“Hmmm.”
“Part of this is just like the Eiffel Tower with the modular thing,” added Blondie. “Where they had a routine to add the explosions together. But look, it’s like weird, because there are these waves being focused and stuff? I don’t get it.”
Another equation with waves, but this clearly wasn’t designed to calculate or demonstrate the effects of a tsunami. It looked more like a three-dimensional compression of some sort.
Numbers were strewn across the screen. Johnny Bib’s brain pulled them into a coherent shape — focused wave formulas.
What would you want to compress with an explosion?
“Those variables are a multiple of the values from the explosives that are used in the Eiffel Tower simulation?” asked Johnny, pointing at the screen.
“I think yes,” answered Blondie.
“They wouldn’t yield that large an explosion.”
“No way. I mean, I’d have to work through the math, but I would just about—”
“Bring the team here quickly,” said Johnny Bib, jumping up. “Bring everyone — everyone. And someone from the history department. Two people from history! Someone from special weapons — whoever worked on the French warhead that’s missing from Algeria. Hurry!”
86
Karr tried to push upward while the terrorists were still distracted by the helicopters. But his arms wouldn’t move.
The second helicopter roared toward the tower from behind him. Karr closed his eyes, sensing that he was being targeted this time. Flares shot into the air, and then gunfire. The world shook violently.
The helicopter wasn’t firing at him but at the stairway above, where the missile-wielding terrorists were. Another missile shot away from the tower and the chopper wheeled away.
A dozen smells began to choke him. The helicopter buzzed back.
A body toppled past, rebounding in the grid work until it wedged against a pair of V-shaped cross members.
More gunfire.
Another terrorist slid down the steps until Karr couldn’t see him anymore, something clattering with him.
A gun?
Karr had no idea, but he decided it was a gun and that he was going to get it.
“Rockman, if you can tell the helicopter not to shoot me, I’d appreciate it,” he said, starting to claw his way back around the mesh to the stairwell.
“Tommy, get out of there!”
A rocket-propelled grenade whipped from the cluster of terrorists working with the explosions and vests. It exploded right beneath the helicopter’s chin, and the aircraft seemed to rear up and then nose down, plunging to the earth after rebounding against the side of the tower.
Karr closed his eyes and snaked his way through the metal, diving back toward the steps in a tumble. As he was stunned, it took a moment before he could start crawling upward.
As he turned the corner onto the fourth set of steps, a large pole shot through the grid work a few feet from his head. He ducked belatedly, then turned to see where the pole had gone. It was only when he saw the object explode in the sky a hundred yards away that he realized it was a missile, launched by another helicopter.
“Tell the helicopter not to do the job for them!” Karr yelled to the Art Room.
“Tommy, get out of there. Get down!” said Telach.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m working on that.”
Two eyes stared down at him as he turned the next corner: the dead terrorist lay across the stairwell, head and body at different angles.
His body lay atop something. A gun.
Karr crawled to the man as fast as he could. The only thing he thought of, the only thing he saw, was the gun.
Except it wasn’t a gun. It was an empty launching tube for a rocket-propelled grenade. He pounded the dead man’s body in his rage, pounded and pounded, felt something hard against his fist.
He clawed at the man, pulling away his clothes.
A pistol.
He grabbed it, made sure it was ready to fire, and turned in the direction of the white coveralls a few feet away.
87
Lia pulled a bag of chips from the rack at the refreshment counter, then realized she had only a twenty-euro bill. The attendant sighed but dug into the register dutifully. Lia took the money and walked toward the end of the car opposite the one she’d come in through, as if she were an absent-minded passenger who’d lost her bearings. She’d already been through the train once without finding their quarry, but there was little to do now until they reached England, which wouldn’t be for more than an hour; they were still a good ten or fifteen minutes or so from the entrance to the Chunnel.
Most likely, the suspect had found some other entrance at the Eurostar terminal to sneak out of. Dean had blown it when he decided to come on the train.
About time he messed
She was angry at him for no good reason, just to be angry.
And she loved him.
Lia forced herself to concentrate on the job, scanning the faces in the seats as she walked through the cars. She continued through to the end, attracting a few odd stares as she pretended to hunt for her seat. As she turned around, she overheard one of the male passengers whispering to his companion something about a nice piece of meat.
She spun and unleashed a flood of French curse words at him. The man turned white and managed a meek apology as she spun away.
“What was that about?” asked Sandy Chafetz, popping onto the communications line. She’d just taken over for Rockman.
“Called me a sweet meal,” said Lia.
“You sure he meant you, not his lunch?”
“Does it matter?” snapped Lia, passing between cars.
Dean shifted in the seat, staring at the door at the end of the coach. If the suspect — now tentatively ID’d as a Mr. McCormack, birth location and place unknown — had gotten onto the train, he must have disguised himself somehow. The easiest way to do that was by changing clothes, but he must have done more or Dean would have found him by now.
“Charlie, this is Sandy Chafetz. I’ve come in to help out. I’m going to run your end of the mission. There’s a lot going on in Paris right now.”
Dean turned toward the window, cupping his hand over his face so the fact that he was talking to himself wouldn’t be so conspicuous. “Like what?”
“‘The Eiffel Tower is being attacked. And the President is still at de Gaulle.”
