Critical Mass Read Free Page A

sun.
    The stink of burned kerojet was on the breeze because an Air Inter L-1011 had just taken off for Montpellier with a tremendous roar that rattled the windows of the maintenance gate guard hut. The silence in the aftermath was so deafening that Capretz had to shout.
    â€œHe’s not on the schedule.”
    Gallimard shrugged, but as he watched the van through narrowed eyes his left hand went to the strap of the Uzi slung over his shoulder. A driver, but no one else so far as he could see. The van was familiar, or at least the logo on its side was, but they’d been warned about a possible terrorist attack on a European airport within the next ten to twelve days, and he was nervous.
    â€œCall Central,” he said.
    â€œRight,” Capretz replied, but for a moment he stood where he was watching the approaching van.
    â€œPierre,” Gallimard prompted:

    â€œ Mais oui ,” Capretz said. He turned and went into the hut, where he laid his submachine gun down on the desk. He picked up the phone and dialed 0113 as the van pulled up to the gate and stopped.
    Gallimard stepped around the barrier and approached the driver’s side of the van. The driver seemed young, probably in his mid- to late-twenties. He had thick blond hair, high cheekbones, and a pleasant, almost innocent smile. His white coveralls were immaculate. He was practically un enfant , and Gallimard began to relax.
    â€œBonjour. Salut,” the young man said, grinning. There was something wrong with his accent. He was definitely not a Frenchman, though the nametag on his coveralls read: Léon.
    â€œLet me see your security pass.”
    â€œYes, of course,” Léon said pleasantly. He reached up and unclipped his badge from the sun visor and handed it out. “You need to see the work order?”
    â€œYes,” Gallimard said, studying the plastic security badge. It seemed authentic, and the photograph was good, yet something bothered him. He glanced back at the hut. Capretz had his back to the window, the phone to his ear.
    Léon handed out the work order for an unscheduled maintenance check on one of the ILS transmitters. The inner marker. The document also seemed authentic.
    â€œProblems?”
    â€œYou were not on our schedule,” Gallimard said. “And we have been warned about a possible terrorist attack.”
    Léon laughed. “What, here? Maybe I’ve got a bomb in the back and I mean to blow up some runway lights.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll just take a look in the back, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œI don’t care. I get paid by the hour.”
    Gallimard stepped back as Leon got out of the van, and together they went around back where the young man opened the rear door.
    â€œTake a look.”
    Gallimard came closer and peered inside the van. Nothing
seemed out of the ordinary. Tools, some electronic equipment, and what appeared to be bins and boxes of parts.
    A metal case about five feet long and eighteen inches on a side caught his eye. “What’s in the big box?”
    â€œA VHF antenna and fittings.”
    Gallimard looked at him. “I’ll open it.”
    Léon shrugged.
    Gallimard climbed into the van and started to unlatch the two heavy clasps on the box when a movement behind him distracted him. He looked over his shoulder, as Léon raised what looked to be a large caliber handgun with a bulky silencer screwed to its barrel.
    â€œSalopard …” Gallimard swore as the first shot hit him in the left side of his chest, pushing him backward, surprisingly without pain. And the second shot exploded like a billion stars in his head.
    Léon ducked around the side of the van and looked over tc where the other security guard was still trying to get through on the phone. He’d apparently seen or heard nothing. Concealing the nine-millimeter Sig-Sauer behind his leg he started waving and jumping up and down.
    â€œHey, you! Inside there!