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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Critical Mass
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IN THE ORLY AIRPORT'S SECURITY OPERATIONS ROOM THE direct line from the control tower buzzed.
Police Sergeant Marie-Lure Germain answered it. “Security, Germain.”
“Ah, Marie-Lure, there's an Air Service truck parked by the inner marker just off the end of zero-eight. What are you showing in your log?”
“Just a moment, Raymond,” she said. Raymond Flammarion was the day shift tower supervisor. He was a stickler for detail. No one liked him but everyone respected his abilities.
Nothing appeared on the situation board which showed activity in and around the airport. She turned back to her console. “Nothing here.”
“Well, I am looking at the van through binoculars this very moment,
ma cherie.
The rear door is open, but I don't see anybody out there. And you know, considering Interpol's warning …”
“I'll check it out.”
“Please do, and get back to me. There's not an aircraft in or out today that is not completely full, if you catch my meaning.”
“Give me a minute, Raymond. Somebody probably forgot to file.” Marie-Lure hung up, and punched up the number for the gate guard hut out there on her operations phone. The connection was made immediately and the number began to ring.
At twenty-three, Marie-Lure was one of the youngest members of Orly's security staff which, augmented as it was
just now from the Police Contingency Pool out of Paris, numbered nearly one hundred people. But she was conscientious and professional. She'd been trained at the Academie de Police in Paris, and had graduated in the top five percent of her class.
After five rings without answer, she broke the connection and redialed. Again there was no answer. It was possible the phone was out of order, and it was possible that both officers had stepped away from the hut. But just now it was bothersome.
She put down the phone and beckoned the shift supervisor, Lieutenant Jacques Bellus, who ponderously got up from behind his desk on the raised dias and came over. He'd accepted an early retirement two years ago as a Chief Inspector with the Paris Police to take this job. It was much safer.
“Have the bad people finally arrived?” he asked.
“Flammarion has spotted an Air Service maintenance truck off the end of zero-eight. He wants to know what we have on it.”
Bellus glanced up at the situation board.
“We show nothing,” Marie-Lure said. “And now there is no answer from security out there.”
“Who is on duty this morning?”
Marie-Lure brought up the information on her computer. “Capretz and Gallimard.”
Bellus grunted. “Have you called Air Service?”
“I didn't want to alarm anyone yet.”
“Well, call them, and I'll try the guard hut again,” Bellus said and he picked up the operations phone.
Marie-Lure telephoned the Air Service Dispatch Office across the field at the Air France Service Hangar. The dispatcher answered on the first ring.
“Air Service.”
“This is Orly Security. What are your people doing out at the inner marker off zero-eight this morning? We're showing nothing on our board.”
“There shouldn't be anyone there, so far as I know,” the young man replied.
“Moment.”
Marie-Lure could hear the shuffle of papers, and a couple of seconds later the dispatcher was back.
“The work order is here. Apparently some
mec
stuck it in the wrong order. Looks like an unscheduled adjustment on the marker frequency. Sorry, but I didn't know a thing about this. Someone will get the axe.”
“Send a runner over with a copy of the work order, would you?”
“As soon as possible. We're busy this morning.”
“Merci.”
Marie-Lure hung up.
Bellus shook his head and hung up. “Still no answer. What'd Air Service have to say for itself?”
“The work order was apparently misplaced. They'll send it over as soon as they can.”
“Have we got anybody nearby this morning?”
“I think Dubout might still be over by one-eight. He could get over the back way, but he'd have to cross the runway.”
“Get him on the radio, and then get authorization from the tower.”
“Do you want to delay air traffic for a few minutes?” she asked.
Bellus pondered the suggestion for a moment, but then shook his head. “As long as it's a legitimate Air Service order, I don't think that's necessary.”
“Yes, sir,” Marie-Lure said, and she got on the airport security frequency to raise Sergeant Dubout.
