Hostage Tower (19 page)

He hissed out his pain and leapt back on to the platform. The wind rose to mock him, whipping
his hair over his eyes, and causing him to raise both arms as if he were fending off demons attacking him from every direction. But there was only one demon, and he was right in front of Graham, dancing in again, seeking for the one solid death kick that would put the contest beyond argument.

Mike nursed his right arm, knowing that he had been lucky the first time: Claude had tried for his belly, and Graham had unknowingly lurched too soon into a lower crouch.

Claude aimed next for the knee – the part of Graham nearest to him as Mike resumed his defensive hunch. Claude folded his own wiry body into a question mark, left the catwalk nine inches under his feet, snapped his frame back almost to the horizontal, and lashed out.

This time Graham was ready. He guessed where Claude would strike, skipped to one side and threw himself forward, chopping down viciously with his hand at the Frenchman's extended leg.

But Claude's leg was no longer there. He had executed a mid-air pirouette, and was now shooting out his other deadly foot backwards. This kick, too, found its mark: on Graham's shin. But it lacked the power even of the first assault, and did no more than raise an ugly welt on the American's leg.

Claude twisted his body again and, like a gymnast, landed perfectly balanced at the crouch, heels together, arms out-flung. Graham charged
at him now in frustration and sheer rage, and aimed a kick at Claude's apparently unprotected body. Claude laughed, and threw himself into a backwards somersault on the catwalk – jogging into an upright-striking stance.

Mike pounced once more – sure that his superior weight and reach must give him an irresistible momentum … it was the chance for which Claude had been waiting.

He crowed in delight, and left the metal floor in the kick that would be the coup-de-grâce, the terminal move in an unequal struggle.

And the realization of the terrible danger into which he was rushing pell-mell, rampaged through Graham's brain and brought his headlong charge to a sudden, numbing halt. Claude had already embarked on the movement that was to guarantee him a crushing victory – a kick that would strike with appalling force at Mike's heart, killing him instantly, and sending his corpse tumbling through the spider's web of metal struts to break itself on the concrete far below.

His aim was precise, the strength he summoned into his leg was more than sufficient to deliver the death-blow – but he was three inches short. Graham just wasn't where his impetuous leap should have taken him.

Claude landed flat on his back, his hands taking most of the weight of the jarring fall. Stars swam before his eyes, and his next conscious feeling was
of Graham descending on him like a maddened bear, no science or finesse, just a blind lunge that brought Mike where he most wanted to be – at close quarters with Claude, and out of reach of those damaging feet.

Mike's knees drove into Claude's stomach, and knocked the wind from him. Graham hauled the Frenchman to his feet, and smashed his fist into Claude's face. Claude staggered back into a stout cross-girder – then grabbed on to it with both hands, and grinned again as Mike stampeded within kicking distance.

But Claude had nothing like the perfect balance his craft demanded. The girder pressed into the small of his back, and he was almost see-sawing on it, his head and upper torso well outside the frame of the tower as he aimed his right foot as far up Mike's body as he could get it.

Graham took the kick in the stomach almost with contempt – and Claude's armoury counted suddenly for nothing. Mike jinked inside his other foot, and brute force took him into a wrestling crouch over Claude's body, now bent agonizingly back over the iron bar.

With studied deliberation, Graham reached out his free hand, and coolly ripped away from Claude's chest the electronic metal safety tag.

Claude had been expecting anything but that. His body froze, and all movement ceased in him as the moonlight fell on the weaving laser-gun fifty feet above him. The mouse-ears searched out
and found this unprotected foreign body in its territory, and sent a beam of blinding white light lancing through the Frenchman's heart.

In the restaurant, Smith was standing with Pei at the computer console. Pei reported that a Lap-Laser had fired. He used the evidence of his eyes: he had seen the series of glowing lights crossing the screen of the console – a sure sign that one of the guns had operated.

Smith scanned the console intently … it could have been a bird – or it might mean something infinitely more dangerous to him. Then for a second time the screen pulsed with light, registering the death of Claude Légère.

‘There it is again!' Pei shouted. ‘It's fired twice.'

‘Give me the position,' Smith ordered. ‘The exact position.'

