“The Diderot stent is used as an alternative to coronary bypass surgery to force open arteries leading to the heart,” he said as his fingers released the dagger’s cold grip. “There are two types-coated or uncoated. Both-”
“All right. That’s enough,” said the doctor. “But you really shouldn’t miss the lecture. It’s not often that Diderot gives these talks. Why do you think I drove all the way from Lyons?”
“Thanks all the same, but I’ve got rounds.” Gabriel pointed down the hall. “Level Four. Corridor D. You can’t miss it. Thanks again.”
“Thank you,” the doctor said, starting off. “Oh, young man?”
Gabriel looked back over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“You are…”
Gabriel checked the impulse to see if he was wearing a name tag. “In a hurry,” he said, not missing a beat. “Good luck.”
The doctor waved a distracted good-bye.
But George Gabriel winced. He’d been marked.
“Keep it running,” said Adam Chapel as he opened the car door and extended a leg to the sidewalk. “It shouldn’t take long.”
“You sure you don’t want me to come up?” Sarah was leaning over the passenger seat, her face lit with expectation.
Chapel hesitated. All morning, they’d been playing it as if last night had never happened. They were two professionals doing their jobs, both of them too engrossed in the onslaught of detail to pay attention to the other. On the way over from the Bank Montparnasse, though, he’d noticed a change of temperament. A warming of the air, so to speak. Maybe it was the fact that she was smiling a little or that she was humming to the music on the radio. Each time she went to shift, he was sure she was going to put her hand on his leg. At first he’d tensed, unsure how he would react. But as he got used to the idea, he decided he wanted her to touch him, and he relaxed his leg, allowing it to sway toward her hand.
It reminded him of that silly grade-school game where you passed your hand through a candle flame to see if it hurt, and kept going slower and slower until you got burned. Sarah was the flame. She was alluring. She was dangerous. She was impossible to resist. And in the end, he knew, she burned everything she touched.
“No,” he said. “Wait here. You don’t want to hear a grown man cry.”
“Be brave,” she said. “And no flirting with the doctor. We’ve got to be at the airport by noon.”
The burn unit occupied the westernmost section of the third floor. Entry was controlled. Visiting hours tightly enforced. Fear of infection demanded that a minimum of persons be allowed near the patients. George Gabriel presented himself to the nurse on duty. “I’m here to see Dr. Bac. I’ve got her patient’s charts. Mr. Chapel. The American hurt in the bombing day before yesterday.”
“Of course. Room 323.”
“Is he here yet?”
The nurse answered without looking up from her paperwork. “Not yet.”
George walked briskly down the hallway. Even numbers were on the right; odd to the left. Few patients were to be seen. An odd quiet filled the air. There were no drawings of bright suns and frolicking children on the wall. The air smelled sharply of ammonia. He looked behind him. He could still leave. His presence here violated no codes. A new and undefined life beckoned. He kept walking, pushed along by his father’s prideful gaze, his ruthless expectations.
He stopped in front of the door to Room 323. He reached a hand toward the door handle, then pulled it away. He shook his head and retreated a step. Just then, the door opened. An older man shuffled out, his hands swathed in gauze bandages. Now, certain of what he must do, George slipped into the room as the door closed behind him.
Jeannette Bac stood with her back to him, hunched over a counter furiously scribbling notes into a manila folder. She had long, kinky brown hair and a trim figure. Over her shoulder, he caught a triangle of her pale cheek and the corner of her glasses. He stepped closer and caught traces of lilac and vanilla. She wore a faded pink shirt and he could see the links of a gold necklace through the strands of her hair.
“There,” she said, punctuating her report with a flourish of her pen. Abruptly she turned, nearly bumping into Gabriel. “Oh, God,” she exclaimed, a hand flying to her mouth. “You scared me. I thought I was alone.”
The blade slid from the sheath and he held it against his leg.
“I’m sorry,” said George Gabriel, the smile coming easily to his cheeks this time, a rush of power swelling his chest. “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”
At the main reception, Chapel asked directions to the burn unit. The nurse explained in perfect English that he should walk down the corridor, take the first bank of elevators to the third floor, and follow the signs. An elevator waited, its doors open. He rode alone, eyes on the panel, watching the blinking lights. For all that had happened, things weren’t going too badly. He had high hopes that the Financial Crimes Enforcement Bureau might uncover information about the Holy Land Charitable Trust that would lead him a step closer to Albert Daudin-or the man who was using his alias. Though pleased the ball was back in the American court, he was no less driven. The memory of the ruined videotape remained fresh in his mind. At any time he expected to receive news of a terrible explosion, a host of deaths. Or worse.
The light advanced to the third floor and Chapel moved forward. The door opened. Stepping into the hallway, he heard an anguished shout echoing down the hallway.
“Arrêtez! Vous. Là. Arrêtez immediatement!”
Somewhere a tray hit the floor and clattered violently. A glass shattered.
Chapel rushed toward the source of the noise. As he turned the corner and stepped into the main corridor, he was hit full-force by a running man and thrown to the ground. The man fell on top of him, scrambling to right himself even as he bounced off Chapel’s chest. “You!” he said.
He was young and brawny, his dark eyes electric with fear, his mouth open, perfect white teeth bared as he desperately sucked in his breath. Their eyes met, and for a split second, Chapel felt the man hesitate. He could sense a decision being made behind the frightened gaze. A fist crashed into Chapel’s shoulder, once, twice. Chapel screamed in agony, as his vision darkened and stars burst behind his eyes. As quickly, the man was up, attacking the hallway with a sprinter’s high step.
“Securité!” someone yelled as Chapel struggled to his feet. For a moment, he remained bent over double, winded, shaking off the pain. A male nurse ran to him and asked if he was all right.
“What happened?” Chapel asked in his schoolboy’s French.
“Him-this crazy man-he tried to hurt the doctor.”
Something clicked inside him. “Dr. Bac?”
“Yes, Dr. Bac.”
“Get to a desk,” Chapel said. “Call security. Tell them to lock down the hospital. Shut the doors. Now!”
And then he was running, too, taking off down the corridor with all the speed his thirty-year-old legs could muster. The man had been after Bac. That means he was after me, thought Chapel.
A road map of stunned faces and startled onlookers marked the man’s path. Rounding a corner, Chapel burst into a trio of nurses gathered closely together, holding open the door to an internal stairwell and peering into the dusk.
“He went down there?” Chapel asked, catching his breath.