Maybe he was being paranoid, he thought. Or maybe he wasnt. If the shooter had figured out by now that hed got the wrong target, he could have hung around Le Val and picked up the trail of the Alpina. Ben was pretty sure nobody had followed him, but you could never be one hundred per cent certain of spotting a skilled tail. Especially when they worked in a team, relaying one another, keeping in contact by phone or radio, maintaining a constantly-shifting net of surveillance around their target. Ben had worked in enough of those teams himself to know exactly how they operated. If somehow Usberti was behind this despite apparently being dead then there was no telling how many paid guns he could have brought on board.
Ben bought a pack of sandwiches and a carry-out paper cup of steaming black coffee, paid cash and made his way back to the BMW. Nobody followed him. He locked himself inside the car, took the gun from his belt and laid it on the centre console close by his right hand. He tore open the sandwich pack: Gruyère cheese and pâté de campagne. His body craved food but he had no appetite. As he ate mechanically and slurped the hot coffee, he checked the latest news reports on his smartphone.
One small consolation was that the media were still in the dark about the details of the shooting incident at the obscure training facility in rural Normandy. The as-yet unidentified victim is believed to be a British national residing in France, with unconfirmed reports suggesting an ex-military connection. The British Ministry of Defence were unavailable for comment. Details of the victims condition have not yet been released and the exact circumstances of the incident remain uncertain SDAT anti-terror officers have said they are involved in the investigation but have not revealed whether the shooting may have been carried out by a member or members of an extremist Islamic group. And on, and on.
The other news item he wanted to check was much more forthcoming on detail, but no more conclusive. INTERPOLs fury in the wake of Luc Simons murder was splashed all over the media, along with gruesome images of the shower unit, post-body-removal, that looked as if a butcher had hung up a live pig in there by its hind legs and slit its throat.
It was no way to go for a good guy like Luc Simon.
INTERPOL were lining up suspects on the working theory that the killing was an act of revenge, carried out either by someone Luc had put away or on their behalf. No charges had yet been brought. Inevitably, the media were whipping up their own storm of speculation that the murder of a high-ranking law enforcement officer was yet another terrorist atrocity. Ben wouldnt have been surprised if, in the next day or two, the cops pinned it on some claimed Muslim fanatic they found on an intelligence watch-list, complete with the discovery of maps and photos of Luc Simon and his home in the suspects apartment, along with the requisite anti-West hate literature and bomb-making materials under his bed. And maybe theyd be right. But Ben didnt think so.
Next he tried Robertas number, but her phone was switched off. Then he tried Pascals landline number once more for luck, and gnashed his teeth in frustration until the dial tone went dead. So much for the communication age.
But at least someone was answering their phone. The third number he tried, he got a reply after three rings.
Dr Lacombe? Its Ben Hope.
This is why I dont generally give out my personal number, complained the sleepy voice on the other end of the line. Do you know what time it is?
How is he? Any change?
There hadnt been, when I came home to get some sleep. They havent called. So, no, none.
Im sorry if I woke you, Doctor.
Its okay. And you can call me Sandrine.
Are you alone, Sandrine?
What kind of question is that? she said sharply. Yes, I do happen to live alone, for your information. Did you call to ask me on a date or something?
Not exactly, Ben said. The reason I asked is because I need a favour.
What kind of favour?
The sensitive kind that needs to be strictly between you and me. One that concerns Section Forty-Five of the French Code of Medical Ethics.
I see. Regarding patient confidentiality?
Specifically, the matter of releasing a victims identity to the media. Or not releasing it, more to the point.
And you have some reason for having it kept quiet, I suppose.
I have reason to think the shooter got the wrong guy, but doesnt know it yet. Id like that knowledge to be kept from him for as long as possible. Now you understand what I meant by sensitive.
A rustling sound as she sat up in bed, fully awake now and unlikely to get any more sleep that night. What are you telling me here? If he was the wrong guy, then who was the intended target?
Lets just say if theyd succeeded, it would have been a little hard for me to call you.
Someone tried to kill you? But who?
A dead man, Ben said. Or so people believe. If he isnt one already, he soon will be.
Do the police know this?
Theyre fixated on their own ideas of what this is about. If I told them I thought I was the target, Id spend the next week sitting in an interrogation room being hammered with all the questions they cant ask Jeff.
Where youd at least be safe.
But other people wouldnt be. And I cant have that. So no, I have no intention of telling the cops what I know.
This is just plain crazy. Things like this dont happen in my world.
Things are a little different in mine, Ben said.
