‘Left,’ he said. ‘Au coin.’
She darted left and found the door to the fire escape. She yanked it open, speed-dialling Fennimore as she ran down the steps.
‘They’re on their way out,’ she said. ‘Watch the exit.’
‘Oh, God – I’ve been moved on by a traffic cop.’ Fennimore sounded panicked. ‘I’m doing a circuit of the block.’
‘Well, put your foot down.’
As she swung the basement door open, a limo swept by. Simms caught a glimpse of a girl through the window, solemn, anxious-looking. The girl saw her and turned as the car moved on, her eyes wide.
Simms mouthed, ‘Suzie?’
Maddeningly, the girl’s hair had fallen over her left temple.
Simms banged on the boot of the vehicle to attract the driver’s attention. In response, the limo put on a spurt of speed, tyres squealing. She broke into a run, losing ground with every stride. It was already on the ramp; she sprinted up on to the street seconds after the driver turned right, merging with the traffic. Fennimore rounded the corner and Simms waved him to the kerb. She threw herself into the car and he pulled away.
‘Black limo,’ she said. ‘Two ahead of the Renault.’
They set off in pursuit, zig-zagging through traffic.
Simms called Guerin and gave him their location, but as they twisted and turned through the capital’s back streets, she was hampered by the unfamiliar geography.
‘What the hell’s he doing?’ Fennimore yelled.
Back on one of the boulevards, the limo had swerved across two lanes.
Fennimore was blocked by traffic. He sounded his horn and edged over, but the limo made a sudden illegal right down a one-way street.
Fennimore braked, but missed the turn.
‘Next right – twenty yards,’ Simms yelled. He took the turn, blasting down the narrow street, clipping the wing mirror of a parked car. But by the time they made it to the junction, the limo had vanished. Simms gave Guerin the make and registration of the limo.
Fennimore turned into the traffic, still hunting it, screaming to Guerin to find out if the firm had GPS trackers on their cars.
At the next junction he glanced right and left. ‘Which way, Kate? Which way?’
She scanned the road signs. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Follow the signs to the Périphérique – if he’s trying to get out of the city, that would be the quickest route.’
Minutes later, Guerin called Simms.
‘We have him in sight,’ he said. ‘Driving north-east on the Périphérique.’
‘Jesus, Nick – we’re heading the wrong way.’
‘Hang on to something,’ he said.
‘No,’ Simms said. ‘Nick, don’t do this—’
Fennimore cut across the yellow centre-line and u-turned the car to the sound of horns and the squeal of tyres as cars screeched to a halt around them. He blasted on, leaving irate drivers gesticulating furiously as they sped away.
The character of the city changed quickly to high-rise social housing and low-rise retail units, most defaced by graffiti. The roadway itself was scarred, pitted and patched, and as they drove through underpass after underpass, the mood changed to match the brutal architecture.
Five minutes on, they got word that Branly’s limo had stopped – the police were closing in. Guerin hung up, but shortly after Simms’s phone buzzed in her hand.
Fennimore was half crazy with grief and worry – if this was bad news, she didn’t want to give it to him rolling at 60 mph. ‘Pull over,’ she said abruptly. When he was safely on the hard shoulder, Simms moved the slider to ‘Answer’ and switched to speaker.
‘Is she safe?’ she asked.
‘We found the limo and driver, but Branly and the girl are gone,’ the inspector said.
‘On foot?’
‘Branly had arranged a taxi to meet them.’
Fennimore gripped the steering wheel so hard she thought he might rip it from its housing.
‘We are checking Paris taxi firms,’ Guerin continued. ‘But it could take hours – and anyway perhaps he changed taxis or he might even have a car – uh, caché?’
‘Hidden,’ Simms supplied.
‘Yes, hidden,’ Guerin said.
‘The driver had no idea where they were headed?’
‘No,’ the Frenchman said. ‘He was told only to head north-east.’
Simms hung up after extracting a promise that Guerin would keep them informed. She looked across at Fennimore. He had covered his eyes with one hand, and his shoulders shook.
She touched his arm. He muttered something, and she said, ‘What?’
‘I said, what’s in the north-east?’ He wiped his eyes and sat up straight. ‘Pass me the e-tablet out of the glove compartment, will you?’ He seemed unnaturally calm.