He strode from the little stage, fuming, to gather his closest lieutenants around him. He couldn't see Claude in the restaurant, and was hurrying out to the railed gallery when he almost collided with Leah coming in.

‘Where is Claude?' Smith demanded. Leah replied that she thought Claude had been with Smith in the restaurant.

‘If he was in there I wouldn't be asking for him!' Smith shouted. ‘Now if you can't be more helpful than that, call him on the bleeper.'

Leah hurried to the radio, and sent out a signal which would activate Claude's personally-coded
communicator. There was a pause, and she signalled again. Smith paced over to the desk and pushed her roughly aside. He operated the keys himself.

‘Why isn't he answering?' he gritted.

‘Maybe …'

‘Maybe what?'

‘Maybe he – can't,' Leah whispered.

Sabrina scuttled over the face of the tower like a human fly. A rope was looped around her body, and she dropped lightly on to the platform where she was to have met Graham, to see him dragging Claude's body back along the catwalk.

She gasped, ‘What's happened? Are you all right?'

Mike looked up, and whistled in relief. ‘Christ,' he said, ‘you're a sight for sore eyes. I ran into trouble with Claude, and I had to administer a rather drastic remedy to stop him kicking me silly.'

Sabrina looked at him questioningly, and Mike opened his hand and showed her the metal tag. She caught her breath, and shone her torch on Claude's face … then brought it slowly down his body. ‘Oh, my God,' she said.

‘Don't feel sorry for him,' Mike whispered. ‘He was trying to kill me. Just help me get rid of him.'

Sabrina said, ‘Where's C.W.?'

‘Still in the VIP room with Mrs. Wheeler, I guess,' Mike answered. ‘Why?'

Sabrina unslung the rope from her shapely
frame. ‘Let's send him a present.' Mike grinned, and pinned the metal tag back on Claude's body. They tied the rope round his waist, balanced him once more on the cross-strut, and lowered him gently down the side of the tower. Mike peered at the splash of light coming from the window of the VIP room, and said, ‘A few more feet, perhaps.' They paid out more line carefully, until Graham ordered, ‘Halt. That should just about do it.'

Adela Wheeler's hand flew to her mouth when she caught sight of the dangling corpse. ‘Dear God,' she cried, ‘what now?'

C.W.'s eyes darted to the window, and he said, ‘Oh, oh. Somebody's been having trouble.'

He crossed the room and peered closer. ‘But nothing compared with the trouble poor old Claude's been having,' he murmured. He gestured to Mrs Wheeler. ‘Watch the door, sweetie. We have an uninvited guest.' C.W. opened the window and hauled the body inside.

At that moment, Smith's voice echoed around the tower through the loud-hailer. ‘This is Mister Smith. All personnel come to the restaurant now.'

Sabrina dropped the rope over the side, and she and Mike flattened themselves in the shadows of I-beams as the second level patrol scorned using the elevator, and clattered down the staircase to the first landing. After a suitable interval, Mike and Sabrina followed them.

The entire commando crew were lined up by Smith, and Sabrina and Graham made up the numbers. Smith did a quick head-count.

‘Right,' he snapped, ‘has anyone seen Claude Légère in the past fifteen minutes?' There were blank looks or head-shakes up and down the line.

‘Or C.W.?' Again, negative. Smith's eyes darted from man to man, woman to woman. They rested longest on Graham and Sabrina.

‘There is nowhere on this tower,' he said slowly, ‘that they could possibly be, where they would have been unable to hear the announcement I made just now, and which all of you plainly heard. So, either they are off the tower – which is inconceivable – or something has happened to one, or the other, or both. I want them found. I want them found now.'

Smith allocated various commandos to search appointed sectors of the tower, and directed his last command at Graham: they would go together to the VIP room to check on Mrs Wheeler. Leah trailed dutifully in Graham's wake, and Sabrina, whose search area included the block where the VIP room lay, followed some distance behind. It meant circumnavigating the first level gallery, and they arrived to find Tote standing guard.

‘Why did you not answer my summons?' Smith snapped. ‘And leave my post?' Tote queried, with a touch of studied insolence. Smith bristled, but chose to ignore both the insolence and the improper
form of address. Privately, he admitted that his troops had become more and more informal the longer the operation lasted, and this tended to make him lose his iron control. Nonetheless, Tote had been correct to stay.

