Nobeca

by Lloyd Nesling

  “Has anyone left since I spoke to you a few minutes ago?”

  “A young couple just left and Mr Landers left a few minutes ago.”

  “But I would have seen him.”

  The girl shrugged her shoulders. Cursing under his breath he went back into the lounge.

  “When did Mr Landers leave?” he asked the waiter urgently.

  “He has left? I thought you wanted the chocolate kept warm? Perhaps he has just gone to the bar.”

  Conrad cursed under his breath. Why hadn’t he thought of it? Plushenko must have gone to the bar concealed at the back of the room and slipped past him when he re-entered the lounge.

  He charged to the lift just outside and punched the button. It had stopped on the fourth floor. Was Plushenko in the lift or had he taken the stairs? Suddenly, the lift started to descend again. This time it wasn’t stopping on every floor.

  He raced to the fire exit, ran down the stairs and burst into the ground floor foyer. It was deserted. Everyone had gone out earlier to enjoy the festivities. Suddenly, a car screeched to a halt outside. He ran out just in time to see a silver Mercedes pull away. Plushenko stared at him through the rear passenger window as the car hurtled away down the Rue de Courcelles. Conrad made a mental note of the number plate then rushed to a waiting taxi and jumped in.

  “Follow that Mercedes!”

  “But monsieur, the taxi is reserved!” the driver cried.

  “Just follow it!” Conrad ordered. He flicked open his phone. “Jules! I’ve found Plushenko, but he’s given me the slip again. He’s in a silver Mercedes heading down the Rue de Courcelles!”

  They chased the Mercedes towards the junction with Boulevard Haussmann and turned on to Avenue Friedland. It was about a hundred metres in front of them now, nudging its way through the jam of vehicles circumventing the Arc de Triomphe. The taxi gained enough ground for Conrad to see the Mercedes entering Place Charles de Gaulle on to Avenue Foch. They followed it as far as Avenue Victor Hugo then back towards the Arc de Triomphe. They lost him at the Rond-Point des Champs Élysée.

  “I’ve lost them Jules. Can you get a chopper out?”

  “There’s one already on standby.”

  “Get the pilot to pick me up at the Heliport de Paris in Issy-les-Molineaux. I should be there in about thirty minutes.”

  Conrad looked down on the city from the chopper. Vehicle headlights moved below him like strings of Christmas chaser lights. The Eiffel Tower and the bridges of Paris were resplendent in golden light. Even after dark it was one of the world’s most beautiful cities, especially this time of year. It was the early hours of the morning, but revellers still swarmed the main streets.

  Suddenly, the bright lights below them flickered and died. The city was plunged into darkness. Another power cut. The helicopter’s searchlight swept the area below, but there was no sign of the silver Mercedes. By now Plushenko could be anywhere in Paris. On the horizon fingers of silvery light probed the sky above the city. It was past four o’clock in the morning by the time he got back to Patricia’s apartment.

  *

  In the Hotel de Brabazon, Plushenko flipped open his laptop. It was time to declare war. Soon he would be in control of the most powerful countries in the world, but first he would play with them for a little while longer. With sadistic pleasure he tapped a key and waited. He checked his watch. It was midnight in America. Time to see in another New Year?

  In New York’s Times Square all eyes looked up at the dazzling, illuminated ball waiting for it to drop, heralding the New Year. Suddenly, the square was plunged into darkness. Not a single neon light flickered on the buildings.

  “What the hell happened?” a voice yelled in the darkness.

  “Don’t worry, they’ll be back on soon. Grid overload I expect.”

  But the lights didn’t come back on. Panic rippled through the crowd like a fast-moving river. Cigarette lighters flamed, sputtered and died. A rookie cop fired a shot into the air to calm the crowd, but it had the opposite effect. Everyone started to move at the same time. A sea of bodies frantically shoved forward, trying to get out of the claustrophobic mass closing in on every side. The sound of breaking glass, trampling feet and cries of terror echoed in the air. Simultaneously, the lights went out all over Europe for the second time in twenty-four hours. He tapped the keys again sending a message into cyberspace. Washington, London, Beijing, Moscow; all the major governments in the world would receive his message.

