She nudged him with a foot. “
M’sieur
, can you hear me?”
The man gave her no reply, but as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she could see him more clearly. He was dressed in black, and was perhaps six feet tall. Tangled blond hair hung to his shoulders, matted with blood trickling from a wound on his left temple. Blood from the same wound covered the left side of his face, partly obscuring his features. His face was deathly pale, and she knew the stain beneath him was blood, too much of it.
She was about to sink to her knees to help the man, when she heard the crunch of a shoe in the gravel outside the door. Before she could react, a slender, swarthy man of medium height burst through the doors, a gun in his hand.
The man advanced towards her, his dark gaze darting from her to the fallen stranger and back. “Has fate robbed me of my destiny? Has the great warrior died like a dog in the streets?” He spoke French, contempt dripping from every word.
Marcelle swallowed, unsure if she should answer. The man clearly hadn’t seen the gun in her hand, because he lowered his weapon, his confidence making him careless. She turned to conceal her firearm further, wrapping her fingers around the butt, no longer caring about the blood on the weapon.
“You have been helping him, perhaps? You are one of his people?” The man’s tone carried a threat she took to heart. He took another step towards the blond stranger, who did indeed look dead. If he wasn’t, she knew he would be soon. She would have to act fast.
She brought her gun into view, pointing it at the gunman. “That’s close enough,” she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt.
The aspiring killer turned to face her. The smirk left his face when he saw the weapon, but after scrutinizing her for a second, he smiled. “If you were one of his people, I would be dead already, I think.” He took a step towards her. “Are you willing to die for a man you don’t even know?” He shook his head. “I think not, but if you give me the gun, I’ll let you drive away in your fancy Ferrari.”
Marcelle stared into his cold eyes, seeing the soul of a killer, and not believing him for a minute. How could she leave the stranger to this man’s deadly mercies? The gunman had made his intentions clear. Technically, she would be an accessory to murder.
When she didn’t respond, the killer’s tone hardened. “If we wait for my friends to arrive, they’ll kill you, but they might want to have some fun first, when they see what a sexy girl you are.” He took another step towards her, stretching out his hand. “Come on, we both know you won’t shoot. Give me the gun, before it’s too late.”
Marcelle stared at him, remembering another time, another place. Hatred rose in her chest, threatening to cut off her breathing. Her finger tightened around the trigger as her eyes turned to stone.
* * * *
Chapter Three
As she turned onto the freeway, Marcelle darted an anxious glance at the stranger’s pale features. He was in bad shape, and needed urgent medical attention. She reached for her car phone, and punched in a number.
After a few rings, a man’s voice answered. “Louis Gautier speaking.”
She spoke rapid French. “Hi Doc, it’s me. Are you alone?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I have to tell you something, but I need you to trust me.”
“Of course, chéri, but what’s wrong?” The doctor sounded puzzled, though not alarmed.
“I have a man with me in the car. Somebody shot him, and he’s lost a lot of blood. I need to take him somewhere safe, where he can get medical help.”
“Are you crazy? You can get into a lot of trouble for this!”
“I’m already in trouble. Please, you have to help me!”
Louis’ voice softened. “Calm down, chéri. I have a friend who can help. He runs a day clinic. It isn’t open today, but he lives on the premises. Let me give you directions, and I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
A few minutes later Marcelle replaced the phone; calmer now she knew help was fifteen minutes away. She glanced at the defenseless man in the passenger seat. “Don’t worry, M’sieur, not much longer now,” she said, even though she was sure he couldn’t hear her. She put two fingers against the side of his neck, feeling for a pulse. His skin felt cold and clammy under her fingers, and his pulse was rapid and weak. She accelerated, mentally composing a cover story for the doctor at the clinic.
When she turned into the driveway of the clinic, she had her story ready. At the traffic lights along the way, she had relieved her passenger of all his weapons. These included a knife in a scabbard, a second firearm in a holster, and an empty holster to fit the gun she had in her possession. She had discovered a heavy black money-belt concealed beneath the man’s shirt, and in the pockets of his jacket found his wallet and a passport. She also found a small black cellular phone, unlike any she had ever seen. The money-belt, phone and weapons she slipped beneath the car seats, making sure they were out of sight. She put the passport and wallet into her pockets, planning to examine them later.
Doc Louis and a tall, dark-haired doctor in a white coat waited with a gurney as she pulled up at the entrance. They ran to the car as soon as she stopped, and opened the passenger’s door even before she was fully out of the car.
“Mon Dieu,” Doc Louis exclaimed as they lifted the wounded man onto the gurney, “he’s leaking like a sieve. We may already be too late. We’ll talk later, chéri. Wait in reception.”
The tall doctor smiled at her. “We’ll try our best to save him, Madame Deschamps.”
She rewarded him with a wan smile. “Thank you.”
Marcelle followed them through the entrance door, halting in reception while they continued through double swinging doors at the end of the passage. A clinic for the rich, she reflected, surveying the expensive leather furniture and polished wooden coffee table. On the table, she found a tray containing cups, milk, sugar, and a thermos of coffee, strong and piping hot. The strange doctor, whose name she still didn’t know, was definitely a fan, she decided as she sipped appreciatively at the sweet brew.
The sugary coffee took the edge off her shock, and her hands no longer shook. She walked to the glass entrance door and stared out at the gathering dusk. Normally she abhorred the loneliness of the night, but this time darkness represented safety, anonymity. The men who sought to kill her and the wounded stranger would never find them now. There were dozens of hospitals in Paris, and a small day clinic would never attract their deadly attentions.
After closing the blinds and locking the front door, she returned to the coffee table. She poured herself another cup before emptying her pockets and sinking into one of the luxurious leather chairs. The passport revealed a photo of a handsome young man, a good likeness to the wounded man. His name was Stefan Nikolai Ziegler, security consultant, unmarried, aged thirty, born in August.
