by Ben Bova
THIRTY-FIVE
DAN’S HERE. HE’S BACK in Paris. The digital clock on the phone said 11:18 . Jane called for a taxi as she whipped out of her robe and hurriedly pulled on a cinnamon turtleneck blouse and suede skirt. She was out the front door of her apartment building by 11:29 , tugging on a leather coat. A taxi was waiting at the curb. “Sacre Coeur,” she said as she ducked into the cab’s backseat. The elder man in the first-floor apartment was galvanized into action when he saw Jane race across the lobby. He pressed the emergency button on his hand-held communicator and dashed to the stairs that led down to the lobby. The couple in the doorway sprinted out into the street; the man took a snapshot of the departing taxicab while the woman raced for the sleek black sedan they had parked half a block away. By the time she drove up their chief had come out. The three of them piled into the car and raced after the taxi. The three on the roof came down the elevator to the basement garage. They jumped into their gray minivan, the slamming of their doors echoing through the garage, and roared out into the street, barely slowing down to pick up the man who had come around the building from the alley. Inside the van they had enough communications gear to link directly to a commsat, if necessary. And a small arsenal of weaponry. “This isn’t the way to Sacre Coeur,” said Jane as the streets slid by in the dark, silent night. The driver did not answer. She rapped on the thick plastic partition and said it louder, in French. Still no reaction from the driver. “Stop!” she hollered. “Arrete!” When the driver still played deaf Jane realized that she was being abducted. She sat rigid on the rear seat of the taxicab, her stomach ablaze with fear. It’s happening! They’re kidnapping me! For a moment she thought this might be Dan’s way of spiriting her off to meet him. But Dan wouldn’t frighten her. He’d be in the driver’s seat himself, grinning into the rearview mirror. She peered at the mirror and saw the driver’s dark eyes watching her coldly. His eyes reminded her of Gaetano’s. In the car following the taxi, the young Japanese said excitedly, “Don’t let them out of your sight.” The woman driving the sedan wanted to snarl at him. Instead she said nothing and concentrated on her driving, constantly reminding herself that in France one drove on the right side of the road, not the left, as in Japan . It was not difficult to follow the taxicab; it was not speeding and there were hardly any other cars in the streets now, in this quiet part of the city. The difficulty was in following it without letting the driver know he was being followed. “It’s a pity we don’t have a bug on the taxi,” said the young woman. “Then we could track it without their seeing us.” “Well, we don’t,” the young man snapped. “Keep your eyes on it or we’ll lose them.” In the backseat their chief was speaking through his wrist communicator to the other four in the van, following some distance behind them. “You must assume that the abductors will notice us following them and be prepared for a fight when they finally come to stop. Under no circumstances are you to risk the life of the Scanwell woman! Nonlethal weapons only. Understood?” A single “Hai!” issued from the wrist comm’s tiny speaker, like the voice of a sprite or a gremlin. Past the city limit the taxi drove, past the sprawling modern suburbs that ringed Paris , gaining speed once they were out into the countryside. Jane had tried both doors; they were locked. The driver had not said a word, but his eyes kept flicking up to the rearview mirror. Turning, Jane looked out the back window. Far in the distance a pair of headlights gleamed, disappeared when the ground dipped, appeared again. We’re being followed, she realized. Nobo’s bodyguards? Dan? Or more of the kidnappers? The driver picked up a radio microphone and spoke into it. His words were muffled by the plastic partition, but Jane thought she detected the musical cadences of Italian. He’s calling for help, she thought. She looked at her watch. Its glowing digits said 12:29 . They had been driving for exactly an hour. The night was dark out here. No moonlight lit the countryside. They might be passing spacious farmlands or rivers or anything at all. Jane had no idea of where they were or where they were going. Once every few minutes a village flicked by, ancient stone buildings and a few streetlamps standing like forlorn sentinels in the night. The taxi whizzed through their narrow twisting streets without slowing. God help anyone or anything in its path, Jane thought. She caught blurred glimpses of signs bearing names, but they meant nothing to her. Jane’s bodyguards knew where she was heading before she did. In the minivan, one of them bent over an electronic map, his finger tracing the road that the sedan and taxi were following. “There’s an abandoned airport less than two miles ahead, on the right,” he said into his radio microphone. “They must be heading there.” The older man in the backseat of the sedan grunted his agreement. Reaching forward, he tapped the woman driving the car on the shoulder. “Faster. Get closer. They are heading for an airport.” At last the taxi whipped past a chain-link fence where two other cars sat on either side of the gate. An airport.’