  ‘Your cities are in darkness. Soon there will be no water running from your taps, no light, no heating. There is worse to follow. Your business infrastructures will grind to a complete halt creating panic and a run on the banks, but the coup de grâce is yet to come. Your time is running out – the Generalissimo.’

  In the Commissaire’s office Conrad sipped the scalding espresso. The caffeine surged through his body giving him the lift he needed. The chaos of the night before was still being assessed. Good-natured celebrations had turned into a nightmare. Shops had run out of candles, storm lanterns and flashlights. Hospitals were operating on emergency generators. Not a sign had been seen of Plushenko all through the daylight hours.

  Jules sat opposite him, a grim look on his face. Conrad had crashed out for a couple of hours, but he was exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open. Suddenly, his secure mobile buzzed.

  “Regis,” he answered.

  “Our man has been in contact.” Pearce read out the e-mail Plushenko had sent. “What I don’t understand is that he hasn’t given us any ultimatum. What does he want?”

  Judging by what they had seen on the memory stick, retrieved from the crashed helicopter in Switzerland, it was obvious that Plushenko didn’t need money. He had billions stashed away in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands. He wanted to destabilise the world economy. That, in turn, would create tension between countries.

  “‘The coup de grâce is yet to come’. What does he mean?”

  “My God, could it be he really means a conventional war? Through cyberspace he can infiltrate military and government installations – GCHQ, the Pentagon, Moscow. Play on long-standing suspicions; turn country against country then he’ll be in complete control.” Conrad heard the gasp at the other end of the line.

  “We’re still one step ahead of him,” Pearce stated. “He doesn’t know about the meeting with the G8 countries in Washington and they don’t know his real intentions. We must try to limit that knowledge for as long as we can.”

  “Jules,” Conrad said, turning to the Commissaire, “keep the chopper on alert. I think Plushenko will try to get out of Paris tonight. The trouble is he could be in any kind of disguise.”

  “Airports, railway stations, even boats on the Seine are being watched. Private airfields and heliports are also under surveillance. Anyone looking vaguely suspicious will be stopped and questioned.”

  “What about private helipads?” Conrad blurted. “How many are there in the city?”

  Jules shrugged. “There are none in the centre. A couple of major hospitals have rudimentary facilities for emergencies only. Otherwise there is Issy-les-Moulineaux or JDP heliport outside the city. There used to be a rooftop helipad at the Hotel de Brabazon on Rue Honore de Faubourg, but it’s no longer used.”

  Conrad looked thoughtful. Could Plushenko be brazen enough to make his escape from the street that housed the Élysée Palace, the official residence of the French President of the Republic?

  *

  Conrad sat silently in the unmarked police car observing the rear of the Hotel de Brabazon. He had been sitting there for two hours watching and waiting. It was crazy. He didn’t even know for sure that Plushenko was in the hotel. Jules had made some discreet enquiries at reception, but staff couldn’t confirm that anyone matching Plushenko’s description had registered.

  It was quiet, not a sound to be heard except the muffled noise of traffic that never ceased in Paris. Suddenly, a faint gleam of light on the rooftop caught his attention then disappeared.
He strained his eyes to see the light again – nothing. Just when he thought he had imagined it he glimpsed it again, just above the safety barrier on the roof. The light was moving now from side to side.

  Heart thumping, Conrad jumped out of the car and raced towards the fire exit door. It was locked from the inside. Using all his weight he charged at it. The impact jarred his shoulder sending him off balance. The door hadn’t budged. Then he remembered the handheld ramming device Jules had told him was in the boot of the car. He hauled it out and pounded the door until it flew off its hinges.

