Hostage Tower u-1 Page 19

  ‘I hope to God Philpott knows what he’s doing,’ Ducret commented. ‘Presumably there’s been no sign of Smith among the men we captured?’

  Poupon shook his grizzled head. ‘Nothing. But I think Philpott knows what he’s doing, Monsieur le Ministre. And I hope to God that those two on the tower do, as well.’

  2.01. 2.00 1.59 …

  C.W. strained out over the spiral section of staircase and lunged for the playful rope. The wind gusted again, but this time it favoured the good. The rope flew to his hand.

  He grabbed it thankfully, and launched himself into space, swinging out in a wide arc, and surging back towards the east pillar at a dangerous speed. At the girder junction, C.W. took one hand off the rope and clawed for a cross-beam. His fingers connected, but the strut was slick with evening dew, and it slipped from his grasp.

  C.W.’s body slammed into the pillar and bounced off. He shouted and swore, and kicked himself away to come in again at a less acute angle. With a plummy slap, his hand found the cross-beam, and locked on to it.

  He trapped the precious rope and, as Sabrina had twice done, wedged it safe as he faced the east pillar bomb.

  His hand snaked out — but his naked foot, curled on the lower cross-strut, skidded off. He grunted and made a wild sweep for the girder, hooking his heel painfully on to the horizontal.

  ‘Cool, baby, cool,’ he breathed. ‘Play it like diamonds — or that gorgeous Chinese horse.’

  Summoning all his nerve and skill, C.W. throttled down, and carefully drew out the detonator.

  He looked around wildly, and saw Sabrina making her way as best she could towards the north flank.

  The dial on the concealed timing device pipped under the minute mark.

  ‘Leave it, honey!’ he screamed, and set off across the tower like a demented acrobat. Again — as he had with Adela Wheeler on his back — C.W. chose the hard way. He abandoned climbing when he reached a point he thought was level with the charge, swung himself up to a horizontal I-beam, and ran across it at full tilt, unseeing and uncaring.

  The timer marked off the vanishing seconds. 23. 22. 21 …

  Sabrina had also lost all sense of fear. Reckless of the danger, she unknowingly raced C.W. from the opposite side of the tower, and they collided in a tangle of arms and legs at the north pillar junction. The timer stood at nine seconds — and counting.

  ‘Where the — is it?’ C.W. gasped, feeling in the box of the girder.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Sabrina cried, ‘we’re too low. It’s up there!’ She pointed above their heads. The blob of plastic with its wired catalyst rested out of their reach.

  Four seconds.

  ‘Up!’ C.W. screamed, making a cradle. Frantically, she hooked her foot into his clenched hands and he levered her into the air.

  It was no time for finesse. No time for anything.

  Two seconds.

  She dipped her fingers into the plastic, drew out the detonator, and tossed it back over her head.

  One second. Zero. Ignition!

  The detonator exploded in mid-air. Simultaneously, the three from the other pillars fired where they lay on the ground.

  Sabrina Carver locked her ankles around the neck of C. W. Whitlock and her arms around the cold iron column and cried into the wind.

  But the Eiffel Tower was safe.

  * * *

  The wide mouth of the water-main opened on the bank of the Seine, and coughed up three plump sausages and a man in a black wet-suit.

  Smith surfaced, peered through his mask in every direction, and kicked strongly for the rubberized ransom bags. He collected them, hauled his body on to the leading bag, and struck out down river towards an anchored Bateau Mouche.

  Two minutes later, a second black-suited, aqualunged figure shot from the pipe in the powerful current and was tossed head over heels into the river. Graham flapped like an ungainly, paddling dog, clawed his way to the surface, and trod water.

  He, too, looked this way and that. Light flooded on to the Seine from behind him, and from the glow of street lamps. He saw his fast-crawling quarry on the buoyant raft, and noiselessly set out after him.

  Smith reached the Bateau Mouche, grasped the ladder, and pulled himself up on deck. He had tied the nylon thread around his waist, and he reached down to tug the bags to the side of the boat and drag them in.

  Mike abandoned his churning crawl, and settled into a quieter breast-stroke. His passage through the even surface of the water created hardly a ripple.

