The Stone Leopard (35 page)

It was Grelle who brought up the precedent of President Nixon, pointing out that whatever the solution, the public and the world must never know the truth. `Nixon's actions were a bagatelle, hardly more than a misdemeanour compared with what we are talking about. Yet look at the shattering effect it had on America when he was exposed. Can you imagine the effect on France—on Europe—if it is ever revealed that the French president is a Communist agent? No one would ever be sure of us again. France would be demoralized. . .'

`You are, of course, quite right,' Blanc said gravely. 'It must never become public knowledge. Do you realize, Grelle, that leaves only one solution ?'

`Florian must be killed. . .'

Along the German-Czechoslovak border between Selb and Grafenau there was a sudden burst of Soviet aerial activity in the early hours of 23 December, at first thought to be connected with large-scale manoeuvres and winter exercises being carried out by the Warsaw Pact countries. Later Soviet Foxbat aircraft were reported to have crossed and recrossed over the frontier and Chancellor Franz Hauser was dragged out of bed at 2 am to assess the situation. At 3 am he ordered an amber alert which mobilized forces along the disturbed frontier and certain back-up groups.

At 2 am, pacing round his living-room, Grelle was little more than a moving silhouette in the smoke accumulated from the two men's cigarettes. 'I have imagined myself as an assassin,' he said. 'When I planned the security cordon I plugged up loopholes by seeing how I would have gone about the job of making an attempt on Florian's life tomorrow. I don't think anyone can penetrate the cordon.'

`Perhaps I could,' Blanc suggested quietly. 'It has to be just between the two of us—only in that way can we ensure it will always remain a secret. If I had a gun—while I was waiting with the other ministers drawn up at the airport waiting for him to board Concorde. . .'

`Impossible !' Grelle dismissed the idea with a contemptuous gesture. 'Everyone would wonder why you of all people had done it. And I have told the security squads that if anyone— even a minister—produces a revolver he is to be shot instantly.' He stopped in front of Blanc's chair. 'To make my point I have even told them that if I produce a revolver they must shoot me.'

`Then it cannot be done. . .'

`It can be done by only one man.'

`Who is ?'

`The man who devised the security cordon, of course. Myself.'

Before returning to his Ministry in the rue Saint-Dominique, Blanc made two more efforts to speak to Florian. When he phoned the Elysee from Grelle's apartment the operator told him that the president could not be disturbed, 'except in the event of world war. . .'

Blanc then drove through the night to the Elysee to find the wrought-iron gates—always open before and barred only by a white-painted chain—closed, sealing off the courtyard beyond. Blanc leaned out of the window. 'Open up at once,' he demanded. 'You know who I am, for God's sake. . .'

The officer in charge came out of the pedestrian entrance to apologize, but he was quite firm. 'The president issued the instruction personally. No one is to be allowed in tonight— except . .'

`In the event of world war. I know !' Blanc jumped out of the car, pushed past the officer and went through the side entrance. Running across the cobbled yard and up the seven steps he found the tall glass doors locked. Inside the lobby another official who knew him well shook his head, then made a scissors gesture across his body. Blanc, who a moment before had been livid, stood quite still and lit a cigarette. The scissors gesture had decided him. A simple act by an official of no consequence at all, but it crystallized the whole position for Alain Blanc. The president had sealed himself off inside a fortress until he flew to Russia in the morning

Arriving back at his Ministry, Blanc went straight down to the emergency communications room. 'Get Gen Lamartine,' he ordered. 'Tell him not to dress—I need him here five minutes from now. . . .' There had been tension among the seven uniformed officers on duty on his arrival, but in the few minutes he had to wait for General-in-Chief Lamartine his ice-cold manner defused the tension. Lamartine arrived grizzle-faced and with a coat thrown over his dressing-gown.

`You look like a mandarin in that dragon-embossed robe,' Blanc remarked. 'I'm issuing certain instructions and may need your authority to confirm them. I'll explain later—we have a minor emergency and the president has issued orders he must not be disturbed. Very sensible—he has a long trip tomorrow. Now . .'

This was the old Alain Blanc speaking, the man who had planned Guy Florian's rise to power, who had kept his nerve in every political crisis. With Lamartine at his side, he proceeded methodically, informing the underground communications bunker at Taverny outside Paris—the bunker designed to operate under conditions of nuclear warfare—that until further notice they could act on no orders from any quarter without his counter-signature. 'From any quarter,' he repeated.

`I have Gen Lamartine by my side who will confirm what I have just said. . . .' Putting his hand over the receiver he saw that Lamartine was hesitating. 'Get on with it,' he said sharply, `I haven't got all night. . .

Inside ten minutes Blanc had frozen the movement of all the French armed forces—not a single tank, plane or ship could move without his express sanction. Blanc had also spoken to French headquarters at Baden-Baden and Sedan—and his orders were that once through the Ardennes the two armoured divisions were to turn round immediately and move at speed back through the Ardennes to Germany. To ensure the order was carried out he had removed Chassou, Florian's general, from command and replaced him by Gen Crozier. Chassou was placed under close arrest by the military governor of Metz.

Seated by his side, Lamartine confirmed each order, not sure of what was going on, but it was impossible even for Lamartine to suggest approaching the Elysee—which had been sealed off. Blanc, the master manipulator, was turning Florian's weapon of isolation against him. By three o'clock the job was done. The crisis would come in the morning if the president heard of what had happened while he slept.

Now quite alone in his apartment on the Ile Saint-Louis, Marc Grelle, haggard and unshaven, still wearing his polo-necked sweater and slacks, smoked and studied a series of reports and diagrams. They showed all the security precautions he had mounted to protect the president during his coming motorcade drive to the airport. As he had done so often before, Grelle was checking for a loophole, some open door he had omitted to close through which an assassin might walk. He wished he had Boisseau by his side, but this was one operation he could only work on alone. Occasionally he glanced at the framed photograph of a woman perched on a near-by grand piano, a photograph of his late wife, Pauline.