? Jane wondered. The road became bumpy, the taxi jounced and rattled. Then she saw a helicopter up ahead, sitting next to a crumbling old building that looked as if it might once have been the control tower of a military airport. A single lamp on a tall pole lit the scene. And she heard gunfire. As the sedan pulled onto the access road to the airport the two cars that had been parked by the gate pulled together, hood to hood, to block the entrance. Without a word of discussion or command, the young woman swerved the sedan to the left, smashed right through the aged chain-link fence, and plunged in a swirl of dust and gravel past the two parked cars. Men from the two cars turned and fired at them with pistols and assault rifles. The young man in the front seat leaned out his window and fired back with his pistol as the car plunged ahead, swerving and bucking. Bullets slammed into the car. A burst caught the young man, exploding his head into a pulpy spray of blood. The woman flinched but did nothing more. Teeth biting into her lower lip, she hunched over the wheel and doggedly closed in on the cloud of dust that the taxi was kicking up. Her chief, ducked down between the seats, said calmly into his wrist comm, “Use whatever force necessary to eliminate the team at the gate to the airport.” The gunmen at the gate were ducking back into their own cars when the minivan came zooming up the road and hurtled through the break in the fence. An anti-tank rocket blew the first car into a blazing ball of flame, which ignited the gas tank of the second car. The double explosion masked the screams of the men roasted alive. The taxi lurched to a stop so hard Jane was thrown off the seat. One door popped open and the driver, gun in hand, waved her out. She saw the black sedan boiling down toward them. Someone yanked her by the arm, pulling her out of the taxi. People were shooting at the sedan; Jane saw its windshield shatter and its hood go flying as the engine blew steam and the big heavy car plowed its front end into the soft billowing bare ground. A gray minivan pulled up beside it, unscathed except for muddy dirt spattered along its side. A pair of men grabbed her arms and she felt something cold and hard pressing against her temple. Everything went quiet. Jane was gasping for breath, her heart thundering in her ears. But the people around her seemed to be standing absolutely still, frozen in the harsh bluish light from the single lamp pole. “Outta the car!” shouted the man holding the gun to her head. “Outta the car or I blow her fuckin’ head off.” Nothing happened. No one moved. “You understand English?” he yelled louder. “I said get out of the car! Now!” Jane heard the metallic click of the pistol being cocked. The driver’s door of the sedan opened and the young woman stepped out. Jane saw that she could hardly be out of her teens, slim, wearing black slacks and blouse, her hair pulled back tightly. She raised her hands to shoulder level. Jane saw from the corners of her eyes that there were at least five men leveling guns at her. “You in the van, too,” called the man with the gun. “Out.” The four men in the van came out slowly, reluctantly. Jane heard the high-pitched whine of the helicopter’s engine starting up. Then the man beside her said, “Scratch ‘em.” “The girl too?” “All of ‘em, stupid.” “But we could have some fun with her.” The man cursed in Italian, then said, “Have your fun, then snuff her. And make it fast!�
� The blaze of gunfire made Jane jump. The four men fell like scythed wheat. Jane smelled the acrid smoke from their guns. Her ears rang. The man tugged at her arm and she realized that he had put his own gun back in his shoulder holster and was pulling her toward the helicopter. A second gunman accompanied them, cradling a vicious-looking assault rifle in his arms. Through the ringing in her ears she heard the deeper roar of the chopper’s engine. Stunned, stumbling, she let the man half-drag her to the helicopter while she looked over her shoulder at the three gunmen advancing on the lone girl. They pushed Jane into the helicopter. Her hands were trembling too hard to fasten the safety belt. The man did it for her while she stared at the crumpled bodies sprawled by their cars and the smoky pyre that still flamed out by the gate. And the three grinning men surrounding the girl by the shot-up sedan. The helicopter’s engine roared up to full power, its big rotor kicking up a sandstorm as the pilot yelled, “All strapped in? We’re taking off.” The young woman stood trembling beside the sedan, her eyes flicking from one of the leering gunmen to the other. They had all holstered their pistols as they advanced toward her. Men from the two cars turned and fired at them with pistols and assault rifles. The young man in the front seat leaned out his window and fired back with his pistol as the car plunged ahead, swerving and bucking. Bullets slammed into the car. A burst caught the young man, exploding his head into a pulpy spray of blood. The woman flinched but did nothing more. Teeth biting into her lower lip, she hunched over the wheel and doggedly closed in on the cloud of dust that the taxi was kicking up. Her chief, ducked down between the seats, said calmly into his wrist comm, “Use whatever force necessary to eliminate the team at the gate to the airport.” The gunmen at the gate were ducking back into their own cars when the minivan came zooming up the road and hurtled through the break in the fence. An