  Smith stowed the ransom bags away, and padded over to the helm of the Bateau Mouche. He started the engine. It came to life with a sudden roar.

  Smith ran forward and cast off the bowline, leaving it trailing. He was doubling back the length of the boat to cast off the sternline, when he spotted the dark shape angling in towards the stern.

  Smith had no gun with him. Nor was there one on the boat. Nonetheless, he was not completely unarmed. Smith was never completely unarmed.

  But he chose not to tangle with the newcomer. Instead, he threw off the sternline, and felt the Bateau Mouche drift slowly away on the current. He sped forward again, to take his place at the helm. A smile played on his lips.

  His hands closed on the gear-shift levers, and Smith threw both engines into reverse. Then he jammed the throttles up to full-speed.

  The river foamed and boiled under the plunging boat, and Smith, standing at the door of the wheelhouse, peered into the spume passing the bow.

  His smile changed to a broad grin as a solitary aqualung, its straps torn and hanging loose, floated by.

  Smith turned and re-entered the wheelhouse. He eased the throttles back, and levered the gearshift to forward.

  The Bateau Mouche chugged amiably down the Seine, different from the other boats taking the night air only in the respect that it sported minimal lights. Leisurely, Smith changed back into the clothes he’d brought with him from the tower.

  He whistled, and occasionally looked out through the window above the helm. He scanned the sky, fell silent, looked out again — and, once more, fell to whistling. It was a jaunty little sea shanty. English, Smith thought. Great seafaring race, the English.

  * * *

  Large rubber tyres formed a waterline frieze along the side of the Bateau Mouche, and Mike Graham clung groggily to the last in line. He dragged himself up the side of the boat, and slithered over the rail to land in a wet heap on deck.

  Mike lay there for a few moments getting his breath and his senses back. Then he climbed to his feet, and crept past the benches under their striped awning towards the bow. He sidled up to the wheelhouse, and peeped through the glass door.

  He met Smith eyeball to eyeball.

  Smith throttled back, and put his engine in neutral. He leaned down, as if he had all the time in the world, and casually drew a long-bladed knife from a sheath at his right leg.

  Graham saw light winking on the metal, and backed away. Smith jerked open the door and moved in eerie silence out on to the slippery deck.

  Warily, they circled, Smith’s keen eyes ranging over Graham from head to foot. He registered no surprise when he saw who it was. The fact that the Eiffel Tower had not blown didn’t particularly distress him. He had his ransom, and the escape path was clear. Well, almost. And if anyone among his crew was to survive and elude capture, Smith would have bet on Mike Graham.

  Smith was finally satisfied that Graham was not armed. He danced in like the practised knife-fighter he was, arm held low, the knife sitting easily in his upturned hand, twisting and turning, perfectly balanced.

  But Mike Graham, too, was a master of many forms of combat. He knew knife-men well, and had long since diagnosed their strengths and weaknesses. The weaknesses he had found many ways of exploiting: and the strengths he was adept at turning against the man with the dagger.

  Although Smith kept his body and skills in trim, he rarely had to use them in earnest. Smith fought like he fenced — elegantly, correctly, as a gentleman should, o
beying the rules.

  Mike Graham was no gentleman. For him, the rule book didn’t exist.

  Graham started to close, looking over-confident. Smith took half a pace back, as if in fear — then whipped his lithe body forward and down, his knife arm shooting out, the blade as rigid as a natural extension of his hand, striking straight and true for Graham’s heart.

  But Mike’s whole move had been a feint to trap Smith into a committed lunge. He leaned his torso to the right like a bullfighter, and lashed out his foot at Smith’s leading leg.

  The kick caught Smith right on target — just below the kneecap. He hardly had time to squeal with pain when the second heel kick landed in his groin. Two inches to the left and he would have been Miss Smith.

  He was still in a half-crouch, and Graham closed again. Well supported now on his left leg, he brought his right knee in and uppercut Smith on the point of his smoothly shaven chin.

  The blow loosened four of Smith’s bottom teeth, and shook his individual vertebrae to a point half way down his back. His head swam, his eyes shot out of focus, and Graham jerked his unresisting knife-arm.