She handed over the device, thinking, Don’t give up, Nick. Not now – not when we’re so close.
Fennimore consulted the map, pinching and expanding images to enlarge it. ‘See that?’ he said. ‘Le Bourget airport is just a few kilometres north-east of here.’
Simms rang Guerin and put him on speaker. ‘It’s a business aviation airport,’ Guerin said. ‘Exclusively private flights in and out of Paris. If Branly is there, he will go no further. Tell Professor Fennimore.’
‘He hears you,’ she said. She closed the phone and stared hard at Fennimore. ‘Now we switch places,’ she said.
‘We need to get there fast.’
‘We need to get there alive,’ she corrected. ‘You can navigate.’
She drove as fast as she dared, Fennimore balancing his tablet on the dashboard so that she could read the route. They peeled off the Périphérique on to Autoroute du Nord, an eight-lane highway. On the outskirts of the city they plunged into a tunnel, blasting out into dazzling sunshine and a more open landscape of modern buildings and motels. Just after the Stade de France, the road curved right and they saw the sign for Le Bourget, and half a mile ahead of them, a string of blue flashing lights. The police in convoy. They took the off-ramp, guided to the airport’s main entrance by the emergency lights.
Simms tucked the car in behind the last of the convoy and they ran to the entrance. Guerin was already inside, directing operations. He looked grim.
Fennimore walked purposefully towards him, calling his name, and two officers stepped in his path. He forged on and they grabbed his arms. Guerin gave an order and they let him go.
‘Where is she?’ Fennimore said.
Guerin glanced at Simms.
‘Tell the man,’ she said.
‘Branly chartered a helicopter – it took off minutes ago,’ Guerin said.
‘Well, tell the pilot to turn around,’ Fennimore said.
‘Flight control is trying to contact the pilot right now,’ Guerin said. ‘But …’ Another nervous glance in Simms’s direction. ‘He is not responding.’
56
The game is afoot.
A. C. DOYLE,
‘THE ADVENTURE OF ABBEY GRANGE’
‘What are the possibilities?’ Fennimore said. ‘Where could he be headed? Does he have other properties in France?’
‘We have officers checking Branly’s apartment and we are making additional checks at international airports,’ Guerin said. ‘But a helicopter can land just about anywhere – it will be difficult to find him.’
‘Is he holding the pilot hostage – forcing him to fly where he wants to go? Because that would be risky – especially with Suzie to control as well.’
‘Suzie’s been with him a long time, Nick,’ Simms said softly. ‘He might not need force to control her.’
Something flashed in Fennimore’s eyes – fear? Anger? But the scientist in him would not allow him to deny the basic psychological fact that Suzie would almost certainly have formed a bond with her abductor, and the flare died, replaced by an agonized acceptance.
For the next few minutes, the police came and went; Guerin gave instructions, spoke to airport officials, communicated b
y radio and phone, marshalling his team, while Fennimore and Simms waited in breathless silence. Twenty minutes after they first entered the concourse, a French officer hurried over to Guerin and spoke in rapid, strongly accented French.
‘What’s he saying?’ Fennimore asked.
‘I don’t know – I think he said “à la terre”,’ Simms said. ‘Terre is ground, isn’t it? Inspector – have they landed?’
Guerin turned to face them: ‘Air traffic control have made contact with the helicopter pilot. He has requested permission to land.’ The inspector walked towards the back of the building and they made to follow. Guerin held up his hand. ‘Better if you stay here, Professor.’
Fennimore shouldered forward and two officers moved either side of him.
‘Hey,’ Simms said. ‘He found her, he’s coming with you.’
Guerin looked from Fennimore to Simms. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But doucement, yes?’
Fennimore looked far from gentle at that moment, but Guerin let him climb into an airport security vehicle with Simms, and they were waiting near the helipad when the chopper landed.
Only one man disembarked.
‘Where are they?’ Fennimore took a few steps towards the helicopter, but Guerin gave an order and two officers stepped forward, blocking him.
‘You must stay here,’ he said. ‘I will talk to the pilot and I will tell you what he says – but you must not interfere.’
