Hostage Tower (15 page)

Over the domestic tribulations of a particularly involved French soap opera a message repeatedly flashed: ‘EMERGENCY INTERRUPT.' Sonya broke free with a start. ‘Look, Malcolm,' she said, ‘something's coming on TV about it, I think.'

Philpott turned, and studied the set. Then he crossed the room and sat on a chaise-longue within comfortable distance. ‘It's Smith,' he explained to Sonya. ‘Apparently he's got himself a link straight into RTF from the tower. His communications boys have arranged it so that the Post Office can't stop him, even if they wanted to. And at the moment, the French Government doesn't want to stop him. Let's hear what he's got to say.'

Sonya joined him. The emergency signal became a permanent fixture as the trivial soap opera faded. After a minute the stark message blinked out, and the screen cleared. The next image on French and Continental Western European television was the face of Mister Smith.

‘I am sorry,' Smith began, ‘to interrupt your normal television fare, but, as compensation, I bring you a real-life drama which I hope you will find even more absorbing.' He spoke in faultless French, and repeated the sentence in English.

He continued, ‘My name is Mister Smith, and
I have just stolen the Eiffel Tower. No, I'm not joking. See for yourselves.'

The screen cut to another camera, which roamed the tower, concentrating on the first level, seeking out the armed guards, then wandering below, to the cordon of frustrated police, and the seething crowd. It avoided the laser-guns, and for a moment Philpott's heart leapt: perhaps something had gone wrong. Perhaps C.W. and Sabrina had managed to immobilize the Lap-Lasers, to give the authorities at least a fighting chance … But then he reflected, ‘No, the bastard's just playing with us.'

‘You see now, do you?' Smith said, triumphantly. ‘I am speaking the truth. And that is not all. I have a prisoner here on the tower – a hostage, if you like, although I want to emphasize that she is in no danger. Provided, of course, that the French Government complies with my demands.'

The scene switched again. A hand-held ENG camera danced up to the VIP room. Adela Wheeler sat straight-backed and proud in her chair, her eyes downcast. The cameraman tapped on the glass door. She raised her head, and the camera caught her face, zoomed in on it, and held the shot.

‘Yes,' Smith said, ‘it is Mrs Adela Wheeler, whom I dare say many among you will recognize as the mother of the American President. But to more pleasant considerations – for me, that is.' The camera returned to Smith.

‘As you see – and I assure you that nothing you have witnessed is faked – I and my associates are in complete command of this structure, in a way which I shall demonstrate in a moment. We shall retain control of the Eiffel Tower until I receive what I consider to be a fair ransom for it – and naturally, for the life of Mrs Wheeler.

‘I am given to understand that the tower cost in the region of one million, six hundred thousand US dollars to build. I have calculated that today's replacement value would be, say, sixty-eight million dollars.

‘Therefore, I propose to return the tower to the people of France, in the same excellent order in which I found it, for the bargain price of thirty million dollars. That, I think you will agree, is not profiteering. The presence of Mrs Wheeler should serve as sufficient – how shall I put it – inducement?'

Smith was clearly enjoying himself; Philpott sat dejectedly on the chaise-longue, waiting for the knockout blow. The telephone rang, and Sonya sprang to answer it. ‘Give him a moment, please, Mr Ambassador,' she requested, ‘he wants to see the end of the Smith telecast.'

Smith said, ‘Now observe closely. I want to show you why retaliation against me, the use of any force, military or civil, from the land or from the air, is completely useless.'

Once more his face left the screen, and the exterior camera caught the outer edge of the tower,
and rose dramatically towards the second gallery level. It found one of the Lap-Lasers, and halted. The evil black snout came into centre-frame, and no one seeing it could doubt for a moment that it was a new and sophisticated weapon.

‘What you are seeing now,' Smith continued smoothly, ‘is one of four laser-guns which guard the Eiffel Tower, its perimeter, and the immediate area. Also, naturally, the skies above it.'

A curious double vocal effect began to creep in as the outside camera lingered on the Lap-Laser. Smith's message was being simultaneously piped through the tower's broadcast system. Monstrously amplified, it boomed out over the silent crowds. The ENG's sound camera picked it up and transmitted it, along with the clean feed from Smith's ‘studio'.