  Mike caught the wrist in a cruel grip with his left hand, and locked his right arm around Smith’s in a twisting judo hold. Smith winced and squealed again, and the knife left his unclenched fingers to clatter on the deck.

  Graham beat him to the dagger, and turned on Smith with ugly triumph in his eyes. But Smith had scampered away. He headed for the wheel-house, jumped on a barrel, and vaulted up to the roof of the Bateau Mouche.

  Mike followed him by another route, and was facing him on the flat, scoured planks before Smith could take any preventative stance. They measured each other, shivering inside their wet-suits, panting and angry. Smith conceded that Graham was more than a match for him in a dirty fight; he also conceded that there was no way Mike was going to fight cleanly.

  He judged that Graham could very easily use the knife on him, with little provocation. He decided to compromise by talking his way out of trouble. Smith had done that more than once; his natural bent for treachery made conversation, for him, almost as deadly a weapon as a knife or a sword.

  His decision was influenced by a sound that was music to his ears: the hum of an approaching helicopter. It was low at first, though unmistakable. Now it rose in intensity.

  ‘Well, Graham,’ Smith began, ‘so the day goes to you. Congratulations.’

  Mike ignored him.

  ‘I imagine you also put my laser-guns out of commission?’

  Graham shook his head, and said ‘No.’

  Smith raised his eyebrows. ‘Whitlock?’ he enquired.

  Again, Mike replied, ‘No.’

  ‘Then who?’

  Graham smiled. ‘Sabrina Carver. At least, I told her to.’

  Smith’s face clouded. ‘She was in it, too,’ he mused. ‘A pity. I rather liked her. I was contemplating offering her a — mmm — position, in my organization. How fortunate that I resisted the temptation.’

  Graham nodded. Smith rubbed his aching jaw. The noise of the helicopter grew louder.

  Smith said. ‘She and C.W. are with Philpott, I imagine.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Mike remarked.

  Smith raised his voice and suggested a division of the spoils. ‘Is that what you have in mind, Mike?’ he asked. ‘Surely it must be, now that you have the whip hand.’

  Graham shook his head, slowly but decisively.

  ‘Money on this scale doesn’t attract you?’ Smith queried acidly.

  Graham said. ‘It’s not what I want, Smith.’

  ‘And what do you want? Me?’

  Mike looked steadily at him. The helicopter seemed to be circling overhead now, but Graham was concentrating his whole attention on Smith.

  ‘Libya,’ he shouted, ‘four years ago. Remember? You sold Russian weapons to a group of crazy terrorists. You couldn’t forget that, Smith, could you?’

  Smith inclined his head superciliously. ‘It strikes,’ he admitted, ‘a familiar note.’

  ‘A CIA agent was on to you,’ Mike persisted. ‘You booby-trapped his car. Do you remember that, Smith?’

  The other man shrugged. ‘It’s all in the game. Sometimes one has to order retaliatory actions which one finds personally distasteful.’

  ‘Distasteful!’ Graham echoed. ‘Yes, it was. Because, you see, you didn’t kill the CIA man. You killed his wife. She was pregnant, with their only child.’

  The sneer left Smith’s face. He swallowed, though it was difficult for him. ‘Your … wife?’ he ventured.

  Mike nodded. His hate-filled eyes were slits now, his muscles bunched, his teeth bared. ‘And since then, Smith,’ he snarled, ‘there hasn’t been one second of any day or night that I haven’t been on your trail.’

  He started forward, the knife held before him, glinting ominously, the instrument of his revenge.

  ‘For you, Mister Smith,’ he hissed, ‘it’s the end of the line.’

  Suddenly they were bathed in light from the helicopter, coming down out of the night sky like a stone. Mike looked up, and was blinded by the dazzling beam. Smith shielded his eyes, dived for the side of the roof, and snatched up a heavy iron boat-hook.

  Mike recovered, and whirled to face him again. Smith hurled the boat-hook at him, and it smashed into the side of Graham’s head. Mike staggered and fell to one knee, then slumped to the floor. His knife flew from his hand, skidded along the wet planks — and slipped over the edge into the Seine.

