Fade to Blue, page 17
He gave her a once-over. “Taller.”
“That’s because I stuffed some paper towels into my shoes. I also tried to grow a beard, but . . .”
They both smiled, enjoying a moment of levity.
“My clothes are in the bathroom.”
“That’s fine.”
“No, no. I need them. And my backpack.”
“I’ll make sure you get all of your belongings,” René said. He turned and gave an order to one of his officers.
She saw three men putting on bulletproof vests similar to the one René had given her. “What’s happening?”
“One of the paramedics has agreed to drive Lisette to the hospital. He’ll be accompanied by two of my officers. They’ll wear emergency services uniforms.”
He pointed to a man struggling to pull a red Service d’aide médicale urgente shirt over his vest. “That muscular fellow is Benoit. He’s skilled in martial arts and has combat experience in Mali. He’ll ride in the back of the ambulance with Lisette.”
“Good.”
“In addition, I’ll send two undercover men to St. Vincent Hospital. We’ll be ready for an attack.”
Sarah watched the paramedics lift Lisette off the bed and lower her onto a plastic backboard. “Wait a minute. Hold on,” she said. “I need some blood.”
The EMT who’d just loaned Benoit his uniform reached into a kit and removed a half-liter blood bag. Sarah took it from him, picked up a pair of scissors, and poked a hole near the top of the bag. She flipped the bag upside down and dangled it above Lisette’s bandaged head. All eyes watched as blood trickled onto the gauze. She moved the bag in a circular motion, creating a large red stain on the white material. Satisfied with the result, Sarah turned the bag upright and handed it back to the EMT.
The paramedics secured Lisette to the backboard with straps and hoisted her off the ground.
René pulled Sarah aside. “Come with me.” She followed him up the stairs and into his office. He walked over to his desk, unlocked a drawer, removed a pistol, and handed it to her.
Sarah examined the gun. “Is it loaded?”
“No.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Have you had firearms training?” René asked.
She shrugged. “Who cares?”
“I do. I won’t put my men at risk.”
“But it’s okay to put me at risk?”
“You’re wearing a bulletproof vest. And my officers will protect you.”
“I understand that. But I still want to be able to defend myself.”
“With a deadly weapon you’ve never even held before, much less been trained how to use?”
Sarah weighed his point. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Do you at least have some glasses I could borrow for a disguise?”
René reached inside a desk drawer and pulled out his reading glasses. “Make sure I get these back.”
He got up, walked over to a supply closet, and took a blue jacket off its hanger. “See if this fits you.”
She tried it on and gave him a thumbs-up.
They left his office, and he led her over to a young police officer. René spoke to the man before introducing her to him. “Sarah, this is Philippe. He’ll drive you to the meeting.”
“Great. What about my backpack and my clothes?”
“They’re in a box in the trunk of his car.”
René walked to a front window and parted the blinds. He saw a few onlookers standing near the ambulance and ordered two of his men to shoo them away. After they’d fulfilled their task, he turned around and surveyed the silent room: Lisette was lying on a gurney. Philippe, the paramedic, Sarah, and four police officers—two of them wearing EMT uniforms—were strategically positioned to shield her face.
René looked at Sarah. “Are you ready?”
She slid her hands into the jacket pockets and made sure her splinted finger was hidden. “Yes.”
He opened the station doors and gave an “okay” sign. The paramedic wheeled Lisette outside while the others stayed in formation around the gurney. Sarah kept her head down to avoid making eye contact with Marcel or any members of his hit squad. René’s glasses offered disguise but also skewed her vision and made it difficult to navigate the uneven pavement. She looked up and saw the paramedic push the gurney into the back of the ambulance.
“Let’s go,” Philippe said. They walked to a police car, and Sarah got in the passenger seat. To help conceal her face, she opened the glove compartment and pretended to search for something inside.
Philippe got behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove away from Place Baudoyer. Sarah closed the glove compartment and took off René’s glasses and the police cap. She turned around and looked out the back window.
“Do you see anyone following us?”
“No.”
“Get ready,” Philippe said. He flipped on the siren and sped down a busy street. Sarah secured her seat belt and stared wide-eyed as he ran a red light. Then another. She stole a look at the speedometer. It read 87 kilometers per hour.
Philippe slammed the brakes to avoid T-boning a truck, and Sarah jerked forward. He swerved around the vehicle and stomped on the accelerator. Her back pressed against the seat as they zoomed forward.
Great. I escape from Marcel, only to be killed by my driver.
He slowed down, turned left, and made an immediate right onto a dark street. He shut off the siren, sped to the end of the block, did a U-turn, and pulled over to the curb.
“Get your head down,” he said and switched off the headlamps and engine. She followed his order.
They sat still for two minutes. No cars drove by. No pedestrians appeared.
“I think we’re okay,” he said.
Sarah pushed herself up in her seat.
“So, is this your first visit to Paris?”
chapter twenty-two
Marcel parked his car, pulled an attaché case from the trunk, and walked toward St. Vincent Hospital. Nearing the emergency room entrance, he removed a pair of night-vision goggles from his suit jacket pocket, put them on, and looked for a good vantage point. An isolated position. Not too far away. Not too close.
