Critical Mass (23 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Critical Mass
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THE WEATHER IN PARIS WAS OVERCAST AND RAINY WHEN THE Japan Airlines 747 touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport. It was a little before three in the afternoon but the day was dark and chilly, which served to deepen McGarvey's already bleak mood. He'd had little else to do during the long flight from Tokyo via Calcutta but worry.
Carrara had not suggested he drop everything in Japan, but his not-so-subtle between the lines message had been quite clear. Spranger had taken Kathleen and Elizabeth to lure McGarvey to Europe where they meant to kill him. Everyone wanted him to take the challenge.
In the old days, the field officer's family was inviolate. That wasn't the case any longer. What few restraints men like Spranger had worked under were no longer in place. Nothing was sacred. The stakes in the Cold War had been high, but they were even higher now in the invisible war. Ten years ago the fight had been over ideologies. These days it was over money. What little honor there'd been was totally gone.
It was their game. They had made the rules. And if that's the way they wanted it, he would play it out this time … no holds barred.
A tall, lanky man with thick eyebrows over a hawkish nose was waiting for him at the arrivals gate. “Name's Robert Littel. You got any other baggage?” He spoke with a Texas twang.
“Who told you I'd be on this flight?” McGarvey asked. This wasn't beyond Spranger.
“Nobody. Phil Carrara just said you were coming and we
were supposed to watch for you. Now, if you'll shake a leg we'll get you out of here and down to the chopper.”
“Have you got something?”
“Yeah, but I'll tell you all about it on the run. We don't have much time if we're going to make the show.”
McGarvey fell in step beside the taller man as they walked past the passport control booths without challenge and then through customs and downstairs.
“Is Marquand here?” McGarvey asked.
“He's in charge down in Grenoble. But he sent René Belleau, his number two. A little prick, but I think he'd be one tough sonofabitch backed into a corner.”
On the ground level, before they went through the steel door, McGarvey grabbed Littel by the arm and stopped him. “What's going on in Grenoble?”
Littel started to challenge McGarvey but then thought better of it. “How much did Carrara tell you?”
“That someone kidnapped my ex-wife and daughter, and that the French had a lead.”
“Apparently they were taken from the school and loaded aboard a white truck. A semi. It was seen crossing the frontier at Jougne, above Lausanne. This morning it was located in a barn at the end of a road that leads up to a mountain chalet about six miles north of Grenoble.”
“Any sign of them or the kidnappers?”
“At last word, no. The Action Service has got the place surrounded, but they're waiting until nightfall to move in.”
“Who owns the chalet?”
“It belongs to a property management company in Grenoble. Three days ago it was leased to a couple by the name of Schey. Two days ago the same couple visited the Design Poly outside Bern, evidently to look the place over.”
It was too pat. If this was Spranger's doing, he'd left too many clues on the trail. He'd practically advertised his whereabouts. Why?
The clues were lures, of course, meant for McGarvey. But they wouldn't have allowed themselves to be cornered so easily. Something else was happening. Something …
“The chopper is waiting, Mr. McGarvey,” Littel prompted after a few moments.
“Right,” McGarvey said looking up out of his thoughts. But he was troubled.
Belleau was waiting impatiently for them aboard the idling Dassault SF-17 transport helicopter, and even before they had strapped in, the sleek machine was lifting off the pad and accelerating south as it climbed at a sickening rate.
The chopper was a stripped-down version of the transport helicopter, with larger engines for greater speed and extra fuel capacity for greater range. The noise level in the main cabin was so great that any sort of a normal conversation was difficult.
The compactly built, deadly looking Frenchman motioned for McGarvey to don one of the headsets and plug it in.
“What were you doing in Tokyo, Monsieur McGarvey?” Belleau's voice came through the earphones.
“I was on vacation. Can we establish communications with Colonel Marquand from here?”
“I asked you a question,” the Action Service officer said, his eyes narrow.
“I answered it.”
“You are on French soil now, you
salopard,
and you'll do as you're told.”
“Don't fuck with me you little cocksucker, or I'll throw you out of this helicopter at altitude,”
McGarvey said in his best gutter French.
Belleau's eyes widened in surprise, and a faint flush came to his cheeks. “Phillipe told me that you were quite the specimen.” He smiled ruefully. “For now I will simply assume that you were seeking a connection between the Japanese and these East German bastards.”
