Sidney Sheldon (7 page)

Paris, France

A
T REUILLY POLICE
Headquarters on Hénard Street, in the Twelfth Arrondissement in Paris, an interrogation was taking place. The superintendent of the Eiffel Tower was being questioned by Detectives André Belmondo and Pierre Marais.

T
OUR
E
IFFEL
S
UICIDE
I
NVESTIGATION

Monday, May 6
10
A.M.
Subject: René Pascal

B
ELMONDO
: Monsieur Pascal, we have reason to believe that Mark Harris, the man who supposedly fell from the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, was murdered.

P
ASCAL
: Murdered? But—I was told it was an accident and—

M
ARAIS
: He could not possibly have fallen over that parapet by accident. It is much too high.

B
ELMONDO
: And we have established that the victim was not suicidal. In fact, he had made elaborate plans with his wife for the weekend. She’s Kelly—the model.

P
ASCAL
: I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I don’t see what that—why was I brought here?

M
ARAIS
: To help us clarify a few matters. What time did the restaurant close that night?

P
ASCAL
: At ten o’clock. Because of the storm, the Jules Verne was empty, so I decided to—

M
ARAIS
: What time did the elevators shut down?

P
ASCAL
: They usually run until midnight, but on that night, since there were no sightseers or diners, I closed them down at ten
P.M
.

B
ELMONDO
: Including the elevator that goes to the observation deck?

P
ASCAL
: Yes. All of them.

M
ARAIS
: Is it possible for someone to get to the observation deck without using the elevator?

P
ASCAL
: No. On that night everything was closed off. I don’t understand what this is all about. If—

B
ELMONDO
: I will tell you what it is all about. Monsieur Harris was thrown from the observation deck. We know it was the observation deck because when we examined the parapet, the top had been scraped, and the cement embedded in the soles of his shoes were flakes that matched the scraped cement on the parapet. If the floor was locked off, and the elevators were not working, how did he get up there at midnight?

P
ASCAL
: I don’t know. Without an elevator, it would be—it would be impossible.

M
ARAIS
: But an elevator was used to take Monsieur Harris up to the observation tower, and to take up his assassin—or assassins—and bring them down again.

B
ELMONDO
: Could a stranger run the elevators?

P
ASCAL
: No. The operators never leave them when they are on duty, and at night the elevators are locked down with a special key.

M
ARAIS
: How many keys are there?

P
ASCAL
: Three. I have one, and the other two are kept here.

B
ELMONDO
: You are certain that the last elevator was shut down at ten o’clock?

P
ASCAL
: Yes.

M
ARAIS
: Who was running it?

P
ASCAL
: Toth. Gérard Toth.

M
ARAIS
: I would like to speak with him.

P
ASCAL
: So would I.

M
ARAIS
: I beg your pardon?

P
ASCAL
: Toth has not shown up for work since that night. I called his apartment. There was no answer. I got hold of his landlord. Toth has moved out.

M
ARAIS
: And left no forwarding address?

P
ASCAL
: That’s right. He’s vanished into thin air.

“ ‘V
ANISHED INTO THIN
air’? Are we talking about the Great Houdini or a damned elevator operator?”

The speaker was Secretary General Claude Renaud, in charge of Interpol Headquarters. Renaud was a short, dynamic man in his fifties, who had worked his way up the police hierarchy over a period of twenty years.

Renaud was chairing a meeting in the main conference room at the seven-story Interpol Headquarters, the international police organization that is the clearinghouse of information for 126 police forces in 78 countries. The building was located in Saint-Cloud, six miles west of Paris, and the headquarters was manned by former detectives from the Sûreté Nationale, and the Paris Préfecture.

There were twelve men seated at the large conference table. They had been questioning Detective Belmondo for the past hour.

Secretary General Renaud said sourly, “So you and Detective Marais were unable to get any information about how a man was murdered in an area it would be impossible for him to be in, in the first place, and impossible for his assassins to get to or escape from? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Marais and I talked to everyone who—”

“Never mind. You may go.”

“Yes, sir.”

They watched the chastened detective walk out of the room.

Secretary General Renaud turned to the group. “During your investigations, have any one of you come across a man named Prima?”

They were thoughtful a moment and then shook their heads. “No. Who is Prima?”

“We don’t know. His name was scribbled on a note found in the
jacket pocket of a dead man in New York. We think there’s a connection.” He sighed. “Gentlemen, we have a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. In the fifteen years I have been in this office, we have investigated serial killers, international gangs, mayhem, patricide, and every other crime imaginable.” He paused. “But in all those years, I have never come across anything like this. I am sending a NOTICE to the New York office….”

F
RANK BIGLEY, CHIEF
of Manhattan detectives, was reading the file Secretary General Renaud had sent when Earl Greenburg and Robert Praegitzer entered his office.

“You wanted to see us, Chief?”

“Yes. Sit down.”

They each took a chair.

Chief Bigley held up the paper. “This is a NOTICE that Interpol sent this morning.” He started reading. “Six years ago, a Japanese scientist named Akira Iso committed suicide, hanging himself in his hotel room in Tokyo. Mr. Iso was in perfect health, had just received a promotion, and was reported to be in high spirits.”

“Japan? What does that have to do with—?”

