“La Santé. In Paris. I’ve already set the arrangements. As soon as you’re well enough to travel, we’ll head to the airport.”
“All roads lead to Paris, it seems. Tell me about him.”
“Henri Couverel is his name, and he’s got a jacket a mile long, from petty street stuff to murder. Drugs, mainly. The murder he’s in for is his dealer. The man was stabbed a dozen times, and Couverel was found high as a kite, sitting in the man’s blood. He does not at all fit the profile for a explosives expert jewel thief.”
“So you don’t think she’s ever worked with him?”
“No,” Mike said, “and from his history, he’s much too scattered to have ever been any use to her. She’s a precision instrument, honed by years of practice. He’s a sledgehammer in comparison. Selling drugs is the least of it. According to the file, he’s a heroin addict. You know heroin addicts aren’t known for their cleverness.”
He sat up again, ignoring the pain in his back and the urge to vomit. “I’m well enough now. Let’s go.”
“Big bad tough guy, aren’t you, James Bond?”
“Yes. Yes I am.”
“Lie back, Nicholas. The plane doesn’t leave until eight a.m. whether you’re ready or not.”
A nurse came in, checked him out, drew his blood, and offered him a sedative, which made him snort. He swung his legs off the edge of the bed to go shower. His head swam for a moment, then righted itself. The pain in his back where they’d stitched him up was a dull throb.
He was fine. Sore, but fine.
The nurse said from the doorway, “If your lab work is normal, you are being discharged in a hour. Maybe sooner, given what a macho guy you are. Oh, yes—try not to faint in the shower.”
72
He might want to crawl, but he didn’t. Nicholas managed to follow Mike from the hospital lobby, ignoring the pulling sensation in his back every time he took a step.
He saw that yesterday’s sun was gone, replaced by gray skies and a bitter cold wind that whipped through the buildings. Snow was coming.
He was going slow, but it felt good to be up and moving, and the brisk air helped clear away the cobwebs from the concussion. There was a black Mercedes sedan waiting for them at the curb.
Mike said, “Menard was kind enough to send a car for us. We’re not that far from the airport. You’ll like this even more. The driver is the man who drove the Fox yesterday. We can have a chat with him on our way, see if he remembers anything.”
Nicholas held the door for Mike when something buzzed his ear. He reached up to swat it away just as five holes appeared in the side of the car.
He whipped sideways, dropped to the cement curb, yelled to Mike, “Get down, get down,” but she was already shouting at him to do the same. Her Glock was out, and she tossed him her backup Glock 27 off her ankle.
As more bullets hit the car, he began returning fire, covering Mike as she pushed the driver out of the car and yelled at him, “Go, go, go.” She began shooting toward the gunfire as the driver darted inside the hospital doors.
Nicholas shouted, “Call the man who arranged for you to pick us up, tell him what’s happened.”
Mike was crouched behind the open driver’s-side door. Nicholas pulled open the passenger-side door. “Where are the shots coming from?”
Mike said, “Up the street, to the right. I make two shooters. They’ve got us pinned down.”
Nicholas sighted down the barrel of the gun, saw the men she was talking about, a block away, in a Land Rover similar to the one Menard had picked them up in, minus the orange police stripes.
He squeezed off two shots, hitting their windshield and cracking the glass into a spiderweb.
All went silent, then they heard the throaty growl of a Land Rover revving its engines. It started toward them with a squeal of tires, bullets flying.
Nicholas turned and yelled, “They’re going to try and ram us. Let’s get out of here. Where are the bloody keys?”