Traitor - Victor Series 10 (2022), page 25
The dying Frenchman did not reply.
When the phone screen lit up, Victor held it in front of Boulanger’s face and the screen unlocked.
‘Tut, tut,’ Victor said. ‘I preferred stimulants. What we would call nootropics now … compounds of that nature. I wanted to be faster. Not simply of action, but of thought. If I could process data faster then I would be better. That was my thought process in that time. I wanted to be the best, most competent professional I was capable of becoming. I realised eventually that such a goal was not only unrealistic but damaging. I had to first experience that of which I sought to conquer. Does that make sense?’
Victor waited for an answer. None came.
He opened up every app and found any messages had been deleted and the call history erased. No numbers had been stored either. While Boulanger had been lazy in using the facial recognition unlock, he had been careful enough to ensure the phone wasn’t full of incriminating evidence.
‘I’m overcomplicating it,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to be more succinct. Simply put: I didn’t actually know what it took to be the best. It was only a hypothesis. Ultimately, I learned that in order to be good in this line of work you need to be willing to do what the next guy won’t. I don’t mean from a moral point of view. We’re all immoral by default. The exact shade of immorality is hardly relevant, is it?’
Boulanger wheezed harder. It might have been an attempt at an answer. Victor wasn’t sure.
Although Boulanger had erased any communications he had had with Salomé or anyone else, the last webpage he had visited was still up in the internet browser.
Boulanger was following the news about yesterday’s massacre in Nice’s Old Town.
‘Putting morality to one side,’ Victor said as he scrolled through the news, ‘I’ll give you an example of what I mean. Let’s say if you don’t want to be killed in your sleep then you make sure you never sleep. At least, you never sleep when anyone expects it. You sit in a chair watching the door until dawn comes along to tell you that you survived the night. Then you sleep. If you’re not willing to sit in that chair every single night for the rest of your life then it won’t matter what stimulants or nootropics – or in your case steroids – you take. Because someone else out there will sit in that chair until dawn.’
The wheezing became a hiss, then the hiss fell quiet.
Boulanger made no further sounds.
Victor said, ‘Thank you for making my point for me.’
So soon after the event, there was as much speculation and inference of the events as there was actual information in the news. Most of it was wildly inaccurate, of course, although a few specific details were known. Only one of those specifics made any difference to Victor because he knew exactly what had happened in that office building.
The detail was a genuine revelation.
‘ … huit victimes confirmées … ’
Victor scrolled through the reporting with renewed interest, waiting for elaboration or a correction. Neither came, so he opened up another tab to search for more up-to-date reporting. When he found the most recent information, it confirmed what he had already read.
Eight casualties confirmed.
Which meant one of Phoenix’s original kill team was still alive.
SIXTY-SIX
Victor was taking a huge risk, he knew.
Returning to Nice broke so many protocols he doubted his sanity. He was a wanted man. He had killed an entire team – almost an entire team – and assaulted three police officers in his escape. What little the authorities knew about him would have grown exponentially since yesterday. Almost certainly, the café owner or other witnesses had helped sketch artists draw an approximate likeness, and maybe variations of that sketch had been composed to account for differences in appearance. Or, worse, investigators had mapped his movements with CCTV footage and knew about the haircut and shave. Beyond that, Phoenix was still out there, perhaps directing more contractors like Salomé and her people his way. Maybe the next team would not try to deceive him, and simply open fire.
Any one of them might have also heard the news about the survivor from Sunday’s massacre, and anticipate Victor wanted answers.
Go, a voice inside his mind urged him.
But he wasn’t listening. Not while Phoenix still breathed.
Salomé and the rest of her crew could wait for now. He had hurried away from the restaurant before she could return with reinforcements. There had been four people in the hotel after his arrival in Nice, so that was at least four more assassins. He wanted answers, but he wasn’t going to get them from Salomé or her crew without a fight he wouldn’t be able to win. Whatever they were doing, Victor needed his strength back before he found out.
With gunshot wounds, the paramedics would have taken the survivor to the Centre Hospitalier Universitaire de Nice. It was the closest hospital to the scene and had an emergency unit, unlike some of the other hospitals in the city. But it was getting late, so he found a rundown guesthouse near the airport where he could pay with cash and the host never asked to see any identification. He left Miller and Boulanger’s car in one of the long-stay garages that served the airport, leaving it unlocked and with the keys in the ignition to encourage thieves to dispose of the evidence for him. He imagined Salomé would take care of the actual corpses. Anything that could lead back to Victor would also lead back to her.
After cleaning up, he sat in a chair for most of the night before sleeping for a few hours once dawn had come.
The host had prepared him breakfast, so he took the opportunity to refuel before boarding the tramway at the airport, buying a ticket with coins because the machine did not take banknotes. The tram was a smooth, comfortable ride into the city. He stood for the journey, paying attention to those who stepped on after him or at other stops along the way, and ignoring those who were already on board. He saw no one who pinged his threat radar and no one in a uniform looked at him twice.
