Slade leaned over and whispered into Brueget’s ear, “How much is this going to cost me?”
He chuckled, and said, “Not this time. Even the Socialist President of France isn’t going to buck NATO, INTERPOL and above all the Catholic Church! Politically speaking he’d be dead before he hung up the phone!”
The mayor was now red in the face. He shoved his phone in his pocket and missed. The phone fell to the floor and shattered. The aide scooped up the broken phone and held it out for the mayor, who stared at him and then swatted the offending piece of hardware out of the listless hand.
He looked at Brueget and then at Slade, steaming. In a tightly controlled voice, he said, “You are to be released Monsieur Slade. It would give me great — pleasure — to invite you to my office this afternoon so that I may, on the president’s behalf, award you the Légion d'honneur for your service to France.”
The detective had already unlocked Slade, who stood, still in his bathrobe and boots. “It would be an honor Monsieur Mayor.”
Turning on his heel, the mayor stormed out of the room and slammed the door. Still, they could all hear him as he shouted, almost screamed for the cops to get every civilian who wasn’t under arrest out of the building — now!
The Chief of Police ordered a gendarme to get Slade’s cloths. He returned with the clothes and weapons. Slade began digging them out.
“My men are heading to all of the Muslim Brotherhood safe houses,” Brueget told him. “If he’s still in Paris we’ll find him.”
“He’s probably disappeared like the rat he is,” Slade growled. They walked down the back stairs to the courtyard of the Palais de Justice, within which was the Cathedral of Saint-Michel, a small yet stunning example of stained glass gone magnificently mad.
“The car’s out on the street,” Brueget said, leading Slade through the arch.
“We’re never going to find him,” Slade growled, there are too many places to hide in Paris.”
The sound of squealing tires and sirens caught their attention. Looking up they saw a Renault convertible flying over the bridge toward them; the unmistakable sound of AK-47’s filled the Paris morning.
CHAPTER 22: Deception
The first mate of the Iranian oil tanker went out on deck in the early morning hours, purportedly to watch the sun rise over the South China Sea. Why he needed a small gym bag to do that he couldn’t have answered but no one asked.
As salmon tinged the eastern sky he went to the rail. After unzipping the gym bag he withdrew a god sized heavy metal object and set it on the deck. It was the same type of Black Box found on all commercial Airbus A380’s. There was a cable attached to the box leading to a simple switch. The first mate turned on the switch and noted that a red light shone beneath it.
Taking out a set of earphones attached to a small radio the first officer put them on his head and listened. There was a clearly audible ping! Satisfied, he disconnected the cable and put it back in the bag. The headphones and radio followed.
Lifting the Black Box the first mate heaved it overboard. It fell four stories to the sea below, disappearing into the water without a sound.
A day later a report circulated that the pinging of Malaysian Flight 666 was heard in the South China Sea. The resources of a dozen countries sped to the area but the signal died before the Black Box was retrieved. Speculation on whether the A380 and its wreckage now rested at the bottom of the ocean ran rampant.
CHAPTER 23: General Washington’s Kabob
Brueget hopped in the big, black Peugeot and started the engine. Slade threw his case in the back and followed it in. Throwing the transmission into drive, Brueget smoked the tires, trying to nudge the Renault as careened past. He missed, but Brueget kept his foot on the gas, sliding into the street in pursuit, followed by a line of gendarmes with sirens wailing.
There were four men in the Renault, and three of them had automatic AK-47 assault rifles. One of them was Abdulla. The Budda-budda-budda of the Kalashnikov thumped the Paris morning.
“Are they insane? There are citizens everywhere!” Brueget cursed, sliding into a hard left turn onto Quai d’Horloge. The Renault took the next left toward Pont Neuf, and then crossed the Seine, screaming left again against the traffic along the river. The Renault dodged cars and motorcycles, zooming past the Great Canadian Pub’s big red maple leaf and trying to make the turn into Saint-Michel — he didn’t make it — instead skidding across the plaza, guns blazing, where the Arab population was already gathering for another day of protests.
The Renault plowed through the crowd, with the young terrorists in the back firing wildly, facing backwards. They tried to shoot at the Peugeot, which Brueget swung wide to avoid the crowds, but they seemed just as happy to shoot down people — little realizing these were their own sympathizers.
The Renault was slowed by the multitude of people it ran over, and Brueget was on the point of cutting it off, so the driver steered hard left and headed back over the Saint-Michel Bridge where he started.
Brueget cursed and spun around, gunning it and following. Over the Saint-Michel Bridge they sped, past pedestrians and tourists.
Slade drew his pistols and rolled down his window. He leaned out as soon as he had a clear shot and sent a flurry of 9mm rounds at the Renault. One of the terrorists took a bullet in the shoulder. It spun him around in the seat, but as he was already half standing, he lost his balance and spilled over the side.
“That wasn’t Hussein?” Brueget exclaimed.
“No!” Slade replied — thump, thump — Brueget made sure of him.
“Double tap!” Brueget exclaimed.
The heavy car rolled over him, dragging the terrorist for a bit, leaving a bloody smear on the pavement and over the bridge, before the broken man rolled out from underneath as they skidded onto Quai des Gevres, again going against traffic.
The drag of the terrorist had slowed the Peugeot down, but now Brueget stepped on it, weaving through the oncoming traffic, gaining on the Renault. By the time they were close enough for Slade to take another shot they were passing Pont d’Alma. The Renault entered the proper lane and headed toward Place d’Lena on the Avenue du President Wilson. The buildings sped by. As the approached the wide roundabout, Brueget yelled, “He’s got to slow and turn right!”
Slade whipped out his gun and shot low. He emptied the clip at the Renault’s rear tire. The back tailgate and bumper sparked, and then the right rear tire blew in a cloud of white smoke.
Young Abdulla was not an experienced fighter. He waved the barrel of the AK-47 around like a movie prop, missing the Peugeot entirely. When the tire blew he and his companion clutched the rear of the Renault, just trying to stay in the swerving car. With the tire blown the driver couldn’t make the turn. He careened through traffic, bouncing off several cars before running headlong into the concrete pedestal on which rested the equestrian statue of General George Washington. The little Renault slammed to a stop, throwing Abdulla high into the gray morning sky.
The impact tossed Abdulla like a rag doll some sixty feet in the air. He came down on the point of the George Washington’s up-thrust sword, impaling himself through the stomach on the symbol of America; the Great Satan. Abdulla hung there for a few moments, weakly clutching at General Washington’s steady hand before he fainted.
Jean pulled the Peugeot to a screeching halt next to the statue, laughing. “How apropos,” Jean sighed, getting out his phone. “I will get the ambulances on the way. You had better see to young Abdulla! Although I fear he is of no more use to us!”