Marcelle flipped through the pages, noting that this Stefan Ziegler’s security consulting duties had taken him all around the world. The pages of his passport carried stamps from a dozen countries at least, all of them outside Europe. Of course, as a German citizen, he could move freely within Europe.
The wallet gave her no further clues. Money in various currencies, credit cards, some change. None of this reassured her that the wounded man wasn’t a criminal. Security consultant could cover a whole range of activities. He could be dealing in illegal weapons, which would explain the large amount of cash he carried in the money belt. Yet the killer had called him a great warrior, his contempt failing to mask the grudging admiration in his tone. Clearly, Stefan Ziegler and his would-be killer had been old adversaries. Perhaps Monsieur Ziegler was a secret agent, or an undercover police officer for Interpol. Perhaps she was too optimistic. She decided to protect him as best she could, until he could look after himself, or summon whatever help he needed.
~ . ~
Back at the post office, a group of swarthy men examined bloody drag marks on the floor. They had followed the trail of blood, and it had led them to the deserted building. The leader knelt, and brushed his fingers over the congealed blood. The trail was cold. He rose, shouting at his men, blaming them for incompetence, speaking rapid Arabic. One of the men halted his tirade by calling out to him, motioning him into the darkened entrance hall.
Moments later a wail of agony pierced the night air, sending the other men rushing into the lobby. They found their leader crouched in a pool of blood, cradling his brother to his chest, his head bent to hear his last words.
Moments later, the dying man’s body relaxed, and his sibling raised his face to the ceiling, screaming in agony and rage.
~ . ~
Marcelle had dozed off in the comfortable chair when Doc Louis touched her shoulder. She sat up immediately, fearful. “What is it? Is he okay?”
“He’s still alive,” Louis responded. “He came through the surgery with no complications, and the prognosis is good. Do you want to see him now?”
“Yes, please.” She pushed herself to her feet.
Louis’ colleague came to meet them as they entered the hospital ward. He extended his hand to her. “Allow me to introduce myself, Madame. My name is Didier Le Reun.”
She took his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Doctor. Please, call me Marcelle. Thank you for helping, and lending us your facilities.”
“It is my privilege, Marcelle. Please, come through this way.” He led the way to a private room.
A single bed occupied the room. Stefan lay on it, a green hospital sheet drawn up to his chest. Intravenous bags hung above his bed, the dangling tubes carrying life-giving substances to his veins. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, and underneath the bed hung two drainage bags, one partly filled with blood.
She approached the bed, and in keeping with the cover story she had prepared, kissed Stefan on his forehead. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t summon up tears. She didn’t know whether the fire had burned away her tear ducts, or whether the ice had frozen them forever, but she had not cried in two years. Instead, she settled for turning away from both doctors and covering her face with her hands. She let out what she hoped sounded like a convincing sob. Didier reacted as she had expected, hurriedly handing her some white tissues.
“Thank you,” she said in a choked voice, burying her face in the tissues, rubbing her eyes until she was sure they were red. “I’m sorry, it was horrible. We could both have been dead. I was the lucky one.”
“There, there,” Louis soothed, stepping forward to fold her into his arms. “Do you want to tell us what happened?”
“Do you want a sedative?” Didier asked, resting a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “You’ve had a big shock.”
She shook her head and rubbed her eyes before looking at the two men. “Please, you have to promise what I’m about to tell you won’t leave this room.”
“Of course,” Didier agreed, under her spell.
Louis nodded. “You know you can trust me, chéri.”
She sank into the chair beside the bed, taking Stefan’s hand into hers.
“His name is Stefan Verleden.” She kissed the back of the limp hand she held, her eyes on the German’s pale face. “We’ve been together for nearly six months now, but we’ve been keeping it quiet. If the paparazzi had to find out, well, we wouldn’t have a moment of peace.” She glanced at Louis. “That’s why nobody knew, not even you, Doc. I hope you can forgive me.”
The Frenchman nodded. “My feelings are hurt, but I understand.”
She produced a faint smile in return. “Anyway, tonight, after the race, I picked Stefan up at his flat, and we were on our way to my place, when two men tried to hijack us at a traffic light. I don’t know if they wanted the car, or money, or both. They were half-crazy, waving guns around, and threatening to shoot us. They must have been high on drugs.” She shuddered, remembering the gunman at the post office. “One of them grabbed me by the arm, and said they would take me with them, just for sport. Stefan went wild, taking on both of them with his bare hands. Of course, he didn’t have a chance. He knocked one of them down, but the other one shot him twice. I think they got scared when they saw all the blood, because they ran away.”
She pressed her knuckles in front of her mouth, swallowing hard. “He bled so much, but I knew if I took him to a normal hospital, the police would get involved and the press would get hold of it. Please, everyone deserves a second chance.” She bowed her head, the picture of dejection.
“You have my support, chéri,” Louis said. “I wish you two all the best.”
Didier smiled. “You shall have your chance.”
“Thank you. I am in your debt.” She rubbed her eyes once more for good measure.
“Well, Monsieur Verleden came through the surgery all right, despite the fact that he was very weak from blood loss,” Didier said, taking charge. “We gave him two pints of whole blood and removed shrapnel from his wounds, but he had no damage to his major organs. It will be some time before he regains full use of his left arm, because the bullet tore through the muscles in his shoulder. We have repaired them, but healing takes time. He has concussion, and the cut on his forehead required ten stitches. We don’t know when he will regain consciousness, but the CAT scan showed no bleeding inside the brain. It did show evidence of an old skull fracture, and we couldn’t help but notice the scars on his body.” He let the unspoken question hang in the air.