“Let me go on. Three years ago, Madeleine Smith, a thirty-two-year-old Swiss scientist, turned on the gas in her Zurich apartment and committed suicide. She was pregnant and about to marry the father of her baby. Friends said they’d never seen her happier.” He looked up at the two detectives. “In the past three days: a Berliner named Sonja Verbrugge drowned herself in her bathtub. The same night Mark Harris, an American, did a swan dive off the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower. A day later, a Canadian named Gary Reynolds crashed his Cessna into a mountain near Denver.”

Greenburg and Praegitzer were listening, more and more puzzled.

“And yesterday, you two found the body of Richard Stevens on the bank of the East River.”

Earl Greenburg was looking at him, perplexed. “What do all these cases have to do with us?”

Chief Bigley said quietly, “They’re all the same case.”

Greenburg was staring at him. “
What?
Let me see if I have this right. A Japanese six years ago, a Swiss three years ago, and in the past few days a German, a Canadian, and two Americans.” He was silent for a moment. “What connects these cases?”

Chief Bigley handed Greenburg the NOTICE from Interpol. As Greenburg read it, his eyes widened. He looked up and said slowly, “Interpol believes that a think tank, Kingsley International Group, is behind these murders? That’s ridiculous.”

Praegitzer said, “Chief, we’re talking about the biggest think tank in the world.”

“All those people were murdered, and each one had a connection with KIG. The company is owned and run by Tanner Kingsley. He’s the president and CEO of Kingsley International Group, chairman of the Presidential Science Committee, head of the National Advanced Planning Institute, and on the Defense Policy Board at the Pentagon. I think you and Greenburg had better have a talk with Mr. Kingsley.”

Earl Greenburg swallowed. “Right.”

“And Earl…”

“Yes.”

“Walk softly and carry a small stick.”

F
IVE MINUTES LATER
,
Earl Greenburg was talking to Tanner Kingsley’s secretary. When he had finished, he turned to Praegitzer.
“We have an appointment Tuesday at ten
A.M
. Right now Mr. Kingsley is appearing at a congressional committee hearing in Washington.”

A
T THE HEARING
before the Senate Select Committee on the Environment, in Washington, D.C., a panel of six Senate committee members and three dozen spectators and reporters were listening attentively to the testimony of Tanner Kingsley.

Tanner Kingsley was in his forties, tall and handsome, with steely blue eyes that blazed with intelligence. He had a Roman nose, a strong chin, and a profile that could have graced a coin.

The committee head, senior senator Pauline Mary Van Luven, was an imposing figure with an almost aggressive self-confidence. She looked at Tanner and said crisply, “You may continue, Mr. Kingsley.”

Tanner nodded. “Thank you, Senator.” He turned to the other members of the committee, and when he spoke, his voice was impassioned. “While some of our politicians in the government are still quibbling about the consequences of global warming and the greenhouse effect, the hole in the ozone layer is rapidly growing. Because of that, half the world is suffering droughts and the other half floods. In the Ross Sea, an iceberg the size of Jamaica has just collapsed because of global warming. The ozone hole over the South Pole has reached the record size of ten million square miles.” He paused for effect and repeated slowly, “Ten million square miles.

“We’re witnessing a record number of hurricanes, cyclones, typhoons, and storms that are ravaging parts of Europe. Due to the radical changes in the weather, millions of people in countries around the world are facing starvation and extinction. But those are just words:
starvation
and
extinction.
Stop thinking of them as words. Think of their meaning—men, women, and children, hungry and homeless and facing death.

“This past summer, more than twenty thousand people died in a heat wave in Europe.” Tanner’s voice rose. “And what have we done about it? Our government has refused to ratify the Kyoto Protocol drawn up at the global environmental summit. The message is that we don’t give a damn what happens to the rest of the world. We’ll just go ahead and do what suits us. Are we so dense, so self-absorbed that we can’t see what we’re doing to—?”

Senator Van Luven interrupted. “Mr. Kingsley, this is not a debate. I will ask you to adopt a more moderate tone.”

Tanner took a deep breath and nodded. In a less impassioned tone, he continued. “As all of us are aware, the greenhouse effect is caused by the burning of fossil fuels and other related factors completely under our control, and yet those emissions have reached their highest point in half a million years. They’re polluting the air that our children and grandchildren breathe. The pollution can be stopped. And why isn’t it? Because it would cost big business money.” His voice rose again. “Money! How much is a breath of fresh air worth compared to the life of a human being? A gallon of gas? Two gallons of gas?” His voice became even more fervent. “As far as we know, this Earth is the only place that’s habitable for us, yet we’re poisoning the land and the oceans and the air we breathe as fast as we can. If we don’t stop—”

Senator Van Luven interrupted again. “Mr. Kingsley—”

“I apologize, Senator. I’m angry. I can’t watch the destruction of our universe without protesting.”

Kingsley spoke for another thirty minutes. When he was finished, Senator Van Luven said, “Mr. Kingsley, I would like to see you in my office, please. This hearing is adjourned.”

S
ENATOR VAN LUVEN’S
office had been originally furnished in typical sterile, bureaucratic fashion: a desk, a table, six chairs, and
rows of filing cabinets, but the senator had added her own feminine touches, with colorful fabrics, paintings, and photographs.

When Tanner entered, there were two people in the office besides Senator Van Luven.

“These are my assistants, Corinne Murphy and Karolee Trost.”

Corinne Murphy, an attractive young redhead, and Karolee Trost, a petite blonde, both in their twenties, took seats next to the senator. They were obviously fascinated by Tanner.