“Anyway, this is James Cooper,” Carson said, pointing to the driver. “He’s with IMSI as well.”
“Nice to meet you, James.”
“James is part of Support Five. He’s the one who retrieved our asset’s pistol and other items.”
“Good job,” Sanchez said, doing his best to concentrate on the task at hand. “I know that Charles was very pleased with what you did yesterday.”
Why is my heart beating so fast?
“We still need to evacuate Lisa, or we’ll risk the whole investigation into the bomb being traced back to IMSI,” Carson said.
“That’s why I’m here, Miss Carson. By the way, Lisa’s alias for this mission is Rebecca Pyke. Headquarters provided me with a passport to prove it,” Sanchez said, handing Carson a well-used American passport.
Carson scrutinized it for a minute. “That will do,” she said giving it back to Sanchez.
“Have you been told what my mission is?”
“Yes. I also took it upon myself to share the information I received from New York with James. I figured that we might need a set of wheels ready to go in case we need to get out of Dodge quickly.”
“Good thinking,” Sanchez answered.
“Here,” said Carson, reaching behind her to hand Sanchez what seemed to be an ID card on a necklace. “Wear this around your neck. It bears your cover name and identifies you as a medical representative of AMLIC.”
Sanchez saw that his picture had been digitalized onto the card, giving it a look of authenticity. Carson had put a similar ID badge around her own neck.
“Mine identifies me as a State Department agent,” said Carson. “If the French decide to investigate us, we have it covered. While you were on your way here, IMSI headquarters set us up with a solid cover that should withstand any type of light- to medium-depth inquiries. However, if they dig too deep, we’ll get a call from Control to let us know that our story is getting thin.”
“All right. Seems like a plan to me.”
“We leased a private ambulance and two paramedics for the day.”
Sanchez raised his eyebrows. “Why two paramedics? Isn’t Lisa in stable condition?”
“We had no choice,” replied Carson. “It was either take the two paramedics with the ambulance or take no ambulance at all. I could have probably pushed harder or paid the paramedics off, but I didn’t want anyone to get suspicious.”
“I see your point,” Sanchez conceded.
“Besides,” Carson continued, “I don’t think it should cause any problems. After all, everything we’re doing is legitimate. This type of medical intervention happens every week. Private medical insurance companies frequently send charter jets to bring back their patients.”
“Maybe, but usually their patients are not involved in a failed terrorist attempt,” remarked Sanchez.
The BMW was making good time on Pierre Mathis Highway. For a few minutes Sanchez lost himself in the splendid views that scrolled in front of his eyes. Beautiful buildings with astonishing architecture not seen outside the Riviera were lined up on each side of the highway. In the distance, he could see Mont Boron.
“I love this place,” Carson said.
“Would be nice to be here simply to visit the sights and to relax for a few days,” Sanchez replied. Especially with a gorgeous woman like you by my side.
Carson looked at him, her eyes questioning his intentions. But she was smiling, too. “Yes, it would.”
They were now approaching the hospital. Carson gave her final instructions to Cooper: “Drive around and make sure to stay close. We might need you. If all goes according to plan, follow us on our way back to the airport, and try to see if we’re tailed.”
“Will do.”
The BMW stopped in front of St. Roch Hospital on Rue de l’Hotel des Postes. Carson and Sanchez got out, and the BMW quickly accelerated away. The beige-colored main building was four stories high and had remained mostly unchanged since the time it was built in 1859. Its majestic elegance conveyed a proud history of service and healing.
After they climbed the steps leading to the main door, they identified themselves to the clerk sitting behind the reception desk. From there, Carson and Sanchez had no problem finding out where Lisa’s room was. The clerk even told them that a uniformed member of the Nice municipal police department was guarding the door for extra security for the American heroine. They thanked her for her assistance and proceeded to the third floor of the east wing, where Lisa was located.
The clerk had been right. A young uniformed officer was stationed in front of Lisa’s door, but he wasn’t paying attention. He had his nose deep in the Nice-Matin, the daily regional newspaper, and only noticed the two IMSI agents when they were standing directly in front of him.
So much for security, thought Sanchez.
“Oui, je peux vous aider?” asked the officer, looking up from his newspaper.
“My name is Dr. Reznik,” said Sanchez in French, showing his identification to the officer. “I would like to see my patient.”
The police officer was confused. “But I thought that Dr. Lebrun was the doctor in charge of this patient. I’ve been ordered not to let anyone in without his authorization.”
“Do you speak English, mister?” asked Carson briskly in English.
“Of course,” replied the officer defensively.
“Then listen to me carefully,” continued the Support Five team leader. She showed him her credentials identifying her as a special agent of the Bureau of Diplomatic Security of the US State Department. “This woman is a citizen of the United States, and my government believes that it would be in the best interest of Mrs. Pyke if she were to return home.”
The inexperienced police officer was stunned by her tone of voice. After a few seconds, he looked at Sanchez sheepishly and said, “I understand your position, but I’ll have to contact my supervisor and request further instructions.”
“That’s a great idea, Officer…?” asked Sanchez with a smile.
“Duvallon. Frederick Duvallon.”
