Fade to Blue, page 19
He reviewed the photos that Antoine had sent him and counted eight people—the woman on the stretcher, three paramedics, and four police officers. One of the paramedics had dark skin and a beard. Even Hollywood couldn’t transform Sarah in that brief amount of time. The second paramedic was tall. The third was short and stocky. He ruled them out.
Of the four cops, two went back inside the station. The other two got into a police car and drove away. In one of Antoine’s photographs, they could be seen walking toward the car, their backs to the camera. He looked at the photo and noticed an interesting detail. The two officers wore matching uniforms and were the same height. Yet there was a subtle difference between them. The one on the left had a man’s butt. The officer to his right had a pear-shaped, or—as he preferred to call it—upside-down heart-shaped derrière of a woman.
He flipped to the next photo. In it, the female officer was looking at her partner. He enlarged the image and could see that she wore glasses and had short hair.
Marcel then noticed the back of the woman’s head, and his jaw dropped. He enlarged the image further and zoomed in on her botched haircut.
“Sarah,” he whispered to himself.
He looked away from the tablet and remembered his prophetic warning to Collin: “Underestimate her at your peril.”
Starting to panic, he debated whether to call George. He decided to wait until morning to deliver the grim news. In the meantime, he’d try to come up with a plan to salvage their mission.
As he struggled for ideas, he remembered that Collin had placed transmitters on three vehicles in Place Baudoyer—an ambulance and two police cars. He opened his GPS application and saw two flashing white dots on the Paris map. One was near St. Vincent Hospital. The second was in Place Baudoyer.
He expanded the Paris map and exhaled a sigh of relief. He even smiled.
There it was. The third flashing dot. Just outside of Paris in the town of Domont.
chapter twenty-four
Sarah took a shower and put on the silk robe Anne-Marie had provided her. She was preparing for bed when she heard a knock at the door. “Sarah, it’s me. I have good news.”
She recognized Gabriel’s voice and opened the door. “You got Marcel?”
“No, but we’ve tracked him through his phone to a hotel room in Paris. A commando unit is being mobilized as we speak.”
Despite her fatigue, she managed to smile. “Oh, my god. That’s wonderful news.”
“And I wanted you to know that the FBI contacted your friend Rogelio. They’ll make sure nothing happens to him.”
“Great.” Her exuberant expression quickly morphed into one of concern. “What did they tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Can I talk to him?”
Gabriel shook his head. “Wait until we have Marcel in custody.”
That was not the answer she was hoping to hear, but she decided not to press the issue.
“Oh, and Philippe will be on guard all night outside your bedroom.”
Sarah poked her head into the hallway and saw him sitting in a chair and reading something on his phone.
“Any questions before I retire for the evening?”
“No,” she replied. “Just . . . thank you for everything you’ve done.”
He smiled. “Dors bien, et rêve de belles choses.”
“You, too. Whatever that means.”
He walked down the hall, entered a room, and closed the door.
Philippe got up from his chair and came over to her. “Can I see your phone? I want you to have my number.”
“Sure,” Sarah said and handed it to him.
He entered his information and gave it back to her. “I’m now in your contacts. Philippe Montserrat. Call me if you need anything.”
“Thanks, I will.”
He pulled out a pack of Gauloises cigarettes. “I’m going outside for a break. Would you care to join me?”
Sarah’s eyes lit up. Smoking a cigarette would soothe her nerves and provide an excuse to celebrate Marcel’s imminent capture. Just one cigarette. Then she thought about her happy lungs and forced herself to decline his offer.
“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”
“That’s good,” Philippe said. He held up the pack of Gauloises. “These things will kill you.”
At 2:37 a.m., the four commandos of the elite Brigade de recherche et d’intervention, each armed and wearing body armor, stood in the lighted hallway outside Room 916 of the Mandarin Palace Hotel.
