told you, in a bar last night there was a strong rumour..
`You shouldn't have been in a bar last night,' Jubal rapped. `You should have been in bed like I was, getting my kip… `With Jacqueline'
As the pale early morning light spread over the plain in which Charles de Gaulle Airport stands, Concorde was emerging in stronger silhouette, looking more than ever like a rapacious bird crouched for take-off. In three hours she would be on her way, climbing towards the stratosphere, taking the president of the French Republic on his historic flight to Soviet Russia.
Just before 9.30 am on 23 December the city of Paris was like a frozen tableau where shortly the curtain would rise on great events. Every intersection leading on to the route the presidential motorcade would follow had been closed on Grelle's orders. At every intersection truckloads of CRS troops waited with the engines running. Behind every intersection 'dragon's teeth' of steel chain had been thrown across the incoming roads, blocking off any vehicle which might try to rush the presidential convoy.
Crowds lined the route, kept well back from the road by a maze of crash barriers erected by gendarmes in the middle of the night with the aid of arc-lights mounted on trucks. The crowds were strangely silent, as though expecting something dramatic and tragic to happen. Some of them had tuned in transistor radios to Europe Number One; Col Lasalle was expected to make yet another broadcast shortly. Occasionally, as they waited on that crisp, clear December morning-only two days away from Christmas-they looked behind to the rooftops where police patrolled the skyline like prison camp guards.
At other times the crowd stared above into the sky, which was also guarded. Over the route a fleet of helicopters flew backwards and forwards at a height of one hundred feet, their engines thumping, disappearing out of earshot and then returning again. And all these elements in the vast cordon-on the ground, on the rooftops, in the air itself-were linked by radio to central control at the prefecture on the Ile de la Cite. Boisseau was the man in direct control of the huge operation, waiting in the office Grelle had loaned him for the first radio report to come in.
`He has just left Elysee…'
Blanc was sitting in his car inside the Elysee courtyard, one of a whole convoy drawn up to follow the president once he had left, his wife Angele by his side, when he saw a car drive half-way into the palace entrance before it was stopped. He stiffened. Gen Lamartine was getting out. Some bloody fool of a security officer had permitted the general to browbeat his way through the cordon. Blanc looked through the rear window at the steps and saw that Florian had just come out, was pausing as he saw Lamartine arguing with the security chief. `I'll only be a minute,' Blanc said to his wife and slipped out of the car. In the vehicle ahead Roger Danchin was twisted round in his seat, wondering if it was something which concerned him.
Lamartine had left the security man, was hurrying across the yard to the steps while everyone stared. Florian descended into the yard, was met by Lamartine as he started to walk to his car. The general was talking animatedly while Florian walked slowly, listening. Lamartine's face froze as he saw Blanc coming towards him.
He's told him, the minister thought, told him everything- to cover himself, the shit.
`What's all this about, Alain?'
Florian was half inside his car and spoke over his shoulder, then he settled in the seat and left the door open, looking up at Blanc who bent down to speak. One minute-two at the most -would decide it. 'We had a little problem last night,' the minister said crisply. 'They wouldn't let me inside the palace, so I dealt with it myself.'
`You are planning a coup d'etat?'
There was a look of cynical amusement on the long, lean, intelligent face, an expression of supreme self- confidence. At that moment Blanc was more aware than he ever had been of the magnetic personality of this man who had wrongly been called the second de Gaulle. He leaned forward as Blanc remained silent, made as though to get out of the car, and the minister's pulse skipped a beat.
`You are planning a coup d' etat?' Florian repeated. `Mr President.'
That was all Blanc said. Florian relaxed, closed the door himself and told the driver to proceed. Blanc went back to his own car, not even glancing at Lamartine who stood like a statue, sure now that he had destroyed his career. 'All for nothing,' Blanc told his wife as he settled back in the car. `Lamartine is an old warhorse-I think we may soon have to put him out to grass…'
He was talking with only one part of his mind as the first car, full of CRS men, left the courtyard and turned into the Faubourg St Honore, followed by the presidential vehicle. So much confidence bottled up inside one man! Florian had decided it was too late for anyone to stop the wheels of history he had set in motion. Blanc, his closest friend, had issued instructions during the night which could be interpreted as high treason. No matter, he could deal with that when he returned from Moscow. Had a certain American president some years ago had the same feeling of invulnerability-even though his actions had been minor misdemeanours compared with those of Guy Florian?