“There is a connection,” McGarvey said, relenting a little. “But to this point that's the only thing I'm certain of.”
Belleau nodded, and he glanced at Littel, who was listening on another headset. “Do you believe that your wife and daughter were kidnapped to force an end to your investigation in Tokyo?”
“It's possible.”
“Then you must have been getting close to something or someone.”
McGarvey took off his headset and leaned closer to the Frenchman who did the same, effectively blocking Littel out of their conversation for just a moment.
“If you help me in this matter, if you do not interfere, I promise to share with you whatever information I come up with later.”
Belleau looked into his eyes for a long moment, but then nodded, and they both sat back and put on the headsets. Littel was clearly upset.
“What was that all about?” he demanded.
McGarvey ignored him. “Can we make contact with Colonel Marquand from here?”
“Yes, but it is inadvisable. It's possible that the kidnappers are monitoring our frequencies.”
“You're probably right,” McGarvey said. “Did you bring a map of the area? I'd like to see what we're facing.”
“Yes,” Belleau said. He took a large-scale map from his briefcase and spread it out on a small fold-down table and switched on a gooseneck spot lamp.
McGarvey leaned forward so he could see better. The map's area of detail included the town of Grenoble and about five or ten miles in each direction.
Belleau pointed with a pencil to a spot north of the city, along highway D912, which was indicated as a secondary road and scenic route through the mountains.
“The base of the driveway is at slightly more than sixteen hundred meters,” Belleau said. “Here, just below the Col de Porte pass at eighteen hundred sixty-seven meters.”
“The barn is where?”
“Just off the highway, and the chalet is one kilometer farther up the driveway, at an elevation of one hundred-fifty meters above the barn.”
“It's a very steep driveway,” Littel said.
“No other way in or out?” McGarvey asked.
“Not by car or truck,” Belleau said.
“How about with a four-wheel drive, like a jeep?”
“Not possible. This area is all very rugged. One would need to be a mountaineer to move off the road.”
“Helicopter?”
“The wind currents in the mountains are formidable.”
McGarvey sat back. “Of course there's no guarantee they're still there.”
Belleau shook his head. “If they are, however, then they are cornered.”
“I think it's unlikely they're still there,” McGarvey said, reaching for his overnight bag. He took out his toiletries kit and removed the components of his Walther PPK as Belleau and Littel carefully watched.
“But you're going in armed, just in case,” Littel said.
“I hope they are there,” McGarvey said, looking up. Both Littel and Belleau shivered.
THE ACTION SERVICE HELICOPTER TOUCHED DOWN ON THE police barracks parade ground on the western outskirts of Grenoble, the city's modern skyscrapers rising against the mountain backdrop. The wind was gusty but the weather was much clearer here than in Paris. And much colder.
Marquand was waiting for them aboard an Italian touring coach marked Lake Geneva. Its windows were mirrored so that from the outside nothing could be seen of the interior. He and McGarvey shook hands.
“You've arrived just in time, Monsieur,” the short, heavily built colonel said. “We were just about to leave.”
“Has the situation up there changed in the past few hours?” McGarvey asked. It was obvious Marquand knew Littel, so there'd been no need for introductions.
“At five o'clock a package was delivered to the front door of the chalet where it remains.” Marquand looked at his wristwatch. “That was nearly two hours ago. It was addressed to a D. Schey … we're assuming for the moment that the D stands for Dieter … from the Georges Cinq Hotel in Paris.”
“Was there a name?”
“It was a little joke. The sender was marked as E. Spranger.”
“You checked with the hotel?”
“Naturally. And with the delivery service. Of course Spranger is not at the hotel, and so far as the delivery service clerk in Paris can recall the package was dropped off at their
office by a middle-aged, matronly looking woman, who paid in cash.”
“How much does it weigh?”
Littel and Belleau looked puzzled, but Marquand understood. “It was heavy. Slightly more than ten kilos.”
“Then I would hope that you have instructed your people to treat that package with extreme respect.”
“Yes,” Marquand said. “It would seem now that the chalet is deserted.”
“But we cannot be one hundred percent sure,” McGarvey said, thinking of something else. “We'll have to find out.”
Marquand looked sharply at him. “What is it?”