From the telephone, Sonya said, ‘It's Richard Ravensberg. I've asked him to wait.' Philpott signalled ‘message received'. Smith's message was indeed being received, all over Paris, all over France, and in Belgium, Germany and Luxembourg, all countries which can tune into French television channels.

‘Let me tell you a little about these guns, or Lap-Lasers, as they are known,' Smith went on. ‘I borrowed them, as it were, from the United States Army, who were testing them at a base near Stuttgart. They are possibly the most destructive weapons, on a small scale, ever devised. Of course,
they cannot rival a hundred-megaton hydrogen bomb – but then nobody profits from the use of nuclear weapons. No – what the laser-gun will do, fully armed as these are, is track and destroy, destroy utterly, anything entering the perimeter area of the Eiffel Tower, whether on the ground or in the air.' Smith leaned forward, his expression solemn and concerned.

‘I would advise the people gathered here, and the police, and the French Army, not to attempt to challenge these weapons, which are operating now on the face of the tower. That is all I have to say for the moment. I shall broadcast again in one hour. Au revoir.'

The screen blanked out, and in Government offices, in bars, homes and shops throughout Paris, the reaction was one of numbed, fearful, enormous shock.

In Washington and London, Moscow and Peking. Cairo and Brussels. Presidents and pressmen scanned incoming telexes and panic-stricken diplomatic cables with mounting incredulity.

Philpott raced to the 'phone. ‘Roger,' he rapped, ‘did you see it? All of it? Good. Now what I want you to do is this: I know Smith – his methods, his persona. I've studied him. Also I know a lot about these Lap-Lasers – because they're the really import ant factor, you realize? Without the lasers there, we might have a chance, although obviously we couldn't risk Adela's life. But with Smith in
possession of the lasers, the authorities are –
completely
–
totally
–
powerless
. Clear?

‘OK. Well, it's just possible I and my people may be able to tip the balance. Strictly for your ears alone – and I mean this, Roger … it must go no further. Your word? Done. Well … I have two operatives on the inside – in the tower. Now I want you to fix it with the French Government – and you must know by now that I have Giscard's Red priority, anyway – fix it for Sonya and me and UNACO to get in on the act. Like now. OK? Good. 'Phone me back.' He slammed the receiver down, and said to Sonya. ‘We wait.'

Less than a minute later, the telephone sounded again. Philpott snatched it up and said, ‘Roger? Who? Oh … oh, I see. No, of course. I'll hold.' He looked at Sonya and shook his head, slowly, but not in defeat; in sympathy.

Then he put the receiver to his ear once more. ‘Yes, Mr President,' he said. ‘It's Malcolm. I know, sir, I know … I hope to give us an edge. Of course, of course – anything that could possibly cause even a hint of danger to Mrs Wheeler is clearly out of the question.

‘No, sir, no,' he went on, ‘you have my absolute promise on that. Sure, I'll calm things down, and I'll be honoured to act as your personal re presentative, interpreting your wishes. Please don't worry about that, Mr President. And – Warren. Have faith. OK, I'll keep in touch.'
He cradled the machine, and it rang again almost at once.

It was the American Ambassador. UNACO were more than acceptable to the incident team Ravensberg said. In fact – Philpott could consider himself as being virtually in charge of the operation. ‘And Malcolm – make sure the right side wins. The world is watching us – and the President considers Smith to be an appalling threat to international security.'

At last Philpott smiled, albeit ruefully. Then he snapped into action. ‘Come on,' he said to Sonya. ‘First stop, the French Ministry of the Interior. We have a hell of a lot to do. Pray God we're in time.'

Whatever the spectacle, people have the sometimes dangerous habit of pushing small children to the front of a crowd, so that they can get a full view of the proceedings. The Eiffel Tower crowd was no exception.

A little girl of perhaps seven, blonde hair caught up in bunches and held with ribbon, stood between two policemen, open-mouthed, clutching a large chequered ball.

Her mother held her by the shoulder, but her own attention was fixed unswervingly on the tower, although she could see nothing that mattered. The child, from sudden, frustrated boredom, bounced the chequered ball and failed to catch it. Worse, in her attempt to hold on to it,
she hit it with her knee, and it rolled out across the road … and trickled towards the chalk-marked perimeter area of the tower.

With an annoyed squeal, the girl broke from her mother's grasp and ran for the ball.