‘Is everything all right, then?' he enquired. ‘Nobody's been near here,' Tote grunted, ‘not while I've stood guard.' Smith instructed him to unlock the door.

Adela Wheeler's chair was facing three-quarters to the window. They could see her hands folded in her lap, and the shapely ankles, and her feet in their high court shoes. Her face and hair were hidden, both enveloped in the big, soft cushion. She was clearly asleep, and, irrationally, this infuriated Smith.

‘Stay by the door, Graham,' Smith ordered. ‘Leah – wake her. I find the sight of her offensive.'

Mike stood at the open door, hands clasped behind his back. His muscles clenched and his eyes widened as the door moved of its own volition, the handle coming to rest neatly in his hand. He pressed back tentatively on the door – and met solid resistance.

Leah could still not see Mrs Wheeler's face. She said, ‘Are you awake?' When she got no response, she repeated, more loudly, ‘Mrs Wheeler – are you awake, I said?'

She bent down slightly, and shook the velvet cushion. It dropped to the seat of the chair past the
drooping figure's arms. With its support gone, the head lurched sideways – and Claude's dead, agony-filled eyes stared back at her.

Leah screamed, and screamed again. The sight of the corpse grotesquely dressed in the party gown, stockings and fashion shoes of an elderly woman completely unnerved her. Even Tote, at her shoulder, hissed and swore.

Smith rushed forward, beads of sweat starting along his forehead. His eyes took in the body, and then flew to the window. Leah screamed once more, and Smith struck her with uncaring strength across the face with the back of his hand.

‘Now!' Graham hissed, and moved away from the door.

‘Obliged, buddy,' C.W. whispered. He and Mrs Wheeler – she now wore Claude's clothes, and shoes, and his metal safety tag – slipped out of the room.

‘Shut up, you fool,' Smith shouted, and Leah subsided to a whimper. Smith crossed to the window, Tote at his elbow. Tote pointed, and Smith peered into the night. There was a rope, running up to an I-beam. Smith jerked the window open, and poked his head out. As far up the tower as he could see, nothing was there that shouldn't have been there. No movement, no tell-tale flash of light; he strained his ears … no instrusive footsteps rang out on the metal treads.

He turned back to Graham. Smith was sweating
freely now, and spittle started to form at the corners of his mouth. His eyes ranged wildly from Leah to Graham to Tote, and back down to Claude. It was simply not even remotely possible that one of his projects could go wrong. ‘Do you hear, whoever you are?' he muttered. ‘It is not possible.'

Graham raised his eyebrows at Smith, and Smith's control snapped. ‘Search!' he screeched. ‘Search, damn you! Search everywhere, everything!'

He turned on Tote, and grasped his shirt-front. ‘You say no one came came in, or out, while you were here?' Tote nodded, dumbly. ‘Then how did she get out of the room?' Smith asked, icily. Tote pointed towards the window.

‘It's impossible,' Leah said. ‘At her age? She isn't a mountaineer, for God's sake.'

‘No, but C.W. is,' Tote said. ‘He can climb anything, up or down.'

Smith swore, in a language he was confident none of them recognized. He charged across the room to a sofa, and ripped the cushions off. ‘There must be something here, there must!' he shouted. He ran to a closet, pulled open the door, and yanked out towels, table-cloths and napkins. The other three stood rooted to the spot as Smith lost his cool. Then Leah went to him, and put her hand on his arm. ‘Liebchen,' she said, ‘stay calm. This is not you. Be still, and think. We depend on you – only you.'

The flattery was therapeutic. Smith breathed hard and deeply, and slowly the fury left his eyes. He licked his lips, and almost visibly pulled himself together, his chest rising and settling, his shoulders squaring.

‘You're right, Leah,' he said, ‘this is no time for hysteria. We have to be methodical. They are still on the tower. We shall find them. Graham, Tote … at the first sight of Whitlock – kill him, instantly. I have no wish to know for whom he is working. I want him dead.

‘Do not, however,' he cautioned, ‘make a mistake. Mrs Wheeler is presumably wearing Claude's clothing. In the dark, she could be taken for the negro. Be careful. Now go! And get help. Everyone is to search for them!'