Hostage Tower (17 page)

‘It is of small concern to me what you do, Mrs Wheeler.' Smith replied, and walked out of camera shot.

Adela Wheeler turned to face the camera. No American watching her could fail to have swelled with pride. She might have been a frontierswoman daring Geronimo or Santa Anna to do their worst. To Philpott, she seemed like the Statue of Liberty come to life.

‘That is a silly, greedy man,' Mrs Wheeler sneered. ‘If anyone out there wishes to ransom the Eiffel Tower, then that is their business. But do not, I beg you, take my presence here into account. Like the Eiffel Tower, I have been around a long time. It could be that both of us have outlived our usefulness.

‘That I should join this extraordinary tower on the auction block to satisfy a lunatic megalomaniac at my time of life is unthinkable – obscene. Do not give in to him. Destroy him. His kind are not fit to breathe the same air as we do. If you want to part with your hard-earned francs, then send it to the International Children's Relief Fund. They need it. Smith doesn't.'

Ravensberg jumped to his feet. ‘That's my girl!' he chanted. ‘Sock it to him, Adela, hot and strong.' Ducret murmured, ‘Hear, hear – although I do not think Mister Smith will like it.'

The camera came off Mrs Wheeler and slid
hurriedly back to Smith. His rage was barely controllable. ‘Whatever this gallant but foolish old woman says – you have twelve hours. That is all!'

Smith prowled around the tower restaurant, frustration gnawing at his patience. This was the part of every operation that he loathed … the waiting game, while the fools on the other side debated how they could vanquish him and save their precious money.

He snorted in derision. If only they knew how little he cared about their money! He wanted only their pride and their will-power laid in shreds at his feet. He wanted them grovelling, and acknow ledging him as master. He desired the unsurpassable thrill of danger, and of victory. Defeat Mister Smith? The very notion was absurd! He had never been defeated. He never would be. He was truly invulnerable – the greatest brain in criminal history.

Smith sneered as he imagined the cohorts of politicos, generals and policemen scheming assault after assault on the tower, then drawing back as they remembered the all-powerful lasers. The city
officials would announce grandly that they had the solution: cut off the electricity supply, and render the lasers harmless.

Then they would hear the constant, jeering rumble of his generator trucks, and realize that he didn't need their power – he had his own. Smith chuckled. Someone might even come up with the ridiculous suggestion that you could reflect the laser beams with mirrors. Let them try, he thought. It would be the grandest firework display of all.

He poured himself a cognac, drank it at a gulp, and motioned to Claude. ‘It's time we took some more – ummm – precautionary measures, I think? What do you say, Claude?' Claude glanced at the top team and the other commandos draped around the room, dozing, playing cards, or chatting desultorily. ‘The guns?' he queried. Smith nodded. ‘Tactfully, Claude, tactfully.'

Claude made the diplomatic announcement: all personnel to report to the command post, with their weapons. Smith was there to receive his forces.

‘I dislike bloodshed,' he began, pompously, ‘and most of all, I abhor unnecessary accidents. While you are armed, but not conspicuously alert, accidents could occur leading perhaps to bloodshed. I propose to remove the risk by requisitioning your weapons.'

There was a murmur of alarm from the group; Tote, particularly, did not favour the idea. Graham
and C.W. looked immensely suspicious, and smelled a giant-sized rat. But, one by one, under the watchful gaze of Smith, and the cradled guns of Claude and Leah, they complied.

‘Could this also imply a certain lack of trust?' Sabrina asked, as she filed past the dais and surrendered her AK 47 automatic rifle and MA 28 Meisner machine pistol. ‘Not at all, my dear,' Smith assured her, ‘what absolute nonsense. It's merely, as I said, to avoid the possibility of errors.'

Graham said, pointedly, ‘Are you and Claude and Leah going to avoid the possibility of errors happening too, Mister Smith?'

Smith looked at him sharply. ‘Someone has to be armed, Mike,' he replied. ‘Naturally, it will be myself and my closest associates.'

Graham and C.W. were on the point of launching a combined protest, when the telephone rang. Pei picked it up, and waved excitedly to Smith. ‘It is the Minister of the Interior, Monsieur Ducret, sir.'

