The chairman of Thornhill Guaranty, however, was not so cheery. A generous donor to the ruling party, he phoned the White House to request that Thornhill’s name be left out of it, and that only the Gemeinschaft Bank of Dresden be mentioned. In soothing tones, he was informed that the President was otherwise engaged, but that his comments would be passed along with all due haste. It was the truth. At that moment, the President was closeted with his press secretary, communications chief, and foreign policy czar, figuring a way to work the news into the day’s public addresses at a UAW rally in Saginaw, Michigan (easy), and a luncheon for the National Midwives Association in Hannibal, Missouri (hard). All were agreed, though, that it would be a marvelous theme on which to base his after-dinner comments at the state dinner honoring King Bandar, the new ruler of Saudi Arabia, being held Saturday evening.
Decision taken, the White House called back OFAC and signaled their accord.
At 8:21, a provisional freeze was put on all assets of the Holy Land Charitable Trust of Germany held by the Gemeinschaft Bank of Dresden.
Chapter 30
A filthy white Peugeot 504 sat parked across the street from his house. It was a ten-year-old sedan, with a dented front fender, a Radio 24 bumper sticker, and Paris plates, identical to thousands of others trawling the French capital. The door was unlocked, the key in the ignition. Climbing into the front seat, George Gabriel adjusted the seat and checked the rear- and sideview mirrors. He was dressed in khaki pants, a white cotton shirt, and a loose-fitting black blazer. His cordovan loafers carried rubber soles that promised stealth as well as comfort should he need to run any kind of distance. Though he had hardly slept, he was more awake than he’d ever been in his life.
He started the car, and for a moment the hum of the engine, the kick of the accelerator, lessened his anxieties. He was a city kid. He hadn’t driven enough to lose a teenager’s thrill at piloting his own automobile. This is it, he murmured, looking at himself in the rearview mirror. This is your last chance. But it was his father’s eyes that stared back and crushed his defiance.
Carefully he pulled into traffic and began the drive to the Hôpital Salpetriere in the southwestern most part of the city. He was careful to confine his hands to the steering wheel, the radio, the air-conditioning system. The trip took twenty minutes. At 9:32, he entered a public garage on the Rue Danton. He parked the car at the rear of the fourth underground floor between a Renault minivan and another Peugeot. Using a handkerchief, he wiped down the dashboard and the steering wheel. After he closed and locked the door, he took care to swipe the door handle, too.
At the elevator, he held the door to allow an elderly woman and her toy poodle to enter. Any doubts about his appearance were erased by her lingering smile and countless thanks. If he could pass for a Good Samaritan in the gloom of a parking garage, he’d do just fine beneath a hospital’s fluorescent lights.
Outside, the streets crawled with traffic. The sun seemed brighter than usual; the everyday din of the passing cars louder than he remembered. He ordered himself to walk slowly. Yet, his calf muscles felt tight, ready to cramp.
At 9:40, the trauma entrance at the east side of the hospital was practically deserted. A single ambulance loitered in the emergency bay. The sliding glass doors were open to allow a cooling breeze. He walked past reception, studiously ignoring the admitting nurse’s inquisitive smile. The corridors yawned in front of him, white-tile hallways smelling of bleach and linseed oil, decorated with childrens’ crayon drawings. Doctors, patients, relatives, and custodians moved through the halls at a plodding pace. No one looked twice at the six-foot-two-inch visitor with the shy eyes and relaxed gait. He needed five minutes to find Hallway B, Corridor 7.
The door to the surgical changing room was marked “Private-Staff Only.” A splinter of wood dangled from the lock guard. Others had preceded him. George Gabriel pushed it open and stepped inside. A neatly folded white lab jacket waited on the shelf. Removing his blazer, he stuffed it in the bottom of the laundry bin, then put on the white coat. A stethoscope lay coiled in the pocket. Freeing it, he slung it around his neck. The staples of a first-year resident filled his breast pocket: pens, notepad, tongue depressor, and a penlight. Instinctively, his fingers delved into his sleeve. The dagger slept in an oiled sheath strapped to his left forearm.
He left the elevator on the third floor. At the crossroads joining the hospital’s two main buildings, he paused to get his bearings. Right took him to the oncology department. Left to radiology. He needed to go straight. He reminded himself that his primary exit was two floors below and would leave him at the Rue Poitiers. From there, he could either catch the Métro at the Place D’Italie (the Number 5, 6, or 7 line) or walk two blocks to a taxi stand. Under no circumstances was he to return to the Peugeot.
It was difficult to keep his eyes fixed in front of him, to stop from glancing in every direction like an escapee from prison trying to figure out where exactly he was. He could in no way appear unsure about his surroundings. He must mesh with the landscape. He continued until he saw a sign with the words “Burn Unit/Intensive Care” and an arrow beneath it pointing the way.
The time was 9:50.
Stopping at a water fountain, he dared a look down the corridor. This part of the hospital was busier than the rest. The halls bristled with doctors, nurses, and orderlies. Most had serious expressions on their faces and walked briskly, with grim purpose. Every second person appeared to be of West African or Algerian descent.
Taking a deep breath, he straightened up and readied himself for the run in.
A heavy hand fell on his shoulders.
“Young man, can you help me? I’m afraid I am lost.” It was a doctor, gray-haired, pasty-skinned, with a flinty gaze beneath the polite manner. George Gabriel wiped the water from his mouth, but not the residue of anxiety. “Of course, sir. Where do you need to go?”
“I’m here for the lecture on interventional radiology. The Pasteur Operating Theatre. Dr. Diderot’s talk about stents.”
Gabriel nodded his head, managing a sour smile. While studying the hospital’s layout, he had come across the Pasteur Operating Theatre… but where exactly? Panic welled inside him, gnawing at his gut like a starving rat. “It’s… um…” He blinked and he realized that his hand was shaking. He ordered his foot to move, but it didn’t respond. He was frozen. And then it came to him. “You’re in the wrong building,” he blurted, causing the visiting doctor to retreat a step. “You have to take the elevator up to Level Four, and find Corridor D. You should see plenty of signs. If not, just ask. We’re all very excited about Dr. Diderot being here.”
The doctor frowned. “You’re not coming?”
“No. I’m doing my cardiology rotation. Thanks anyway.”
“But Diderot is a cardiologist,” he exclaimed. The doctor stepped closer, placing his hands on his hips and staring up at George as if he were inspecting a simple foot soldier. “Just what do you think stents are for, anyway? Come on. Tell me. The Diderot stent. Surely you’ve come across it in your studies.”
Gabriel stared into the doctor’s eyes, and the idea came to him that he should kill him there and then and make a run for it. Forget Chapel. Forget his father. Forget Hijira. He’d make a run to Claudine’s and hide out there until the trouble died down. A hand wandered into his sleeve. His fingers touched the dagger. Claudine would understand, he told himself. She understood everything. The thought of his girlfriend calmed him, and with a start, he realized that he knew what a stent was, after all. Claudine had raved about them one afternoon as they were studying together. Yet another of the medical miracles that would prolong their lives together.