He liked trams. Not as much as trains, but more than buses. The price for a ticket was very reasonable, with unlimited stops valid for over an hour. It made the city centre quieter and calmer. No gridlocked vehicles and honking horns. The whole city was more pleasant as a result. Cleaner, too, without exhaust pollution dirtying facades all day long.
When the tram reached the last stop, he disembarked with the other people, although only after most had already left. The walk to the hospital from the stop was short, about five minutes taking a direct route uphill. Victor’s path, however, took almost an hour. When he arrived outside the main entrance, he was as sure as he could be that no one had followed him there.
He used a site map to locate the entrance for the emergency department. The survivor would have required surgery without delay, and then either close observation in intensive care or moved elsewhere to recover if the surgery went well.
In a large hospital that could be any ward or room.
Without a name, Victor could not just ask. Instead, he would have to enquire in a very specific way.
He walked the hallways of the hospital at a fast pace. Busy, but not hurried. He held himself in a way that said he had a purpose and required no assistance. He had no time for needless delays. A simple technique and an effective one in Victor’s experience. Everyone understood what it was like to have a packed schedule and the frustration of someone interfering and eating up precious time and energy. Few people chose to be that someone if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Victor had walked into many places he was not allowed to enter by simply acting as though he was allowed. There was a domino effect to such things. Once one person had tacitly agreed to his presence, others followed. If he was already there then it must be okay. Even if he did not know where he was going or how to get there, he never seemed lost. The second benefit to a quick walk in such instances was that if someone did think twice about whether he should be somewhere then by the time they decided to act he had already left.
On a long, bright hallway, he turned a corner and saw three women heading towards him and two men. The men were together and wore casual clothing. There was no indication they worked here so Victor ignored them. His focus was on the three women. The closest was by herself, in a doctor’s white coat. She looked exhausted, no doubt weary from a long, tiring shift. She cracked open a bottle of water and glugged it as she neared. If she noticed him, she didn’t show it. Further along the hallway, the two other women walked together. Nurses by their scrubs. They chatted with one another. He read on their lips something about a new sitcom.
Timing was everything, so Victor waited until he was just about to pass the doctor before he stopped.
‘Excuse-moi,’ he said, turning sharply towards her and taking her by surprise.
She stammered a response and tried not to spill any water.
‘Je suis désolé,’ he continued. ‘Do you know where I can find the cafeteria?’
The sign for the cafeteria was further along the hallway. Small, yet obvious for someone observant like Victor. Although plausibly missed by a less-aware visitor unfamiliar with the hospital.
The doctor shook off her surprise and turned to point back along the hallway through which she had walked. ‘Fifty metres. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you,’ Victor said, noting the name on her little badge.
She continued on her way and he on his, walking with purposeful strides down the hallway, towards the two nurses. They had seen the interaction with the doctor, although from a distance. Which was close enough. Victor had made sure to make exaggerated movements and to catch the doctor off guard so she did the same. Even for two nurses engrossed in discussing the antics of a hilarious comedy show, they couldn’t miss it.
He stopped in front of them.
‘Pardon me,’ he began. ‘I’m Inspector Toussaint of the Nice police and I’m here to speak with the gunshot victim from Sunday’s incident. Dr Lavigne told me you would know where I can find him.’
He had taken them by surprise in the same way he had surprised the doctor. He spoke in a fast, urgent intonation, as though every second counted.
The nurse to his left looked quickly to the nurse to her left. ‘Isn’t he on the B4 ward?’
The second nurse took a moment to find her words. ‘No, not there. I believe he’s up on the third floor, east wing.’
‘Merci beaucoup,’ Victor said, in the same fast, pressed-for-time tone.
He walked away, knowing they were both still a little surprised and a little confused, perhaps now realising they should have asked for more information on who he was, or some identification, but now it was too late and what did it even matter anyway?
SIXTY-SEVEN
Wearing a doctor’s white coat he had lifted from a chair in the cafeteria, Victor entered a room with tall windows on the third floor of the hospital’s east wing. Although risky impersonating a doctor, the coat spared him any further challenge while walking around the corridors between visiting hours. The coat had a pen clipped to the breast pocket and the hip pockets contained gum, change and a set of keys. The blinds were down about halfway, blocking much of the sun outside and still letting in plenty of light. He saw that it had started to rain. As well as a visitor’s chair, a decent-sized sofa lay beneath the window.
The adjustable bed was the curative-care variety with wheels assisted by electric motors to help nurses and orderlies who would otherwise struggle pushing such a heavy piece of equipment. A little longer than a twin bed and about the same width. The metal gleamed and the cream-coloured plastic components looked bright and clean. Maybe a recent purchase or merely fastidiously maintained. As expensive as a family car.
The bed could be adjusted by the patient pushing buttons on a small panel near the head of the bed, or by hospital staff using their feet to operate paddles on the bottom support struts. The safety rails were set to the up position, both to ensure the patient did not roll out by mistake and also as a means of securing him. A set of handcuffs looped around his left wrist and around one of the thick plastic bars, the uppermost one, so as he lay almost flat the handcuff kept his arm straight out. Not a comfortable position. Victor imagined the doctors or nurses had argued with the police.