Commando Two prepared his one-million-lumen floodlight for use. Bowing to objections from the night manager, this weapon was chosen over a standard flash grenade, which would send shock waves throughout the hotel. BriteyWhitey, on the other hand, would momentarily blind anyone in the room without startling any of the other 561 well-heeled guests.
The “light man” looked at his comrades-in-arms and indicated that he was ready. The four secured protective goggles over their eyes and gave each other a thumbs-up. So began “Operation Do Not Disturb.”
Commando One slid a card into the room’s key slot and heard a beep. He swung the door open, dove inside, and pulled his Glock 19 handgun.
Commando Two followed him in and engulfed the premises in white light.
Commandos Three and Four came in standing and scoured the bedroom through the scope of their respective assault rifles.
The room was a no-show, its unmade bed the only indication that someone had been staying there. They conducted a thorough search of all the rooms and closets before regrouping and acknowledging that they were too late. Marcel had disappeared.
Antoine Boucher parked on the shoulder of the two-lane road, got out of his car, and walked fifty feet to the darkened house. He saw two vehicles in the driveway. One of them had “POLICE” written in blue letters on its passenger-side door. He pulled out his phone and texted Marcel.
As instructed, he crept around the side of the house to the backyard and saw a tiny, white light pulsating in the blackness. He squeezed between a fence and a row of shrubs, tiptoed toward the light source, and soon recognized his partner. Marcel was kneeling on the ground and holding a flashlight. Antoine walked over to him and squatted down.
“She’s here,” he said, just loud enough to be heard over the din of crickets. “A policeman drove her from Paris. He’s guarding her right now.”
Antoine stood and looked over the top of the neatly trimmed hedge that provided cover. He surveyed the house, a mere stone’s throw away, and crouched down again. “Do you know who lives there?”
“No.”
“So, what’s the plan?”
“The policier comes outside every half hour or so to smoke a cigarette. When he’s done, he enters a code on a keypad. That probably disables the security alarm and unlocks the door. Then he goes back inside.
“On his next break, after he disables the alarm and opens the door, I’ll shoot him. Then I’ll grab hold of the door before it closes and enter the house.”
Antoine considered Marcel’s plan. “That’s a big house. How do you expect to find her?”
“There’s a room on the second floor with the lights on. I believe she’s staying there.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw a silhouette in the curtains. I’m quite sure it was her.”
“Okay. And what do you want me to do?”
“After I enter the house, keep an eye on the policier and make sure he doesn’t get up. And if by chance Sarah eludes me and runs out the back door, I want you to kill her.”
Sarah kept falling asleep, only to wake up with a jolt. Serenaded by crickets and cooled by a breeze that delivered fresh air through the partially open window, she inhaled and exhaled a deep breath and turned onto her side.
As she began to fall back to sleep, an unexpected noise shattered the tranquility. The noise was followed by a grunt. She snapped to attention and heard more sounds that seemed out of place at this hour. Her heart raced.
Sarah leapt out of bed and called Philippe. His phone rang. Then a second time. And a third time.
“Answer your fucking phone,” she implored and began pacing the darkened room. After the fourth ring, she heard Philippe’s voicemail greeting.
She wanted to shout out to him—and to Gabriel and Anne-Marie—but knew that doing so would announce her location to a potential killer. Then she remembered the phone number for emergency services and called it. A female voice answered and said words Sarah didn’t understand.
“Do you speak English?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“Yes. What’s your emergency?”
“Some people are breaking into the house. They’re going to kill me. I don’t know the address, but I’m staying in Gabriel Parmentier’s home. He’s your interior minister.”
“Give me one moment,” the operator said and put her on hold.
Sarah ran into the bathroom, threw on her clothes, and crept to the bedroom door to make sure that it was locked. She heard footsteps coming from the hallway and saw the doorknob twist back and forth.
“Okay, ma’am,” came from her phone. “Officers have been dispatched. I’ll stay on the line . . .”
