The Emerald City. Ringed by water and bathed in light, Montreal glowed green as the Boeing 747 broke through the clouds at eighteen thousand feet and descended for a landing at Dorval International Airport. With only carry-on baggage, Pellerin and Blond breezed through customs and were soon checked into the InterContinental, near the Vieux-Port and not far from the world headquarters of Tornade. Booked for a quickie overnight stay. Their first step after getting the job had been Berlin and the accident artist. Now came step two—Montreal and the multinational’s new broom. It was time to collect on Dargelier’s IOU.
The front of the Tornade building was a skyscraping wall of tinted glass surmounted by a massive green letter T. Security wanted to know who they were. Pellerin showed him a copy of the e-mail they’d received in Paris with the time of their appointment. After checking his clipboard, the guard labeled them each Guest, and in they went. Blond asked the woman behind the information desk what the green circles were on the huge map of the world covering the lobby wall. Malachite, she explained, marking the dozen cities in which Tornade had plants. The company, a diversified giant with more than sixty thousand employees worldwide, was organized into four divisions: aerospace, trains, ships, and finance.
Pellerin asked, “And Jean-Paul Dargelier?”
She said, “Our new CEO. You’ll find him on the thirty-third floor, the top of the Tornade.”
The new CEO was waiting for them in his office. On a bright day like this one, the windows—even through tinted glass—were filled with crystal blue skies and a glittering view of the St. Lawrence River. There were Oriental rugs on the floor, soft leather chairs, a wide-winged diptych computer monitor, but no clocks. The place reeked of power. At forty-five, Tornade’s new CEO was the youngest in the history of the company.
Dargelier, as he came out from behind his heavy mahogany desk to welcome them, might have been a bit of a letdown if they hadn’t met him a few years earlier at the Paris air show. He was in his early forties then and already in charge of Tornade’s aerospace division—the third largest builder of civilian aircraft in the world after Boeing and Airbus. Clearly a young man on the make, his brilliant career rising like a rocket.
On the short side, Dargelier had a quiet manner and a thin, dark, ferret face that by six o’clock would probably require a razor before he took it out for cocktails. Not too impressive, if you failed to see the steel beneath his saturnine exterior. Pellerin was not one to make that mistake. He could even feel the ambition in Dargelier’s handshake.
“Congratulations,” Pellerin said. “We knew when we last met you in Paris that it was just a matter of time.”
Dargelier sighed. “But how could you know? Schuyler was still such a relatively young man.”
Blond corrected him. “You’re a young man.”
“I mean out of the blue like that. Totally unexpected. His death was quite a shock to everyone here.”
“I’m sure,” Pellerin said coolly, anxious to get down to business. “The good news is that even the darkest clouds often bring the needed rain.” He glanced about the room, admiring the CEO’s large corner office with its spectacular view. “This is all yours now. Didn’t you tell us it was time for a Canadian to take over the reins of Tornade?”
“Did I say that? I suppose I did. Though that was probably only the gin in my martini talking. But even then there were people here who thought so. In any case, Schuyler left behind a full plate of projects for his successor. First of all, there’s our unmanned aerial surveillance vehicles being made for the Canadian military, then there’s the new ultra-long-range corporate jet to compete in the U.S. market with Gulfstream, and add to that our latest high-speed train for Chad—a country without any railroads and few passable roads of any kind.”
Pellerin knew all about the African project. “But what Chad does have,” he pointed out, “is loads of natron for manufacturing glass, ceramics, soap, and paper. And what you didn’t mention is that the French-owned Chad Development Corporation is willing to pay a great deal of money to transport it out of that unhappy, impoverished, landlocked nation to the African coast for export.”
Dargelier’s eyes opened wide. “You know your Chad, monsieur.”
“Not really, but I have visited their corporate headquarters in Paris.”
The new CEO’s glance went from Pellerin to Blond. “Are you both still working for the French government?”
Blond hesitated.
“You might say so,” Pellerin informed him, chuckling, “but in a different capacity. We’re now independent contractors. In fact, that’s in part what brought us here. You may be in a position to do us a little favor.” He paused to let his words sink in. “After all, you do owe us one, you know?”
Though puzzled by his visitor’s remark, Dargelier looked interested. “What sort of favor?”
Pellerin mentioned a recent article he’d read in Le Monde. It was about the first delivery to Tornade of a new NATO trainer from Zalltech Aerospace in Houston.
“Yes, that’s right! The T-9AX.” Dargelier’s enthusiasm for their acquisition was obvious. “Tornade will be handling instruction in the plane’s advanced technology. It was the last major deal Schuyler made for us—and what a deal! The advantages for NATO countries are clear. It gives them a quality, cost-effective pilot training program with highly advanced avionics, such as its cockpit electronic display system for navigation, radar, satellite, and anticollision data. And all without the need for these NATO countries to purchase the training planes themselves. It’s a win-win agreement. The one major hurdle was that this was the first transfer of U.S. military technology to the private sector of a foreign country. Naturally Washington was anxious about it falling into the hands of unfriendly nations. But what helped seal the deal for us, of course, was that Schuyler was an American.”
Pellerin inquired, “How many of the planes did you receive?”
“In the first shipment? Ten,” Dargelier replied.
“Good. Then you won’t be likely to miss one.”
“What do you mean?”
Pellerin quietly explained, “We’d like you to include one of the new NATO trainers in your next shipment of high-speed railroad parts to Chad. It will have to be packed in the same sort of large wooden crates and addressed exactly like the others to the Société de Chemin de Fer du Tchad. Can you handle it?”
Dargelier’s smile was the sort you might give a child. “That’s ridiculous. Why would I want to throw away an expensive plane like that?”
“Because you owe us that little favor we mentioned.”
“Do I?” Dargelier was still smiling.
“I thought you understood. There’s a tape of our conversation in Paris.”
His smile fell like a trapdoor. “What tape? What are you talking about?”
“Surely you weren’t so éméché you’ve forgotten telling us that the one person who stood in your path at Tornade was Schuyler Phillips, and that the only way he’d go is if he were pushed.”
“But I never said murdered. I only meant—”
“Whatever you thought you said—or meant to say—the French investigators of the Taziac deaths might find it more than a little interesting, n’est-ce pas? But of course, you do us this favor and that tape disappears.”
“I still don’t understand. What are they going to do in Chad with a NATO trainer?”
“No problem. It’s not going to stay there very long. It’ll be going elsewhere. And we’ll take care of that.”
“I see.” Dargelier’s voice faltered, his face darkened as if he’d slipped behind a cloud. “That might very well be a problem.”
“What are you getting at?” Blond demanded.
“It’s very simple. If that plane ends up where it shouldn’t be and Washington gets wind of a possible violation of the U.S. Arms Export Control Act, our agreement with the United States would probably be finished.”
Pellerin said, “Who says they’ll find out? If push comes to shove, all you know is it went astray. You’re free and clear.”
“Free as a bird,” chorused his friend.
“With no ugly rumors about the death of Phillips to ruin a glassy-smooth succession. Think of it, another win-win agreement and this time of your own making.”
Dargelier sank back in his chair and considered the possibilities. “Let me think about it.”
“Of course.” Pellerin got up to leave.
“But not too long,” Blond advised.
Stopping at the office door as if he’d left something behind, Pellerin wheeled around.
“Think it over. When you’ve run the numbers, you’ll soon see that all this will cost you are a few dollars for the loss of one plane rather than millions for the entire contract. We’ll call for your answer tomorrow morning from the airport.”