
He twisted the microphone close to his mouth. “Let’s hear it.”
A few clicks and a voice said, “I’m back.”
“Care to tell us what’s going on?” Malone asked Danny Daniels.
“The plane deviated off course. First it headed north, away from the city, and now it’s turned back south. No radio contact can be made. I want you two to check it out before we blow it from the sky. I have the French president on the other line. He’s scrambled a fighter. Right now the target’s not over any populated areas, so we can take it down. But we don’t want to do that, obviously, unless absolutely necessary. Too much explaining to do.”
“You sure this threat is real?” he asked.
“Hell, Cotton, I’m not sure of crap. But Lyon had a plane at Heathrow. You found it. Which, I might add, seems like he wanted us to find—”
“So you know what happened last night?”
“Every detail. I want this son of a bitch. I had friends die when he bombed our embassy in Greece, and they are only a few of the many he’s killed. We’re going to punch this guy’s ticket.”
One of the pilots slid the panel door to the cockpit open and motioned ahead. Malone searched the sky. Clouds lay like tracks above the French landscape. The outskirts of Paris rolled past beneath the chopper’s undercarriage. He spotted a blue-and-yellow-striped fuselage in the distance—another Cessna Skyhawk, identical to the one seen last night—cruising at about five thousand feet.
“Close the gap,” he told the pilot through his headset.
“You see it?” Daniels asked.
He felt power seep from the rotors as the helicopter knifed its way forward.
The plane’s metal sheeting sparkled in the sunshine.
“Stay behind him, out of his vision field,” Malone told the pilot.
He spied red identification numbers on the tail that matched the ones from last night.
“That plane’s ID is the same as the one in Heathrow,” he said into the headset.
“You think Lyon is in the plane?” Daniels asked.
“I’d be surprised,” Malone answered. “He’s more the conductor than a member of the orchestra.”
“It’s turning,” the pilot said.
He stared out the window and saw the Skyhawk bank east.
“Where are we?” he asked the pilot.
“North of Paris, maybe four miles. With that vector the plane has turned away from the city center, which will take us beyond the town proper.”
He was trying to make sense of all that he knew. Scattered pieces. Random, yet connected.
“It’s turning again,” the pilot said. “Now on a westerly course. That’s completely away from Paris, toward Versailles.”
He wrenched the earphones off. “Did he spot us?”
“Not likely,” the pilot said. “His maneuver was casual.”
“Can we approach from above?”
The pilot nodded. “As long as he doesn’t decide to climb.”
“Do it.”
The rudder control angled forward and the chopper’s airspeed increased. The gap to the Skyhawk began to close.
The copilot motioned to the headset. “That same bloke again on the radio.”
He sna
pped the headphones back on. “What is it?”
“The French want to take that plane down,” Daniels said. “What do I tell them?”
He felt Stephanie’s grip on his right arm. She was motioning forward, out the windshield. He turned just as the cabin door on the Skyhawk’s left side sprang fully open.
“What the—”
The pilot jumped from the plane.
ASHBY WAS THE LAST TO CLIMB ABOARD THE ELEVATOR. THE eight members of the Paris Club filled three glass-walled cars that rose from the second platform another 175 meters to the Eiffel Tower’s summit. The giddy ascent, within the open ironwork, was a bit harrowing.
A bright sun set the world below glittering. He spied the Seine and thought its name apt—it meant “winding,” and that was exactly what the river did through central Paris with three sharp curves. Usually car-jammed avenues that paralleled and crisscrossed the waterway were short on traffic for Christmas. In the distance rose the hulk of Notre Dame, engulfed by more church domes, zinc roofs, and a forest of chimney thickets. He caught a quick glimpse of La Défense and its avenues of high-rise towers. He also noticed lights affixed to the Eiffel Tower’s girders—the source, he surmised, of the electric shimmy that illuminated the thing each night.
He checked his watch.
11:43 AM.
Not long now.
MALONE WATCHED AS A PARACHUTE SPRANG OPEN AND THE canopy caught air. The Skyhawk continued its westerly course, holding altitude and speed. Below was a vast expanse of field, forest, villages, and roads that dotted the rural landscape outside Paris.
He pointed to the plane and told the pilot, “Head in for a closer look.”
The chopper eased forward and approached the Skyhawk. Malone shifted his position to the port side of the helicopter and stared out at the single-engine plane.
“No one inside,” he said into the microphone.
He didn’t like any of this. He turned to the corpsman. “Do you have binoculars?”
The young man quickly produced a pair. Malone focused across the bright sky at the Skyhawk.
“Ease forward some,” he told the pilot.
Their parallel course changed, the chopper now slightly ahead of the plane. Through the binoculars he zeroed his gaze past the tinted windshield into the cockpit. The two seats were empty, yet the steering column moved in calculated jerks. Something lay on the copilot’s seat, but a glare made it difficult to make out. Beyond, the aft seat was packed with packages wrapped in newspaper.
He lowered the binoculars.
“That plane’s carrying something,” he said. “I can’t tell what, but there’s an awful lot of it.”
The Skyhawk’s wings dipped and the plane banked south. The turn was controlled, as if someone was flying.
“Cotton,” Daniels said in his ear. “What’s your assessment?”
He wasn’t sure. They were being led—no question—and he’d thought this plane to be the end. But—
“This is not our problem,” he said into the microphone.
“Do you agree, Stephanie?” Daniels asked.
“I do.”
Good to see that she still trusted his judgment, since her expression contradicted her words.
“Then where’s our problem?” the president asked.
He played a hunch. “Have French air traffic control scan the area. We need to know about every plane in the sky.”
“Hold on.”
