Although Jones blamed the incident on the fortunes of war, Kessler couldn’t help but feel responsible for the navigator’s death and the subsequent pain that Jones had had to endure from his injuries.
“You mind?” Jones pulled out a pack of Marlboro Golds and a lighter.
“Nope. Your lungs.”
“Well, this is the way I see it. If those damned Iraqis couldn’t kill me after filling my plane with lead, then I doubt this little cigarette has a chance in hell of doing much to me.”
Kessler smiled broadly. “I guess some things just never change.”
“Well, for your information, some things do change. This is the first smoke I’ve had since yesterday morning. For a guy that used to smoke a pack a day a year ago, I’d say that I’ve come a long way.”
Kessler threw his arms up in the air. “All right, all right. I apologize.”
“Good,” Jones said. “Then let’s eat.”
With his mind racing, looking for a reasonable explanation, Cameron paced back and forth in the small room on the second floor of St. Vincent de Paul Hospital.
The incident at the rue de Cujas certainly gave Marie’s story some credibility. Enough for Cameron to share his information with his case officer back at the American Embassy. His case officer had not been pleased. This wasn’t supposed to be anything serious. The French police, on the other hand, had been most polite under the circumstances. They had given him back his lost Beretta, after determining that it had not been fired the night before. The police had listened to his entire story while taking massive amounts of notes. Cameron did find out one interesting fact about the case. The police had found a dead man in Marie’s hotel room, who’d turned out to be Inspector Philippe Rouquette. He had been shot in the back. Rouquette was the same inspector that Marie had talked to about her husband’s death. That had Cameron Baffled. Why was he there? To warn her about the gray-haired assassin? Or was Roquette the assassin himself?
He stared at Marie, sleeping peacefully across the room in a bed next to the window. The doctor had said she had a minor concussion and would be out for several hours.
“Mmmm.”
Cameron saw her stir in her sleep. He walked across the tiled floor and sat at the edge of her bed. She moaned softly, slowly moving her head from side to side, clearly upset even though unconscious.
Cameron walked to the small sink on the opposite side of the room, wetted the small towel hanging next to it, and walked back to Marie’s bedside. He folded the towel in two and gently pressed it against her forehead.
“Hmmm… mmmph…” She relaxed. Cameron smiled. Marie was indeed a very beautiful woman. Naturally beautiful.
He pressed the towel gently against her cheeks and neck.
“You’ll be alright, Marie. Relax. Everything is going to be fine.” Cameron stared at her face and suddenly felt ashamed of himself. Her husband had died less than forty-eight hours ago and here he stood feeling strongly attracted to her. He shook his head and exhaled. It felt strange. He had not been with a woman for years, not emotionally, that is. His first and only love affair had occurred nearly two decades earlier, in Vietnam. Although GIs had been officially prohibited from becoming involved with the locals, Cameron had fallen quickly for a petite nineteen-year-old named Lan-Anh Binh, the daughter of a prosperous Saigon business man. The secret affair had lasted six months, ending abruptly when her father’s store fell victim to a terrorist incendiary bomb while Lan-Anh worked the cash register. Her body had been burned beyond recognition. Cameron, devastated, had turned in a request to be transferred to Special Forces where in those days the survival ratio was very poor. He’d spent three tours with Special Forces, participating in covert operations behind enemy lines. Those three years had toughened him up, both physically and mentally. They’d been his wild years. Booze, women, and war had filled his life. He had lost many good friends back then. The more reason for the booze and the women. He had managed to survive Vietnam, had spent more time with the Army as a basic training instructor, and eventually had been recruited by the CIA. With the CIA in Mexico he had gone out with a few embassy secretaries and some locals, but nothing serious had ever developed. His work never left him enough time to have a proper relationship. He knew that for a forty-two-year-old his sex life had not been all that bad, but his love life had been way below average.
A knock on the door made him reach for his Beretta. He pulled it out of the Velcro-secured holster.
“Stone? You in there?”
Hiding the weapon behind his back, Cameron approached the door and opened it. Outside stood two large muscular men in their late twenties, dressed in two-piece suits and overcoats. One held a can of soda in his left hand and a paperback in his right. The second man kept one hand inside a coat pocket while holding up two identification cards with the other.
Amateur hour, thought Cameron as he briefly eyed each of the rookies and checked their IDs. Never compromise your hands.
“I’m heading back to the embassy to get some sleep,” Cameron said, holstering the Beretta. “Call me if she comes around, and please do me a favor and stay frosty. Trash the reading material, keep your hands free at all times, and split up. One outside in the hall and the other near her bed, but away from the windows. Switch places every half hour.” Without waiting for a response, Cameron grabbed his coat and walked past the startled duo.
Cameron arrived at the American Embassy thirty minutes later. He used the elevator instead of the stairs, like most everyone else in the building. Tired and nauseated from lack of sleep, he didn’t feel like exerting the additional effort, especially after fighting a petulant morning crowd in the Metro. He pushed the button and the elevator doors closed.
Cameron briefly closed his eyes and yawned. His mind automatically began to go through a list of possible explanations for last night’s incident, but he shook the thoughts away. Rest first, then analyze.
The doors opened. Cameron stepped away from the elevator, turned left, and walked toward his room at the other end of the narrow hall. As he pulled out his key, he noticed a white piece of paper folded in half and taped to his door. Cameron pulled it off and read it. A note from his case officer. A meeting with the French police had been set up for later that day at the hospital. A meeting? What’s going on? Are these the same cops who didn’t have a clue about the shooting last night? Could they have really come up with something useful since then? He exhaled and accepted the fact he would have to wait a few more hours before finding out. He unlocked the door.
Although he had a fairly small room, he didn’t have to share it with another operative as had been the case in Mexico City. Cameron reached for the small Sony stereo system next to the single bed and tuned into Armed Forces Radio, one of the few English-speaking radio stations in Europe. He barely heard the music as his eyes drifted toward the only photograph in the room, a black-framed eight-by-ten standing over the stereo. It showed him and three members of his old platoon in Vietnam. Three that never made it back alive. Cameron’s eyes filled when he focused on the blonde skinny kid with one arm around Cameron’s neck. A young private by the name of Jim Skergan, a good kid from the steel towns of Pennsylvania. Cameron had known him for only a few months. He instantly regretted the thought, but the memory came rushing back, just as it had hundreds of times before. Skergan’s eyes pleaded with Cameron. Go, Cameron. You can… make it on your own. I’ll hide… and wait… for you to… come back.