  The helicopter pilot waved at Smith, and made an urgent motion of summons with his hand. From the side of the machine, a winch-operated cable dropped to the wheelhouse roof and landed with a clang. Smith ran to it, and dragged it down with him to the main deck of the Bateau Mouche. He wrenched open the hatch-cover of a small hold, and hooked the cable to a metal ring at the end of his trio of ransom bags.

  Smith pulled frantically on the rope, and the winch brought the garish blue sausages up into the chopper’s belly.

  Mike Graham started to come round, lurching painfully to his feet, as the cable and hook descended once more.

  Smith grabbed the hook with both hands, and yanked it twice. He gave a fierce yell of exult ation as he left the deck.

  Graham’s desperate shout followed Smith’s on the wind. Mike launched a furious charge that took him in one jarring bound on to the deck below and, without pausing, into a flying leap for Smith’s trailing foot.

  His hand grasped Smith’s ankle, fingers digging into the bone. The other hand came up and found the toe-cap of a sensible brogue.

  Smith hacked savagely with his free foot at Graham’s hands, crunching down on unprotected fingers time and time again with shocking force.

  Mike felt the flesh torn from his hands, and his last sensation before he slipped despairingly into the river was the ‘snap’ of his little finger breaking.

  * * *

  Smith chanted ‘Come on! Faster! Faster!’ as the helicopter zoomed away and he drew nearer to its welcoming embrace.

  Graham came up for the second time, and lashed the water in ungovernable fury when he saw the man he hated disappear into the ’plane that would take him to freedom.

  Smith clamped his hands on the landing skids, and pulled himself into the chopper’s hold. Other hands reached to help him, to guide him safely away from the sliding door, and to shut it behind him.

  The exhausted man staggered across the helicopter and collapsed over his king’s ransom for the hostage tower.

  He rested his face on the wet, cold rubber, and tears of joy and relief started from his eyes. He pressed his lips to the blue bag, tasting its substance, smelling its brackish scent.

  He had done it! He had won! The perfect crime, fashioned at the hands of the perfect criminal. The feeling that coursed through his body was almost orgasmic.

  He was invincible! The Great Khan of crime, the most audacious adventurer in history!

  No one could halt his relentless progress — nobody could stand against him.
Not governments, nor agencies, nor armies. There was nothing — nothing — he could not achieve.

  He was the indomitable, unconquerable criminal colossus of the world!

  ‘Welcome aboard, Mister Smith,’ Malcolm Philpott said from the co-pilot’s seat. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’

  Smith’s head turned slowly in the direction of the voice. His eyes rested on the man who had spoken, and on the woman crouching beside him.

  He panned along the whole length of the helicopter. Three grinning paras rocked on their heels in the swaying plane, machine-guns pointed at his head and heart.

  He sighed and looked back at the man in the co-pilot’s seat.

  Mister Smith smiled, fleetingly and resignedly, and said, ‘Touché, Mr Philpott. Touché.’

  EPILOGUE

  In a stunted butt-end of street between the Avenue Émile Deschamel and the Allé Adriènne Lecouvreur is a restaurant infinitely more salubrious than ‘La Chatte qui siffle’. On the day after Smith was taken into the unfriendly custody of the French police (and a traditionalist Examining Magistrate), Malcolm Philpott hosted a luncheon party for six — himself and Sonya Kolchinsky, C. W. and Sabrina, Mike Graham, and Commissioner Poupon.

  On the way to the restaurant, Sonya had insisted on taking group photographs twice — against the backdrop of the middle pavilion dome at the École Militaire (where, as Poupon pointed out, Napoleon himself had been a cadet) and again by the equestrian statue of the Marne hero, Maréchal Joffre. They were in a mood to do full justice to a Lucullan meal, washed down with château wine at forty dollars a bottle.

  Throughout the lunch, Philpott had deliberately kept the conversation light. He did not favour post mortems, and he was adept at steering the talk away from himself, Sonya, and UNACO. Philpott rightly considered that the less anyone knew about his organization — even his own agents — the better for the future of the department.

  He was genuinely but shyly pleased to see a relationship growing between Graham and Sabrina. Mike’s injured hands were still strapped and bandaged, and Sabrina carefully cut the Châteaubriand she was sharing with him into manageable pieces, and even speared the odd segment of meat for him, greatly to his embarrassment.