Fennimore looked like he might argue, but then he gave a brief nod and backed away. He watched as the inspector and his sergeant interrogated the pilot and it seemed to Simms that every nerve in her friend’s body was humming with tension.
Guerin called over an officer and gave him instructions. The man ran to a Police Nationale vehicle and sped off in the direction of the terminal building. Guerin gave instructions over a radio before coming back to where the two uniformed officers had corralled Fennimore and Simms.
‘The charter was a decoy,’ Guerin said. ‘Branly told him to go up, fly eastward for ten minutes, then return, maintaining radio silence before requesting to land at the airport. Branly was never on board. We will check the airport’s security videos to discover the car Branly was driving. Every possible resource will be used to stop him, but …’ He hesitated. ‘You must prepare yourself, Professor …’
‘Fuck’s sake, stop torturing me and just say it,’ Fennimore said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
‘Branly has a pilot’s licence,’ Guerin said, with an apologetic shrug. ‘He owns a Cessna 172 single-prop aeroplane.’
Fennimore seemed to have trouble breathing. He groped for Simms’s hand and held it tight. ‘Suzie is the only link between Branly and Rachel,’ he said. ‘The only person who can tie him to my wife’s murder. If he gets airborne—’ He stopped, his eyes red with unshed tears.
Simms squeezed his hand and said it for him: ‘If he gets airborne with Suzie, there’s no telling what he will do.’
Guerin nodded, his face solemn.
‘Where is the Cessna?’ Fennimore asked. ‘Here at Le Bourget?’
‘No. Light aircraft are not welcome at this facility. We are making enquiries as to where Branly keeps his plane, but the nearest is Toussus-le-Noble, south-west of Paris. I will head out there now, but I have given instructions to the local gendarmerie to detain him.’
An officer approached with a question and Guerin switched from English to rapid-fire French, walking off towards the terminal building as he conversed with the man in uniform.
Simms was ready to leave, but Fennimore kept hold of her hand.
‘Wait,’ he said.
‘For what?’
He looked across the gleaming concrete of the airport apron and she followed his gaze. The helicopter pilot was still standing next to his machine on the helipad, looking anxious and perplexed.
Fennimore let go of her hand and headed towards the pilot.
The pilot estimated that once they were airborne, the twenty-one-mile journey would take seven minutes or less. Obtaining permission to take off took a painful ten minutes, but they had the Périphérique in view in under a minute, clearing the tower blocks of the outer rim of the city and flying in a straight line, south-west. A rust-red tangle of railway lines bulged like the sinews of an old man’s arm, narrowing in the approach to a major station. Then the old city gleamed below them, lemon and cream in the afternoon. A flash of the white dome of the Sacré-Coeur to their left. The next instant they were high over the Arc de Triomphe, its inner and outer rings resembling the iris of an eye; the Eiffel Tower gleamed dully only a short distance away, truncated by their altitude, so that it might almost be a bronze tourist souvenir on the riverbank. They just clipped the southernmost corner of the Bois de Boulogne and seconds later crossed the grey-blue water of the Seine, flying fast over an island shaped like a canoe. The sky above was clear blue, but an iodine-brown haze blurred the horizon. They sped over a large forest, hemmed in on all sides by urban sprawl, though these were suburbs now, the tall buildings of the city giving way to two-storey houses with red-tiled roofs. A train swept along a railway line below them, silent and shining like a silverfish; woodland, carved and cultivated in lines, gave the odd impression of bacilli on a microscope slide. Then they slowed, passing over an industrial area of warehouses and steel cylinders, and the helicopter banked.
‘Nous sommes arrivés,’ the pilot said. Two grey slabs of runway and an expanse of flat, trimmed sward came into view as he spoke. The airport was a collection of small and medium-sized hangars of varying ages. The observation tower formed part of the art deco main building. A score or more single- and twin-prop aircraft were parked on the apron, and two were taxiing towards the runways. The pilot spoke to the control tower and soon they were manoeuvring on to a helipad just south of the second runway. As they made their slow descent, a car pulled up beside a small single-prop plane near one of the hangars, about two hundred metres away. Its propeller was already turning.
‘That’s him – it’s got to be.’ Fennimore turned to the pilot. ‘Can you set down in front of the plane?’
