"I can do better," Grosset had said. "I can show you one. We have an N in our air museum."
Earlier that day, after checking into his Paris hotel, Austin had caught a high-speed train that had taken him to the museum faster than if he had flown in Grosset's plane. The museum was situated in a hangar complex at the edge of the airfield less than fifty miles south of Paris.
After the demonstration of his plane's capabilities, Grosset invited Austin to his office for a glass of wine. The office was tucked into a corner of the hangar, which was filled with vintage airplanes. They walked past a Spad, a Corsair and a Fokker into a small room whose walls were festooned with dozens of airplane pictures.
Grosset poured a couple of glasses of Bordeaux and toasted the^ Wright Brothers. Austin suggested that they raise their glasses as well to Alberto Santos-Dumont, an early Brazilian air pioneer who had lived in France for many years and was considered French by many.
Printouts of the photos Austin had sent Grosset were spread out on top of an old wooden desk. Austin picked up a picture of the wrecked plane, studied the broken framework and shook his head in wonderment.
"I'm amazed that you were able to identify the plane from this mess."
Grosset set his glass aside and fanned out the photos until he came to one he wanted.
"I wasn't sure at first. I had my suspicions, but as you say, this is a mess. I recognized the machine gun here as a Hotchkiss, but they were commonly used by the early warplanes. And the distinctive conical engine housing was a strong clue. Then I noticed something quite interesting." He shoved the photo across the desk and handed Austin a magnifying glass. "Take a close look at this."
Austin examined the rounded wood shape. "It looks like a propeller blade."
"Correct. But not just any propeller blade. See here, there is a metal plate fastened to the propeller. Raymond Saulnier devised a true synchronizing gear early in 1914, which allowed him to fire a Hotchkiss machine gun through a spinning propeller. Ammunition would sometimes hang fire, so he fitted crude metal deflectors to the propeller blades."
"I've heard of that. A low-tech solution to a complex problem." "After a few test pilots were killed by ricocheting bullets, the idea
was temporarily abandoned. Then came the war and with it the impetus to come up with new ways to kill your enemy. A French ace named Roland Garros met with Saulnier, and they fitted his plane with steel deflector plates that worked as designed. He had several kills before his plane fell behind enemy lines. The Germans used his system to develop the Fokker synchronizing gear."
Austin picked up another photo and pointed to a small light-colored rectangle in the cockpit. "What do you make of this? It looks like a metal plaque."
"You have sharp eyes," Grosset said with a smile. "It is a manufacturer's code." He passed over another photo. "I enlarged the picture on the computer. The letters and numbers are a little fuzzy, but I enhanced the resolution and you can make them out well enough. I was able to match them with the records in the museum's archives." Austin looked up from the picture. "Were you able to trace its ownership?"
Grosset nodded. "There were forty-nine Ns built. After seeing how successful Garros was, other French pilots obtained the plane and used it with deadly efficiency. The English bought some of these "Bullet' planes, as they called the model, and the Russians as well. They performed better than the Fokker, but many pilots were wary of their high landing speed and sensitivity. You say you found this wreckage in the Alps?"
"Yes, at the bottom of a glacial lake near the Dormeur glacier." Grosset sat back in his chair and tented his fingers. "Curious. Some years ago I was called into that area to look over the wreckage of some old planes, scattered at various locations. They were a type known as an Aviatik, primarily used for scouting and reconnaissance. I talked to some of the local residents who said there were stories told by their grandparents of an air battle. It would have happened around the start of World War One, although I could not pinpoint an actual date."
"Do you think this aerial dogfight had anything to do with this latest find
"Perhaps. It may be yet another piece of a puzzle nearly a hundred years old. The mysterious disappearance of Jules Fauchard. He was the owner of the plane you found." "The name doesn't ring a bell."
"Fauchard was one of the wealthiest men in Europe. He disappeared in the year 1914, apparently while flying his Morane-Saulnier. He was in the habit of flying around his vast estate and vineyards. One day, he simply never came back. A search was launched within the probable range of his plane, but no trace was ever found. Within a few days, the war began and his disappearance, while regretful, became a mere historical footnote."
