The Devil's Banker (28 page)

He started the car, and for a moment the hum of the engine, the kick of the accelerator, lessened his anxieties. He was a city kid. He hadn’t driven enough to lose a teenager’s thrill at piloting his own automobile.
This is it,
he murmured, looking at himself in the rearview mirror. This is your last chance. But it was his father’s eyes that stared back and crushed his defiance.

Carefully he pulled into traffic and began the drive to the Hôpital Salpetriere in the southwestern most part of the city. He was careful to confine his hands to the steering wheel, the radio, the air-conditioning system. The trip took twenty minutes. At 9:32, he entered a public garage on the Rue Danton. He parked the car at the rear of the fourth underground floor between a Renault minivan and another Peugeot. Using a handkerchief, he wiped down the dashboard and the steering wheel. After he closed and locked the door, he took care to swipe the door handle, too.

At the elevator, he held the door to allow an elderly woman and her toy poodle to enter. Any doubts about his appearance were erased by her lingering smile and countless thanks. If he could pass for a Good Samaritan in the gloom of a parking garage, he’d do just fine beneath a hospital’s fluorescent lights.

Outside, the streets crawled with traffic. The sun seemed brighter than usual; the everyday din of the passing cars louder than he remembered. He ordered himself to walk slowly. Yet, his calf muscles felt tight, ready to cramp.

At 9:40, the trauma entrance at the east side of the hospital was practically deserted. A single ambulance loitered in the emergency bay. The sliding glass doors were open to allow a cooling breeze. He walked past reception, studiously ignoring the admitting nurse’s inquisitive smile. The corridors yawned in front of him, white-tile hallways smelling of bleach and linseed oil, decorated with childrens’ crayon drawings. Doctors, patients, relatives, and custodians moved through the halls at a plodding pace. No one looked twice at the six-foot-two-inch visitor with the shy eyes and relaxed gait. He needed five minutes to find Hallway B, Corridor 7.

The door to the surgical changing room was marked “Private—Staff Only.” A splinter of wood dangled from the lock guard. Others had preceded him. George Gabriel pushed it open and stepped inside. A neatly folded white lab jacket waited on the shelf. Removing his blazer, he stuffed it in the bottom of the laundry bin, then put on the white coat. A stethoscope lay coiled in the pocket. Freeing it, he slung it around his neck. The staples of a first-year resident filled his breast pocket: pens, notepad, tongue depressor, and a penlight. Instinctively, his fingers delved into his sleeve. The dagger slept in an oiled sheath strapped to his left forearm.

He left the elevator on the third floor. At the crossroads joining the hospital’s two main buildings, he paused to get his bearings. Right took him to the oncology department. Left to radiology. He needed to go straight. He reminded himself that his primary exit was two floors below and would leave him at the Rue Poitiers. From there, he could either catch the Métro at the Place D’Italie (the Number 5, 6, or 7 line) or walk two blocks to a taxi stand. Under no circumstances was he to return to the Peugeot.

It was difficult to keep his eyes fixed in front of him, to stop from glancing in every direction like an escapee from prison trying to figure out where exactly he was. He could in no way appear unsure about his surroundings. He must mesh with the landscape. He continued until he saw a sign with the words “Burn Unit/Intensive Care” and an arrow beneath it pointing the way.

The time was 9:50.

Stopping at a water fountain, he dared a look down the corridor. This part of the hospital was busier than the rest. The halls bristled with doctors, nurses, and orderlies. Most had serious expressions on their faces and walked briskly, with grim purpose. Every second person appeared to be of West African or Algerian descent.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened up and readied himself for the run in.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulders.

“Young man, can you help me? I’m afraid I am lost.” It was a doctor, gray-haired, pasty-skinned, with a flinty gaze beneath the polite manner. George Gabriel wiped the water from his mouth, but not the residue of anxiety. “Of course, sir. Where do you need to go?”

“I’m here for the lecture on interventional radiology. The Pasteur Operating Theatre. Dr. Diderot’s talk about stents.”