Sarah muted the phone and held her breath. Three muffled pops broke the silence, and she shrieked. The bedroom door now had a jagged hole near the doorknob, projecting a beam of light from the hallway. A gloved hand came through the opening and reached for the lock.
She ran to the fireplace, grabbed an iron poker, and headed for the bathroom.
Marcel slid a hand through the hole in the door, felt for the locking mechanism, and turned it. He eased open the door and stepped inside the bedroom. Holding a semi-automatic handgun in his right hand, he pulled a flashlight from a jacket pocket with his left hand and shined it around the room.
“Philippe! Gabriel! Anne-Marie! Someone’s in the house!” he heard Sarah scream. He trained his gun and flashlight on a door with a WC sign and riddled it with bullets. He walked over to the door and, after unsuccessfully trying to turn the handle, stepped back and gave it a swift kick. A piece of moulding broke free and fell to the floor. He kicked the door again, and it flung open. With his gun extended, he aimed the flashlight into the bathroom. He saw no one but heard a female voice: “Ma’am, can you talk? Hello?”
Marcel pointed his gun at a closet door and fired several rounds into it. He took three steps into the bathroom, opened the closet, and saw shelves with neatly folded towels and sheets. A cell phone, its screen lit, lay on one of the stacks of towels. “Please, ma’am, I need to know if you’re okay,” came from the phone.
Before he could curse her and spin around, a powerful blow struck the side of his head and sent him crumpling to the floor.
Sarah dropped the fireplace poker, reached down, and grabbed one of Marcel’s legs. She jabbed the syringe filled with Entoryl-XT into his quad muscle and pushed the plunger.
Marcel raised his pounding head off the floor and wiped blood from his left eye. He aimed his gun at her and shot twice. She flew backward and hit the ground with a thud. He savored victory for two seconds before his eyes closed and he lost consciousness.
Anne-Marie was jarred awake by a frantic plea for help. She shook her husband. “Gabriel. Wake up. I think Sarah’s in danger.”
Gabriel opened his eyes as loud, disturbing noises came from the adjacent room. He flung off bed covers, opened a nightstand drawer, and pulled out a gun. “Get in the closet,” he whispered to Anne-Marie.
Sarah heard the singsong wail of a French emergency vehicle. It grew louder, hit a crescendo, and then went silent. The pain in the left side of her chest intensified as she got to her feet and ran out of the bedroom. She made it down the stairs, opened the front door, and saw four police officers.
“Sarah, are you okay?” came a voice from behind.
She spun around and saw Gabriel in his pajamas, holding a gun.
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s Philippe?” he asked.
“The last time I saw him, he was going outside to smoke a cigarette.”
Gabriel ran into the kitchen and switched on the lights. “Oh mon dieu!” he cried out.
Sarah caught up to him, looked out the back window, and screamed when she saw Philippe lying on the ground in a puddle of blood.
The four officers entered the kitchen and had a brief, intense discussion with Gabriel. One of them ran out the back door, dropped to the ground, and checked Philippe’s vitals. Another spoke into his radio. The other two pulled their guns and began searching the house.
Sarah grabbed Gabriel’s arm. “Tell me he’s alive.”
He looked at her but said nothing.
“No! That bastard. That fucking bastard !”
“Don’t worry. We’ll find whoever killed him.”
She reined in her anguish. “It was Marcel. Come with me. I know where he is.”
Sarah led him up the stairs and into her bedroom. She turned on the lights and pointed at the mutilated bathroom door. “He’s in there.”
Gabriel raised his gun, and she shook her head. “You don’t need that.” She led Gabriel into the bathroom and flipped the light switch. Marcel was lying face-up on the floor. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. Blood oozed from a head wound.
“He’s not dead. I drugged him.”
Gabriel kneeled beside Marcel and removed the clip from his silver-plated handgun. He felt for a pulse and then frisked him for additional weapons.