The route the motorcade was taking to Charles de Gaulle Airport had been carefully worked out by Marc Grelle personally. It must pass through as few narrow streets as possible, to eliminate the danger of a hidden sniper firing from a building. Turning out of the Elysee to the left, it would follow the Faubourg St Honore for a short distance, turn left again down the Avenue Marigny and then enter Champs-Elysees. Once it reached this point it was broad boulevards all the way until it moved on to Autoroute A t and a clear run to the airport.
`He has just left Elysee…'
At central control Andre the Squirrel was able to see the motorcade's progress at various selected points where hidden television cameras watched the crowd for hostile movement. With the microphone Boisseau was now holding in his hand he could be 'patched' through to any radio-equipped sub- control centre along the route even warning them of something which caught his eye. On the television screen he watched the motorcade moving down Avenue Marigny; the CRS vehicle in front, the president's car next, followed by twenty- three black saloons containing cabinet ministers and their wives. The sun was shining brilliantly now-there had been a complete weather change late the previous day-but Boisseau, watching the long line of black cars passing, had the macabre feeling he was observing a funeral procession.
Boisseau was sweating it out. A professional to his fingertips, his only concern now was his immediate duty- to get the president safely to Roissy. The Leopard investigation had temporarily faded out of his mind; during the past few hours the prefect had not even mentioned the subject. His expression tense, Boisseau continued watching the television screen. He was waiting for the moment when the motorcade would turn on to the autoroute, which soon moved into open country, and here it would be quite impossible for an assassin to conceal himself.
`Just get to Porte Maillot,' Boisseau whispered. 'Then you are away…'
Suddenly he became aware that he was gripping the mike so tightly that his knuckles had whitened. Inside his car, Alain Blanc also realized he was clenching his fist tightly. Like Boisseau he understood that once the president reached the autoroute he would be safe. Blanc found himself peering out of the window, glancing up at the windows of tall apartment blocks, looking for something suspicious, something which shouldn't be there. How the hell was Grelle going to manage it? The motorcade seemed to crawl up the Champs-Elysees.
It seemed to crawl to Boisseau also as it reached the top of the great boulevard, rounded the Arc de Triomphe where Napoleon's victories seem to go on for ever, and then started down the Avenue de la Grande Armee which is also lined with tall apartment blocks on both sides. 'Get to Porte Maillot,' Boisseau whispered to himself again, glad that he was alone in the office. Everything which had happened in the past few weeks had emptied out of his mind: Boisseau was in charge of the president's security. The responsibility weighed on him heavily.
Alain Blanc was now beginning to give up hope that anything would happen. Grelle had obviously failed, which was hardly surprising. Perhaps his nerve had failed which would be even less surprising. Still looking up at the apartment block windows, Blanc took out a handkerchief and mopped his damp forehead. For a different reason he was under as great a strain as Boisseau. He frowned as he heard the thump of an approaching helicopter's engine, flying very low, then he pressed his cheek against the window trying to locate the low-flying machine. The crowd, still strangely silent, as though they too felt they were watching a funeral procession, craned their heads to stare at the helicopter which was flying straight up Champs-Elysees from behind the motorcade. Passing over the Arc de Triomphe, it headed down the Avenue de la Grande Armee, scattering pigeons from the rooftops with the raucous clatter of its engine. Then it passed over them and flew off into the distance. Blanc sagged back in his seat. 'Really, there was nothing we could have done…' Inadvertently he had spoken aloud and his wife glanced at him in surprise. Then the lead vehicle, followed by the president's, began turning. They had reached Porte Maillot.
At 10.25 am Captain Pierre Jubal sat with his co-pilot, Lefort, behind the controls of Concorde five minutes