“You were right in the beginning, there is a Japanese connection. I've just come from Tokyo where our chief of station and his assistant have both been assassinated.”
“Mr. McGarvey, may I have a word with you outside?” Littel interrupted.
“No,” McGarvey said. “A pair of walkie-talkies like the one found at Orly were used in Tokyo.”
“Are the Japanese authorities working with you?”
“No one knows I was there except, apparently, for Spranger and whoever he's working for.”
“But why?” Marquand asked. “What the hell do they want?”
“McGarvey,” Littel cautioned.
“I don't know yet,” McGarvey lied. “But obviously I was getting close, or else Spranger wouldn't have tried this move.”
“I think you're lying now,” the Action Service colonel said, but then his expression softened. “You understand that the outcome of this … situation, might not be very pleasant for you.”
“They're not dead,” McGarvey said flatly.
“In cases like these …”
“They're not dead,” McGarvey repeated, looking into Marquand's eyes. “Spranger means to trade with me.”
“For what?” Littel asked.
“My life for theirs.”
“Then why the package bomb, that doesn't make any sense.”
“It's there to let us know they're serious,” McGarvey said. “If it kills me, so much the better.”
“The bastards,” Marquand said, tight-jawed. “We would have walked right into the middle of it.”
“Spranger's one of the best.”
“Yes. And well-funded. But why the Japanese?”
“When I find out, I'll let you know.”
“Do that,” Marquand said. “In the meantime, they will have left something up there for you to find. Some clue as to their whereabouts.”
“Maybe not,” McGarvey answered. “They've lured me away from Tokyo. Maybe there'll be nothing up there.”
“Except death,” Belleau said grimly.
 
A half-dozen of Colonel Marquand's Action Service operators came along on the bus, which passed the entrance to the Chalet's driveway shortly after dark, and pulled off the highway onto a scenic overlook area at the crest of the Col de Porte pass. Their driver switched off the coach's lights just as they crested the hill so that from below it might seem as if the bus had simply disappeared from view as the road started down the other side.
One of the men immediately opened a window, and set up a light-intensifying scope on a tripod. He trained it on the chalet about a mile below them.
“Anything?” Marquand asked.
On the way up they'd all changed into dark jumpsuits, and had blackened any exposed skin.
“There is a very dim light in the upstairs corridor,” the scope operator said softly without looking up. “Stationary. Maybe a night light. No movement.”
“Outside?” Marquand asked.
The others had left the bus and were opening the cargo bays, leaving Littel and McGarvey alone for a moment. The Texan pulled McGarvey aside.
“Look here, I don't know what you're up to, but my instructions were specific. You're not to breathe a word of your Tokyo operation to the French.”
“Just what is it I'm doing in Tokyo?” McGarvey asked.
“I don't know …”
“You haven't been told my assignment?”
“No, sir. Just that you were coming to France and to provide you with whatever help I could, but to make damned sure you didn't say anything of importance to the Frogs.”
McGarvey had to smile despite the situation. “How's your hand-to-hand combat skills?”
Littel was taken aback by the question. “Fair,” he said.
“I'm told Marquand is an expert. I would assume his men are pretty good too. I don't think they'd like to hear you call them names.”
Littel glanced over at Marquand and the scope operator. “I didn't mean anything.”
“They're Frenchmen, or Corsicans, depending on what mood you catch them in. Do you understand?”
“I got you, but I still have my job to do.”
McGarvey patted him on the arm. “I won't tell them anything they don't already know. But at the moment they're risking their lives to help rescue my family. I owe them, wouldn't you say?”
“Ah … yes, sir.”
Marquand was checking his wristwatch again. “Six minutes,” he said, looking up. “Time to go.”
“Any movement in or around the chalet?” McGarvey asked, following the Action Service colonel off the bus.
“None,” Marquand replied tersely.
His troops had taken eleven small motorbikes from the coach's cargo spaces, and started them all. The small engines were so highly muffled that almost nothing could be heard head on, and only a light purring noise from the rear.
“Ten of my people have been in position behind and to the east of the chalet since early this afternoon. In about five minutes they'll start moving in. In the meantime, we'll go down the mountain, secure the barn and the truck on one; proceed to and secure the front approaches to the house on two; neutralize the package, if need be, on three; and make entry through the windows and main door on four. Questions?”
