“Tell the Tornado to arm his missile,” he said. “And back that damn chopper farther off.”
“I’m not going to destroy that plane with you in it,” Stephanie said.
“Didn’t know you cared so much.”
“There are a lot of people below you.”
He smiled, knowing better. Then a thought occurred to him. If the electronics controlling the plane couldn’t be physically overcome, maybe they could be fooled into releasing their hold.
He reached for the engine cutoff and killed the prop.
The propeller spun to a standstill.
“What the hell happened?” Stephanie asked in his ear.
“I decided to cut blood to the brain.”
“You think the computers might disengage?”
“If they don’t, we have a serious problem.”
He gazed below at the brown-gray Seine. He was losing altitude. Without the engine powering the controls, the column was looser, but still tight. The altimeter registered 5,000 feet.
“This is going to be close.”
SAM RACED OFF THE ELEVATOR AT THE TOP OF THE TOWER. No one was inside the enclosed observation platform. He decided to slow down, be cautious. If he was wrong about Ashby, he’d have some impossible explaining to do. He was risking exposure. But something told him that the risk needed to be taken.
He scanned outside, past the windows, first east, then north, and finally south.
And saw a plane.
Closing fast.
Along with a military chopper.
To hell with caution.
He bolted up one of two metal stairways that led to the uppermost observation deck. A glass door at the top was closed and locked. He spied the bolt at the bottom. No way to release it without a key. He leaped down metal grates three at a time, ran across the room, and tried the other route up.
Same thing.
He banged a closed fist on the thick glass door.
Henrik was out there.
And there was nothing he could do.
ELIZA WATCHED AS THE PROP STOPPED TURNING AND THE PLANE lost altitude. The craft was less than a kilometer away and still closing on a direct path.
“The pilot is a maniac,” one of the club members said.
“That remains to be seen,” Thorvaldsen calmly said.
She was impressed by the Dane’s nerve. He seemed totally at ease, despite the seriousness of the situation.
“What’s happening here?” Robert Mastroianni asked her. “This is not what I joined to experience.”
Thorvaldsen turned to face the Italian. “Apparently, we’re meant to die.”
MALONE FOUGHT THE CONTROLS.
“Get that engine back online,” Stephanie said over the radio.
“I’m trying.”
He reached for the switch. The motor sputtered, but did not catch. He tried again and was rewarded with a backfire.
He was descending, the summit of the Eiffel Tower less than a mile away.
One more time and, with a bang, the engine roared to life, the spinning prop quickly generating airspeed. He did not give the electronics time to react, quickly ramming the throttle to full speed. He banked the wings, angled the plane into the wind, and flew past the tower, spotting people standing at the top, pointing his way.
FIFTY-SEVEN
SAM WATCHED AS A SMALL PLANE APPROACHED. HE FLED THE locked glass door and leaped down the stairs, then rushed across to the southern observation windows. The plane roared past, a helicopter in close pursuit.
Elevator doors opened and uniformed men rushed out.
One was the head of security he’d met earlier.
“The doors leading upstairs are locked,” he told them. “We need a key.”
THORVALDSEN FOCUSED ON THE COCKPIT OF THE CESSNA that skirted past, within a few hundred meters. Only an instant was needed for him to spot the face of the pilot.
Cotton Malone.
“I HAVE CONTROL,” MALONE SAID.
His altitude was climbing. He decided to level off at 3,000 feet.
“That was close,” he said.
“An understatement,” Stephanie said. “Is it responding?”
“I need an airport.”
“We’re looking.”
He didn’t want to risk landing at Orly or Charles de Gaulle. “Find a smaller field somewhere. What’s ahead of me?”
“Once past the city, which is only a few more miles, I’m told there’s a wood and a marsh. There’s a field at Creteil, another at Lagney, and one at Tournan.”
“How far to open pastureland?”
“Twenty miles.”
He checked his fuel. The gauge showed fifty liters, the tanks nearly full. Apparently, whoever planned this wanted a load of gasoline to aid the C-83.
“Find me a runway,” he told Stephanie. “We need this plane on the ground.”
“There’s a private strip thirty miles ahead at Evry. Isolated, nothing there. We’re alerting them to clear the area. How’s the plane?”
“Like a woman tamed.”
“You wish.”
The prop suddenly sputtered.
He focused out the windshield, beyond the engine cowling, and watched as the propeller wound to a stop.
The engine, on its own, refired and started again.
The control column wrenched from his grip as the plane banked hard right. The engine roared to nearly full throttle and flaps deployed. Something, or somebody, was trying to regain control.
“What’s happening?” Stephanie asked.
“I assume this thing didn’t like my derogatory remark. It has a mind of its own.”
He twisted in the seat as the cockpit leveled, then the plane hooked left. Perhaps its electronics were confused, the transceiver searching for the signal it had previously been following to the Eiffel Tower.
The Skyhawk sought altitude and started a climb, but just as quickly stopped. The airframe bucked like a horse. The yoke vibrated hard. Rudder pedals pounded in and out.
“This isn’t going to work. Tell that fighter to stand ready to fire. I’m going to take this thing as high as I can then bail out. Tell him to give me a little clearance, then let loose.”