After a quick search, he chose a hill approximately two hundred meters away—well beyond the row of businesses lining the opposite side of the street.
Marcel crossed Rue de Sèvres and jogged a sidewalk between two buildings to the back of the complex. He continued through a parking lot, stepped over a broken fence, and climbed the hill. After reaching the top, he looked around and found a prime spot behind a juniper tree. His phone rang.
“Hello?”
“You were right,” Antoine said. “Sarah is trying to escape. They just put her in the ambulance.”
“I’ll be ready when she arrives,” Marcel said.
He set his attaché case on the ground and opened it. While assembling the rifle, he remembered training as a young man under the tutelage of Arkady Volkov. The storied marksman had taught him how to calculate the trajectory of a fired bullet based on many factors—the type of rifle and ammunition used, distance and elevation from the target, and weather conditions. After much practice, he’d conquered the science and, as a professional assassin, prided himself on hitting his victim in the heart. It always guaranteed a quick kill and—more often than not—surprisingly little blood loss.
In contrast, shooting someone in the head or elsewhere in the upper torso was messy and could be excruciatingly painful for the recipient. He respected his targets and didn’t want to torture or humiliate them. And he respected the medical personnel who would arrive at the scene. Why make their job more unpleasant? His goal was always an immediate kill and a minimum amount of gore.
A siren interrupted his thoughts and forced him to focus on the task at hand. He finished assembling his M4 carbine assault rifle and made sure it was ready for use. The siren grew louder and then went silent as the ambulance came into view and pulled up in front of the emergency room entrance.
Marcel raised his rifle, peered through its scope, and watched the EMTs open the back doors of the vehicle and remove the gurney. Their patient had a bandaged forehead. And braids.
He held his breath, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. He heard the shot and felt a kick to his right shoulder. Through the riflescope, he saw her body jerk as a 5.56 mm bullet ripped through her heart.
Philippe and Sarah left behind the bright lights of Paris and headed north. In thirty minutes, they reached Domont. Philippe turned off Rue de la République and onto a dark, two-lane road. He rounded a curve and pulled into a driveway alongside three other cars in front of a two-story house.
“We’re here,” Philippe said. He shut off the engine, popped the trunk latch, and got out of the car. Sarah retrieved her backpack from the trunk and saw a bald man wearing blue jeans and an untucked white dress shirt approach Philippe and engage him in conversation. She walked over to them, and the man looked at her and extended his hand.
“Hi, Sarah. Welcome to Domont. I’m Interior Minister Gabriel Parmentier.”
They exchanged a firm handshake. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “Thank you for arranging this meeting on such short notice.”
Gabriel led his guests through the front door of his home. Sarah entered the living room and was struck by the combination of new and old. A flat-screen television sat on a nineteenth-century table. Track lighting illuminated paintings by French masters. Wireless speakers played Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.
“I’d like you to meet my wife, Anne-Marie,” Gabriel said. Sarah turned to a tall, thin woman. She was dressed in black suede pants and an azure top that complemented her silver hair.
Anne-Marie smiled and shook Sarah’s hand. “Enchantée. I understand you’ve had quite an adventure.”
Sarah nodded her head slowly. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”
“We’re just waiting for a representative from your embassy,” Gabriel noted. “He should be here soon. In the meantime, Anne-Marie will show you to your accommodation.”
“I’m staying here tonight?” Sarah asked.
“Yes.”
“Please come with me,” Anne-Marie said and escorted Sarah up a flight of stairs and into a second-floor bedroom. “I hope this is okay.”
Sarah looked up at the timbered ceiling and then lowered her gaze to admire the stone fireplace, abstract art paintings, Persian rugs, and, last but not least, the king-size bed.
“It’s perfect.”
“And you have your own bathroom,” Anne-Marie said, pointing to a door with a little WC sign hanging on it. “Is there anything I can get you?”
Sarah considered her offer. “Well, now that you ask, I haven’t eaten since lunch. So, if I could just grab a little—”
“Yes, of course. Do you eat beef?”
“I eat everything.”
“Good. I’ll prepare you some dinner.”
“Please, don’t go out of your way.”
“I’m not,” Anne-Marie said and left the room.
Sarah walked into the bathroom feeling a mixture of curiosity and apprehension and looked in the mirror. Her heart sank. She had almost no hair. And a tiny head. And her face was shockingly pallid. Could it be that her braids—or the long, curly locks she wore when her hair was unbraided—made her look more attractive than she really was? Assuming she could patch things up with Rogelio, what would he think? Would she still bring an amorous smile to his face?
She laid her backpack on the vanity, opened its main compartment, and was happy to see her running shoes and the cargo pants and top she’d worn at the police station. She felt the side pocket of the pants to make sure the syringe of Entoryl-XT was still there.
Sarah changed into her own clothes, swallowed two pain pills with a glass of water, and examined herself in the mirror again. She left the bedroom and went downstairs. Anne-Marie was waiting for her.