There were none.
The Action Service troops were armed with stun grenades and silenced MAC 10s. Littel carried a .44 magnum, not silenced, of course, and McGarvey stayed with his Walther.
The troops were watching him as he took it out and checked the action. Marquand shook his head. “If it was anyone else but you, Monsieur, carrying such a toy, I would say he was a fool.”
“It's an old friend.”
Marquand smiled faintly. “So I'm told.” He turned abruptly to his troops.
“Allons-y, mes copains.”
They all mounted and peeled out onto the highway from behind the bus in pairs, the throttles wide open, the bikes hitting sixty miles per hour down the hill.
If there was to be trouble here, these men plus the force coming up from the rear would be more than enough to handle it. But racing down the hill McGarvey was certain of two things: That Kathleen and Elizabeth were not here, and that a message would be waiting for him and him alone.
Spranger's purpose was to lure McGarvey out of Tokyo, and then meet head-to-head but only at a time and place of the East German's choosing when the odds would definitely be against McGarvey.
The road flattened out for about twenty yards, a field of mountain grasses and flowers protected by a split rail fence to the right. A gravel driveway led past the field and up the side of a very steep hill to the chalet in the distance. A large stone barn with a sharply pitched shake roof sat just off the driveway about fifty yards from the road.
The mountainside was in complete darkness. Only Grenoble down in the valley was lit like phosphorescent points in a black sea.
Two of Marquand's force continued straight up the driveway to act as advance scouts on the chalet's front entrance, while the others quickly surrounded the barn.
On Marquand's signal one of them used a bolt cutter to remove the heavy padlock from the main doors, and hauled them open.
On signal, their MAC 10s sweeping from the center outward, two Action Service officers rushed into the barn.
For several long seconds there was absolute silence, until one of them came to the doorway. “Clear,” he called softly.
“Hold up, I want to check out the truck before we proceed,” McGarvey said.
Marquand motioned for his people to hold their positions, and he went with McGarvey into the barn where the large white semi-truck had been hidden. The markings on the side were for PIROKKI SHIPPING, LTD., ATHINAI.
“The truck was reported stolen from Amsterdam,” Marquand said.
“Pirokki?”
“No such company.”
The side door in the trailer was open. One of Marquand's troops shined a flashlight inside, but the trailer was empty except for a few pieces of cardboard.
“Nothing here,” Marquand said, and McGarvey followed him out of the barn, glancing back for another look at the markings on the side of the truck.
At the top of the hill Marquand's other people were already in position at the rear and to the east of the chalet. He gave a signal and two of his people ran, dodging across the grassy area beside the driveway, and silently mounted a low entry area at the front door.
One of them held a narrow beam penlight on the package, while the other began to work on it, shielding it with his body to minimize the effects of a possible explosion to his partner.
A full ninety seconds later, he picked up the package and gingerly carried it well away from the chalet where he carefully laid it on the ground, then he turned and moved away from it, signaling the all clear.
“Do your people have a clear identification on the non-targets?” Littel asked.
The Action Service colonel glanced back at him, then McGarvey, and nodded. “But it will be for the best if you do not get ahead of me. My boys might mistake you for one of the perpetrators.”
“All right.”
Six of Marquand's men flattened themselves against the front of the house, two each on a pair of ground-floor windows and two with a small battering ram on the door. On the count of three they smashed in the door, busted out the window glass and made simultaneous entry, their MAC 10s up and ready to fire.
From the rear they could hear the sounds of breaking glass and splintering wood, and seconds later McGarvey and Marquand, acting as backup in case the situation inside became critical, raced up onto the stone entry area and took up positions on either side of the door.
On the count of three they rolled inside, spreading left and right, their weapons up.
“Red clear,” someone shouted.
“Vert, aussi,”
someone upstairs responded.
Marquand held his position, motioning for McGarvey to do the same.
For several long seconds the chalet was deathly still, but then from somewhere at the back of the house, a third team leader shouted the all clear, and the lights came on.
“Looks as if you were correct,” Marquand said, straightening up and switching his weapon's safety to the on position.
McGarvey did the same, and holstering his pistol, went into the expansive living room, the sloping ceiling open to a loft above, a natural stone chimney rising up from a massive fireplace in the middle of the room.

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