Some ambitious officials in France take good care to marry rich wives; money can advance a career. Grelle had married a girl whose family was of very modest means, and then out of the blue, shortly before she had been killed in the motor crash, Pauline had inherited a small fortune from a relative she had not even known existed. 'I'd love to buy an apartment on the Quai Bethune,' she had said one day. 'It's the only extravagance I've ever craved. . . .' Shortly afterwards she had been killed.

As police prefect, Grelle had automatically been provided with an apartment inside the prefecture, but after Pauline's death he had purchased this place; not so much because he wanted it, but he thought she would have been happy to know he was living there. His eyes strayed more frequently to the photograph as he went on struggling with the problem; he was wondering what she would have thought of it all. At 4 am, suddenly aware that the room was choking, he got up and opened the window, then he stood there looking across the Seine, breathing in fresh air to alert his brain. He had still not found a loophole.

CHAPTER SEVEN

NO AIRPORT in the world was ever more heavily guarded than Charles de Gaulle Airport on the morning of 23 December. The presidential Concorde—looking in the half-light of near-dawn like a huge, evil bird—waited on the tarmac, already fully fuelled for its long flight to Moscow. In a few hours, at 10.30 am precisely, the aircraft would lift off at a critical angle of forty-five degrees, its vulture-like head arched as it headed for fifty thousand feet.

And already the presidential pilot, Captain Pierre Jubal, who had got up from his bed in his expensive flat in Passy at 5.30, had arrived at the airport the French often call Roissy because it was built near the village of Roissy-en-France. Driving himself the twenty-five kilometres from Paris to the airport, Jubal had been stopped three times at checkpoints along Autoroute A 1, the highway over which the presidential motorcade would pass later.

`This bloody security,' he snapped to his co-pilot, Lefort, as he got out of his Alfa Romeo, 'this bloody security is insane. Do they really believe someone is going to take a pot-shot at him ?'

Lefort shrugged. 'In a bar last night I heard someone say Florian will never reach Roissy alive.'

The airport had been closed to all civil aircraft from midnight, an unprecedented step even for the protection of a head of state. 'It's that police prefect, Grelle,' Jubal grumbled as he walked towards the waiting aircraft. 'He's power-mad. Look at all that. . .'

He waved his hand towards the huge circular building which is the centre-piece of the world's most advanced airport. Silhouetted against the growing light, uniformed men of the Air Transport Gendarmerie patrolled the roof of the building with their automatic weapons. The two men passed a scout-car mounted with a machine gun. Surrounding the circular building are the seven satellites, the separate modernistic departure centres where passengers board their aircraft after travelling on underground travelator belts. Jubal gestured towards the roof of a satellite where the same sinister silhouettes patrolled. `The man's a maniac,' he growled.

`There has already been one attempt on President Florian,' Lefort reminded his superior. 'And, as I've just told you, in a bar last night there was a strong rumour . .

`You shouldn't have been in a bar last night,' Jubal rapped. `You should have been in bed like I was, getting my kip. . . `With Jacqueline"

As the pale early morning light spread over the plain in which Charles de Gaulle Airport stands, Concorde was emerging in stronger silhouette, looking more than ever like a rapacious bird crouched for take-off. In three hours she would be on her way, climbing towards the stratosphere, taking the president of the French Republic on his historic flight to Soviet Russia.

Just before 9.30 am on 23 December the city of Paris was like a frozen tableau where shortly the curtain would rise on great events. Every intersection leading on to the route the presidential motorcade would follow had been closed on Grelle's orders. At every intersection truckloads of CRS troops waited with the engines running. Behind every intersection 'dragon's teeth' of steel chain had been thrown across the incoming roads, blocking off any vehicle which might try to rush the presidential convoy.

Crowds lined the route, kept well back from the road by a maze of crash barriers erected by gendarmes in the middle of the night with the aid of arc-lights mounted on trucks. The crowds were strangely silent, as though expecting something dramatic and tragic to happen. Some of them had tuned in transistor radios to Europe Number One; Col Lasalle was expected to make yet another broadcast shortly. Occasionally, as they waited on that crisp, clear December morning—only two days away from Christmas—they looked behind to the rooftops where police patrolled the skyline like prison camp guards.

At other times the crowd stared above into the sky, which was also guarded. Over the route a fleet of helicopters flew backwards and forwards at a height of one hundred feet, their engines thumping, disappearing out of earshot and then returning again. And all these elements in the vast cordon—on the ground, on the rooftops, in the air itself—were linked by radio to central control at the prefecture on the Ile de la Cite. Boisseau was the man in direct control of the huge operation, waiting in the office Grelle had loaned him for the first radio report to come in.

`He has just left Elysee. . .'

Blanc was sitting in his car inside the Elysee courtyard, one of a whole convoy drawn up to follow the president once he had left, his wife Angele by his side, when he saw a car drive half-way into the palace entrance before it was stopped. He stiffened. Gen Lamartine was getting out. Some bloody fool of a security officer had permitted the general to browbeat his way through the cordon. Blanc looked through the rear window at the steps and saw that Florian had just come out, was pausing as he saw Lamartine arguing with the security chief. `I'll only be a minute,' Blanc said to his wife and slipped out of the car. In the vehicle ahead Roger Danchin was twisted round in his seat, wondering if it was something which concerned him.

Lamartine had left the security man, was hurrying across the yard to the steps while everyone stared. Florian descended into the yard, was met by Lamartine as he started to walk to his car. The general was talking animatedly while Florian walked slowly, listening. Lamartine's face froze as he saw Blanc coming towards him.