  Suddenly, he heard a loud roar and a whop, whopping noise. A helicopter! He ran up the stairs and burst through the door on to the roof. The wind created by the chopper almost knocked him off his feet. Out of the darkness a man ran towards it. A hand reached out to haul him aboard. Conrad lunged at his legs. A vicious kick to the head sent him sprawling. With a jarring thud, he dropped face down on the concrete. Gasping in pain, he struggled back onto his feet. In the gloom he caught a last glimpse of Plushenko’s face before the chopper flew away into the darkness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Bernese Oberland, Switzerland

  The French Airforce scrambled a helicopter and picked Conrad up from Issy-les-Moulineaux Heliport. Wallace was waiting for him. He had been flown to Paris from RAF Shawbury in Shropshire.

  “Breakdancer, this is Regis,” he yelled over the noise of the chopper. “I’m heading for the slopes with Rookie.”

  “Don’t break your leg again,” Pearce replied.

  “I’ll avoid the black runs.”

  Conrad snapped his phone shut. Reports had come in that air traffic control was down at Heathrow, Charles de Gaulle, Berlin Tegel Airport, Madrid, Leonardo di Vinci in Rome and Geneva. Tensions mounted as hundreds of disgruntled passengers swarmed the airports after missed flights for business meetings, weddings, funerals, holidays. Fights broke out as the chaos mounted.

  Trains had stopped running. Signal systems on major intercity lines had broken down and passengers had been evacuated from the Eurostar tunnel. ATMs were spewing out cash and swallowing cards.

  Families lucky enough to have a stock of emergency candles sat in half-light behind closed curtains, huddled together to keep warm. Central heating systems, depending on electricity to spark the boiler, had stopped working. The lucky ones luxuriated in the warmth of log-burning stoves, self-satisfied smiles on their faces. No television, no radio, very little light to read.

  Children played in semi-darkness on their Nintendos, but soon that plaything would run out of energy. Yellow candlelight in the restaurants and bars created fantastical shadows lending them a surreal atmosphere. The scent of fear hung in the air as they sipped their drinks and half-heartedly made conversation. This was no ordinary power cut. The lights had gone out all over Europe.

  “I can’t get through to airport control in Bern!” the pilot shouted over his shoulder.

  “Can you fly on to Interlaken?” Conrad yelled over the roar of the engine.

  “Yes sir, but I haven’t got the authority. Besides, I’ll barely have enough fuel to get back to Paris.”

  “Leave it to me. I’ll take responsibility.” Conrad punched a number into his satellite phone. “Ernst, I need a chopper to pick us up in Interlaken. There’s a golf course between the town and Neuhaus not far from a couple of campsites. We’ll come down there.”

  Dawn had broken by the time they landed on the golf course just outside Interlaken. Battling against a flurry of light snow, they raced towards the Eurocopter EC45 chopper out of Rega’s Air Rescue base in Bern, its rotating blades churning up snow into a mini blizzard.

  “Are you certain that Plushenko is in Switzerland?” Wallace asked.

  “I’m not sure of anything,” Conrad replied, “but it’s the most likely place. He’ll reason we won’t expect him to come back there, unless you have any other ideas?”

  Wallace exhaled white vapour into the freezing air. He was still angry that Plushenko had got away from them in Shropshire.

  Weak rays of sunlight pierced the clouds revealing patches of blue as the chopper circled the facility. Conrad looked down on snow-covered slopes. Only the occasional scrappy pine protruded from the blanket of white. Sweeping his binoculars over the area, he noticed the goats’ grazing patch was no longer visible. Nor was there any sign of the concealed doors housing the helipad. Suddenly, he homed in what appeared to be shallow snowdrifts.

  “Bloody hell! There’s something shining down there.”

  “Those are the metal helipad doors we saw from inside the facility. Plushenko is here all right and he knows we’ve found him. He turned to the pilot. “Can you set down on that flat area just above the facility?”

  “Only a lunatic would attempt it.”

  “But could a lunatic do it?”

  “If the snow is packed hard enough, but it’s extremely risky. If the wind picks up we’ll be in big trouble.”

  *

  Perched on the narrow plateau above the dilapidated hotel, they waited for Plushenko’s helicopter to emerge. It was their only option, but not for much longer. The weather forecast was grim. Ominous shadows swept across the mountains as light faded into dusk, bringing a lull in the wind and snowfall. Suddenly, the clouds parted revealing mountain peaks that looked as though they had been crafted from icing sugar, glowing surreally white.