Gabriel nodded his head, managing a sour smile. While studying the hospital’s layout, he had come across the Pasteur Operating Theatre . . .
but where exactly?
Panic welled inside him, gnawing at his gut like a starving rat. “It’s . . . um . . .” He blinked and he realized that his hand was shaking. He ordered his foot to move, but it didn’t respond. He was frozen. And then it came to him. “You’re in the wrong building,” he blurted, causing the visiting doctor to retreat a step. “You have to take the elevator up to Level Four, and find Corridor D. You should see plenty of signs. If not, just ask. We’re all very excited about Dr. Diderot being here.”

The doctor frowned. “You’re not coming?”

“No. I’m doing my cardiology rotation. Thanks anyway.”

“But Diderot is a cardiologist,” he exclaimed. The doctor stepped closer, placing his hands on his hips and staring up at George as if he were inspecting a simple foot soldier. “Just what do you think stents are for, anyway? Come on. Tell me. The Diderot stent. Surely you’ve come across it in your studies.”

Gabriel stared into the doctor’s eyes, and the idea came to him that he should kill him there and then and make a run for it. Forget Chapel. Forget his father. Forget Hijira. He’d make a run to Claudine’s and hide out there until the trouble died down. A hand wandered into his sleeve. His fingers touched the dagger. Claudine would understand, he told himself. She understood everything. The thought of his girlfriend calmed him, and with a start, he realized that he knew what a stent was, after all. Claudine had raved about them one afternoon as they were studying together. Yet another of the medical miracles that would prolong their lives together.

“The Diderot stent is used as an alternative to coronary bypass surgery to force open arteries leading to the heart,” he said as his fingers released the dagger’s cold grip. “There are two types—coated or uncoated. Both—”

“All right. That’s enough,” said the doctor. “But you really shouldn’t miss the lecture. It’s not often that Diderot gives these talks. Why do you think I drove all the way from Lyons?”

“Thanks all the same, but I’ve got rounds.” Gabriel pointed down the hall. “Level Four. Corridor D. You can’t miss it. Thanks again.”

“Thank
you,
” the doctor said, starting off. “Oh, young man?”

Gabriel looked back over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“You are . . .”

Gabriel checked the impulse to see if he was wearing a name tag. “In a hurry,” he said, not missing a beat. “Good luck.”

The doctor waved a distracted good-bye.

But George Gabriel winced. He’d been marked.

“Keep it running,” said Adam Chapel as he opened the car door and extended a leg to the sidewalk. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come up?” Sarah was leaning over the passenger seat, her face lit with expectation.

Chapel hesitated. All morning, they’d been playing it as if last night had never happened. They were two professionals doing their jobs, both of them too engrossed in the onslaught of detail to pay attention to the other. On the way over from the Bank Montparnasse, though, he’d noticed a change of temperament. A warming of the air, so to speak. Maybe it was the fact that she was smiling a little or that she was humming to the music on the radio. Each time she went to shift, he was sure she was going to put her hand on his leg. At first he’d tensed, unsure how he would react. But as he got used to the idea, he decided he wanted her to touch him, and he relaxed his leg, allowing it to sway toward her hand.

It reminded him of that silly grade-school game where you passed your hand through a candle flame to see if it hurt, and kept going slower and slower until you got burned. Sarah was the flame. She was alluring. She was dangerous. She was impossible to resist. And in the end, he knew, she burned everything she touched.

“No,” he said. “Wait here. You don’t want to hear a grown man cry.”

“Be brave,” she said. “And no flirting with the doctor. We’ve got to be at the airport by noon.”

The burn unit occupied the westernmost section of the third floor. Entry was controlled. Visiting hours tightly enforced. Fear of infection demanded that a minimum of persons be allowed near the patients. George Gabriel presented himself to the nurse on duty. “I’m here to see Dr. Bac. I’ve got her patient’s charts. Mr. Chapel. The American hurt in the bombing day before yesterday.”

“Of course. Room 323.”

“Is he here yet?”

The nurse answered without looking up from her paperwork. “Not yet.”

George walked briskly down the hallway. Even numbers were on the right; odd to the left. Few patients were to be seen. An odd quiet filled the air. There were no drawings of bright suns and frolicking children on the wall. The air smelled sharply of ammonia. He looked behind him. He could still leave. His presence here violated no codes. A new and undefined life beckoned. He kept walking, pushed along by his father’s prideful gaze, his ruthless expectations.