“Well, Officer Duvallon, why don’t you contact your supervisor while we check in on our patient?”
Duvallon hesitated. For a moment Sanchez thought that he wouldn’t let them through. So he added, “Why don’t you come in with us? This way you’ll be able to keep an eye on us and on the patient. How does that sound?”
“Okay,” the officer finally said.
Just as they were about to enter, they heard a voice behind them. “Hey! What are you doing?”
Sanchez turned around to see a handsome man in his mid-fifties walking purposefully toward them. He was wearing a white lab coat over a blue shirt and a red tie. He was carrying a clipboard in his left hand and had a stethoscope around his neck.
“You must be Dr. Lebrun,” Sanchez said with enthusiasm.
“That’s right. And you are?”
“I am Dr. Jonathan Reznik from the American Medical Life Insurance Company.” He showed him her credentials before continuing, “And this is Special Agent Jasmine Carson from the Diplomatic Security Service.”
Carson nodded toward Dr. Lebrun and quickly flashed her DSS badge. Seeing the two Americans speaking with Dr. Lebrun, Frederick Duvallon retreated to his chair and promptly reached for his newspaper.
“May I assume that you are here for the American woman?” the French doctor asked.
“Her name is Rebecca Pyke,” Sanchez answered. “My company sent me to bring Mrs. Pyke back to the US.”
“Were you expecting trouble?” inquired Lebrun, looking pointedly at Carson.
“As I am sure you are aware, Doctor, the US State Department takes the security of Americans living abroad very seriously. Because of Mrs. Pyke’s involvement in yesterday’s tragedy and the fear that terrorists might want to exact revenge, it was decided at the highest level of our government that
a layer of security should be added,” lied Carson.
“I see,” responded the doctor. He didn’t seem convinced.
“For the same reason, I hope you yourself are taking additional precautions,” added Carson for shock value.
This last sentiment had hit its desired target. Lebrun straightened his shoulders nervously. “I know that some gendarmerie officials wanted to speak with Mrs. Pyke regarding yesterday’s events. I’m supposed to call them once I deem her fit enough to be interviewed. On the other hand, I understand that there might be an aggravated risk to the hospital if she were to remain here for a prolonged time.”
Sanchez and Carson nodded in agreement. He’s gonna go for it, realized Sanchez.
“Are you equipped to see to Mrs. Pyke’s needs?” asked Dr. Lebrun.
Sanchez replied, “Of course. An ambulance is waiting for us across the street, and our airplane is supplied with all the medical equipment necessary to ensure her safe transfer back to the US.”
“In that case, I see no reason why I should keep you from your duties. Mrs. Pyke is now in stable condition and should be fine to travel. Here’s her chart and the rest of her file.” He handed Sanchez several pages of medical notes and radiographies that had been attached to his clipboard.
Sanchez flipped through the papers.
Lebrun continued, “Mrs. Pyke was very fortunate. The police report indicated that her assailant stabbed her twice with a knife that had a three-and-a-half-inch blade. Fortunately, the first wound only went about two inches deep and missed her right kidney by less than an inch. The terrorist’s second attempt was deflected off Mrs. Pyke’s shoulder blade, so it didn’t hit any vital organs. She’s stitched up now and on light painkillers.”
“Thank you for everything you have done, Dr. Lebrun,” said Sanchez, and he meant it.
“Don’t mention it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, with all the atrocities that happened yesterday, I have many more patients to attend to. I’ll only take down your names so that I can advise the authorities who took over the patient.”
Sanchez and Carson were happy to oblige. They even left an address and a phone number, all of it set up by IMSI. Loud enough for the young officer to hear, they promised they would make sure that Rebecca Pyke was available if the gendarmerie wanted to talk with her once she was back in the US.
Dr. Lebrun shook hands with the Americans—first with Carson and then with Sanchez. He held his hand a little longer than necessary, looking directly into his eyes. From his frank and bemused expression, Sanchez had the feeling that he was telling him that he knew something was amiss but that he had more important things to do than play political games. He smiled at him and walked briskly down the hall.
“He’s a good man,” Sanchez said once the French doctor had left.
The two IMSI operatives entered Lisa’s private room. She was lying on her belly with her head turned so she could keep an eye on the door. Her facial expression betrayed her absolute surprise at seeing Sanchez.
“Mrs. Pyke, I am Jasmine Carson from the American embassy,” Carson said, acting out her role.
“Hello, Jasmine,” Lisa replied, her eyes still fixed on Sanchez.
“I’m Dr. Jonathan Reznik from AMLIC’s New York field office,” Sanchez said, breaking the ice. “Your insurance company has decided that you are entitled to the best medical care available. We have an ambulance waiting outside to transport us to the Cannes-Mandelieu Airport, where a plane is waiting. We’ll fly directly to Teterboro.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Lisa said. “If a French insurance company started asking me questions about my coverage, it could have become complicated.”
“Then I suggest that we get moving,” Carson said. She looked at Sanchez and added, “I’ll contact the paramedics and ask them to join us with a stretcher.”
“Okay, do that. In the meantime, I’ll let the pilots know that we would like to be wheels-up within the hour,” Sanchez answered, already reaching for his cell phone.
