night-cruising at about five thousand feet.
"Close the gap," he told the pilot through his headset.
"You see it?" Daniels asked.
He felt power seep from the rotors as the helicopter knifed its way forward.
The plane's metal sheeting sparkled in the sunshine.
"Stay behind him, out of his vision field," Malone told the pilot.
He spied red identification numbers on the tail that matched the ones from last night.
"That plane's ID is the same as the one in Heathrow," he said into the headset.
"You think Lyon is in the plane?" Daniels asked.
"I'd be surprised," Malone answered. "He's more the conductor than a member of the orchestra."
"It's turning," the pilot said.
He stared out the window and saw the Skyhawk bank east.
"Where are we?" he asked the pilot.
"North of Paris, maybe four miles. With that vector the plane has turned away from the city center, which will take us beyond the town proper."
He was trying to make sense of all that he knew. Scattered pieces. Random, yet connected.
"It's turning again," the pilot said. "Now on a westerly course. That's completely away from Paris, toward Versailles."
He wrenched the earphones off. "Did he spot us?"
"Not likely," the pilot said. "His maneuver was casual."
"Can we approach from above?"
The pilot nodded. "As long as he doesn't decide to climb."
"Do it."
The rudder control angled forward and the chopper's airspeed increased. The gap to the Skyhawk began to close.
The copilot motioned to the headset. "That same bloke again on the radio."
He snapped the headphones back on. "What is it?"
"The French want to take that plane down," Daniels said. "What do I tell them?"
He felt Stephanie's grip on his right arm. She was motioning forward, out the windshield. He turned just as the cabin door on the Skyhawk's left side sprang fully open.
"What the-"
The pilot jumped from the plane.
ASHBY WAS THE LAST TO CLIMB ABOARD THE ELEVATOR. THE eight members of the Paris Club filled three glass-walled cars that rose from the second platform another 175 meters to the Eiffel Tower's summit. The giddy ascent, within the open ironwork, was a bit harrowing.
A bright sun set the world below glittering. He spied the Seine and thought its name apt-it meant "winding," and that was exactly what the river did through central Paris with three sharp curves. Usually car-jammed avenues that paralleled and crisscrossed the waterway were short on traffic for Christmas. In the distance rose the hulk of Notre Dame, engulfed by more church domes, zinc roofs, and a forest of chimney thickets. He caught a quick glimpse of La Defense and its avenues of high-rise towers. He also noticed lights affixed to the Eiffel Tower's girders-the source, he surmised, of the electric shimmy that illuminated the thing each night.
He checked his watch.
11:43 AM.
Not long now.
MALONE WATCHED AS A PARACHUTE SPRANG OPEN AND THE canopy caught air. The Skyhawk continued its westerly course, holding altitude and speed. Below was a vast expanse of field, forest, villages, and roads that dotted the rural landscape outside Paris.
He pointed to the plane and told the pilot, "Head in for a closer look."
The chopper eased forward and approached the Skyhawk. Malone shifted his position to the port side of the helicopter and stared out at the single-engine plane.
"No one inside," he said into the microphone.
He didn't like any of this. He turned to the corpsman. "Do you have binoculars?"
The young man quickly produced a pair. Malone focused across the bright sky at the Skyhawk.
"Ease forward some," he told the pilot.
Their parallel course changed, the chopper now slightly ahead of the plane. Through the binoculars he zeroed his gaze past the tinted windshield into the cockpit. The two seats were empty, yet the steering column moved in calculated jerks. Something lay on the copilot's seat, but a glare made it difficult to make out. Beyond, the aft seat was packed with packages wrapped in newspaper.
He lowered the binoculars.
"That plane's carrying something," he said. "I can't tell what, but there's an awful lot of it."
The Skyhawk's wings dipped and the plane banked south. The turn was controlled, as if someone was flying.
"Cotton," Daniels said in his ear. "What's your assessment?"
He wasn't sure. They were being led-no question-and he'd thought this plane to be the end. But-
"This is not our problem," he said into the microphone.
"Do you agree, Stephanie?" Daniels asked.
"I do."
Good to see that she still trusted his judgment, since her expression contradicted her words.
"Then where's our problem?" the president asked.
He played a hunch. "Have French air traffic control scan the area. We need to know about every plane in