Austin tapped the photo that showed the machine gun. "Fauchard must have worried a lot about his grapes. How did a citizen come to be flying a warplane?" ^
"Fauchard was an arms manufacturer with strong political connections. It would have been nothing for him to have a plane diverted from the French arsenal. The larger question is how he got to the Alps." "Lost?"
"I don't think so. His plane would not have made it to Lac du Dormeur on a tank of fuel. In those days airports were few. He would have had to stockpile fuel supplies along his route. This suggests to me that his flight was part of a deliberate plan." \
"Where do you think he was headed?" "The lake is near the Swiss border."
"And Switzerland is known for secret banking. Maybe he was on his way to Zurich to cash a check."
Grosset responded with a soft chuckle. "A man of Fauchard's position had no use for cash." His face grew serious. "You have seen the television reports about the body that was found in the ice?"
"No, but I talked to someone who saw the body. She said he appeared to be wearing a long leather coat and a close-fitting cap like those worn by early aviators."
Grosset leaned forward, excitement in his eyes. "This would fit! Fauchard could have bailed out. He landed on the glacier and his plane crashed in the lake. If we could only retrieve the body."
Austin thought back to the dark, water-filled tunnel. "It would be a monumental task to pump the tunnel dry."
"So I understand." He shook his head. "If anyone could accomplish the task, it would be the Fauchards."
"His family is still around?"
"Oh yes, although you wouldn't know it. They are fanatical about their privacy."
"Not surprising. Many wealthy families don't like attention."
"It goes deeper than that, monsieur. The Fauchards are what are called "Merchants of Death." Arms dealers on a vast scale. Armaments are regarded by some as an unsavory business."
"The Fauchards sound a bit like a French version of the Krupps."
"They have been compared to the Krupps, although Racine Fauchard would argue that."
"Racine?"
"She would have been Jules's grandniece. A femme formidable, from what I am told. She still runs the family business."
"I would imagine that Madame Fouchard would like to know the fate of her long-lost ancestor."
"I agree, but it would be difficult for an ordinary mortal to get past the lawyers, public relations people and bodyguards that protect a person of her wealth." He thought about it for a moment, and then he said, "I have a friend who is a director at the company. I can call him with this information and see where it leads. Where can I reach you?"
"I'm taking the train back to Paris; I'll give you my cell phone number."
"Bien," Grosset said. He called a taxi to take Austin back to the train station. Then they walked past the antique planes to the from of the museum to wait for the ride.
They shook hands and Austin said, "Thanks for your help." "My pleasure. May I ask what interest NUMA has in this situation?"
"None, actually. I discovered the plane as I was working on a NUMA-sponsored project, but I'm pursuing it on my own, primarily out of curiosity."
"Then you won't be using intermediaries in any dealings you might have with the Fauchards?" "I hadn't intended to."
Grosset mulled over Austin's reply. "I was in the military for years and you seem to be a man who can take care of himself, but I would warn you to be very careful in any dealings you might have with the Fauchards." ^
"Why is that?"
"The Fauchards are not just any wealthy family." He paused, trying to choose his words carefully. "It is said that they have a past."
Before Austin could ask Grosset what he meant, the car pulled up, they said their adieus and he was on his way to the train station. As Austin sat back in his seat, he pondered the Frenchman's warning. Grosset seemed to be saying that the Fauchards had more than one skeleton in the family closet. The same thing could be said about any rich family on the face of the earth, Austin mused. The fortunes that built grand houses and status were often based on a foundation of slavery, opium dealing, smuggling or organized crime.
With nothing more to go on than nuance, Austin turned his thoughts to meeting Skye once more, but Grosset's words continued to echo in his mind like the tolling of a distant church bell. It is said that they have a past.
SKYE HAD HER OFFICE in the Sorbonne science center, a Le Corbusier influenced edifice of glass and concrete that was sandwiched between some art nouveau buildings near the Pantheon. The street was normally quiet except for the gaggles of university students who used it as a shortcut. But as Skye turned the corner, she saw police cars blocking both ends of the avenue. More official cars were lined up in front of the building and police officers swarmed around the entrance.
A portly policeman manning a barricade raised his hand to bar her way. "Sorry, mademoiselle. You cannot pass."
"What has happened, monsieur?"
"There has been an accident," he said.
"What kind of an accident?"
