“Putain,” the cabbie swore, and he suddenly jammed on the brakes and hauled the taxi over to the side of the highway.
McGarvey, seated in the back, had been thinking about the last time he and Marta had parted. That had been Lausanne, several years ago. She’d been sitting in their kitchen, and on his way out with his suitcase, he looked back in at her. A pistol lay on the table, but she made no move to reach for it.
He wondered what he would have done had she picked it up and pointed it at him. He supposed he would have done exactly as he had done.
He was shoved violently forward. At first he thought they’d hit something. The driver was looking back the way they had come even before he’d brought the taxi to a complete halt.
“Qu-est qu’il-y-a?” McGarvey shouted, irritated, but then he turned and looked in the same direction as the driver, and his gut instantly tightened.
An airliner was down. A huge ball of fire and smoke billowed up into the clear sky to the southwest. He’d heard no noise, partly because of the distance, partly because of the traffic noises, and partly because the cabbie had been playing the radio very loud.
Traffic on the N7 was coming to a standstill as McGarvey jumped out of the cab. It was definitely a downed airliner, and he knew in his heart of hearts that it was the Swissair flight he’d just put Marta on.
The cabbie got out of the taxi and crossed himself. “They are all dead,” he muttered half under his breath.
A big puff of black, oily smoke was slowly dissipating in the air not too far to the east, about where McGarvey figured the main east-west runway ended. Below that, and a little farther east, the faint traces of what appeared to be a small jet contrail also hung in the air.
The trail was distorting on the very slight breeze, but it was still identifiable.
McGarvey stared at it for a full second or more, willing himself not to come to the conclusion that had formed almost instantly in his mind. But it was inevitable.
The Swissair flight was down because someone standing near the end of the runway had shot it down with a handheld ground-to-air missile.
Either a Russian-made SA-7 Strela, or the American Stinger. Both were readily available on the market for a couple of thousand dollars each. And either would be effective in bringing down a jetliner.
In the next minutes all efforts would be concentrated on the crash site in a desperate effort to rescue anyone who might have survived the crash. Allowing the man or men who had fired the missile a chance to escape in the confusion.
Not if he could help it.
McGarvey shoved the cabbie aside, jumped behind the wheel and took off, back toward the airport, the wrong way down the highway.
Chapter 8
Lieutenant Bellus finally made some sense of what Flammarion was screaming, and his blood went cold.
“It’s crashed! It’s down! Oh, God, there’s fire everywhere! It’s horrible!”
“Scramble the crash units,” Bellus shouted.
“They’re on their way! But I tell you no one can survive down there. Don’t you see, the wing was off. It was gone, in pieces. They didn’t have a chance.”
“Calm yourself, Raymond, and tell me what happened,” Bellus shouted.
Marie-Lure was taking a call, and her console was lit up like a Christmas tree, but she was staring at the shift supervisor.
“Oh, it’s horrible! Horrible!”
“What happened to that airplane?” Bellus demanded. “Raymond, pull yourself together.
Other lives may depend on this. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I see,” Flammarion responded, calming down a little. “The fire units are halfway across the field. We’re diverting all traffic to De Gaulle and Le Bourget.”
“Very good. Now, exactly what happened?”
“It was a rocket, I think.”
“What do you mean, a rocket? Was it a warplane? What?”
“No, from that Air Service van. I saw it with my own eyes, Jacques. He held it on his shoulder, and fired it when one-four-five took off. Just after she lifted off.”
“The Swissair flight?”
“Yes, yes. I thought it would be all right… but then there was a flash and the wing started to come off. They didn’t have so much as a chance, Jacques.”
Bellus held a hand over the telephone mouthpiece. “Is there any word from Capretz or Gallimard?” he asked Marie-Lure.
“Nothing yet.”
“What about Dubout? He should be out there by now.”
“He doesn’t answer his radio.”
“Who else is on the apron?”
“Peguy, Bourgois and Queneau.”
“Tell them I want that Air Service maintenance man picked up. But tell them to be careful, he’ll be dangerous.”
“Sir?”
“He shot down the Airbus, and it’s got something to do with the Americans.”
“My God.”
Bellus turned back to the phone. Flammarion was babbling something. He had gone to pieces again.
“Listen to me, Raymond,” Bellus said. “Listen. Can you still see that Air Service van out there?”
“What… the van? Yes, it’s still there. I’m looking at it now. But your jeep is gone.”
“Jeep? What jeep?”
“Your office asked permission for it to cross one-eight.”
It was Dubout. “You say the van is still there. Do you see anybody there? Anybody nearby?”
“No, there’s nobody.”
“Do you see any bodies, Raymond. Any bodies in the vicinity of the van?”
“No.”
“Anything lying on the ground?”
“Nothing.”
“All right, Raymond. Now look around out there. Is there anything moving? Any sign of that jeep?”
“Are you crazy? Of course there’s movement. Jeeps, ambulances, fire trucks.”
“All going toward the crash. But look now, Raymond. Is there anybody leaving the scene? Is there anybody going in the opposite direction?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look,” Bellus shouted. “This is important if we want to catch the bastard who did this.”
“There are people dying out there. Burning to death.”
“That’s right. Now, can you see any movement away from the airport? That jeep?”
“Wait.”
“Hurry, Raymond. There may not be much time,” Bellus said, and he held his hand over the telephone’s mouthpiece again.
Marie-Lure looked over. “They’re on their way.”
“Bon. Get my helicopter here on the double. Have Olivier pick me up just outside.
Then get your weapon, you’re coming with me. Marc can take over here.”
“There it is,” Flammarion shouted excitedly.