 
The passengers on Swissair 145 would be in the final boarding process by now. Boorsch stood out of sight from anyone who might be looking this way from the tower or the terminal, and studied the plane with the binoculars. The boarding tunnel was still in place, but the baggage compartment hatches in the belly of the Airbus had been closed, and the baggage handlers had withdrawn.
The air was suddenly very still and thick with the odors of the airport and of Paris. French smells, somehow, that
Boorsch found offensive. Frogs were filthy people, even worse than the sub-human Polaks or Kikes, although France itself was a pleasant enough country.
Boorsch lowered the glasses, then raised them again to study the tower, and then the maintenance hangars across from the main terminal. Normal activity, so far as he could see. Nothing out of the ordinary. If any alarms had been sounded, they were not outwardly visible.
Sooner or later, of course, airport security would realize that something might be wrong with their access road guards out here, though the presence of this van would cause no real questions. He'd personally taken care of that earlier this morning during the shift change at the Air Service Dispatch office.
Someone would come out to investigate. That was why his timing had to be so tight. Only minutes now and he would be finished here and he could make his escape.
Laying the glasses aside, Boorsch carefully removed the Stinger missile and its handheld launcher from its metal container. The unit, which was about four feet long and a little less than four inches in diameter, weighed thirty-one pounds, including the reusable launcher and the rocket with its solid-fuel propellant, high-explosive warhead and infrared heat-seeking guidance system.
In theory the missile was simple to use. Point it at a heat-emitting target. Uncage the firing circuits, and when the missile's sensing circuitry locked on to a viable target a steady tone would sound in the operator's ear. At that moment the user pushed the fire button, and the Stinger was away, accelerating almost immediately to a speed of one thousand feet a second, with an effective range of four thousand yards.
In practice however, first-time users almost always missed even the easiest of targets. Like using a shotgun to shoot clay pigeons, the operator needed to lead the target … especially an accelerating target such as a jetliner taking off.
Of the six ex-STASI comrades who'd trained with the
Stinger in Libya, Boorsch had been the best, so when this emergency had developed, he'd been the natural choice for the assignment.
“Don't let us down, Karl,” he'd been instructed. “This is important to the project. Very important.”
The walkie-talkie in the front of the van came to life. “Three,” the man patrolling the N7 transmitted.
Carefully laying the missile down, Boorsch hurried around to the front, and snatched up the walkie-talkie. “Three, go,” he radioed.
“Trouble on its way across the field from one-eight.”
“ETA?”
“Under five minutes.”
“Understand,” Boorsch responded. “One?”
“Clear.”
“Two?”
“Clear.”
Boorsch laid the walkie-talkie down and went to the rear of the van where he grabbed the binoculars and scanned the field in the vicinity of the end of north-south runway. A jeep was just crossing the runway itself.
He turned the glasses toward the Swissair flight. The boarding tunnel had still not been withdrawn. There was time. But not much of it, he thought as he laid the binoculars down and pulled out his pistol.
MCGARVEY HAD TO SHOW HIS PASSPORT TO FOLLOW MARTA through security to the boarding gate, and it struck him that everyone out here seemed a little tense. It was probably another terrorist threat. The French took such things very seriously.
Most of the passengers for the Swissair flight had already boarded, leaving the waiting area empty except for one flight attendant and two boarding gate personnel, one of whom was making the boarding announcement over the terminal's public address system.
“Ladies and gentlemen. All passengers holding confirmed seats for Swissair flight 145, non-stop service to Geneva, please board now. Flight 145 is in the final boarding process.
Mesdames et messieurs
…”
“I don't want to go like this, Kirk,” Marta said, looking up into his eyes. “I have a feeling I'll never see you again.”
“I'm not what you think I am, Mati. I never was.”
“I knew what you were from the beginning,” she said earnestly. “And I love you despite it.”
McGarvey had to smile. “Not a very good basis for a relationship.”
The flight attendant was looking pointedly at them as the gate person finished the final boarding call in German.
“I'm not proud. I'll take you any way I can get you.”
Something was wrong. Some internal warning system was ringing bells at the back of McGarvey's head. It was the CIA car outside, he couldn't put it out of his mind. What were they doing here now? Watching him?
