Hostage Tower (20 page)

Graham and Tote hurried from the room – Graham to try to locate C.W., Tote to link up with Pei, who had been left on duty by the telephone. On the far side of the landing, a shadowy figure in battle-dress came out of the shadows. Smith stopped in the doorway, and levelled his machine pistol.

‘Who is that?' he demanded. ‘Advance, or I'll fire. The lasers can't stop bullets here, as you must know.'

Sabrina stepped into the light, holding a metal object in her hand. ‘I don't know what's going on,' she said, ‘but I found this over there by the railing,' she nodded her head behind her. She offered the slim steel box to Smith. It was Claude's communicator.

Graham had covered no more than three yards when C.W.'s voice reached him from the shadow of an open door next to the VIP room. ‘So what now?' C.W. said.

Mike turned on his heel, to see Smith and Leah engrossed in the examination of Claude's communicator, as if it could speak to reveal some hidden secret of how the Frenchman had met his death. ‘Come,' Graham replied, ‘and hurry.'

C.W. and Adela Wheeler followed him, and Mike's body effectively masked their return to the VIP room from the group standing at the railing. Once inside, C.W. switched off the light. Mike locked the door, and immediately regretted it. It should have been locked from the inside, with C.W. in charge of the key.

He made a second move towards the door, but Smith strode suddenly from the railing to stand beside him. ‘You've locked it?' he said. Mike nodded. ‘Good,' Smith remarked, pulling the key from the lock.

‘We know for an absolute certainty that Mrs Wheeler is not in there,' he said. ‘Every other inch of this tower will be searched until we find her, even if you have to pull the rivets apart with your bare hands.'

Mike gulped and darted a sidelong glance at the VIP room. ‘What are you waiting for?' Smith snarled. ‘Get on with it.'

Graham turned away in despair, and trotted back to the restaurant. There was little he could
do about it now, except hope to relieve Smith of the key later on.

Until then, C.W. and Adela Wheeler were trapped.

The President's mother and the black agent of UNACO crouched behind the sofa that Smith had assaulted, away from prying eyes at the glass door. ‘Do you have any ideas, Mr Whitlock?' Mrs Wheeler asked gently.

‘One,' C.W. replied. ‘While we're still undisturbed, I'll get in touch with my boss.'

He swathed a three-quarter shield around the light-bulb, and crossed to turn on the light. Just a chink of light from the bulb was all that was visible … but it was pointing out of the window. And C.W. knew that Philpott would be watching for it.

Sonya Kolchinsky lay flat on top of the communications van command centre, trying to adjust to a more comfortable position. She took her weight on her elbows, and fixed the binoculars to her eyes. She let out an exclamation, and Philpott, from inside the van, shouted, ‘What is it?'

‘A light flashing from the tower,' she answered. ‘It must be a code … yes, it is. And it's C.W.'

Philpott and Poupon hurried out, and looked anxiously up at her, ‘Well, what's he got to say?' Philpott asked.

‘Hang on …' Sonya replied, ‘he's repeating it.
‘We – have – a – new – recruit. Gray? No – Graham. It's Mike Graham,' Sonya burst out excitedly, ‘he's on our side after all.'

Philpott breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘Then Sabrina's still OK,' he grinned at Poupon, ‘and we've got a real team working in there. We can still win, Poupon old bean. We can still do it.'

‘There's more,' Sonya said. ‘“We – are – going – to – try – to – bring – Mrs – Wheeler – out,”' she pronounced slowly. ‘He's going on: “Can – you – arrange – diversion – now – question mark. Suggest – paying – first – half – of – ransom. Is – possible – question mark.”'

Philpott turned urgently to the Commissioner. ‘Is it possible? It's
got
to be. It might be the only chance we have of saving Mrs Wheeler. And if anyone can get her off that damned tower, it's C.W. Make it possible, Poupon. Don't take no for an answer.'

Poupon reached for the phone. ‘Do not worry, my friend,' he assured Philpott. ‘When Poupon says “jump”, they go up a long, long way. Allo, allo. Conference room? Get me the Finance Minister. I'll give you ten seconds.'