Her mother screamed, and started after the child, but the police cordon held her in check. Some twenty feet along the fringe of the straining mass of people, a burly young man swept a policeman aside and streaked frantically in the wake of the little girl.

On the tower, a Lap-Laser moved fractionally to the left. The mouse-ear antennae pricked up, then started tracking the running figures. The computer picked the smaller target first, and the generator trucks beneath the tower sent power surging into the gun.

The running man dived just as the child reached her obstinately trickling toy. He scooped her up inches short of the chalk line, whose delineation had been dictated by Smith.

The ball rolled over the line. The laser-gun moved at lightning speed. Its tube gleamed brilliant white. The outline of the ball glowed incandescently … And there was nothing. The ball simply disappeared. All that was left to show where it had been was a puff of smoke curling up from the tarmac.

The little girl's mother clutched her fiercely to her body, sobbing and rocking the child. There was total silence in the crowd around her. They
stared at the smoke whiff in stunned, unbelieving horror.

Their limousine pulled up at the French Interior Ministry, and Philpott and Sonya got out and ran inside. Still the most notable feature of the skyline was the implacable giraffe of the Eiffel Tower.

Without ceremony, they were taken straight to the lofty conference room, where Guillaume Ducret, the Minister, was meeting representatives of the police, Army and Civil Defence forces. Ducret held out his hand in manifest relief and said, ‘Mr Philpott. I can't tell you how glad I am to see you.' He introduced them all round.

Ducret, a handsome and aristocratic French politician of the Giscard-Malraux school, started to quiz Philpott when the door burst open again, and Police Commissioner August Poupon threw himself through it. He was all nervous energy, Poupon, but effective in a crisis. He was followed in quick order by Roger Ravensberg, trailing a brace of four-star US Army generals – Holmwood and Hornbecker – plus aides, and then by French military and industrial chiefs.

General Hornbecker and General Jaubert fell to discussing who could cause the most earth-shattering cataclysm in the shortest time. Jaubert declared, ‘I have a squadron of Mirage bombers in the air right now. They could be on the way in seconds.'

Hornbecker replied, scornfully, ‘The Lap-Lasers will take them out in seconds! Now we could pick the lasers off with some very special missiles we have …'

‘Which would blow the Eiffel Tower, and Mrs Wheeler, and half of Paris sky-high,' Philpott put in cuttingly. ‘No, gentlemen. Monsieur Ducret and I have been placed in command of this operation. If we need your assistance, we will call on it; and we probably shall – but on our terms. Until we do, I shall be obliged if, unless you have anything truly helpful to contribute, you remain silent.' It was rough, but effective: in the last analysis, the only way to treat generals.

Ducret coughed, and broke the embarrassed silence. Jaubert and Hornbecker, united at last, glared their collective loathing at Philpott. Ducret said, ‘May I suggest that our priority should be to learn all we can about the man who has committed this monstrous crime – the criminal who calls himself Mister Smith. Mr Philpott? You can help us there, I believe.'

Philpott cleared his throat and frowned. ‘Smith is one of the world's most extraordinary criminals, that's true, Minister,' he said. ‘He's fantastically rich, but he has this dreadful urge … compulsion, to commit outlandish crimes. Freudian, possibly, but I believe he gets his kicks that way. No interest in politics or people; only crime … exalts him. So every year or so, he organizes a complex, brilliant, and normally successful criminal operation.
He seems to be invulnerable. He thinks he is, anyway, which could be even more dangerous.'

Ducret inquired, ‘Do we know anything that we are sure he's been responsible for?'

Philpott turned to Sonya. ‘Mrs Kolchinsky? She – she will tell you, gentlemen. She has the facts.'

Sonya itemized Smith's catalogue of atrocity. ‘It was he,' she said, ‘who stole sixty kilos of fission-grade Uranium U-235 from the Nuclear Fuel Fabrication plant at Blythe, Wyoming, in 1963. You remember? He held San Diego successfully to ransom for ten million dollars? Twenty dead in the panic.

‘Two. In 1976, he sold a load of stolen Russian hand weapons – super-advanced equipment from their experimental test ground in Nevyansk – to terrorists in Libya. They turned up all over the place. A hundred and fifty dead in Manchester, England; two hundred in Tokyo; that air liner over Haifa; the Darmstadt massacre. Not Smith, I grant you – but Smith was the catalyst.'