LACKING VIRTUES (39 page)

Numbered stickers on the parts and corresponding numbers and outlines on the template meant the parts could be removed and examined without risk of forgetting where they belonged.

  Warner nodded at Simmons, who winked.

The parts were slightly discolored. Clumps of cement still clung doggedly to the metal in spots, and there were fresh dings from the tools used to dig them out. Evidently the sonar wasn’t infallible.

Warner picked up an engine mounting bolt and studied it carefully. Someone had worked the metal with a wire brush to get the cement off. The surface was badly scratched, but the serial number was on its cap and was still legible.

He was about to show it to Simmons when his assistant turned to him with a larger and more complicated part.

“Recognize it, Frank?” Simmons asked.

Warner peered around King’s jowly face, then reached over and took the part. “I would say offhand that we are looking at a right aft engine mount for a Boeing 767-300 ER.”

“Can you make out the serial number?”

“Yes. Also the parts number.”

“You’re sure it’s the right and not the left mount?” Simmons asked.

“Positive.”

Simmons frowned. “And it was the left aft mount that failed in Atlanta, wasn’t it?”

“Left, yes.”

“Interesting,” Simmons said. “Do you suppose there’s a defective part bearing this same serial number on someone’s parts shelf. Or installed in an aircraft? Or is this a defective part?”

“Hard to say. Larsen should be able to tell us.”

“He should. Looks like we might finally be getting somewhere, doesn’t it, Frank?”

“Yes, and it’s about time.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Heavy footsteps overhead put an end to Steven’s siesta. He glanced at his watch, which glowed brightly in the dark wine cellar: 8:03 p.m.

Michelet had arrived several hours ago, just in time to save his ass by chasing off the secret service dogs. There had only been goings since then. Now, at last, it sounded as though someone had come. Time to consult the vent at the front of the basement.

He scrambled out from behind the stack of crates where he had been resting, used his flashlight to illuminate the ancient hinges and gave them a second precautionary shot from his miniature can of oil.

After waiting a few seconds for the lubricant to do its job, he pushed open the door and started through the maze of dank, vaulted passageways.

He made a wrong turn, backtracked, resisted the temptation to use his flashlight. Feeling his way along the cool brick walls, he quickly recovered his bearings. In the murky distance he soon saw his polar star, the louvered vent trimmed in light from outdoors. He hurried to it and began twisting it open a little at a time.

As the louvers separated, the cool evening breeze touched his clammy skin. A cat mewed on the other side of the foundation. His heart began to thump.

He could hear voices outside now, and car doors opening.

Someone
had
come! Another inch or so of rotation and he would be able to see who it was.

He hesitated; the air on his skin and the light coming through the vent made him feel dangerously exposed.

The cat swished by, turned around, rubbed up against Steven’s only view of the secret world of Georges Michelet. Steven hissed under his breath. The cat leaped away.

He heard a car door close, then another. The voices of the men outside moved closer, mingling with the sounds of the country night.

Either he took his chances and looked now, Steven thought, or he would be a blind man eavesdropping on strangers for the rest of his stay.

He stepped out of the light and opened the vent all the way. He made a quick assessment of the danger of being seen and, deciding it was small, put his face near the louvers.

He wanted to shout for joy. The three men Sophie believed to be conspirators in
Nouvelle France
were walking toward him on their way to the house. Michelet was in the middle, looking burlier and more anxious than Steven remembered him.

To Michelet’s right was Paul Delors, whom he recognized from a photo. He wasn’t the kind of man who would stand out in a crowd. Just an ordinary middle-aged guy in horn-rimmed glasses and a conservative blue suit.

Not so the man on Michelet’s left. He had a face known round the world, the face of the man reputed to be the richest entrepreneur in Europe.

In person, Steven thought, Albert Haussmann emanated even more animal vitality than he did on TV. Tonight, this compact, elegant package of bald-headed energy didn’t look happy.

In fact, none of the three looked happy.

That’s what pissed him off most about the French. They never knew how good they had it. These guys were about to sit down to an unbelievable feast whose aromas had been working their way into the basement for hours, driving him mad. They had it all – power, money, any pleasure the human race could dream up. Yet they looked as sour and irritable as a bunch of Parisian waiters in August.

Just hang on a little while, boys, he thought, and I’ll give you a reason for your ill humor.

Trouser legs swished by within a few feet of him as the three men, silent now, climbed the front steps and went inside. Steven surveyed the lawn and circular drive in front of the manor.

Michelet had closed and locked the gate. There were no cops left behind, no secret service men and no drivers. Two cars were parked inside the gate, a Mercedes 600 SL and a 4-door Citroën. No trouble guessing which belonged to whom. More importantly, it told him Delors and Haussmann had driven themselves to the meeting. Getting out of here after he had dined on their conversation would be a piece of cake.