The height had been set so the guy was about level with Victor’s abdomen.
Walker. The guy in charge of the first kill team.
Victor was surprised the Brit hadn’t suffocated due to the hole in his lungs. A tough man, despite the smoking habit. The paramedics and surgeons must have done an exceptional job. No wonder French healthcare was consistently ranked the best in the world.
Walker’s legs lay flat and his torso and head had been elevated to a small incline.
He wasn’t sure if Walker was unconscious or merely sleeping. Both states were similar, naturally. The guy’s eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell at regular intervals.
A clear bag of fluids hung from a steel support. A tube snaked from the bottom of the bag and attached to a cannula in his left forearm. Surgical tape kept the needle from slipping out of the vein. A patient monitor displayed his vitals. At rest, his pulse was slow. His blood pressure was a little on the low side too. Perhaps because he was sleeping or because of the medication they had given him.
Behind the bed, the headwall had many electrical outlets to manage the patient-care accessories, including a call button that lay next to Walker on the pillow. Victor eased it away.
On the opposite wall, a TV showed the news. The volume had been muted but Victor could read the presenter’s bright red lips with ease. Escalating gang violence was being blamed for the killings in Nice, which was a pleasant bonus if true. At a press conference, the mayor sought to assure citizens that such turf warfare would not be tolerated and the police were close to apprehending the suspects. Far too early to make such assertions, of course, but politicians had to be politicians. Still, if the police knew enough to outright contradict such claims then the mayor wouldn’t have made them in the first place.
How long until they knew the truth?
Victor checked the medical record at the foot of the bed and saw Walker was on intravenous fentanyl to control his pain. And to keep him in a relaxed, semi-sedated state, Victor presumed. The drip was gravity fed so Victor unhooked the bag of fluids and set it on the bed’s tray attachment, next to a plastic jug and cup. A small single-serving container of yogurt was untouched next to a white plastic spoon. Walker would still receive the medication, although the dose would now be much lower. Victor wanted him alert.
The effect of the decreased dose of fentanyl was almost instantaneous, else Walker had been in a light sleep. He heard, or else felt, Victor’s presence. Eyelids fluttered open and took a moment to focus on more than the white doctor’s coat Victor wore. When Walker’s gaze met Victor’s own there was confusion, then fear.
Victor slapped a palm over Walker’s mouth before he could cry out in alarm.
‘Shh.’
Walker’s panicked breaths were hot on Victor’s skin. The handcuff prevented any real movement and the weight and tuck of the bedclothes kept the guy’s legs from moving more than a little. Only his one arm was free to move and yet he was too weak to move it in a way that troubled Victor.
In a quiet, reasonable voice, Victor said, ‘If I was here to finish what I started I could just put a pillow over your face, could I not?’
Walker’s eyes were wide and unblinking.
‘That you woke up to see me standing over you instead of a blur of white should tell you that you’re safe,’ Victor continued. ‘I just want to talk.’
The monitor displayed his rapidly elevating heart rate and increasing blood pressure.
‘You really don’t need to be afraid of me,’ Victor said. ‘Whatever happened before is in the past as far as I’m concerned. I don’t bear you any ill will for trying to kill me and I hope you don’t think worse of me for shooting you in the back and in the belly. I’m sure you can appreciate you didn’t exactly leave me much choice in either instance.’
Walker’s rising heart rate, which had more than doubled in a matter of seconds, was beginning to stabilise.
Victor said, ‘You were doing your job. I don’t judge you for that. I certainly don’t condemn you for it. That would make me a hypocrite, wouldn’t it? And when I’m already such a bad person why be even worse if it can be avoided?’
No answer.
‘As far as I’m concerned we’re only enemies when you’re pointing a gun at me. The rest of the time there’s no reason why we can’t be polite. Does that make sense? Boxers often hug after twelve rounds of hitting each other in the face, lest we forget.’
The British guy’s heart rate began to slow.
‘Please nod if you understand.’
Walker nodded.
‘I’m glad you agree,’ Victor said. ‘I’m going to remove my hand now, so I do hope we can maintain this civility.’
He took his palm from Walker’s mouth, who swallowed and sucked in some calming breaths. He made no attempt to cry out or call for help.
‘Tremendous,’ Victor said. ‘There’s rarely any need to be anything less than cordial. Just because we were enemies before doesn’t mean we can’t be gentlemen now.’
‘You’re kind of nuts,’ Walker said in a weak voice. ‘Do you know that?’
‘I have my suspicions.’
The British guy almost smiled. Then he tried to adjust his position and clenched his teeth in sudden agony.
‘Yeah, gut shots aren’t pleasant,’ Victor said. ‘But think of it like this: you’re only in pain because you’re still alive. Someone told me that a long time ago and I think it helps. If we can truly realise that pain is only a message then we can decide how much we pay attention to it.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s the theory, at least. No one can make pain go away with willpower alone, and yet I believe we can self-administer pain relief if we master that rationale.’
Walker’s pain subsided enough for him to respond with a weak nod.