CHAPTER 35
Southeast France
So far Zima had been following her planned exit strategy to a tee. She had used credit cards belonging to Marise Martin to purchase numerous train tickets to different destinations in the hope that the French authorities, if any were on her tail, would waste time figuring out which train she had taken. In reality, she took none of them.
She rented a car under the name of Lise Bourgeois, another of her aliases. She drove the white Peugeot 206 to the small seaside village of Cerbère, located along the French-Spanish border. From there she used the last of her aliases to purchase a return ticket to Barcelona the next morning.
Zima Bernbaum had always considered herself a city girl. She enjoyed shopping, eating in nice restaurants, and being surrounded by people. Nevertheless, she found the quaint village of Cerbère and its amazing view of the Mediterranean truly beautiful. For her overnight stay, she picked the Hotel La Dorade on Rue Maréchal Joffre, which was, as its name suggested, right in front of the sea.
The owner of the little family hotel, a tall, dark, handsome Frenchman, was manning the front desk and politely asked to see Zima’s documents. She handed over a Canadian passport bearing the name Joanne Rochette.
“You’re from the province of Quebec?” asked the charming owner in French.
“Yes,” replied Zima in the same language. She smiled widely.
“And you can only stay for one night?” the innkeeper inquired.
“Unfortunately, yes,” replied Zima. Why do I think my answer disappointed him?
“Oh, that’s too bad,” said the owner, “because I’ve got you in one of our nicest rooms.” He handed over a room key to Zima—a real brass key, not a plastic key card. Zima smiled at the old world touch.
“Thank you so much for your hospitality.”
“You’re most welcome. Enjoy your stay with us, and make sure to try our restaurant for dinner. It’s the best in town.”
“I’ll make sure to do that.”
Zima carried her small bag up the narrow wooden staircase and entered the room she’d been assigned. The owner was right—the room was perfect, and it had a spectacular view. Zima went into the old-fashioned but retrofitted bathroom and turned on the ventilation fan. She took out all of her fake documents and burned them one by one in the bathroom sink. Next, she used scissors to cut the credit cards into tiny pieces, then rolled them in tissue and flushed them down the toilet. Tomorrow, if all went according to her plan, she would fly to London from Barcelona, and she didn’t want to get caught with an arsenal of fake passports and credit cards bearing different names.
She changed into a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting black blouse. She had built up an appetite and decided to follow the hotel owner’s recommendation to try out the hotel’s bistro. She placed her cell phone in her jeans pocket and affixed her black custom-molded knife sheath around her ankle. Should I bring my pistol instead? she wondered, then dismissed the idea. It’s not like I would shoot a French police officer if I was caught.
After making a mental note of the exact positioning of all her personal effects in the room, Zima stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind her. As she walked through the small lobby, she saw the owner seated on a barstool enjoying the company of two gorgeous young ladies. Their eyes met when Zima walked past them, and he raised his drink to salute her. As she continued toward the terrace, she could feel his eyes burning on her back.
Yeah, thought Zima. I’ve still got it.
―
The hostess asked her if she wanted to enjoy the outside terrace or if she would prefer a more private setting inside. As the evening was warm and the wind light, Zima decided that dining outside would be just what she needed to release some of the tension that had been building in her shoulders ever since she’d heard General Deniaud get shot the evening before.
She was offered one of the small round tables on the tiny but well-appointed terrace and settled into a cane chair. Zima was impressed with the vitality of that small village. Young families were walking along the sidewalk, smiling and laughing; elderly couples were strolling hand in hand.
Maybe one day it will be my turn to walk aimlessly in the street, pushing a stroller with two little ones inside. Now, why am I thinking about the hotel’s owner? Because he’s sexy as hell, Zima. Your female cerebral cortex is letting you know he’d be a good suitor to raise a family with. That’s why. That’s crazy!
Her mother had talked to her about the internal clock all women had. So busy with her work, she’d never put too much thought into it. But now she wondered, Is it time for me to settle down? Find someone to love and buy a house? Not yet. Maybe in a few years. But what if I meet someone special?
Suddenly, Zima froze. Her body reacted before her brain could process what her eyes were seeing. Was it someone she knew? At a table one patio over, a tall, well-built man in his late thirties was sitting alone. He was dressed in white sneakers, blue jeans, and a white long-sleeve shirt. He had skin the color of milky coffee, black hair, and a somewhat unruly black beard. He was wearing a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses even though the sun was getting low.
Zima’s brain was working double time trying to figure out where she had seen this man. Under which of her aliases would he know her? A fraction of a second too late she became conscious that she was still staring and averted her eyes. Shit. Rookie mistake, she reprimanded herself. She didn’t think he had noticed, but it was hard to tell with the sunglasses he was wearing.
Her mind finally clicked, and her body reacted as if it had been hit by lighting. She reached into her pocket for her cell phone and dialed the number of someone who would know what to do.
“Yes?” Scott Bailey answered.
“This is Joanne. Can you talk?”
“Absolutely. I was just enjoying a nice cup of coffee. What can I do for you? I hope all is well with your trip?”
The Thin Black Line Page 21