The Stone Leopard (36 page)

He's told him, the minister thought, told him everything— to cover himself, the shit.

`What's all this about, Alain ?'

Florian was half inside his car and spoke over his shoulder, then he settled in the seat and left the door open, looking up at Blanc who bent down to speak. One minute—two at the most —would decide it. 'We had a little problem last night,' the minister said crisply. 'They wouldn't let me inside the palace, so I dealt with it myself.'

`You are planning a
coup d'etat
?'

There was a look of cynical amusement on the long, lean, intelligent face, an expression of supreme self-confidence. At that moment Blanc was more aware than he ever had been of the magnetic personality of this man who had wrongly been called the second de Gaulle. He leaned forward as Blanc remained silent, made as though to get out of the car, and the minister's pulse skipped a beat.

`You are planning a
coup d' etat
?' Florian repeated. `Mr President.'

That was all Blanc said. Florian relaxed, closed the door himself and told the driver to proceed. Blanc went back to his own car, not even glancing at Lamartine who stood like a statue, sure now that he had destroyed his career. 'All for nothing,' Blanc told his wife as he settled back in the car. `Lamartine is an old warhorse—I think we may soon have to put him out to grass. . .'

He was talking with only one part of his mind as the first car, full of CRS men, left the courtyard and turned into the Faubourg St Honore, followed by the presidential vehicle. So much confidence bottled up inside one man! Florian had decided it was too late for anyone to stop the wheels of history he had set in motion. Blanc, his closest friend, had issued instructions during the night which could be interpreted as high treason. No matter, he could deal with that when he returned from Moscow. Had a certain American president some years ago had the same feeling of invulnerability—even though his actions had been minor misdemeanours compared with those of Guy Florian?

The route the motorcade was taking to Charles de Gaulle Airport had been carefully worked out by Marc Grelle personally. It must pass through as few narrow streets as possible, to eliminate the danger of a hidden sniper firing from a building. Turning out of the Elysee to the left, it would follow the Faubourg St Honore for a short distance, turn left again down the Avenue Marigny and then enter Champs-Elysées. Once it reached this point it was broad boulevards all the way until it moved on to Autoroute A t and a clear run to the airport.

`He has just left Elysee. . .'

At central control Andre the Squirrel was able to see the motorcade's progress at various selected points where hidden television cameras watched the crowd for hostile movement. With the microphone Boisseau was now holding in his hand he could be 'patched' through to any radio-equipped sub- control centre along the route even warning them of something which caught his eye. On the television screen he watched the motorcade moving down Avenue Marigny; the CRS vehicle in front, the president's car next, followed by twenty- three black saloons containing cabinet ministers and their wives. The sun was shining brilliantly now—there had been a complete weather change late the previous day—but Boisseau, watching the long line of black cars passing, had the macabre feeling he was observing a funeral procession.

Boisseau was sweating it out. A professional to his fingertips, his only concern now was his immediate duty—to get the president safely to Roissy. The Leopard investigation had temporarily faded out of his mind; during the past few hours the prefect had not even mentioned the subject. His expression tense, Boisseau continued watching the television screen. He was waiting for the moment when the motorcade would turn on to the autoroute, which soon moved into open country, and here it would be quite impossible for an assassin to conceal himself.

`Just get to Porte Maillot,' Boisseau whispered. 'Then you are away. . .'

Suddenly he became aware that he was gripping the mike so tightly that his knuckles had whitened. Inside his car, Alain Blanc also realized he was clenching his fist tightly. Like Boisseau he understood that once the president reached the autoroute he would be safe. Blanc found himself peering out of the window, glancing up at the windows of tall apartment blocks, looking for something suspicious, something which shouldn't be there. How the hell was Grelle going to manage it? The motorcade seemed to crawl up the Champs-Elysées.