“Listen, Mati, do me a favor and wait right here. I don't
want you getting aboard that plane for a minute. I need to make a call first.”
Marta glanced over at the attendant by the open door to the boarding tunnel. “What is it?”
“Probably nothing,” McGarvey said. “Just hang on.” He went over to the counter. “May I use your house phone?” he asked the attendant who'd just finished making the boarding announcement.
“The lady must get aboard now, sir, or she will miss her flight,” the young man said.
“May I use your house phone? It's very important.”
The attendant hesitated a moment, but then sighed and handed over the handset. “What number would you like, sir?”
“The airport security duty officer.”
A look of alarm crossed the attendant's face. “Sir, is something wrong?”
“I don't know. Get me the number, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later the call went through. “Security, Bellus.”
“Monsieur Bellus, my name is Kirk McGarvey. I am an American.”
“Oui, monsieur,
what can I do for you?”
“One or more of my countrymen, from my embassy … security officers … are presently somewhere here at the airport. It is imperative that I talk with them. Immediately.”
“I don't know what you are talking about, Monsieur McGarvey, but I am very busy …”
“You do know. Call them, and give them my name. Please, this is important.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Boarding gate E17.”
“Swissair?”
“Yes, please hurry.”
“I will require an explanation.”
“Yes, of course.”
The line went silent. Everyone was looking at him. Marta came over.
“What's wrong?” she asked.
He shook his head. The flight attendant had come over from the boarding tunnel door and was watching.
Bellus was back a minute later. “Monsieur McGarvey. The answer is that unless your message is extremely urgent, they'd ask you to contact the appropriate … office at your embassy.”
“I see.”
“Is it extremely urgent?”
McGarvey looked out at the Swissair jetliner. “No. I thought they were friends and I just wanted to say hello.”
“Pardon me, monsieur if I find that odd, since you will be flying to Geneva aboard the same aircraft. You are at E17?”
“Yes,” McGarvey said. “Actually I didn't know if they'd arrived. I'm terribly sorry to have bothered you.”
“Are you a resident of Paris, Monsieur McGarvey?”
“Yes,” McGarvey said. He gave the cop the number of his apartment on the rue Lafayette in the tenth Arrondissement.
“And you are known at this address, and by your embassy?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I will verify this, Monsieur. Have a good flight.”
“Oui, merci.”
McGarvey hung up.
“Well?” Marta asked.
“It was nothing,” he said and he kissed her. “Goodbye, Mati.”
“Just like that?” she asked, her eyes filling again.
He nodded. “Have a good flight.” He turned and walked off without looking back.
 
“What was that all about?” Cladstrup asked as Roningen came back from the telephone. DuVerlie was across the room out of earshot if they talked softly.
“Does the name Kirk McGarvey ring any bells?”
Cladstrup had to laugh. “You'd better believe it. I was just coming into the Company when he was being booted out. Late seventies. Something to do with Chile, I think. He screwed up.”
“He's living here in Paris, and he was involved with that incident at our embassy this winter.”
“That's what I heard.”
“Well, he's apparently here at the airport, and he called security and asked to speak to us.”
“By name?” Cladstrup asked.
“I guess not, but I told Bellus that I'd speak to him if he had something urgent for us. Apparently he didn't, because he backed off. But get this: Bellus thinks he might be on this flight. He called from E17 next door.”
“Is his name on the manifest?”
“No, but that doesn't mean anything.”
“What the hell?” Cladstrup glanced over toward DuVerlie. “Do you suppose there's any connection?”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him?”
“I could pick him out of a crowd.”
“Go see if he's aboard, and I'll call Lynch and find out if he knows what's going on.”
DuVerlie jumped up from where he was seated, but Cladstrup waved him back. “It'll be just a minute,” he told him, going over to the French cop at the door to the boarding tunnel. “I'm going to check out the plane before we board.”
“As you wish,” the cop said, stepping aside.