ELIZA STEPPED FROM THE ELEVATOR INTO THE EMPTY SUMMIT-level observation area, seventy-five stories above the ground. “A bit unnerving to be here with no one else,” she said to the group. “This platform is usually packed.”
She pointed to metal stairs that led up through the ceiling, outside, to the uppermost deck.
“Shall we?” she said.
She watched as the group climbed the stairs. Ashby stood with her. When the last of them exited through the doorway at the top, she turned to him and asked, “Will it happen?”
He nodded. “In exactly fifteen minutes.”
FIFTY-FOUR
MALONE KEPT HIS EYES ON THE SKYHAWK AND SAW THE PLANE alter course once again. More southerly, as if seeking something.
“Is that fighter here?” he asked into the headset, wondering if anybody was still there.
“It’s in position,” Daniels said.
He made a decision. “Take it down while we still can. Nothing but fields below, but the city is coming up fast.”
He banged on the window and told the pilot, “Back us off, and fast.”
The Skyhawk accelerated away as the helicopter slowed.
“The order’s been given,” Daniels said.
THORVALDSEN STEPPED OUT INTO COLD DECEMBER AIR HE’D never visited the top of the Eiffel Tower. No particular reason why he hadn’t. Lisette had wanted to come once years ago, but business had prevented the trip. We’ll go next summer, he’d told her. But next summer had come and gone, and more summers thereafter, until Lisette lay dying and there were no more. Cai had visited several times and liked to tell him about the view—which, he had to admit, was stunning. A placard affixed to the railing, beneath a cage that encased the observation deck, noted that on a clear day the view extended for sixty kilometers.
And today certainly qualified as clear. One of those sparkling winter days, capped by a cloudless, azure sky. He was glad he’d wore his thickest wool coat, gloves, and scarf, but French winters had nothing on their Danish counterpart.
Paris had always mystified him. He’d never been impressed. He actually liked a line from Pulp Fiction, one John Travolta’s character had casually uttered. Things are the same there as here, just a little bit different. He and Jesper had watched the movie a few years ago, intrigued by its premise, but ultimately repulsed by the violence. Until a couple of days ago, he’d never considered violence except in self-defense. But he’d gunned down Amando Cabral and his armed accomplice with not a single speck of remorse.
And that worried him.
Malone was right.
He couldn’t just murder people.
But staring across the chilly observation deck at Graham Ashby, who stood near Larocque, gazing out at Paris, he realized that murdering this man would be a pleasure. Interesting how his world had become so defined by hate. He told himself to think pleasant thoughts. His face and mood must not reveal what he was thinking.
He’d come this far.
Now finish.
ASHBY KNEW WHAT ELIZA LAROCQUE EXPECTED. SHE WANTED a small plane, loaded with explosives, to crash into the Church of the Dome at the south end of the Invalides.
A grand spectacle.
The particular fanatics who’d volunteered to accept complete responsibility loved the idea. The gesture had a ghoulish 9/11 feel, albeit on a smaller scale, with no loss of life. That was why Christmas Day had been chosen: The Invalides and the church both were closed.
Simultaneous with the attack in Paris, two other national monuments, the Musée d’Aquitaine in Bordeaux, and the Palais des Papes in Avignon, would be bombed. Both closed, too.
Each act purely symbolic.
As they’d circled the observation platform, taking in the sights, he’d noticed a vehicle burning, smoke drifting into the cold air, from the front of the church at the Invalides. Police, fire, and emergency vehicles seemed abundant. Some of the others saw it, too. He caught a few comments, but nothing of dire concern. The situation seemed in hand. Surely the flames were related to Lyon, but he had no idea what the South African had actually planned. No details had been shared, nor had he wanted to know.
The only requirement was that it happen at noon.
He glanced at his watch.
Time to go.
He’d purposely drifted away from the others as Larocque led them on a visual tour. He’d noticed that she’d started with the view facing north, then walked to the west platform. As the group rounded to the south, he quickly stepped through the exit doorway that led down to the enclosed observation room. Slowly, he slid
the glass panel shut, engaging the keyed lock at its bottom. Mr. Guildhall had thoroughly reconnoitered the summit platform and discovered that the two doors that lead up from the enclosed portion were equipped with bolts that engaged with a simple push and opened with a key that only security people carried.
But not today.
Larocque had bargained for the club to have an hour alone at the top, ending around twelve forty PM, twenty minutes before ticket booths opened 275 meters below and visitors flooded upward.
Quickly, he descended fourteen metal risers and crossed to the east side. Larocque and the others were still on the south side, taking in the sights. He climbed the metal stairs to the second door and quietly slid the thick glass panel closed, engaging its lock.
The Paris Club was trapped at the top.
He descended the stairs, entered one of the elevators that waited, and sent the car downward.
“I HAVE THE INFORMATION,” DANIELS SAID IN MALONE’S HEADPHONES. “Six planes currently in Parisian airspace. Four are commercial jetliners on approach to Orly and Charles de Gaulle. Two are private.” The president paused. “Both acting strange.”
“Define that,” Stephanie asked.
“One is not responding to radio commands. The other responded then did something different than was indicated.”
“And they’re both headed this way,” Malone guessed, knowing the answer.
“One from the southeast, the other from southwest. We have a visual on the one from the southwest. It’s a Beechcraft.”
Malone banged on the cockpit window. “Head southeast,” he ordered the pilot, who’d been listening to the exchange.
“You sure?” Daniels said.
“He’s sure,” Stephanie answered.
He caught an aerial explosion off to their right, maybe five miles away.
The Skyhawk had been destroyed.
“I’m just told that the first plane is gone,” Daniels said.
“And I’m betting there’s another Skyhawk,” Malone said. “To the southeast, headed this way.”
“You’re right, Cotton,” Daniels said. “Just received a visual. Same colors and insignia as the one we just took down.”
