by Nathan Ronen
“Are you coming with us?” the firefighter asked.
“No, I can’t … I’ve got a baby upstairs with his grandmother. I need to take care of a few more things. Please write the name of the hospital to which you’re taking her on my cell phone. I’ll be there in a few minutes!” Arik promised, handing him his cell phone with the Notepad app open. The fireman wrote down, Georges Pompidou European Hospital, 15th Arrondissement, Quartier Javel.
“She’s nine months pregnant!” Arik remembered to yell at the firefighter, who was closing the ambulance’s rear door. The firefighter signaled to him with his thumb that he understood and could see this for himself. The ambulance took off with a deafening roar of sirens, rising and falling.
Only at that stage did Arik notice that his hands and all his clothing were stained with Eva’s blood. He did not want to frighten Leo and Eva’s mother, who were taking their afternoon nap in their suite. Therefore, he went into the hotel’s public restroom and washed his face and hands. As he turned to leave, he found himself facing the hotel manager, who had been patiently waiting for him.
“Monsieur, I’m sorry about what happened to Madame,” she said. “We’re insured, of course. Is there anything I can do for you right now?”
“Yes, I have to get to the hospital and be with my wife,” Arik replied. “My two-year-old son and his grandmother are up in our suite. I’d be grateful if you could make sure all our luggage is taken downstairs. At four thirty, a driver will be arriving from Élysée Palace. I’d appreciate it if you made sure he drives them to Gare du Nord Station. They’re taking a train to Germany from there at five fifteen. They need to get to Heidelberg. I’ll leave the train tickets here for you and my credit card too, if necessary.”
“I don’t need your card, monsieur. It’s all courtesy of Élysée Palace. Leave it to me. Meanwhile, come with me. You can’t go up to your room like that,” the hotel manager said, pointing at his blood-stained clothes.
Arik went up to the hotel manager’s suite on the top floor. She called the laundry room and asked them to send several suits belonging to the hotel’s event managers up to her room. Arik chose a gray suit, a new shirt, and a matching tie and went into the bathroom. He stood before the sink, his hands, trembling with shock, grasping at the cold porcelain rim, examining his reflection in the mirror. The tough man, whose name evoked terror in his enemies, felt so fragile and vulnerable at that moment that he was unable to emerge from his shell. Eva was his emotional Achilles’ heel.
He scrubbed himself with hot water and fragrant soap and changed into the new outfit. Outside, the hotel manager was waiting for him. She took his suit, shirt, and tie, all stained with Eva’s blood, and placed them in a cloth laundry bag.
“I’m sending the suit to be dry-cleaned. Just tell me where to send it?”
“Send it to the Israeli Embassy for me,” Arik said mindlessly, thanking the manager. The wheels in his head were spinning madly, determining priorities in terms of importance and urgency. Finally, he decided to go up to the suite where his son and Eva’s mother were supposed to be napping. When he came in, he was surprised to see a mesmerized Leo sitting on the carpet watching an animated episode of “The Smurfs,” dubbed into French. Next to him on the glass table was a plate with sliced fruit. Madam von Kesselring, Eva’s mother, was fast asleep in her clothes on the adjacent armchair, snoring lightly.
The boy smiled at his father and returned his gaze to the screen, charmed by the figures running around, speaking in screechy voices.
Arik felt duty bound to first call Admiral Lacoste, who was expecting them to arrive to lunch with the president. He went out to the balcony overlooking the Place de la Concorde and called from there.
“Hello, bonjour, Arik,” he heard Lacoste’s pleasant baritone.
“Bernard …” Arik stammered, flustered.
“Where are you two? You’re late,” Lacoste scolded him. “The meal’s starting soon, and the president of the republic is supposed to be entering the restaurant any minute. It’s considered rude to arrive after the president to a gala meal he is conducting,” the admiral said, expressing his concern.