Cladstrup entered the boarding tunnel and hurried out to the plane, where he showed their tickets and his identification to the stews. “We'll be just a minute,” he said. “Is everyone else aboard?”
“Yes, sir. I believe so,” one of the women said. “The preliminary headcount tallies except for you and the other two gentlemen with you. You'll be the only three in first class.”
“Every other seat is taken?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mind if I look?”
The captain was watching from the cockpit. “Have we got a problem?” he asked.
“Not at all, Captain. There's a possibility someone we know may be aboard. I'd like to check it out.”
“Make it snappy, I want to get out of here on time.”
“Will do,” Cladstrup said, and he turned and made a quick walkthrough. McGarvey was not among the passengers.
“Is your friend aboard?” the head stew asked.
“No,” Cladstrup said. “I'll be right back.” He hurried back up the boarding tunnel to the VIP lounge. Roningen was just getting off the phone.
“He's not aboard,” Cladstrup said. “What'd Lynch have to say?”
“He hasn't heard anything either, but he'll check it out.”
“In the meantime?”
“We go to Geneva. What else?”
 
The American-designed but French-built jeep bumped along the dusty road just off the end of the active runway. From where Boorsch watched from the back of the van, he could only see the one man behind the wheel, and no one else.
This one was probably a supervisor and had been sent out to check on the gate guards. There'd be no reason for him to bother with a maintenance man on an apparently legitimate call.
But the cop would have to pass right by the van, which was exactly what Boorsch wanted. He couldn't afford to have a cop at his back, cutting off his escape route.
When the jeep was about twenty yards away, Boorsch stepped out from behind the van, and waved. The jeep slowed almost immediately.
He knew that he was in plain sight now of anyone with a good set of binoculars who might be watching from the tower, but it could not be helped. He could see with the naked eye that the Swissair jetliner had been backed away from the boarding gate and was now turning out toward the taxiway. Time was running short.
Boorsch walked up onto the road as the jeep pulled up. “Hello. Good morning.”
“Good morning,” the cop said. His name tag read Dubout. “How is it going out here?”
“I have a little problem. I'm happy that you came along. I
need a second set of hands for just a moment. It's that damn antenna assembly.”
“It'll have to wait. First I have to check on my people.”
Boorsch glanced back in the direction of the guard hut about two miles away. “What, you mean those two at the gate? I don't think it's their fault.”
Dubout's eyes narrowed slightly. “You saw them?”
“Of course. How'd you suppose I got out here?”
“What did you mean: Their fault?”
“The phone, that's why you're out here, isn't it? Their phone is out of order. They asked me to have a look, but I think it's something wrong with the line. Probably at the box out on the highway.”
“I'll check it out.”
“Could I just get you to lend me a hand here? It'll only take a minute. Maybe less. I need someone to hold a pair of pliers while I tighten a bolt from the other side of the antenna case.”
Dubout hesitated a moment.
“It won't take any time at all.”
“All right,” Dubout said, setting the parking brake and getting out.
“It's in the back of my van,” Boorsch said. “Only take a few seconds.”
“Well, let's get on with it.”
“Sure,” Boorsch said, letting the French cop come around the back of the van first. He pulled out his pistol at the same time Dubout reared back.
“Mon Dieu.”
Boorsch shoved him forward with his left hand so that they would both be out of sight of anyone watching from the control tower, and shot the man three times in the back of the head.
Dubout fell forward onto the missile's carrying case. Pocketing his gun, Boorsch shoved the man's body the rest of the way into the van.
He grabbed the binoculars and studied the far end of the runway. The Airbus had nearly reached the end of the
taxiway. It would be taking off within the next sixty to ninety seconds.
Laying down the glasses he snatched up the walkie-talkie. Ordinarily he was calm under pressure, but he'd never had a chance to shoot down an airliner filled with people before. He was getting excited, and nervous.
“One,” he keyed the transmitter.
“Clear.”
“Two.”
“Clear.”
“Three.”
“Clear. What about you?”
“It's good here,” Boorsch said. The Airbus had turned onto the runway. “Stand by.”

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