Sarah gingerly pulled off her top, unpeeled the Velcro straps that secured her bulletproof vest, and let it drop to the floor. She stared in the bathroom mirror and saw two welts just below her bra. She turned toward Gabriel and pointed to her injuries. “That’s where he shot me.”
“Are you bleeding?” he asked.
“No. But it hurts like hell to breathe.”
She looked down at Marcel and her blood boiled. This oh-so-cultured gentleman had murdered Lisette and Philippe. And he’d shot her twice. Unable to control her rage, she raised her right foot and stomped him in the groin. His body jerked, but his expression didn’t change. She raised her foot and stomped him a second time.
Gabriel looked up at her with wide eyes. “What are you doing?”
“I had to make sure he’s not faking it.”
Sarah stood in the Parmentiers’ front yard and watched the ambulance drive away. No sirens. No blazing lights. No need to wake up everyone in Domont over Marcel’s cracked skull and ruptured testicles.
After the ambulance disappeared from sight, she walked around the side of the house and observed the active crime scene. The area near the back door was cordoned off with yellow tape. Police technicians, wearing disposable white coveralls and booties, took photos and collected evidence while carefully avoiding Philippe’s coagulated blood.
Gabriel saw her and came over. “How are you?”
“Not good. But at least I’ve calmed down a bit.” She held up an empty glass. “This was full of cognac when Anne-Marie gave it to me.”
“Why don’t you get some sleep? Marcel’s in custody, the house has been searched, and two police officers will guard you all night. You have nothing to fear.”
“Okay. Maybe I’ll give it a try.”
She retraced her steps to the front yard, entered the house, and climbed the stairs to her bedroom.
chapter twenty-five
Sarah was awakened at 1:18 p.m. by a boisterous conversation in French. Curious, she got dressed and walked downstairs to investigate.
She entered the kitchen and saw René Vallon, Dan Spishock, and Gabriel Parmentier sitting around the table. They stopped talking and looked at her.
“I’m sorry,” Gabriel said, switching to English. “I’m afraid we woke you up.”
“It’s okay. Is this a private meeting?”
“No, please join us.”
Sarah sat down on the only unoccupied chair at the kitchen table, and Dan slid a half-filled plate of pastries and fresh fruit over to her. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” She picked up a ham and cheese croissant and took a bite.
“Would you like some coffee?” Gabriel asked.
“Yes, please. Black.”
He poured a cup and handed it to her. “Were you able to get some sleep?”
“I think so. A couple of hours anyway,” she replied and sipped coffee. “So, what can you tell me?”
“Well, we know that Erika DuBois, the woman from Paris who was arrested in Barbados, is a leader of Patrie et Liberté.”
“The anti-immigrant group.”
“Yes. And the man who confronted you at the beach is Marcel Joubert, a professional assassin from Austria. It looks like Patrie et Liberté hired him to acquire your drug.”
“I got that. But how did they learn about T-3 in the first place? It must have been Paul.”
“No doubt,” Gabriel said. “We know that Paul wrote to that ethics committee warning them about your drug. One of their employees could have confiscated his email and sold it to Patrie et Liberté. Or maybe a hacker was trolling their computers and read it.”
Sarah pursed her lips. “Big Pharma computers get breached all the time. Why an ethics committee?”
“For the same reason. To look for dirt.”
“So, you think it’s possible some hacker stole Paul’s email and sold it?”
“Yes. Stealing and selling information is very common. And lucrative. His email to the ethics committee would have commanded a small fortune.”
“Then they must have a ton of money,” Sarah noted. “Paying for Paul’s email. Hiring Marcel and his gang. Building a laboratory. This wasn’t some cheap operation.”
“You’re right. Patrie et Liberté has wealthy backers. And I’m sure they’d give generously if they thought T-3 could be a solution to the immigration problem.”
“Solution? What do you mean by that? A twenty-first-century final solution?”
“Sarah, relax. We’re a long way from a holocaust.”
“I agree. But they were producing T-3.”