“Bernard, I’m sorry, but we’re not coming. Please, apologize for me. Eva fell down the hotel stairs a few minutes ago. She’s injured and was taken to Georges Pompidou European Hospital. There’s a risk of concussion, a fracture in her right arm and perhaps one in her eye socket as well, and I hope she’s not experiencing intra-cerebral hemorrhage. And the part that worries me most is that I don’t know what’s going on with the baby she’s carrying,” Arik explained.
“Oh no!” The admiral was shocked. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Not at the moment, thank you,” Arik said. “I’m making sure Eva’s mother and our little boy have a ride to the train station, and they’ll return to Germany from there.”
“Pardon me for interfering, Arik, but why take the train?” the admiral wondered. “I understand that Eva came to Paris by train because the commercial airlines don’t permit a woman in her ninth month of pregnancy to fly, but I can immediately provide you with a plane to anywhere in Europe, with no problems. Would you allow me to send Louis-Pierre, your colleague from the joint operation in Morocco, to the hotel? Go to the hospital, and Louis-Pierre will take care of everything. Don’t worry about a thing. Go take care of Eva, and I’ll update the president.”
“You’re a good friend. I owe you one,” Arik said gratefully, sighing with relief. “I only ask that Louis-Pierre Dillier call me when he arrives at the hotel and update me on what’s going on.”
He returned to the room and woke Eva’s mother, gesturing for her to follow him to the study. The old German woman grumbled, following him with obvious reluctance. She was clearly not thrilled with Eva’s choice of a life partner, or with his occupation, which she did not understand. This was not how Frau von Kesselring had imagined her son-in-law.
Arik told her about Eva. Her tough Teutonic visage was replaced within seconds with a mother’s distressed expression. “I have to see my girl!” she burst out in tears.
“Frau von Kesselring, I know you don’t particularly like me, and I can’t really blame you. But at the moment, I need you on my side, which means I’m asking you to take little Leo back home,” Arik explained in a beseeching tone. “The boy needs a quiet, supportive environment at your home in Heidelberg. Let him go to his daycare and return to his routine. I’ll stay here with Eva and I promise to keep you constantly posted.”
“But I want to drop by the hospital to see her. I’m her mother,” the old woman admonished him.
“I certainly understand that,” he said. “But they don’t let little kids into the ER, and I’m asking that you give me credit for loving your daughter very much and doing everything I can for her.”
“Just like you left her alone in Germany … for half a year …” She couldn’t hold back, muttering a few sentences in German, hoping he did not understand. He did but held back.
“Frau von Kesselring, a French friend of mine named Louis-Pierre Dillier is on his way here. He speaks German. He’ll make the arrangements to fly the two of you in a private plane directly to Heidelberg. I just ask that you call my phone and let me know that you’ve arrived safely.”
“And what about the money we paid for the train tickets?” she asked.
Arik wanted to yell at her for her stinginess but regretted it immediately. “We’ll take care of it later,” he said in a restrained voice.
“But I don’t know how to operate a smartphone. Please input your phone number.” The elderly lady handed him her outdated cell phone.
When Arik finally managed to escape Eva’s mother, he ran out of the hotel, yelling at the concierge standing at the gate, “I need a taxi to Georges Pompidou Hospital!”
The man raised his hand and a taxi arrived from the nearest corner. Arik examined the driver’s face; someth
ing seemed off. He chose to enter the second taxi waiting in the queue. His suspiciousness had always protected him. He never entered a taxi whose driver had approached him of his own initiative. He stepped inside the vehicle despite the cries of protest from the first driver, who yelled that it was his turn.
“Georges Pompidou Hospital, please. Step on it!” Arik instructed the driver in French.
The drive to the hospital seemed to take forever. Downtown Paris’s impossible traffic, along roads jammed with tour buses, was driving him crazy. The driver, apparently of Arab origin, tried to initiate a conversation, but Arik was obstinately quiet, refusing to cooperate.
