H.J. Gaudreau - Betrayal in the Louvre (27 page)

Chapter 56

Jim raced the bike across the parking lot and toward the terminal.  The airplane, a twin engine Cessna Citation, pivoted on its right main wheel and began to taxi forward.  In a moment it left the ramp and turned right on the parallel taxiway.  Jim sped out of the parking lot toward the terminal building, spotted a small drive encircling the terminal building and turned onto it.  The drive went to the front of the terminal and past the building’s front doors.  There he skidded to a halt.  A fence separated him from the active airfield; there was no way to get through it in time.  He could feel his chance passing.  He raced past the terminal keeping the Citation in view to his left and accelerated down the hanger access road.  Between each building was that damned fence.  He continued past the third hanger.  There luck finally swung his way.  A groundskeeper had just opened the gate to the airfield and was about to drive his lawn mower through.  Jim gunned the motorcycle, jumped the curb and raced through the gate past the irate groundskeeper.  He then rolled in the power and the BMW leapt forward. 

Fortunately, the near runway was being resurfaced and was therefore closed.  The jet had by now reached the end of the taxiway, turned left and continued past runway 25-Left toward runway 25-Right. 

European airspace is strictly controlled.  Aircraft have a very narrow window of time in which to take off.  No early or late departures are allowed.  This, combined with the necessary preflight inspection and cross-check procedures brought the business jet to a halt before its pilots pushed in the throttles and accelerated down the runway.  Jim knew it was only a moment’s stop.  He was now at a loss.  He had no idea how to stop that jet.

That was it; just stop the jet!  Jim hadn’t been a pilot in the Air Force; he’d been one of the thousands of people responsible for keeping airplanes flying.  However, he did know a great deal about jet engines.  The one overriding thing about jet engines is that they absolutely hate anything other than air being sucked inside.  A tool, bird or anything of even negligible size entering the engine would strike several of the whirling turbine blades and cause extensive damage in the process.  The picture was very similar to a lawnmower blade after its owner has run the machine over a large rock.  A small item could do such extensive damage that the engine would require a complete overhaul.  He simply needed to throw something in the engine!

Jim raced ahead of the airplane.  As he passed it he could see Paul Marcil’s face framed in the window behind the wing.  He stopped the motorcycle at the end of the runway and dismounted.  The airplane began to turn on to the runway.  He only had seconds.  The Citations’ engines protrude from the fuselage just in front of the tail assembly.  Jim ran to the side of the aircraft behind the wing.  He could feel the air being sucked from around him up and into the engine.  He threw his radio at the engine intake.  It fell short, hit the side of the airplane, caught in the inflow of air, bounced off the bottom of the engine and smashed on the pavement.  The engines began to increase their scream; the pilot was going to release the breaks any moment.  The sound of the engine deafened him.  His chest pulsed as the sound waves literally beat him. 

Paul Marcil stared down at him from the window just over his head.  His snicker had broken into an unconcealed grin.  Jim searched for something else to throw at the engine.  Then it hit him; he took off the jacket, waded it into a ball and threw.  The river of air being sucked into the engine immediately grabbed the windbreaker.  It spread out from the tightly wadded ball, briefly took the shape of a man with his arms spread wide and disappeared into the jet intake. 

Almost at once the engine’s sound frequency changed, a puff of smoke exploded from the rear then streaks of red began to appear in the exhaust of the engine.  At the same time loud noises occurred and then an even louder bang as a hole appeared in the side of the engine nacelle.  A turbine blade had separated and been launched through the side of engine.  The screaming engine began to die; the pilot had shut it down.  In contrast, the opposite engine began to scream louder, the brakes were released.  For a moment Jim thought the pilot was going to attempt a take-off on only one engine.  Disappointment washed over him.  But the pilot, knowing one engine may be on fire and about to explode chose to turn back to the taxiway.

Jim raced back to the hangers.  He exited the same gate, then sped to the parking lot.  There, he found Eve sitting on the trunk of one of the rental cars.  The Corsican sat with his feet straight out in front of him some ten feet in front of her.  Eve had the Corsican’s gun in both hands, elbows on her knees and the gun leveled at the man.  She began to get off the car and go to Jim when he called from the bike.  “Don’t take your eyes off that man!”  The Corsican stared at Jim, one eye completely closed, his face bloodied and bruised.  He couldn’t go anyplace if he were sitting here alone.  It was clear he had a concussion.  Eve settled back on the car and refocused on the Corsican.

Jim parked the bike next to their rental car.  Before he could dismount Eve said, “I called the Embassy.  They said they’d have people here in about thirty minutes.  Are you okay?”  She spoke without looking away from the Corsican. 