I cant be drawn into this intrigue, she said. Have you seen the news? The storys getting bigger by the hour. Im a doctor, not a spy. There are rules, you know?
I understand. Forget I mentioned it. He was about to end the call when she said, Hold on, dont go.
Im still here.
There was a pause on the line, followed by a sigh of resignation; then she said, To reply to your question, the answer is no, I havent signed off on that disclosure, and cant, without the consent of the victim or their next of kin, which I havent got at this point. If this was an instance of, say, rape or child abuse, where theres a clear case for withholding the victims identity, thats one thing. But where a violent crime has been committed involving firearms, especially in this day and age
The media are hungry for all they can get and the police can release the details themselves, I know. They havent yet, but it could all change by morning. I was hoping you could exert some professional influence.
When you said you wanted a favour, you werent kidding. She heaved another sigh. All right. I can try to delay things from my end, but probably not for more than a day, maybe two. And I know someone who knows someone in the police media liaison department. Its possible that I can pull a few strings there, too, assuming I can come up with a plausible-sounding reason to persuade them. It wont be easy.
Whatever you can do, its appreciated.
I cant promise anything, she warned him. I dont even know why Im agreeing to this.
Ill bring you a big bunch of flowers.
Your friend needs them more than I do.
Hes not really that into them.
You take care, she said. Dont do anything stupid.
Why change the habit of a lifetime? Ill be in touch.
Chapter 13
Ben sped on southwards through the night. As he drove, he made one last call.
The kind of help Ben needed to ask for next could only be had from certain highly specialised quarters. And sixty-odd-year-old former sergeant Boonzie McCulloch, once Bens military instructor, later his friend and mentor, long since retired to an idyllic rural life in Campo Basso but still with a few fingers in a few pies, was just the man to go to.
Why change the habit of a lifetime? Ill be in touch.
Chapter 13
Ben sped on southwards through the night. As he drove, he made one last call.
The kind of help Ben needed to ask for next could only be had from certain highly specialised quarters. And sixty-odd-year-old former sergeant Boonzie McCulloch, once Bens military instructor, later his friend and mentor, long since retired to an idyllic rural life in Campo Basso but still with a few fingers in a few pies, was just the man to go to.
Along with the rest of the world, Boonzie had seen the news about the shooting at Le Val and had been just about to call when Ben beat him to it. The Scotsmans shocked silence quickly turned to molten anger as Ben described Jeffs condition. If Im right, whoever did this is after me. And the moment it leaks that they got the wrong guy, theyll be back.
Aw, fuck this for a game of soldiers, Boonzies gravelly voice rumbled over the line. Im on ma way. Tonight, reet noo. Im gettin in the car and Im comin. It was like letting a rabid pit bull off the leash. Ben could almost hear the phone cracking in Boonzies iron fist.
Thats not what I want, Ben said firmly, reining him in. Ive already dragged you into too much trouble in the past. Ill deal with this my way, alone. But I could use some backup.
Say the fuckin word, laddie, Boonzie rasped, wanting blood.
I need six guys. I was thinking maybe McGuire, Fry and Blackwood, if theyre available, plus three more. How fast can you get a team together for me?
For you? Theyll be trippin over themselves tae help, son. And woe betide these murderin basturts when we get oor haunds on them. Leave it wi me. Ill get back tae ye asap.
By the time Ben had reached Limoges in west-central France, it was all arranged. Within a few hours three good ex-regiment men would be rolling up at Le Val, two of them flown in from London and the third from Germany where hed just finished a VIP close protection stint. Theyd be heavily armed, and they wouldnt need to use the main gate. Their mission: to back up Tuesday and the others in case the bad guys tried to strike again. Meanwhile, another trio urgently summoned in from various parts of Europe would speedily converge on Cherbourg, where theyd station themselves in and around Louis Pasteur Hospital to spot, intercept and detain anyone suspicious who might come snooping in the event of an information leak.
Sandrine Lacombe would flip if she knew her place of work was under guard by professional hard men with guns. But the good doctor would never know. Unless something happened in which case all hell might just break loose.
With his insurance policy in place as best he could arrange it, Ben stormed on through the night. The Alpina ate up the distance as he carved southwards on the A20 motorway. Driving, driving, driving. A cold stream of wind whistling from the cracked-open window. The heater blasting, the radio blaring. Fists clenched on the steering wheel, eyes wedged open against his growing fatigue and burning with anger as he thought about Jeff lying there in that hospital bed and about Luc Simon in the morgue. When his thoughts turned to Father Pascal, to Anna Manzini and Roberta Ryder, frustration and impatience scoured him like acid and he willed the car to go even faster.