Paris Match(101)
“Not until we know what we’re getting into,” Lance said. “I don’t want a firefight on French soil.” He turned around. “Stone, you’re a pilot—what’s the best way to temporarily disable a jet airplane without causing a fire or an explosion or much of a fuss?”
“Fire a round into the nosewheel,” Stone said. “It would take at least an hour, perhaps much longer, to replace it, even if they have a tire readily available.”
“An hour to change a tire?”
“It’s not a car,” Stone said, “it’s an airplane, and the mechanics who work on it have to follow strict procedures in the maintenance manual. It’s time-consuming.”
“Would the pilots start the engines in the hangar?”
“No, the thrust from those two big engines would likely blow out the back of the hangar. They’ll tow it onto the ramp with a tractor, and they’ll start the engines there.”
Lance turned back to Rick. “If or when any attempt is made to tow the airplane from the hangar, tell your guy to shoot out the nosewheel tire, employing stealth, preferably with a silenced weapon. He should not fire at any person, even if fired upon.”
Rick transmitted the order. “Tell me when you want me to go,” he said to Lance.
“I want to know if any passengers are on that aircraft before I make any decisions.”
“My guy is working on it.”
Lance sat very still and waited, his eyes closed. Stone thought he might be napping.
Presently, Rick’s radio squawked, and he put an ear to it. Then he leaned into the van. “Two large vans just arrived at a door on the other side of the hangar. Six men and two women went inside, and their luggage is being taken into the hangar, as we speak.”
“Tell your guy to do his work on the nosewheel, then report back.”
A minute passed, and the radio squawked. “The tire is out,” Rick said.
“Right,” Lance said. “How many men do you have at your disposal?”
“Eleven,” Rick replied, “not including you, Stone, and Holly.”
“That should be enough. Let’s get over there, and I want your men to cover the large doors at the front and any other egress. No one is to leave the hangar—should anyone try, shoot to wound, not kill. Go!”
“Now, driver,” Lance said, “give their vehicles a two-minute head start, then drive over to the hangar they are covering and park this van to the right of the main door, where there’s a smaller door in the big door.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said.
They all sat and waited for two minutes, by Stone’s watch. “Lance,” he said, “what is your plan?”
“Plan?” Lance asked, as if surprised. “I plan to be reasonable, if I can.”
“And if you can’t?”
“Then all hell will break loose,” Lance said. “Time to go,” he called to the driver.
The van began to move toward the hangar.
55
As the armored van rolled across the tarmac toward the hangar, the huge doors began to rise and fold, and from the left, a tow tractor appeared from the darkness and moved toward the big jet.
The van pulled up to the position Lance had ordered. They had a very good view of the front of the Gulfstream, to just past the main door. Lance produced an iPhone, tapped the Contacts icon, then tapped in a name. “Ah,” he said, then tapped the resulting phone number. He put the instrument to an ear and listened for several rings, then he apparently got an answer. “Yevgeny!” he said, smiling, as if the man were an old friend. “It’s Lance Cabot here. Good morning! Yes, I know it’s rather early, but I wanted to speak to you before you abandoned Paris.” He listened. “On your way, are you? Well, not quite. If you will be kind enough to send someone to inspect your nosewheel, you’ll find that it’s in no condition to roll, and thus, neither is that beautiful Gulfstream of yours. Go ahead, I’ll wait.” He held the phone a few inches from his ear, and shouting in Russian could be heard. The door of the airplane swung down, and a uniformed pilot ran down the air stair and to the nosewheel, which was quite flat. He ran back up the stairs into the aircraft.