"I don't know, mademoiselle," the policeman said, with an unconvincing shrug.
Skye pulled her university ID card from her pocketbook and brandished it under the officer's nose. "I work in that building. I would like to know what is going on and whether it concerns me."
The police officer glanced from Skye's face to the ID picture and
said, "You had better talk to the inspector in charge." He led Skye over to a man in plainclothes who was standing next to a police car, talking to a couple of uniformed police officers.
"This woman says she works in the building," the policeman explained to the inspector, a dumpy middle-aged man whose face had the world-weary expression of someone who has seen too much of the underside of life.
The inspector studied Skye's identification card with baggy, red-rimmed eyes and handed it back after jotting her name and address down in his notebook.
"My name is Dubois," he said. "Please come with me." He opened the police car door, motioned for her to get in the backseat and slid in beside her. "When was the last time you were in your office building, mademoiselle?"
She checked her watch. "About two or three hours ago. Maybe a little more."
"Where did you go?" *
"I am an archaeologist. I took an artifact to an antiques expert for him to look at. Then I went to my apartment for a nap."
The inspector made a few notes. "When you were in the building, did you notice anyone or anything that struck you as strange?"
"No. All was normal as far as I know. Could you tell me what has happened?"
"There has been a shooting. Someone was killed. Did you know a Monsieur Renaud?"
"Renaud? Of course! He was my department head. You say he's dead?"
Dubois nodded. "Shot by an unknown assailant. When was the last time you saw Monsieur Renaud?"
"When I came to work around nine o'clock. We were in the elevator. My office is on the floor below his. We said a good morning and went on our separate ways."
Skye hoped that the slight shading of the truth didn't show in her face. When she'd greeted Renaud, he had simply glowered back at her without speaking.
"Can you think of anyone who would harm Monsieur Renaud?"
Skye hesitated before replying. She suspected that the inspector's basset hound expression was a mask meant to lull suspects into making self-incriminating statements. If he had talked to others, he would have learned that Renaud was universally loathed within his department. If she said anything to the contrary, he would wonder why she was lying.
"Monsieur Renaud was a controversial figure in the department," she said after a moment. "Many people didn't like the way he ran things."
"And you, mademoiselle? Did you like the way he ran things?"
"I was among a number of people on the faculty who thought he was not the person for his post."
The lieutenant smiled for the first time. "A most diplomatic response, mademoiselle. May I ask where exactly you have been before coming here?"
Skye gave him Darnay's name and the address of the antique shop, and her home address, which he duly noted, reassuring her that it was routine procedure. Then he got out of the car, opened the door and handed her his business card.
"Thank you, Mademoiselle Labelle. Please call me if you can think of anything else regarding this matter."
"Yes, of course. I have a favor to ask, Lieutenant. May I go to my office on the second floor?"
He thought about it for a moment. "Yes, but you must be accompanied by one of my men."
They got out of the car and Inspector Dubois called over the police officer Skye had first spoken to and instructed him to escort her through the police cordon. Every policeman in Paris seemed to have
converged on the crime scene. Renaud was a scoundrel, but he was a prominent figure at the university and his murder would cause a sensation.
More police officers and technicians were working inside the building. Forensics people were dusting for fingerprints and photographers scurried around snapping pictures. Skye led the way to her second-floor office with the policeman close behind, stepped inside and looked around. Although all her furnishings and papers appeared to be in place, she had the strange feeling that something was amiss.
Skye's eyes scanned the room, and then she went to her desk. She was compulsively neat when it came to her paperwork. Before leaving her office, she had stacked her reference books, papers and files with micrometer precision. Now the edges were ragged, as if they had been hurriedly re-stacked. Someone had been at her deskl "Mademoiselle?"
The police officer was giving her an odd look and she realized that she had been staring blankly into space. She nodded, opened a desk drawer and extracted a file. She tucked the file under her arm without bothering to see what it contained.
"I'm through here," she said with a forced smile. Skye resisted the impulse to bolt from the office and tried to walk at her usual pace, but her legs seemed made of wood. Her calm facade gave no hint of her racing pulse and her heartbeat seemed to thunder in her ears. She was thinking that the same hand that had disturbed her papers could have held the gun that killed Renaud. /