Smith paced the restaurant floor, a walkie-talkie clasped in his fist, the riding crop (which someone had brought from the château) incongruously dangling from the other hand. Smith seemed to draw comfort from it, and occasionally lashed a table top or chair-back. Graham was receiving
a 'phone report, and Sabrina and Leah Fischer manned walkie-talkies, making notes on jotting pads.

‘Has anyone found anything?' Smith asked querulously. Mike shook his head; Leah lifted her finger from the communicator button, and did likewise.

‘How could C.W. have slipped through all our checks?' Smith mused, agitatedly. ‘He's a thief, an international thief – a master criminal. Who could he be working for? Who could possibly pay him more than I'm paying him? Unless –'

‘Unless what?' Leah said.

‘Unless he's not C. W. Whitlock, but some other black,' Smith supplied.

‘No,' Leah stated, positively. ‘Fingerprints, voice-print, pictures … everything checked. I don't know why he's doing what he's doing, but he's Whitlock. I'd bet my life on it.'

Smith grinned, evilly. ‘You may yet find that you have, Leah. Whitlock was willing to take the chance when Graham made the same arrangement with him over the Lap-Laser tag. Shall we find a test for you to take, my dear?'

Leah felt the blood drain from her face. She, and not Smith, had okayed all five new members of the team. The computer had been specific: they were whom they claimed to be … but the computer could not read their minds. What if any of them – all of them – were agents of some intelligence power, as well as the criminals they were
clearly identified as being? It was a frightening thought, and she dismissed it.

‘You know you can rely on me, sir,' she whispered huskily. ‘I have never let you down, have I? Ever?'

Smith shook his head. ‘But those who serve me, Leah, can afford only one mistake,' he replied. ‘You might have made yours. We shall see. We shall see.'

He stepped down from the little platform on to the floor of the restaurant, walking casually from Leah to Sabrina, Sabrina to Graham, Graham to Leah – to Sabrina.

‘You were – how shall I put it? – friendly with C.W., were you not, Sabrina? Perhaps a little – too “friendly”. Would you think too friendly, my sweet?' He touched her face gently, caressing her with the thong of the riding crop, trailing the leather loop down her cheek, across her mouth, up her other cheek, then tracing the straight line of her nose, and coming to rest in the dimple of her chin.

It was a disturbing experience. Sabrina was mesmerized, like a rabbit trapped in the coruscating jewels of a snake's eyes. She breathed, ‘Please don't touch me like that. I have done nothing to betray you. You have my word.'

Smith drew the whip away. The girl's lips parted, and the relief oozed uncertainly from her mouth.

‘Mister Smith,' Graham put in. Smith turned to him. ‘I thought the same thing,' Mike explained,
‘about Sabrina and C.W. After you said close contacts could be unwise. I've been following her like a shadow ever since, just watching. She's clean. Tough luck, but she is.'

Smith turned away from Sabrina, and paced the floor again. ‘Maybe … maybe …' he muttered. Then he spun on his heel and brought the riding whip cracking down on a glass table top. Leah jumped; Sabrina started involuntarily. Even Graham blinked.

‘Find them!' Smith shouted. ‘We've got to find them!'

Poupon turned in triumph to Philpott, ‘Alors,' he pointed to the phone, ‘it was too easy, mon ami. They'll make the first payment in five minutes from now. They're calling Smith this very moment.'

Philpott poked his head out of the van. ‘Did you hear that, Sonya?' he asked.

‘Got it,' she said.

‘Send it off to C.W.,' Philpott ordered. ‘And tell him to welcome Graham to the organization.'

‘Check,' Sonya replied. She worked the telegraph key, and the reflector sent out a series of winking flashes.

Poupon sat back in his chair, and lit up a foul-smelling pipe which had been banned from the conference room; Philpott, though, was more tolerant. ‘One feels,' Poupon puffed, matches flying like kindling chips, ‘one feels we are entering the
final phase. Yet we have no idea in the world how Smith can possibly get off that tower without us locating him.'

Philpott nodded moodily. He crossed the van to a table in the corner, where the City Engineer's superintendent was still poring over his maps of dark and submerged places known only to a few specialist moles with circles under their eyes, whose company decent citizens normally shunned.

‘Are you absolutely certain,' Philpott asked for at least the tenth time, ‘that there aren't any underground connections – passages, that sort of thing – from the tower to the subways, the metro, the sewers … anywhere?'