“I’m fine, but thirty minutes?  Damn.  We’ve got a problem.”  Jim was nearly yelling.  “Marcil is on that plane, and if he comes off with a gun or there’s more than just him on that thing we’re in for some big time trouble.”  Jim took his belt off and circled the Corsican.  He had the man put his arms behind his back, then cinched the belt tightly around the elbows.  Jim then pulled the smaller man to his feet.  A push and a shove and the Corsican was staggering to the middle of the parking lot.  Jim sat the Corsican down and told him to kick off his shoes.  Jim quickly removed the shoelaces and tied them together.  He then pushed the Corsican’s back against a street lamp.  Looping the shoelace around the belt, then light pole he tied the man to the lamp, finishing with a square knot.  Jim then ran back to Eve.

“We can’t let these two get away.  We’ve got to delay them until the Embassy or the police get here.  That will hold him for a little bit, but it will only take a good hard pull to break the laces.  Now, let’s go.”  They ran back to the Citroën and drove to the delivery truck.  “Hide behind this truck until the cops get here,” Jim insisted.  Then he moved the car to the opposite corner.

Chapter 57

Pistol in hand, an absolutely furious Paul Marcil ran out of the front door of the terminal.  Glancing quickly around the parking lot he immediately spotted the Corsican.  He jogged to the man and knelt to untie him.  “Don’t touch him!” Jim shouted as he stepped from behind the Citroën.  Marcil looked up to see the Corsican’s gun leveled at him.  “I’m pretty good with a pistol.  I don’t think you want to find out how good,” Jim shouted.

Marcil dove behind the street lamp, rolled and fired.  Jim heard the bullet whine over his head and ducked behind the car.  “Shit, he just shot at me!” Jim heard himself say. 

Marcil, keeping the streetlamp and its concrete base between them quickly untied the Corsican.  The man tried to stand up; it didn’t work.  He sagged back against the lamppost and slid to the ground.  Jim, despite the danger he now found himself in, couldn’t suppress a grin.  At that point Marcil made a dash for the rental cars.  Jim leveled his gun but hesitated.  Shooting at targets or hunting was one thing.  Shooting at a real person was another.  Marcil was behind the first Fiat before Jim could fire. 

An eerie silence broke out.  Jim kept the Citroën between himself and Marcil.  After three or four minutes of mere glimpses of his pray Jim decided he had a better chance if he were at the near end of the rental cars.  He only needed a few moments to reach the spot. 

Seeing Marcil peek up over the top of the first rental car Jim snapped off two shots, then dashed for the opposite end of the line of rental cars.  Marcil returned fire but both men had missed their marks. 

Eve began to silently cry.  She could see both Jim and Marcil by stretching up and looking through the windows of the truck.  She was certain that Jim was going to be killed.  Suddenly Jim fired his gun, stood up and ran from behind their Citroën to the far rental car.  He was getting closer to Marcil.  Was he nuts?  At this point fear was overcome by anger.  What the hell was Jim thinking?  She crept to the front of the van and peaked around the corner.  Marcil had his back to her and was about forty feet away.  The line of five rental cars were all that separated him from Jim.

Jim looked through the windows of the five Fiats.  He could see Marcil, but a bullet couldn’t pass through all those windows and find its mark.  Jim moved to his right.  Marcil watched Jim and slid to his own right.  Stalemate.  “Perfect” thought Jim, “…all I have to do is wait for the police.” 

Marcil evidently thought the same thing.  He moved to his left and peered along the front bumpers of the cars.  Jim looked back.  Marcil fired.  The shot missed wide left, but forced Jim behind the Fiat.  Marcil stood up and started for his own car.  Jim fired once, missed.  Marcil thought better of the long open space and dove back behind the Fiats.  Quickly getting to his feet he looked down the line of cars for Jim, didn’t see him and ran to the trunk end of the car, stopped and peeked around the corner.  No Jim.  Turning rapidly he went back to the front of the car and looked for Jim on that end.  Nothing.  Marcil then got to his knees and peered under the cars.  Nothing.  Puzzled he returned to the bumper; again nothing.  Panic was setting in.  He whirled and went to the front.  Then stood to look along the tops of the cars. 

Eve took advantage of Marcil’s preoccupation with finding Jim.  She sprinted across the parking lot, coming to the last five feet she screamed at the top of her lungs and launched herself at Marcil’s back.  Landing with her legs on both sides of his hips she wrapped them around and crossed her feet.  Her left arm went around his neck and she grabbed her wrist and pulled.  Marcil was thrown forward, bounced off the Fiat and spun round.  Eve stayed on his back like a rodeo rider.  Jim, who had been hiding behind the rear wheel of the Fiat to confuse Marcil saw what had happened, swore and sprinted toward the bucking bronco that was Marcil.  Seeing Jim sprinting at him Marcil attempted to level the gun but a thumb in his eye destroyed his aim.  The shot went wild.  Eve now bit his ear and Marcil screamed in pain.  Jim rounded the corner of the last Fiat and put his shoulder into Marcil’s stomach, knocking all three of them to the ground.  Eve’s grip never lessened.  Another cry of pain as she drove her thumb into his eye once more.  Jim was on his knees and grabbed Marcil’s gun arm.  Marcil screamed again as his wrist was bent backwards.  He let go of the gun.  Jim rolled away, grabbed the gun and was on his feet.