‘Non.’
‘He’s got my daughter,’ Fennimore said. ‘We have to stop him.’
‘Non, monsieur,’ the pilot repeated. ‘Regulations state I must not put down less than one hundred and fifty metres from a hangar.’
‘Shit,’ Fennimore said. ‘Shit!’ He unclipped his seatbelt, ignoring the protests of the pilot, and was out of the chopper as soon as it touched the concrete. Simms followed after him, the humidity suffocating after the cool air-conditioning of the helicopter. They sprinted towards the plane as a man climbed from the cockpit and Branly stepped out of the car. The two men shook hands, cordial and apparently relaxed.
Simms and Fennimore both yelled to the pilot, but they couldn’t make themselves heard over the noise of the helicopter and plane engines. The Cessna pilot opened the driver’s door of the car and slid behind the wheel as Branly opened the rear passenger door and reached inside.
Suzie emerged, with Branly gripping both her elbows; she looked groggy. Branly slammed the door after her and waved the car away.
Suzie’s legs buckled and Branly crushed her to him. Fennimore screamed his daughter’s name and she tried to raise her arms, to push Branly away, but he held her tightly.
‘Suzie! Suzie Fennimore!’
At the sound of her full name, she twisted fiercely in the man’s grip and turned to her father. Branly dragged her towards the plane. She struggled weakly, but couldn’t break free.
Too far, Simms thought. They were too far away.
Suzie continued to resist and Fennimore put on a heroic burst of speed, reaching the two as Branly got Suzie partway inside the cockpit of the Cessna. Branly held on to one wing strut, balancing with one foot in the doorway and one on the tarmac. Fennimore grabbed his back foot, tugging Branly to the ground. Branly landed hard on one knee and rolled, bringing his other knee up and flicking his foot out, catching Fennimore in the chest. Fenn
imore staggered, regained his balance and threw himself at the man.
As they fought, Simms saw Suzie try to back out of the plane. She powered towards the aircraft as Suzie slipped, tumbling backwards. Simms caught her, stumbling herself and skinning her elbows, but breaking the girl’s fall.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I’ve got you.’
She heard the two-tone pulse of a police siren and saw a flash of blue light on the airport approach road. As she helped Suzie to her feet, two gendarmerie cars screamed around the curve of the access road, blue lights and headlamps flashing.
Branly landed a punch to Fennimore’s jaw and he fell. The abductor hurled himself into the cockpit and the plane’s engine noise changed from a growl to a high-pitched drone. Fennimore tried to roll out of the way as the Cessna began careering crazily over the tarmac towards the airstrip, but his jacket caught in one of the wheels and he was dragged after the plane. He wrenched one arm out of its sleeve and held on to the wheel strut as he struggled to free the other. His body was flung violently sideways by the unsteady progress of the plane and he screamed in pain.
Suzie screamed in answer as her father hung by one arm from the plane’s wheel, and Simms turned her head away.
Finally, the second sleeve tore and Fennimore was dumped on the tarmac. A plane had just begun its take off on the nearest runway and Branly veered left to avoid it, bouncing over the grass on to the second runway.
Fennimore struggled to his feet, his interest in Branly gone now that Suzie was safe. He limped towards them, his trousers torn and his left arm hanging uselessly. Suzie clung to her, but Simms said, ‘It’s okay. Daddy’s okay – look.’
Fennimore touched his daughter lightly on the shoulder and she turned to him, flinging her arms around him. Despite his injuries, he didn’t seem to feel a thing.
The police cars cut across the grass, churning up sods and spitting dirt from their back wheels. They forced Branly off the runway, but he kept going, the small plane bumping and tilting dangerously over every rut and dip in the field. Finally, with the throttle right out and the engine screaming, the Cessna left the ground, but its wing dipped suddenly, clipping the top of the perimeter fence. Simms watched in dull horror as the plane banked out of control, losing one wing as it sliced through the tops of the trees beyond the perimeter. For an instant it rose, then abruptly nosedived into a wheat field. A second later they heard the crump of impact. Smoke billowed from the shattered cockpit, followed by a flare of yellow flame.
Truth Will Out Page 30