‘I have told you, sir,' the superintendent answered, containing his patience masterfully, ‘there are none – at least, none that are marked on the maps.

‘The bases of the tower's four feet are self-contained. You see – here, there, there, and here. Yes, there is an electrical inspection chamber. We know they got into that, because we saw them unloading cable and take it in. But apart from that, there are no tunnels, open sewers, metro connections, no catacombs, priest-holes, potholes, lost Egyptian tombs … beneath the tower there is nothing but what should be there: power lines, water-mains, pneumatics and hydraulics. All of them, naturellement, are “live”.'

‘Maintenance crawlways, then,' Philpott persisted, hopefully.

The superintendent shook his delicately greying head. ‘Non, monsieur. Rien.'

Philpott sighed his exasperation. Poupon suggested, ‘We know they have a helicopter, but of course they can't use it. The Air Force would blast it out of the skies.'

‘They would,' Philpott agreed. ‘Once the lasers were off, anything that came near the tower would be scrap within minutes.' He gnawed his lip, and said to Sonya, ‘I believe we're still missing something obvious. Read me back C.W.'s first message, would you, please?' he directed. ‘The bit about the techniques they practised in training. I'm sure there was something there I overlooked.'

Sonya started the transcription – but Philpott interrupted her with an urgent snap of his fingers. ‘Poupon!' he exclaimed. ‘Maybe you have it. The helicopter! If the helicopter is to be involved at all, the pilot will know precisely where and when he's supposed to pick up Smith.'

He grew more excited. ‘Look – it's about time we broke up Smith's cosy little nest in the Loire Valley. Get the police in there – the Army, too. Don't smash up the place – not that you'd be allowed to. But find me that pilot, Poupon, and wring him dry. I want him singing like a bird by midnight.'

Poupon inclined his head. ‘Consider it done, Monsieur.'

Pei was on telephone duty in the restaurant again, and picked up the receiver when the bell chimed.
He answered the call, and listened in silence. ‘A moment, please,' he requested, ‘I shall contact Mister Smith.'

He cradled the phone lengthways, and ran to the gallery. Smith was approaching with a search party, empty-handed. ‘The first payment, sir,' Pei chattered, ‘it's ready; it's on the way. Fifteen million dollars. They've called – they're still on now – to confirm our readiness to receive it.'

‘Ahhhh,' Smith beamed. ‘Max,' he ordered a senior crewman, ‘train a searchlight on the front entrance. Pick up whoever's approaching the perimeter. Make sure there are no tricks. Then send two men down to get the money. Gentlemen, the bastards are crumbling. With any luck, we may be able to forget about Mrs Wheeler.'

Where the Pont d'Iéna bisects the Quai Branly on the river side of the tower, a heavily armoured military truck pulled into the area of No-man's-land. Headlights blazing, the truck crossed to the Quai Branly perimeter, and a section of the barricade peeled away. Eight French paras got out of the back to join their young officer, who had travelled in the passenger seat.

Where the barricade had lain, one of the paras sketched a precise line in luminous paint. The officer chirped an order. The paras returned to the truck, and hauled out four aluminium suitcases. The lieutenant directed that they be placed in a group three feet short of the glowing boundary.

The powerful searchlight from the tower illuminated the pantomime, and also picked up two dark, hooded figures leaving the sanctuary of the tower base. They walked beneath the four great arches of its legs towards the perimeter. Each of the eight paras stood tensed and ready, weapons at the port, fingers on trigger-guards. They were the tough men, the hard ones, the élite of the French Army; ruthless, dare-devil fighters who had taken on the best in the world, and (sometimes) won.

Two men from the tower, their metal tags winking in the headlamp beam, stopped short. One whispered into a communicator. Smith, on the tower, brought his binoculars to a sharper focus, and rapped an order into his walkie-talkie.

One of the two detached himself and advanced to within a couple of feet of the painted line. He pointed at the suitcases and said, ‘Mister Smith wants them touching the line.'

‘Whereas my orders,' the young officer replied, ‘are that they should stay where they are. If you want them, you will have to come and get them.'

The commando blinked behind his mask, and measured the distance from the line to the cases. With eight trigger-happy paras there, whoever crossed the line to retrieve the cases was dead. He retreated to join his companion, and once more made contact with Smith.