  “This could be when he makes a break for it,” Conrad said.

  The pilot nodded and carried out his safety checks in readiness for flight. In the distance another swirl of dark cloud threatened on the horizon. From the facility a flickering light appeared. Peering through his high-powered binoculars Conrad saw the hangar doors slowly open wide. Rapidly, a helicopter rose up out of the gaping hole, its blades revolving in a hot take-off.

  “Now!” he shouted.

  Snow sucked at the helicopter’s skis as it rose into the air and flew up towards the peaks. Conrad fired a volley of shots, but it was useless. The chopper banked and flew off.

  “He’s probably making for the field near Lauterbrünnen. We have to head him off!”

  “The wind is picking up again,” the pilot yelled. He was struggling to keep control of the craft. “I’ll have to set her down!”

  “Not yet!” Conrad shouted back. “Look, he’s just in front of us.”

  The chopper bounced in front of them like a rubber ball on a string. Suddenly, a shot rang out over the whop, whopping of the blades. It pierced the window, grazing Conrad’s cheek. Focussing a thermal imaging scope Conrad scoured the chopper cabin. He detected the pilot and another figure huddled in the cockpit.

  “Look out!” he shouted. “He’s got an AK-47!”

  “What the hell are they doing?” Wallace yelled.

  They could just make out the dim shape of the cable car line that stretched up to Mürren from Gimmelwald, the precipitous drop into the valley falling away beneath them. As the chopper descended towards Stechelberg the wind caught it, sending it off course.

  “They’re out of control! They’re heading straight for the cable!”

  In front of them the pilot struggled to gain height, but it was too late. The helicopter hit it full on, its blades entangled with the steel cable. For a brief moment it hung there, swaying precariously from side to side in the eerie light. Suddenly, a high­pitched scream pierced the air. The chopper broke away from the cable and fell like a stone. They followed its progress as it hurtled downwards, its blades tearing away from the fuselage. A ball of orange flame marked the spot where it smashed into the valley floor.

  “I’ll have to set her down in Mürren,” the pilot said, “if we can make it.”

  They could barely see through the gloom as they lost height. Conrad scanned the area below them searching for the landing pad used to transport skiers from the towns.

  He’s some pilot Wallace thought admiringly as the skis hit the tarmac.

  They trudged to the Hotel Bellevue near the Schilthorn cable car. They
would have to wait there until mountain rescue arrived. In the meantime they needed a drink and some hot food inside them.

  At daybreak Conrad and Wallace, accompanied by a search party, found the burnt-out aircraft and the remains of two men. The mangled body of the pilot was still strapped in his safety harness. They stared at the remains of the other passenger. His face was unrecognisable; the charred body sprawled in the snow in nightmare fashion. Conrad felt a grim satisfaction. Plushenko was dead.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  London, January 2017

  Clive Pearce paced impatiently between his room and Isobel’s. After a few days rest Conrad and Wallace had flown back from Switzerland. They were on their way up. Pearce walked back into his office, his face grim.

  “Take a pew,” he said when they walked in. “Glad to see you both back in one piece.” He sat down behind his desk, swinging from side to side without looking at them. Conrad knew that pose. His boss had something on his mind. Finally, Pearce said, “It wasn’t Plushenko.”

  Wallace started to say something, but Conrad held up his hand to stop him.

  “What the hell do you mean?” Conrad asked.

  “Forensics established that neither of the bodies found at the crash was Plushenko.”

  “But it must have been him! I saw him get into the chopper on the roof of the Hotel Brabazon in Paris. The facility in Switzerland is the only place he could have gone.”

  Pearce shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t have an answer. His guts churned. They had been outwitted again.

  Conrad struggled to assimilate the information. Plushenko must be still in the alpine facility waiting to make his escape. But that wasn’t possible now. The blizzard had really closed in making it completely inaccessible. He must have gone somewhere else. Where was he? Why was he still playing games with them? The lights had come back on, but for how long? Sooner or later, banks and industries would be completely destabilised. What could happen next terrified him.