“EVE!  Eve, okay, let him go!” Jim yelled, holding the pistol at Marcil’s head.  Slowly she released her grip and crawled away.  Marcil rolled to all fours.  Eve, now standing, kicked him in his butt as hard as she could.  Jim looked at her astonished, then grinned. 

Marcil began to stand up.  “Don’t temp me Marcil!”  Jim shouted.  The man sank to the parking lot and slowly raised his hands over his head. 

Eve limped the few feet to Jim.  “Are you hurt?” he asked as he wrapped one arm around her.  “No…” she whispered, “…but I might have broken my toe when I kicked him.”   

Moments later the whine of sirens could be heard, then the blue lights of the French police.  Two police cars and a white sedan raced into the airport.  A United States Army Colonel approached as Jim and Eve waved both hands over their heads.  “Mrs. Crenshaw?” he asked.

“Yes, and this is my husband, Col. Crenshaw.  Thank you so much.”

Chapter 58

The Secretary finished reading the motion, and the board members voted their approval.  The men all stood and began filtering out of the room.  A few lingered for the usual side conversations but essentially the thing was done; a small turbine parts manufacturer would shortly be absorbed by Perpétuel Energy.  Several of the members offered their congratulations to the CEO.  In fact, they were offering their thanks.  This acquisition would significantly reduce operating costs, thus increasing their bonuses.  Louis Palatine shook their hands and slapped their backs.  But he did not linger; his real job, for running the Action Françoise was a job as well as a duty waited.

In short order he was whisked to a waiting limousine and taken to the airport.  A Dassault 2000S was waiting.  In less than an hour the airplane landed.  His driver arrived as the aircraft steps gently touched the tarmac.  In twenty minutes they were at the Cathédrale Sainte-Croix d’Orleans.  He was early. 

The Duke of Orleans, Prince du Sang and true King of France listened to the report of the écuyer.  He had taken his seat as Duke.  They were arrayed in the Committee of the Whole to listen to the report and to debate the next course of action.  He couldn’t believe that two simple Americans had actually won a fight against trained killers.  Despite himself he smiled at the thought.  To see Marcil and the Corsican now would be priceless.  Somehow it was fitting; the two men were some of the most egotistical individuals he knew.  Snapping his thoughts back to the matter at hand he listened carefully to the comments of his brothers on the Council.  As usual, the group was split.  Could these people never see the obvious?  The debate raged; silence the Americans or drop the matter. 

After ten minutes he stood, the room grew still.  He walked to his chair at the head of the table.  The Prince du Sang surveyed the room.  “Mes ami,” he began, “…our purpose is to ensure our people are ruled well.  We need the respect of the people to accomplish this goal, n’est pas?”  The Council members all nodded in agreement.  “In this case our royal belongings have been returned to us, have they not?”  The Duke of Normandy quickly objected, “Sire, they have not, our…your Royale Regalia has not been returned.  They are now out of reach inside the Musée du Louvre.” 

“This is true mon ami, but, are the Regalia not now located in a most secure and noble location?  Where would you have them?  The people of France can now view them, appreciate them and dream.  Our American friends have done us a great service.  They have found and returned our property.  Do not worry.  The Regalia is available for our use when the time comes.  We have other friends in the Musée du Louvre.”  He surveyed the table.  Slowly heads began to nod.

“There is one other thing.  We have on several occasions debated the usefulness of Monsieur Marcil, have we not?”  Heads nodded around the table.  “The man is crude at best and a liability at worst.  He has had visions of joining this Council for sometime.  There is, in all honesty my friends, simply no foreseeable way for that to happen.” 

He surveyed the table.  Some here did have a tie to Marcil, but he suspected those ties were not strong.

“Once Marcil realizes this he likely will turn on the hand that feeds him.”  Again the heads around the table nodded.  “The Americans, they have rid us of an inconvenience, no?”

The Council members thought this over.  The Duke of Bourbon finally spoke.  “Our Prince is correct.  We have a responsibility to France and her people.  And, we have been rid of a loose canon, a man whom we could never trust.  A man who always wanted more, a peasant.”  One by one the realization of this simple truth crept around the table.  The Council members nodded.

“Then I believe we have reached an agreement, no?”  The Prince du Sang raised his hand.  He looked first to his right, then left and made the sign of the Cross.