Smith grinned smugly. ‘As I forecast,' he said. ‘A little ahead of time, but they have come to their senses.' He crossed to the 'phone.

Ducret made it plain that he was not in the mood to haggle over Smith's demands. ‘Excellent,' Smith purred. ‘Neither am I. What, then, can I do for you, Minister?'

Ducret cleared his throat. ‘The Finance Minister,' he said, ‘tells me that to amass and count the staggering sum you require cannot be accomplished
in the time you have allowed us. He requests that you extend the deadline until 10 a.m. tomorrow.'

Smith's complacent smile slipped away. ‘That is out of the question,' he declared flatly. ‘We shall quit the tower and detonate the explosives at precisely one o'clock in the morning, unless by that time I have thirty million dollars, in unmarked bills, in my hands. When you get the money, and not before, contact me again, and I will arrange a safety procedure for the men bringing it to the tower. That will not, by the way, involve immobilizing my laser-guns.'

The conversation was being relayed on loudspeakers throughout the Ministry conference room. Ducret raised his eyebrows to Philpott and Poupon, who were now the prime movers on their side. Philpott scribbled furiously on a pad, and handed the note to Poupon, who passed it to Ducret.

The Minister continued, ‘I'm afraid it simply is not possible, Mister Smith. You're a highly intelligent man, and I am sure you must appreciate that the task is beyond us. However, I have been authorized to offer you half the sum, fifteen million dollars, by ten o'clock this evening. That's all the US currency we have in the country, as far as we can trace. The rest we're getting from Switzerland and Luxembourg – but it takes time.'

There was a pause from the tower; then Smith conceded the point. ‘Very well, Ducret,' he said,
‘fifteen million dollars by ten o'clock tonight. But I am not giving you a further twelve hours to get the rest. You must place it in my hands by 4 a.m. at the latest. That is my final concession. Agreed?'

Ducret replied, ‘A moment, Mister Smith. I'll put you on “hold”. I must confer with my colleagues.'

He looked at Philpott. ‘Well? Why is time so urgent to him? And what do I say now?'

Philpott guessed aloud that Smith wished to be paid before daylight; or perhaps his generators were due to run out at dawn, or thereabouts. Then a thought struck him. ‘Of course, there's one thing we haven't discussed generally, although Commissioner Poupon and I have considered it.'

‘And what is that?'

‘How in God's name Smith plans to get safely off the tower once he has the ransom, and the lasers are presumably switched off.'

Ducret considered the point. ‘If you have no ideas,' he confessed, ‘then neither have I. So I suppose we have little choice but to agree.'

He reopened the tower line. ‘I am waiting, Monsieur Ducret,' Smith said acidly, ‘but my patience is not inexhaustible. Do I get what I want?'

Ducret replied, ‘Yes, Mister Smith. You do.' And he put down the 'phone.

Sabrina wandered by the railed gallery, seeking a breath of fresh air. Graham approached her from the opposite direction, and they leaned on the rail
together. He lit a cigarette, and said to her, quietly, ‘You're extremely elegant for a thief, Sabrina.'

Sabrina's heart pumped; was he still teasing her? Was the crunch coming now? While it was still not too late for Smith to dispose of her – but leaving no chance for her to contact Philpott?

She forced herself to smile – languidly, she hoped. ‘Why, thank you, Mike,' she said lightly. ‘Of course, it's not my only hobby.'

Graham grinned, ‘I'm sure it isn't,' he said. He smoked lazily, and they both looked out over the city. ‘Funny thing,' he drawled, ‘I – uh –' the words tailed off.

‘You what, Mike?' she asked.

‘Oh – just one of those feelings. I've had it ever since we met, and I can't shake it.'

‘What is it?' Careful, she thought, careful; play it for all you're worth.

Graham looked at her, smiling. ‘I just believe I've seen you before, somewhere,' he drawled, ‘some time or other. Simple as that. Nothing serious – huh?'

‘No, no,' she said a little too quickly, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘It's entirely possible that you have seen me before – although I honestly don't think we've met. But you see, once upon a time I was a model, a cover girl, that sort of thing. My picture got around a bit. It was all very boring.'

There was silence from Graham. He drew deeply on his cigarette, then blew out the smoke in his
lungs and admitted, ‘Yeah, that could be it. A bit dangerous for you, though, I'd have thought, getting your face on the front of Vogue.'