anti-tank rocket blew the first car into a blazing ball of flame, which ignited the gas tank of the second car. The double explosion masked the screams of the men roasted alive. The taxi lurched to a stop so hard Jane was thrown off the seat. One door popped open and the driver, gun in hand, waved her out. She saw the black sedan boiling down toward them. Someone yanked her by the arm, pulling her out of the taxi. People were shooting at the sedan; Jane saw its windshield shatter and its hood go flying as the engine blew steam and the big heavy car plowed its front end into the soft billowing bare ground. A gray minivan pulled up beside it, unscathed except for muddy dirt spattered along its side. A pair of men grabbed her arms and she felt something cold and hard pressing against her temple. Everything went quiet. Jane was gasping for breath, her heart thundering in her ears. But the people around her seemed to be standing absolutely still, frozen in the harsh bluish light from the single lamp pole. “Outta the car!” shouted the man holding the gun to her head. “Outta the car or I blow her fuckin’ head off.” Nothing happened. No one moved. “You understand English.’?” he yelled louder. “I said get out of the car! Now!” Jane heard the metallic click of the pistol being cocked. The driver’s door of the sedan opened and the young woman stepped out. Jane saw that she could hardly be out of her teens, slim, wearing black slacks and blouse, her hair pulled back tightly. She raised her hands to shoulder level. Jane saw from the corners of her eyes that there were at least five men leveling guns at her. “You in the van, too,” called the man with the gun. “Out.” The four men in the van came out slowly, reluctantly. Jane heard the high-pitched whine of the helicopter’s engine starting up. Then the man beside her said, “Scratch ‘em.” “The girl too?” “All of ‘em, stupid.” “But we could have some fun with her.” The man cursed in Italian, then said, “Have your fun, then snuff her. And make it fast!” The blaze of gunfire made Jane jump. The four men fell like scythed wheat. Jane smelled the acrid smoke from their guns. Her ears rang. The man tugged at her arm and she realized that he had put his own gun back in his shoulder holster and was pulling her toward the helicopter. A second gunman accompanied them, cradling a vicious-looking assault rifle in his arms. Through the ringing in her ears she heard the deeper roar of the chopper’s engine. Stunned, stumbling, she let the man half-drag her to the helicopter while she looked over her shoulder at the three gunmen advancing on the lone girl. They pushed Jane into the helicopter. Her hands were trembling too hard to fasten the safety belt. The man did it for her while she stared at the crumpled bodies sprawled by their cars and the smoky pyre that still flamed out by the gate. And the three grinning men surrounding the girl by the shot-up sedan. The helicopter’s engine roared up to full power, its big rotor kicking up a sandstorm as the pilot yelled, “All strapped in? We’re taking off.” The young woman stood trembling beside the sedan, her eyes flicking from one of the leering gunmen to the other. They had all holstered their pistols as they advanced toward her. “She’s kind of skinny,” said one of them, in English. “Maybe we can fatten her up.” “Yeah. We’ll stuff her good!” All three of them laughed. The closest one reached out for her. She brushed his hand away and struck with the heel of her palm under his chin so fast that her hand was a blur. The guy’s head snapped back and he staggered, arms flailing, and fell onto his back. The other two grabbed for her but she ducked under them, rammed her clenched hands into the groin of one of them and rolled away. The man’s eyes rolled up in his head and his breath gushed out of him as he collapsed to the ground. The third was reaching for his pistol when the old man bashed his back with the car door, then sprang out of the car and broke the guy’s neck with a single chop of the edge of his hand. By then the young woman was sprinting for the helicopter, just starting to lift off the ground. The old man snaked a small slim dead-black pistol from his belt and calmly shot the two gunmen that the girl had incapacitated. For good measure he put a round into the skull of the man he had already killed. As the helicopter began to lift off the ground the young woman leaped as high as she could, stretching her arms to their utmost, and just managed to grab one of the landing skids. The chopper bounced and swerved under the sudden unbalanced weight. “Hey, what...” The pilot grappled with his controls. “One of them’s hanging on to us!” yelled the man sitting beside the pilot. The man beside Jane snarled, “Fucking idiot!” and yanked his pistol from its holster. He opened the door and leaned out into the blast of wind from the rotor. The young woman was hanging on to the landing skid with one hand, staring up at him, swinging as she tried to hide beneath the helicopter’s bottom. “Bitch,” muttered the gunman. He unbuckled his seat harness, leaned out farther and fired three shots into her face point-blank. Just as Jane, suddenly filled with flaming anger that boiled over her fear, shoved at his back with all her strength. The girl fell silently, already dead, to the ground. The gunman screamed as he plunged. Jane leaned back in her seat, a terrible smile on her pale face.