The taxi’s meter showed seventeen euro and thirty-five cents. Arik gave the driver a twenty-euro bill and ran to the ER, located on the first floor. He didn’t wait for the elevator but ran up the stairs, skipping two of them at a time, until he arrived at the reception desk, huffing and puffing.
“Madam Eva von Kesselring?” he said tensely in French to the dark-skinned receptionist, her kinky hair erect as a tower above her head. She did not make eye contact, sitting in front of the computer screen, immersed in her own affairs. Arik was surprised to hear the sounds of cheerful music coming from the computer. He glanced at the glass pane behind her, which, like a mirror, showed that the lady was in the midst of a game of Solitaire.
“Madam Eva von Kesselring?” he asked again, his tone more assertive.
She looked at the computer, sighed in a grumble of sorts due to the interruption, and typed something on her keyboard. She then examined the results on the screen and raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “We don’t have anything like that here,” she blurted out.
“This is the Georges Pompidou European Hospital ER, right?” he asked impatiently.
“Yes, sir.” She chewed her gum indifferently.
“Half an hour ago, firefighters brought my partner here. Maybe you just have her down as Eva?”
She looked at her records again and after several seconds, turned to him and declared, “Désolée,” meaning, “I’m sorry,” and turned to attend to the woman standing after Arik in line.
“Excuse me!” Arik yelled, emotional, refusing to give up his turn. “She fell down the stairs at the hotel and the firefighters said they were on their way here. It happened half an hour ago!”
She looked at him, uncomprehending, her face apathetic, chewing her gum more rapidly, typed something into the computer, and repeated, “Désolée.”
Arik felt as if he was about to explode in a second. Inside, he was stewing, but knew that losing control would only cause the receptionist to disengage or call security to toss him out. He was an expert in sophisticated negotiation, but not this time, when it was personal, and he was overcome with emotion. He needed her cooperation. He took a deep breath, and said, in French, in his most assertive voice, “I’m sorry, I’m a tourist and I’m not familiar with your procedures. Would you please call the quarter’s fire station and ask them where she was taken?”
The word ‘Désolée’ was repeated, along with, “That’s not my job,” and a matching shrug, which, in French body language, meant, sir, you’re harassing me.
“Can I talk to the manager here?” Arik raised his voice.
“I’m the manager here,” answered a man with a North African appearance who had emerged from a small office.
“Look!” Arik held out his phone in front of the man’s face. “That’s what the firefighter wrote when he drove off with my partner, a little over half an hour ago.”
The man looked once more at the receptionist, who hailed from one of the former French colonies in Africa, and she shook her head.
“I understand, sir, but she didn’t arrive at this hospital,” he said, like a bureaucrat clinging to regulations and proper procedures.
Arik didn’t know what to think. A sense of terror seized his heart while terrible scenarios assaulted his mind. For the first time in his life, he could not control himself, and was on the verge of lashing out.
“Mr. Manager, sir,” he finally managed to regain control, appealing to the man with flattery. “I need your help. I’m sure you understand I’m very upset, especially since my wife is in the ninth month of her pregnancy.”
It worked like a charm. “Please write her name down for me again, and I’ll make some calls to find out where she is,” the manager replied.
Arik heard him dialing the Paris Fire Department, and then calling another agency. Finally, he returned, his expression solemn, saying, “I’m sorry, but the firefighters are transporting her to SAMU. I called them and they told me they were resuscitating her on the way to the hospital.”
“What SAMU?!?” Arik yelled in despair. “I saw with my own eyes that they loaded her on a red firefighter ambulance!”
“Service d’Aide Médicale Urgente,” the man explained in a soft voice, “is the supervisory organization on behalf of the Ministry of Health, which coordinates all emergency services in Paris. Your wife was transferred to one of their ambulances. I’ll give you their phone number…”
“Why was she transferred there and where is this ambulance located at this moment?” Arik demanded, as the fear that he might leave France with Eva in a casket began to spread through him, sending a freezing chill down his spine.