He stopped in front of the door to Room 323. He reached a hand toward the door handle, then pulled it away. He shook his head and retreated a step. Just then, the door opened. An older man shuffled out, his hands swathed in gauze bandages. Now, certain of what he must do, George slipped into the room as the door closed behind him.

Jeannette Bac stood with her back to him, hunched over a counter furiously scribbling notes into a manila folder. She had long, kinky brown hair and a trim figure. Over her shoulder, he caught a triangle of her pale cheek and the corner of her glasses. He stepped closer and caught traces of lilac and vanilla. She wore a faded pink shirt and he could see the links of a gold necklace through the strands of her hair.

“There,” she said, punctuating her report with a flourish of her pen. Abruptly she turned, nearly bumping into Gabriel. “Oh, God,” she exclaimed, a hand flying to her mouth. “You scared me. I thought I was alone.”

The blade slid from the sheath and he held it against his leg.

“I’m sorry,” said George Gabriel, the smile coming easily to his cheeks this time, a rush of power swelling his chest. “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

At the main reception, Chapel asked directions to the burn unit. The nurse explained in perfect English that he should walk down the corridor, take the first bank of elevators to the third floor, and follow the signs. An elevator waited, its doors open. He rode alone, eyes on the panel, watching the blinking lights. For all that had happened, things weren’t going too badly. He had high hopes that the Financial Crimes Enforcement Bureau might uncover information about the Holy Land Charitable Trust that would lead him a step closer to Albert Daudin—or the man who was using his alias. Though pleased the ball was back in the American court, he was no less driven. The memory of the ruined videotape remained fresh in his mind. At any time he expected to receive news of a terrible explosion, a host of deaths. Or worse.

The light advanced to the third floor and Chapel moved forward. The door opened. Stepping into the hallway, he heard an anguished shout echoing down the hallway.

“Arrêtez! Vous. Là. Arrêtez immediatement!”

Somewhere a tray hit the floor and clattered violently. A glass shattered.

Chapel rushed toward the source of the noise. As he turned the corner and stepped into the main corridor, he was hit full-force by a running man and thrown to the ground. The man fell on top of him, scrambling to right himself even as he bounced off Chapel’s chest. “You!” he said.

He was young and brawny, his dark eyes electric with fear, his mouth open, perfect white teeth bared as he desperately sucked in his breath. Their eyes met, and for a split second, Chapel felt the man hesitate. He could sense a decision being made behind the frightened gaze. A fist crashed into Chapel’s shoulder, once, twice. Chapel screamed in agony, as his vision darkened and stars burst behind his eyes. As quickly, the man was up, attacking the hallway with a sprinter’s high step.

“Securité!”
someone yelled as Chapel struggled to his feet. For a moment, he remained bent over double, winded, shaking off the pain. A male nurse ran to him and asked if he was all right.

“What happened?” Chapel asked in his schoolboy’s French.

“Him—this crazy man—he tried to hurt the doctor.”

Something clicked inside him. “Dr. Bac?”

“Yes, Dr. Bac.”

“Get to a desk,” Chapel said. “Call security. Tell them to lock down the hospital. Shut the doors. Now!”

And then he was running, too, taking off down the corridor with all the speed his thirty-year-old legs could muster. The man had been after Bac.
That means he was after me,
thought Chapel.

A road map of stunned faces and startled onlookers marked the man’s path. Rounding a corner, Chapel burst into a trio of nurses gathered closely together, holding open the door to an internal stairwell and peering into the dusk.

“He went down there?” Chapel asked, catching his breath.

All three nodded in unison.

He took the stairs two at a time as visions of Cité Universitaire flooded his mind. Santini rushing past him, Leclerc helping him to his feet, the last sighting of Taleel. He felt the fireball singe his face, and his entire body jolted involuntarily. At every landing he paused. The rapid-fire patter of footsteps slapping the concrete far below rose to him. Glancing over the railing, he caught a fleeing shadow. A door opened two floors beneath him. A crescent of light lit the stairwell. Less than a minute later, Chapel emerged into the first-floor hallway. Four sets of glass double doors marked the hospital’s main entrance. A white lab jacket crumpled into a ball lay on the floor a few feet away. There were no stunned faces to mark the terrorist’s passage, only the ebb and flow of patients and physicians on a calm Wednesday morning.