“Your dinner is ready,” she said and led Sarah into the kitchen. “Please sit down.”
She took a seat at a table with a formal place setting and watched Anne-Marie press buttons on a microwave oven. A minute later, she removed a plate of food and brought it over. It contained a sizzling steak, scalloped potatoes, and green beans.
“That looks wonderful,” Sarah said and bent over to savor the aroma. Anne-Marie poured her a glass of red wine and pulled a bottle of Perrier from the refrigerator.
“Thank you so much. I apologize for the imposition.”
Anne-Marie shrugged. “It’s not an imposition at all. We rarely have guests, so it’s my pleasure.” She gestured at the plate of food. “Bon appétit.”
Sarah began scarfing down her dinner while Anne-Marie puttered about the kitchen. Neither spoke until Sarah sat back in her chair and looked at the empty plate.
“Wow. That was delicious,” she said.
“Would you care for some more?”
“Not right now.”
“Okay. There’s plenty in the refrigerator should you get hungry.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate it,” Sarah said and finished off her glass of wine. “So, did Gabriel tell you why we’re meeting here tonight?”
“No, but it must be important. He never schedules meetings for Sunday night.”
“You’re right; it is important. It’s all because of me.”
“Congratulations.”
Sarah shook her head. “No. I did something dangerous. Something I shouldn’t have done. Now I need his help.”
Anne-Marie smiled. “Well, I’m sure everything will be okay.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Sarah said. She examined the splint, squeezed it, and winced.
“What happened to your hand?” Anne-Marie asked.
“Some guy broke my finger.”
“Oh, no.”
“It’s okay. Have you heard the expression, ‘you reap what you sow’?”
“Yes. It’s from the Bible.”
Sarah furrowed her eyebrows. “I didn’t know that. When I was a little girl, I thought it had something to do with farming. Then my dad told me it means ‘payback’s a bitch.’ You ever heard that one?”
Anne-Marie laughed. “No, I cannot say that I have.” Her smile faded, and she assumed a curious expression. “And, if I may ask, what happened to your hair?”
“I told the inspector to cut off my braids. How does it look?”
“Mmm, not so good.”
“Oh, well. That’s the least of my worries.”
Gabriel came into the kitchen and approached his wife. “Ma chérie. I’m sorry, but I must speak with Sarah in private.”
“Of course,” Anne-Marie said. She picked up a glass of wine and walked away.
He came over to the table and looked into her eyes. “Lisette was murdered.”
Sarah gasped.
“She was shot by a sniper outside of St. Vincent Hospital.”
“Did they catch the killer?”
“No. Unfortunately, René’s undercover officers were stationed near the entrance. The sniper was a long distance away.”
“Shit.”
“Anyway, Dan has arrived. We should go ahead and start the meeting.”
Sarah accompanied Gabriel into the dining room, where three men were seated around a large table. He introduced her to Dan Spishock, head of security at the U.S. Embassy, and to Jacque Lefèvre and André Brun, French intelligence agents. Following a round of pleasantries, Sarah and Gabriel sat down.
“If there’s no objection, I’ll turn it over to Sarah,” he said. “She can explain why we’re gathered here tonight.”
With all eyes focused on her, she described the fateful experiment and the stunning chain of events that followed—culminating with the tragedy of Lisette. She finished on an ominous note: “They know how to produce an ingestible T-3. I believe their plan was to test it on Paul and me first. To make sure it works and to silence us. Then they’d carry out their real attack. When, where, and against whom? I don’t know. But an attack is coming.”
After fielding some questions, André slid his laptop over to her. “I just accessed our criminal database and did a search using three criteria: male, over the age of fifty, and currently unincarcerated. Perhaps you could look through these photos? You might recognize this ‘Marcel’ fellow.”
“Sure.” Sarah said. She began scrolling through the mug shots one by one, keeping in mind that he might have changed his appearance. She flipped through fat faces. Thin faces. Handsome faces. Cringe-worthy faces.
Seven minutes and 341 mug shots later, she leaned back in her chair and sighed. “No luck. I didn’t see him.”
“So, we still don’t know who Marcel is,” Gabriel said.
“No. But he’s in Paris.”
“How do you know?”
She remembered his chilling words before she collapsed to the sidewalk in Redwood City: “At this very moment, I have the crosshairs of my riflescope fixed on you.”
“Because he shot Lisette. You have to catch him before he disappears. And we have to find Paul because they’re going to kill him next.”
“I agree,” Gabriel said.
“I’m also worried about my boyfriend. Marcel might target him too.”
“Sarah,” Dan said, “give me his information, and I’ll contact the FBI. They’ll put him in protective custody.”
“They can do that?” she asked.
“Yes. Now, as for Paul,” Dan continued, “I think we should call him.”
“No,” Gabriel said. “We could put his life in danger.”
“I realize that. But what’s our alternative?”
“I’ll submit a request to ping his phone. We’ll learn his exact location.”
“If Paul has his locate feature turned on. And we’ll have to wait for court approval. He could be dead by then. We need to call him now. At least he’ll have a fighting chance to survive.”