“And what happened with the baby?!” he heard himself yelling, his voice choked. Once again, he heard the French word ‘Désolé,’ which was driving him mad.
Chapter 6
Georges Pompidou Hospital, Paris
Arik realized he would not manage to get additional information or explanations from the ER bureaucrats. He decided to let it go. He mumbled, “Merci,” automatically, and looked for a quiet corner where he could think. Finally, he sat down on the cold floor in the lobby of the large ER, behind two vending machines offering candy and coffee. He closed his eyes and took a series of pranayama breaths, a technique for full yogic breathing, to quiet his distraught mind. As he was sitting there on the floor, shielded from behind, slowing his heartbeat and taking deep, quiet breaths, he allowed his thoughts to wander. In the past, as he was working on a mission, he couldn’t afford to think of anything except its perfect execution. He forced himself to disengage and block anything related to home, emotion and family; otherwise, he could not focus on his job. When ops personnel were unable to focus, bad things happened both to them and to the mission. This time in particular, he felt thoughts about his family taking over his analytical brain. He felt as if his ribs were shattering under the weight of the heavy stone that fate had placed on his heart.
Arik wanted to call his good friend Admiral Lacoste and consult with him but did not want to bother him in the middle of the formal meal with the president.
Therefore, he called Louis-Pierre, who recognized his voice instantly.
“Hi, Arik. The admiral has already spoken with me. I reserved one of our executive planes for your family, and it will take them directly to Heidelberg. I myself will get to the hotel in a few minutes. I’ve already talked to your wife’s mother in German.”
“Thank you, Louis-Pierre. But that’s not why I called you. I need something even more urgent,” Arik explained. “I can’t figure out where they took my wife Eva. At the moment, they’re telling me she’s being resuscitated on the way to the hospital, and if it’s true, I want to be by her side during these moments. Can you help? They won’t talk to me, and I’m having a hard time understanding the nuances of what they’re implying to me. If something serious has happened, I don’t want you to hide anything from me. I want to get the entire truth and all the facts.”
“Patience, my friend, let me look into it,” Louis replied. “I have my ways when dealing with the DGSI, the General Directorate for Internal Security, and other security agencies.”
Arik walked over to the vending machine selling hot drinks, put in a two-euro coin, and received a cup of espress
o. It was disgusting and too sweet. He then returned to his seat in his improvised burrow between the coffee and candy machines. He sat on the cold floor, crossing his legs and closing his eyes.
“Is everything all right, monsieur?” he heard a security guard ask in concern. Arik gave him a thumbs-up to indicate that everything was okay.
Two long minutes went by before the Chameleon cell phone buzzed and vibrated simultaneously. Louis-Pierre was on the line once more.
“Arik,” he said in a low voice, “Eva was bleeding heavily from below and the firefighter paramedic on the ambulance that transported her from the hotel called a backup emergency vehicle on the highway, the autoroute.”
“I know she’s bleeding, and that she also had a broken arm and maybe a fracture in her cranium,” Arik said. “But I don’t understand—what autoroute? The firefighter who transported her clearly told me they were on their way here, to Georges Pompidou Hospital, which is about a ten-minute high-speed drive from the hotel. I’m here, but Eva never made it, and I’m really worried!” He stood up and began to pace back and forth, trying to calm himself down.
“Arik, they conducted a consultation with a medical specialist and decided to give her a brain CT, to see if she had inter-cranial bleeding,” Louis explained. “The hospital ready to immediately admit her was Créteil Medical Center, on the other end of Paris, but on the way there, the paramedic noticed she was starting to bleed heavily from below—apparently, she sustained a serious blow to the belly as a result of the fall, and the paramedic who transported her from the hotel summoned a SAMU emergency ambulance with an obstetrician and an emergency team. They joined the firefighter ambulance on the autoroute and are, at this moment, performing an emergency Cesarean on Eva in the middle of the road, or, heaven forbid, a stillbirth.”