She nodded enthusiastically. ‘It was. That was why I gave it up.'

He said, ‘Oh, sure. I agree that we can't have actually met.' He looked at her, his eyes shrewdly appraising. ‘I certainly would never forget a gorgeous chick like you if we'd even said hello, let alone held hands.'

Sabrina flushed. ‘Thank you, kind sir,' she simpered. Graham's eyes held her own; then his gaze moved out again and he sprang to alertness.

‘Hey,' he whispered, pointing to the parkland beyond the tower perimeter, ‘looks like the marines have landed.'

She followed his finger. Military vehicles were jockeying into position, and impressive numbers of well-armed foot soldiers poured out of them.

Sabrina said, ‘Is it serious, d'you think?'

Mike shook his head. ‘I don't think so,' he replied, and after a moment added, ‘let's see if we're still repelling boarders.'

He flicked the cigarette far out on to the cool breeze. It travelled about ten yards, and started to spiral earthwards, when there was a brilliant white flash from above. The cigarette incinerated.

Claude had crept up softly behind them; he was an inveterate eavesdropper. He touched Graham on the shoulder, and Mike spun round. ‘You should watch your smoking,' the scar-faced
Frenchman advised. ‘It could be bad for your health.'

As the sun started to sink, bathing the tower in a rosy haze, the military activity in the parkland of the Palais de Chaillot skirting the tower intensified. In the intervening hours, a low barrier had been erected most of the way round the tower. It marked precisely the thousand metre line from the centre of the tower, and it was all the generals could think of doing.

They had established a No-man's-land between the barrier and the line of troops and military trucks – a gap of about a hundred feet. The only vehicle inside the no-go area was a police communications van.

The van had been rigged up as a complete communications centre, putting Philpott and Commis sioner Poupon in constant touch with anyone they wished – including the tower and the US President. The transfer of the command post had been Philpott's idea. Fed up with inactivity, he had decided to come marginally out into the open, and convey somehow to Sabrina and C.W. that an urgent contact was needed.

‘It was Smith who supplied the motive power,' he explained to Poupon. ‘That crack he made about a safety procedure for the people bringing the money up to the tower. I had assumed, obviously, that the people in the tower must have some sort of protective machinery, otherwise the
lasers would find them and burn them whenever they so much as came near the railing.

‘Smith confirmed it. So I must assume that C.W., in particular, will try to get away, or at least make contact with us. If he's safe, C.W. can get down that tower in two minutes flat, and avoid ending up like they did –' he gestured towards the corpses of birds, literally fried, which had flown within the arc of the deadly lasers.

‘But surely,' Poupon objected, ‘they'll shoot him from the tower.'

Philpott grinned crookedly. ‘Not unless the lasers are turned off,' he said. ‘They can gobble up bullets just as easily as birds. And Smith daren't kill the lasers. We'd be in there like a shot if he did.'

Poupon nodded. ‘Of course. Well, it's a chance, even if it's a slim one. But as you say, it's better than sitting on one's derrière at the Ministry, hein?'

Philpott chuckled, and added, ‘Don't expect anything until sundown. C.W. will want the cover of darkness, even though he doesn't need as much of it as Sabrina would.'

Poupon was mystified. ‘Why ever not?' he asked.

Philpott chuckled again. ‘He's as black as the ace of spades,' he replied. ‘In fact – but for God's sake don't tell him I said so – in many ways C. W. Whitlock
is
the ace of spades.'

A senior police officer knocked respectfully on the door of the van, and ushered in a superintendent
from the Paris City Engineer's Department. Soon, all three were pouring over detailed plans of the Eiffel Tower.

The sun set, reluctantly it seemed, and as the last golden fingers of light caught the tower, a dark shadow moved behind a staircase linking two sections of spidery, criss-cross ironwork, far up the side of the structure. A sound, of some object dropping and striking the frame, echoed faintly, and C.W. froze to the girders.

At the communications van, Sonya, Philpott and Poupon took advantage of the remaining light to train binoculars on the tower. ‘Any luck?' Philpott grunted. ‘Nothing,' Sonya replied. ‘There are miles of ironwork there. It's like – well, you know.'