He shut the vent and followed the footsteps. He had a map of the house layout in his mind and expected the men to head straight for the dining room. Instead, they turned in the direction of the library. He hurried to the wine cellar and quietly shut the door. They were above him now, pacing, shouting, arguing.

Another break. They seemed to be holding their meeting before dinner. He might be home earlier than he thought!

Careful not to make a sound, he climbed on to the stack of Château d’Yquem cases, bent back the small flap he had cut in the heating duct and put his ear to the opening.

The voices were clear, distinct from one another, filled with purpose. He began trying to assign them each a face. He needn’t have bothered. His subjects were using names.

Paul Delors was the steady voice of reason, the calm collected voice urging an objective assessment of a situation “that is only a problem if we – meaning you, Albert – allow it to become one.”

Georges Michelet was the gruff, impatient voice demanding “a clear decision – will you or won’t you? – before we leave this room.”

And Albert Haussmann, the voice of cynical outrage – the mocking, cutting, mellifluous and fiercely intelligent.

But what in the hell were they arguing so heatedly about? Steven had missed the first few words, not to mention the things that had been said during the trek from the cars to the library.

Now he listened intently, struggling to find his place in this cataract of words.

Haussmann said, “I want, I
demand
, to know
exactly
how this happened. Here, look at these. They came in the mail today. Regular mail. The goddamned post! Photographs of the three of us right here in front of this very house taken by Claussen or someone who works for him. This is worse than that abominable letter.”

Delors said coolly, “Albert, if you don’t calm down and listen to reason, you are going to jeopardize everyone’s cover, including your own. Is that what you want?”

“Excuse me, Paul, but I was assured in unequivocal terms that this supposedly manageable ex-spy of yours would never know who we were. That, if you recall, was
the
condition for my involvement. Now that condition has been violated. Nevertheless, you still want me to hand the man two hundred fifty million dollars.”

“Albert, please just – ”

“My answer, Paul, is no. This whole thing was a bad idea. It was a bad idea because it included someone we did not know and could not trust, someone who is not French and does not share our devotion to our country. I’m not getting in any deeper. You and Georges will have to find the money elsewhere. I have committed no crime as yet. Given the circumstances, I don’t intend to.”

“Committed no crime!” Michelet thundered. “How in hell could you say something that preposterous? Without your agreement to foot the bill, Paul and I could not have commissioned a single crash, let alone twelve. Besides, Albert, answer me this. Which of us has already profited most from Boeing’s misfortunes? Let me answer for you. I’ve seen the latest statistics at the Ministry. The industries of the Haussmann Group that supply Airbus have made a killing – or stand to make one in the near future. You were in a lot worse trouble than you let on. We’ve bailed you out and now, suddenly, you don’t think you’ll honor your part of the bargain. That’s unacceptable, Albert. Unacceptable. So I suggest you hold your tongue and listen to Paul.”

Steven’s head was spinning. Had he heard right? Michelet saying he could not have commissioned crashes without Haussmann’s agreement to pay? Talk of a 250 million dollar bill to some ex-spy named Claussen coming due, some ex-spy who wasn’t supposed to know who these guys were but had found out? Mention of Boeing as the loser, Airbus as the winner?

Jesus! It was clear as day. These were the pricks bringing down those U.S. airliners! He shuddered. You wouldn’t catch him again with that big American grin on his face, not Steven LeConte. The days of his blissful innocence were over. The truth would see to that, the hideous truth. Nicole’s dad was not only a murderer. He was the biggest criminal since Adolf Hitler!

He turned on his flashlight and took his note pad from his pack. He’d write everything down, just in case. Names, dates, relationships, the whys and wheres, whens and hows, whatever he and Sophie would need to nail these bastards.

He felt dizzy, had to remind himself to breathe. The men were still arguing, spilling more information with every word: Operation Litvyak . . . Volkov . . . an ancient East-Bloc plot to cripple American aviation in case of a land war in Europe!

Now, in the wake of the Cold War, had come the great economic war. Steven had always thought this so-called war was between the U.S. and Japan. But according to these guys it was between the United States and Europe. And the decisive battle was being fought right now. It was the battle between Boeing and Airbus for international market share, a battle that would decide where hundreds of billions of dollars went over the next 20 years, a battle that would decide who won and who lost the war – or at very least who won the next French presidential election. It was in their view a battle so important it justified using the weapons of military conflict. So Operation Litvyak was alive and well in the New World Order. No wonder things hadn’t gotten any better since the East Bloc collapsed!

From what Steven could tell, Airbus didn’t know where it was getting all the help. Airbus was not involved in this unspeakably dirty action. In fact no one was involved except the three men in Michelet’s library and a spy named Walter Claussen.

And, as of now, one American whose lacking virtues had put him in the right place at the right time.