Jake Grafton was sitting on the catwalk at the top of the ladder. I climbed up to join him. My head was thumping like a toothache and I was perspiring freely, so I held on to the rungs for dear life as I climbed.
“We’ve done everything that can be done,” Grafton said when I was seated beside him, clinging to the rail with a death grip. “The French have searched this building from end to end, including both north and south wings. They’ve swept it for electronic devices of any sort and swept it with magnetic detectors looking for suspicious metal in the walls, and they’ve got people stationed everywhere. Antiaircraft missile launchers are on the grounds around the building, concrete barriers have been erected at every entrance to force vehicles to slow to a creep to get through, and tanks are stationed where they can take any vehicle out at can’t-miss range. Oh, and troops are out in town patrolling to minimize the chance that someone could shoot a shoulder-launched missile at the chateau.”
“Food and drink have been inspected,” I suggested.
“Yep. And no one is in the building except authorized staff, news-people, security folks, and the political delegations from all over. Absolutely no tourists.”
“Sounds like you have it covered.”
“I’m just praying there was only the one bomb.”
He departed for the security command center, which was a trailer outfitted with three different global communications systems that sat by the door in the courtyard, right outside the main entrance. It had been obscured by the news trucks, so I hadn’t noticed it. Grafton assured me it was there, and I believed him.
It did figure that there was only the one banger. Two doubled the chances that one would be found; then the building would be searched like a Columbian nanny. But since I saw it that way, maybe there were indeed two. Or three.
The problem was that I was a little dizzy. I climbed down from the catwalk gingerly, making sure my feet were properly placed on the rungs. The irony of the moment made me want to cry. I’m a rock climber, for Christ’s sake, a cat burglar. I can free-climb a brick wall, and here I was, holding on to a ladder like a kid climbing an apple tree for the very first time.
Safely on the floor, I propped my head on the pillow and lay down on the blanket I had slept under the previous night. Closed my eyes and tried to ignore the pounding in my head. Tried to shut out the noise that seeped through the walls from all sides. Tried to sleep, but it didn’t happen. The person on my mind was Abu Qasim.
Grafton found Willie Varner in the basement kitchen watching the ceremonies on television. He was alone. “Carmellini still upstairs in the hallway?”
“He hasn’t come down.”
“The door is locked, right?”
“Yep. I checked a little while ago.”
“Don’t let anyone through that door to the servants’ hall. Anyone.”
“Got one of those radios for me?” Grafton was wearing a radio earpiece in his left ear and a lapel mike. The wires ran to a radio transceiver hooked to his belt.
“No. I got the last one they had.” He pulled out a cell phone, made sure it had a signal, and passed it to Willie. “This is Callie’s. Call me if anyone wants to go up. Just open the phone, push the green button, then the number 1.”
“Okay, boss.” Willie put the cell phone on the table.
“I don’t have a weapon for you, either. Think you can do this?”
Willie opened several drawers, searching. Finally he pulled out a large knife. “Yeah,” he said.
“Good man,” Jake said. He patted Willie on the shoulder, and went up the staircase that would take him to the main hall.
Willie Varner pushed the knife up his left sleeve. He opened the refrigerator, which held nothing of interest, then filled a glass of water from the tap. He eyed the television as he sipped it.
The helicopter settled onto the pavement in the vast square in front of the chateau, but no one got out. The rotors slowed and eventually stopped.
Jake Grafton was standing near the command center, adjusting his radio earpiece, when Pink Maillard’s voice sounded in his ear. “He wants to see us, in the bird.”
Jake clicked the transmitter button on his belt transceiver twice and began walking toward the helicopter. Maillard caught up with him and matched him stride for stride.
They walked past the media trucks, the paras and the waiting diplomats. A crewman wearing a helmet was standing beside the open door as they approached the helicopter. They climbed aboard and found the president of the United States and the U.S. ambassador to France, Owen Lancaster, seated side by side. The president pointed to the facing seats; Grafton and Maillard sat down.
“You found a bomb.”
“Yes, sir.” Jake described the cylinders and igniters and explained how they would work.
“So who has the radio control unit that would have set these things off?”
“Someone who is already here,” Pink Maillard said tightly. “The French have sealed this place off. No one gets in without a pass.”
“But our bomber probably already has a pass,” the president said.
“That’s right.”
“And it could be anyone,” the president mused. “Any politician, staffer, cook, policeman, soldier, reporter, cameraman …”
“Anybody,” Jake agreed.
“Have the terrorists got a Plan B?”
No one answered that question.
When the silence had gone on too long, Owen Lancaster said, “The French have given me assurances. They know the risks as well as we do.”
“Right.”
“Anybody,” Grafton repeated.
“Sweet Jesus,” the president muttered. He rose from his seat and climbed out the door of the helicopter.
Pink motioned to one of the Secret Service men who was getting off to follow the president. “Give me your pistol.”
The man produced it and passed it to Pink, who handed it to Jake Grafton.
Outside, the president walked toward the row of television cameras and waiting dignitaries.
The British prime minister was the last to arrive. He made his way into a foyer where he was greeted by the president of France. The two of them walked shoulder to shoulder toward the Hall of
Mirrors as the other G-8 leaders came in from the north wing of the building.
Grafton was already in the hall with his shoulders pressed against the back wall. He was amazed at the crush of newspeople, cameramen and bodyguards. The room filled quickly as the heads of government shook hands and seated themselves around the large conference table in the middle of the room.
Grafton watched the crowd and listened to the radio chatter among the security men. He didn’t have a good vantage point — he had three men with large videocams on their shoulders directly in front of him — and there was no way he could easily and unobtrusively move to a better one. That’s when he glimpsed a face he thought he knew on the other side of the room. Then it disappeared.
Henri Rodet pushed the button on the transmitter in his jacket pocket repeatedly. He glanced up, waiting… and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Well, the gas might be colorless.
He counted silently to ten, took a deep breath, and pushed the button on the other transmitter.
Nothing.
Mon Dieu! Perhaps he had accidentally switched transmitters. If so, the gas was coming out now. He kept counting… seven, eight, nine, ten! And pushed the button on the first unit again.
Nothing.
Had they found the bomb and disabled it? Or were the batteries dead?
“Jake, this is Pink. The French just got several hits on their radio receiver. Someone is transmitting on the bomb activation frequency. They didn’t get a location.”
“Pink, Grafton. I thought I just saw Rodet.”
“He’s in the hospital.”
