“I used to do it for fun. I don’t have so much time anymore. Why? You a runner, too?”
Dr. Bac gave him a brittle smile. “I run from patient to patient. You’d be surprised at how fit it will keep you.”
Chapel wanted to laugh, but he could see something dark shifting behind the lady’s eyes.
“How is your hearing?” she asked. “Some bells? Some ringing, perhaps?”
“A siren’s more like it.”
“Your eardrum on this side. It is ruptured. You are lucky to hear anything at all. Your shoulder has been badly burned. Mostly second-degree, but a small patch that is very bad.”
He had come to briefly as he was being wheeled into the emergency room. Lifting his head, he’d noted with a punch drunk’s surprise that the bomb had blown his clothing more or less completely off his body. One leg of his blue jeans was gone. The other was in tatters, as if someone had taken a knife and cut it into fine horizontal strips. His shirt was missing, except for a cuff on his right hand. The same hand had immediately ventured south, making sure he was intact. It was only then that he’d glimpsed the red, blistered pulp that was his shoulder. A moment later, a doctor-maybe it was even Dr. Bac-had stuck a two-inch needle into him and he’d been out ever since. A clock on the wall read 9:15. Eighteen hours, more or less.
“Excuse me,” said Chapel, grasping her forearm.
“Yes?”
“What about the others? Keck, Gomez, Monsieur Babtiste? You know, the men I was with. Who else is being treated in this hospital?”
Dr. Bac drew up a rolling stool alongside the bed and sat down. “Mr. Chapel, you were in an enclosed space with a man who detonated a pound of plastic explosives on his person. You are a policeman, non? Surely, you know what this material can do. When you place four walls around such a blast, it is like multiplying the force by ten.”
“What about Carmine Santini? Big guy… going bald… could lose ten pounds around the middle?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Is Keck okay? Skinny, blond, looks like he’s about twelve.”
“I’m sorry.”
“One of them’s got to have made it out. Please.”
“Unfortunately…” The words trailed off as Dr. Bac formed a smile of infinite sadness.
“No,” said Chapel. “It can’t be. They can’t… God, no. One of them at least. I can’t be the only one.”
“The only reason you are alive is that another man shielded you from the blast.”
“Who was it? Which one of them saved me?”
“I have no idea. They tell me you were pulled from beneath a body. Actually, I’m not supposed to discuss these things with you, but I see you are-” She hesitated, her intelligent eyes crinkling as if looking at something odd or mysterious. “You are different.” She stood suddenly, fixing a strand of hair behind her ear, shoving her stethoscope back in her pocket. “There are some men waiting for you outside. They are from the FBI. They showed me their badges. Very impressive. I told them you are weak, that you should remain in my care another two days, minimum, and then that you should rest another seven days at home. They would prefer to take you with them. I leave the choice to you.”
“No one made it out?” Chapel searched her eyes for a new answer. A better answer.
Dr. Bac shook her head slowly. “Come see me tomorrow. Ten A.M. sharp. I have to change your dressing. I will tell the men to come back in an hour. I think you need the time.”
“No. I’m all right. Send them in.”
“You are sure?”
Chapel nodded, and her expression darkened. Looking away, she shook her head as if to say “Of course, he’s sure.” She was disappointed. She had been wrong about him.
Chapter 10
It was early morning, and as Sarah Churchill strolled the grassy strip overlooking the Bay of Bengal, she marveled at the sapphire sky, the emerald sea, and the hordes of tiny fishing craft bobbing like pearls as they made their way into port after a night’s work. It was beautiful. All of it. She smiled crazily-giggled, even. It was a natural reaction-a rebound high from yesterday’s events in the Smugglers’ Bazaar. She couldn’t have controlled it if she’d wanted to.
Leaving the Hotel Midway House on the grounds of the Karachi International Airport, she’d decided it was to be a day of superlatives. Never had she walked beneath so blue a sky, on so beautiful a day in so beautiful a city. If the tuk-tuks screaming past showered her with a foul spray of dust and exhaust, she chose not to see or hear them. In her world, it was Mozart playing “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,” and Monet doing the landscapes. For a few hours, she wanted nothing more to do with the CIA, the Secret Intelligence Service, or their battle to root out the seemingly inexhaustible scourge of terrorism.
Her first debrief had ended at midnight. Step-by-step she’d dissected the past three days, reviewing each leg for ways to improve her skills, to blend in more seamlessly, to penetrate the psychological guise of her target. The only question left unanswered was the one everyone was afraid to ask: Why hadn’t she surmised that Sayeed would take his own life rather than be captured? Still, they’d tracked the money to Paris, and that was her primary goal. If her masters’ smiles weren’t all they should be, it wasn’t her fault. What happened in France didn’t concern her. Sad? Yes. A tragedy? Absolutely. But it was Treasury’s op, and if their failure rankled her, she was to keep it to herself. Sarah’s side of things was graded a success. An A-plus. If a few innocents got shredded in the process, the collateral damage was within acceptable limits. She was being put up for a meritorious conduct medal and could expect a warm reception when she made it back to England-which wouldn’t be too soon. The Agency had adopted Sarah as one of its own, and wanted her back in the field within a month.
Pending her return to Washington (and the more extensive debriefing that would follow once she arrived at Langley), she’d been posted off duty. She had a day and most of the night in front of her to walk the city, see the sights, and keep her nose out of trouble.
Sarah turned in a semicircle, exchanging the blue of the ocean for the sun-bleached limestone of the city. The burqa was long gone. They could burn the damned things as far as she was concerned. In its place she settled for a pair of old 501s, a faded pink Polo button-down, and some Tod moccasins as soft as butter. A pair of Ray-Ban aviators had replaced her decidedly unfashionable commo gear. If her hair needed a cut and a trim, a shampoo, blow-dry, and some Sebastien mousse had done nicely in the meantime. In the war of cultures, America could claim her as another victim, and for the moment, that’s exactly how she wanted it. She was a lone tourist doing one last tramp around Karachi before catching her flight home. If she got up the guts, she’d even try the local McDonald’s.
Once, Karachi had served as Pakistan’s capital, but to Sarah’s eye it still belonged to the Raj. Monuments to Britain’s rule beckoned at every corner. The broad, grass-lined boulevards, the Victorian architecture of the High Court and the Legislature, the local population’s precise, polite English. Forty years ago, the capital had moved inland to Islamabad, to a spot deemed more central to administering the country’s far-flung frontiers. The army had insisted on the move. It preferred the country’s elected officials to be closer to Central Military Command, where rational minds might make themselves heard. Three coups later, a general once again ruled the land.
From the port, she ventured into the heart of the city. Turning down Club Road, she found herself looking at a tall, modern hotel, painted the brightest of whites. A large “S” adorned one wall, and she recognized it as the Sheraton Hotel, where in May 2002, a car bomb had killed fifteen French engineers shipped in to help Pakistan’s submarine development efforts. Quickly, she turned the other way and headed back toward the diplomatic quarter.