It seemed to crawl to Boisseau also as it reached the top of the great boulevard, rounded the Arc de Triomphe where Napoleon's victories seem to go on for ever, and then started down the Avenue de la Grande Armee which is also lined with tall apartment blocks on both sides. 'Get to Porte Maillot,' Boisseau whispered to himself again, glad that he was alone in the office. Everything which had happened in the past few weeks had emptied out of his mind: Boisseau was in charge of the president's security. The responsibility weighed on him heavily.

Alain Blanc was now beginning to give up hope that anything would happen. Grelle had obviously failed, which was hardly surprising. Perhaps his nerve had failed which would be even less surprising. Still looking up at the apartment block windows, Blanc took out a handkerchief and mopped his damp forehead. For a different reason he was under as great a strain as Boisseau. He frowned as he heard the thump of an approaching helicopter's engine, flying very low, then he pressed his cheek against the window trying to locate the low-flying machine. The crowd, still strangely silent, as though they too felt they were watching a funeral procession, craned their heads to stare at the helicopter which was flying straight up Champs-Elysées from behind the motorcade. Passing over the Arc de Triomphe, it headed down the Avenue de la Grande Armee, scattering pigeons from the rooftops with the raucous clatter of its engine. Then it passed over them and flew off into the distance. Blanc sagged back in his seat. 'Really, there was nothing we could have done. . . .' Inadvertently he had spoken aloud and his wife glanced at him in surprise. Then the lead vehicle, followed by the president's, began turning. They had reached Porte Maillot.

At 10.25 am Captain Pierre Jubal sat with his co-pilot, Lefort, behind the controls of Concorde five minutes before take-off time. On the tarmac outside in the blazing sunshine the entire French cabinet stood in line, waiting for Florian to board the plane. Near by stood squads of Airport Gendarmerie, their automatic weapons cradled in their arms. From where Alain Blanc stood the view beyond Concorde went straight out across the plain, interrupted only by a tiny cluster of distant buildings which was the village of le Mesnil Amelot perched at the edge of the vast airport. The sun caught a minute spike which was a church spire, a tiny rectangle which was an abandoned factory. Then the president was walking past his cabinet ministers, smiling his famous smile.

`He has the presence of a king,' Danchin murmured to the minister standing next to him. 'France is indeed blessed at this time of her great power. . .'

About to board the aircraft, Florian seemed to remember something. Swinging round, still smiling broadly, he went back and shook hands with Alain Blanc. 'Alain,' he said warmly, 'I will never forget all you did for me in the past. . .' Only Blanc noticed the emphasis he placed on the last few words, like a chairman saying good-bye to the director he has just dismissed from the board. The execution is delayed, Blanc thought as he watched Florian going up the mobile staircase, but it will be carried out the moment he returns.

At the top of the staircase Florian turned, waved his hand, then disappeared. The jets began to hum and hiss. Technicians near the nose of the plane ran back. The incredible machine began to throb with power.

Watching the scene on television in Paris, Boisseau mopped his own forehead.

Earlier, before the motorcade turned out of the Elysee, it was helicopter pilot Jean Vigier who spotted the small black car moving at speed away from the centre of Paris. He saw it first below him, driving along the Boulevard des Capucines. Intrigued—it was the only vehicle moving along the deserted boulevard, he changed course and picked it up again beyond Opera. Impressed by its speed, by the sense of urgency it conveyed, he continued tracking it.

What started as a routine check turned into something more alarming as Vigier followed its non-stop progress; the car was moving past road-block after road-block without stopping, without any check being made on it. Worried now, Vigier continued his aerial surveillance on the rogue vehicle while he radioed central control.

`Small black car passing through all checkpoints without stopping . . . now located at . .'

Receiving the message, Boisseau took immediate action, telling an assistant to phone the police station at 1 rue Hittorf, which was the nearest checkpoint the car had passed through. The assistant returned a few minutes later. 'It is the police prefect inside that car—that is why they are letting him through the checkpoints. He radios each one as he approaches it. . . Boisseau wasted little time on speculation; his chief was clearly checking something out. Sending a message back to helicopter pilot Jean Vigier, 'Driver of black car identified—no cause for alarm,' he forgot about the incident.

