The Paris Vendetta Page 0,96

the wind but found that its hinges stopped at ninety degrees, which left not nearly enough space for him to slip inside.

Only one way left.

He released his grip on the strut, grabbed the door with both hands, and swung his body inward toward the cockpit. Airspeed instantly worked the door hinges closed and his parachute pounded into the fuselage, the metal panel lodging him against the open doorway. His grip held and he slowly worked his right leg inside, then folded the rest of his body into the cockpit. Luckily the pilot's seat was fully extended.

He snapped the door shut and breathed a sigh of relief.

The plane's yoke steadily gyrated right and left.

On the instrument panel he located the direction finder. The plane was still on a northwesterly course. A full moving map GPS, which he assumed was coupled to the autopilot, seemed to be providing flight control but, strangely, the autopilot was disengaged.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see the chopper now snuggled close to the left wing tip. In the cabin window was a sign with numbers on it. Stephanie was pointing to her headset and motioning to the numbers.

He understood.

The Skyhawk's radio stack was to his right. He switched the unit on and found the frequency for the numbers she'd indicated. He yanked off the wool cap, snapped an ear-and-microphone set to his head, and said, "This plane is full of explosives."

"Just what I needed to hear," she said.

"Let's get it on the ground," Daniels added in his ear.

"The autopilot is off-"

Suddenly the Skyhawk angled right. Not a cursory move, but a full course change. He watched the yoke pivot forward, then back, foot pedals working on their own, controlling the rudder in a steep banked maneuver.

Another sharp turn and the GPS readout indicated that the plane's course had altered more westerly and rose in altitude to eight thousand feet, airspeed a little under a hundred knots.

"What's happening?" Stephanie asked.

"This thing has a mind of its own. That was a tight sixty-degree turn."

"Cotton," Daniels said. "The French have calculated your course. It's straight for the Invalides."

No way. They were wrong. He'd already determined the end point of this venture, recalling what had fallen from the Selfridges bag last night.

He stared out the windshield and spotted the true target in the distance.

"That's not where we're headed. This plane is going to the Eiffel Tower."

FIFTY-SIX

ELIZA APPROACHED THE GLASS DOOR AND TRIED THE LATCH.

She stared down through the thick glass panel and saw that an inside lock had been engaged. No way that could have happened accidentally.

"The one on the other side is the same," Thorvaldsen said.

She did not like the Dane's calculated tone, which conveyed that this should be no surprise.

One of the other members turned the corner to her left. "There's no other way down from this platform, and I saw no call box or telephone."

Overhead, near the top of the caged enclosure, she spotted the solution to the problem. A closed-circuit television camera that angled its lens toward them. "Someone in security is surely watching. We simply have to gain their attention."

"I'm afraid it's not going to be that easy," Thorvaldsen said.

She faced him, afraid of what he might say, but knowing what was coming.

"Whatever Lord Ashby planned," he said, "he surely took that into account, along with the fact that some of us would be carrying our own phones. It will take a few minutes for someone to get here. So whatever is going to happen, will happen soon."

MALONE FELT THE PLANE DESCEND. HIS GAZE LOCKED ON THE altimeter.

7,000 feet and falling.

"What the-"

The drop halted at 5,600 feet.

"I suggest that fighter be sent this way," he said into the headset. "This plane may need to be blown out of the sky." He glanced down at the buildings, roads, and people. "I'm going to do what I can to change course."

"I'm told you'll have a fighter escort in less than three minutes," Daniels said.

"Thought you said that wasn't an option over populated areas?"

"The French are a bit partial to the Eiffel Tower. And they don't really care-"

"About me?"

"You said it. I didn't."

He reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed the gray box, and studied its exterior. Some sort of electronic device, like a laptop that didn't open. No control switches were visible. He yanked on a cable leading out, but it would not release. He tossed the box down and, with both hands, wrenched the connection free of the instrument