“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.
“Is it the jeep, Raymond?” Bellus asked.
“Yes, it’s just beyond the crash. South.”
Bellus looked up at the situation map on the wall, and visualized where the Airbus had gone down, and therefore where Flammarion was telling him the jeep was headed.
“He’s headed toward the highway. The N7. Can you see that far?”
“No. He’s gone. The fire and smoke. He’s on the other side now.”
“All right, Raymond, thank you very much, you have done a fine job. Go back to your duties now,” Bellus said, and before Flammarion could reply he broke the connection.
“Three-minutes,” Marie-Lure said.
“Go out and hold it, I’ll be right there,” Bellus said, and he punched up an outside line and dialed the confidential emergency number he and all French security people were supplied with for the American embassy in Paris. He had such a number for every embassy. The number was answered on the first ring. “Seven-eight-one-one.”
“This is Orly Airport Police Lieutenant Jacques Bellus. Swissair flight one-four-five has crashed. I believe two or more of your people may have been aboard.”
“One moment please,” the woman said.
Two seconds later a man was on the line. “Lieutenant, my name is Tom Lynch. I’m a special assistant to the ambassador. What’s this about Swissair one-four-five?”
“It has crashed, monsieur. Did you have people aboard? Messieurs Cladstrup and Roningen, along with a third, unidentified gentleman?”
“Yes,” Lynch said heavily. “What has happened?”
“Apparently someone shot that airplane out of the sky on takeoff.”
“Shot…? What the hell are you talking about?”
“With a missile.”
“I’m on my way out.”
“Yes, monsieur, your presence will be most helpful. There will be some questions, among them the name of another man who may have been aboard that airplane.”
“We’ll discuss that third man later…”
“No, monsieur, this is a fourth man. Kirk McGarvey.”
Lynch said nothing.
“Is this name familiar to you?”
“Yes,” Lynch said. “I’m on my way.” The connection was broken.
As McGarvey raced back toward the airport, dodging traffic the wrong way on the divided highway, he tried to work out how the terrorist or terrorists had gotten through Orly’s tight security, and then how the shooter expected to get away.
Another part of him forcefully held off any thought about Marta and the other people aboard the downed airliner, except for the CIA officers aboard. He didn’t believe it was a coincidence. The shooter wanted those officers dead. Why?
The N7 throughroute ran south directly to the airport, with on-off ramps leading up to the terminal, before it plunged under the airport itself for 1400 yards, coming out on the opposite side of the east-west runways.
Traffic had come mostly to a standstill by now, but several accidents had occurred and he had to drive around the wrecks. In one case a large articulated truck had jackknifed across the highway apparently in an effort to avoid slamming into the rear end of a car that had stopped short. The truck had tipped over and blocked almost the entire width of the highway. No police were on the scene yet, but as McGarvey passed, the driver was crawling out of the cab. He looked unhurt.
The shooter had been positioned somewhere near the end of the active runway, which meant he’d been in plain sight of anyone in the tower.
But apparently no alarm had been raised, which meant the shooter must have been disguised to look as if he belonged there. Airport security, most likely. Or as a runway inspector, or a maintenance person working on one of the approach systems.
Afterward he would have simply driven off. Possible to a rendezvous point where he would transfer to another vehicle for his escape.
Check that, McGarvey thought.
If he had been in plain view of the tower before the shot, then he would have remained in plain view afterward. Only then he’d be known for what he was.
In addition, any movement at that end of the field away from the downed airliner would come under immediate suspicion.
Approaching the terminal ramp leading off the N7, McGarvey turned that last thought over. Something was there. Something he was missing.
He visualized what the situation had to be like across the field. The shooter brought the Airbus down. Then he got into his vehicle and went… where?
Toward the crash, of course. Where he would merge with other rescue units.
Or, if he had put the burning wreckage between himself and the tower, he would have disappeared for all practical purposes.
Long enough for… what?
To drive down to the N7, and come back this way, beneath the airport, back to Paris where he could easily meld into the background.
The logic was thin, McGarvey had to admit to himself, passing the terminal ramp.
The highway dipped into the tunnel, no traffic whatsoever now. All of it must have been stopped on the other side of the crash site. But if the shooter had done anything else, if he had gone in the opposite direction, there’d be nothing McGarvey could do.
An Orly Security Police jeep with blue and white markings came directly toward him at a high rate of speed, its lights flashing, its siren blaring.
McGarvey had to swerve sharply to avoid a head-on collision, and as the jeep passed he got the distinct impression that the lone man behind the wheel wasn’t dressed as a cop. He’d been dressed in white coveralls.
Definitely not a police uniform.
McGarvey slammed on the brakes, hauled the Citroen taxi around in a tight U-turn and accelerated after the jeep.
Chapter 9
“It’s gone now,” Marie-Lure said as their Dassault helicopter broke through the thick cloud of greasy black smoke.
“Did it go into the tunnel?” Bellus demanded, angrily. They had spotted what they took to be the jeep heading down onto the N7, and Olivier Rambaud had cut through the dense smoke on the security chief’s orders. He’d expected the terrorist to head south-away from the airport.
“It must have,” Marie-Lure answered. She was studying the southbound lanes of the N7. “There’s no sign of it now.”