Inside the car Grelle was now approaching the Goutte-d'Or district. Again he radioed ahead to the next checkpoint to let him through and then he did something very curious. Pulling in by the kerb in the deserted street, he changed the waveband on his mobile communicator, took out a miniaturized tape- recorder, started it playing and then began speaking over the communicator, prefacing his message with the code-sign. `Franklin Roosevelt. Boisseau here. Yes, Boisseau. Is that you, Lesage ? Interference ? Nothing wrong at this end. Now, listen!' The tape-recorder went on spewing out the static he had recorded off his own radio set in his apartment, garbling his voice as he went on speaking.

`Rabbit has been seen. . . . Yes, Rabbit! Walking down rue Clichy five minutes ago. Take your men and scour the Clichy area now. Don't argue, Lesage, he's got away from you—just get after him! When you find him, tail him—no interception. I repeat, no interception. He may lead you to the rest of the gang. . .

Having given the code-word for the operation at the beginning of his message, Grelle was satisfied that Lesage would carry out his order immediately. Driving on again, he passed through the next checkpoint and then turned into the rue Reamur where Rabbit, the Algerian terrorist Abou Benefeika, was still waiting for his friends to come and collect him. Getting out of his car, he approached the derelict entrance to No. 17 with care, but the rubber-soled shoes he was wearing made no sound as he entered the door-less opening with his revolver in his hand. A stale smell of musty damp made him wrinkle his nose as he stood in the dark hallway listening. He was even more careful as he made his way down the staircase leading to the basement.

He waited at the bottom to accustom his eyes to the gloom, and gradually the silhouette of a sleeping man formed beyond the doorway into the cellar, a man sleeping on his side and facing the wall. Switching on his pocket torch the prefect found a wire stretched across the lower part of the doorway; following it with the beam of his torch he saw it was attached to a large tin perched on a pile of bricks. Any incautious person who walked through the doorway would bring down the tin, alerting the sleeping terrorist. Grelle stepped over the wire, still using the torch to thread his way among a scatter of old bricks as he approached the sleeping terrorist. Bending down, he picked up the Magnum pistol close to the man's inert hand. Then he wakened him.

Grelle drove out of Paris through the Porte de Pantin, and continued along route N3; then, just before reaching Claye Souilly, he turned due north through open countryside. The Algerian terrorist, Abou Benefeika, was crouched on the floor in front of the passenger seat Grelle had pushed back to its fullest extent. Covered with a travelling rug, which had apparently slipped on to the floor, he was crouched on his haunches facing the door with his back to Grelle who occasionally lifted the revolver out of his lap and pressed it against the nape of his neck to remind him of its presence.

Abou Benefeika was partly relieved, partly terrified. The civilian who had woken him up with a gun in his face, warning him to keep quiet, had told him he had come to take him away, to get him out of the country. 'Your friends ran for it,' Grelle told him savagely, 'so I have been left to see you don't get caught. The police are closing in on this district, I suppose you know ?' Grelle had warned him to get his head down and keep it down. 'This is a stolen police car so you'd better hope and pray we can get past the road-blocks they've set up. I have the identity card of the detective I shot to take this car, so we should be able to manage it. But if I have to shoot you to save myself I shall do so. . .'

Benefeika, cooped up in the basement with the rats for days, was in a demoralized state. He didn't trust the man who had woken him, but he was encouraged when Grelle passed through police road-blocks without giving him up. What other explanation could there be except the one this man had given him ? Beyond the Porte de Pantin there were no more checkpoints for a while, but the occasional prods with the muzzle of his rescuer's revolver encouraged Benefeika to keep his head down. In the back of the car another travelling rug was draped over the floor, but it was not a man who lay concealed beneath this covering.