‘Looks that way,’ Ben said. ‘One with a rifle, and who knows how to use it. Sniper-style, probably set up on a bipod and fitted with a scope. Judging by the ballistics, the gun’s something around a thirty-calibre, like a .270 or a .308. Maybe fitted with a silencer too, which could explain why I heard nothing over the noise of the chainsaw. Those are the only clues I have so far, for what they’re worth.’
‘I don’t know anything about guns, except what they can do to people,’ Dr Lacombe said with a faraway look and a slight shiver, as if she was visualising a whole back-catalogue of horrors she’d personally witnessed in the course of her surgical career. ‘And I don’t like them.’
‘I don’t much like them either,’ Ben said. ‘Except when they’re used for good.’
‘How can a tool of violence and death be used for good?’
‘When it’s deployed against the person who spilled first blood,’ Ben said.
‘You’re talking about justice. That’s a job for the police.’
‘When they can find the guy. If they can find him.’
‘Are you saying you intend to find him?’
‘I’m saying I intend to make this right.’
She looked at him. ‘This is not a war, Monsieur Hope.’
‘Tell that to your patient,’ Ben said.
‘When he recovers,’ she said. ‘If he recovers.’
‘He’s tough as an old boot,’ Ben said. ‘He’s been hurt before and pulled through.’
‘As badly as this? Then I hope for your friend’s sake that he’s as fortunate this time.’
Ben felt suddenly weary and dizzy, as if all his energy had drained out through his feet. He glanced around him for something to lean on. ‘No,’ he admitted quietly. ‘Not as badly as this.’
‘You don’t look good,’ Sandrine Lacombe said, frowning at him. ‘I think we should take a look at you.’
‘I’m not hurt. None of this is my blood. I already told them that.’
‘I know a delayed shock reaction when I see one.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘No, you’re not. Trust me, I’m a doctor.’
Despite his protests, Sandrine Lacombe dispatched a squad of nurses to attend to Ben while the doctor herself hurried back to the ICU to check on Jeff and see to the rest of her rounds. Ben was taken into an examination room where he did his best to fend off the nurses’ attentions, but gave in when he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror and didn’t recognise the wild man looking back at him: the figure of an escaped desperado who had taken refuge in a slaughterhouse. ‘You can’t go around the hospital looking like that,’ said the head nurse. ‘You’ll frighten the patients.’
Once they’d exchanged his bloody rags for a hospital gown and confirmed what he already knew, that none of the blood was his, they started insisting on treating him for shock. Ben drew the line at sedatives. He needed to keep his wits about him. But a hot shower seemed like a good idea, and he gladly followed the head nurse down the corridor to get himself cleaned up.
He stood under the splashing hot water for fifteen long minutes, trying to wash away the tension that locked up his neck and shoulder muscles. Looking down at his feet, he saw the cloudy rust-coloured swirl of Jeff’s blood running off him and circling the drain. He still felt strangely numb. It all seemed somehow surreal, as if he were watching himself from the outside; as if these events were just an awful dream from which he half expected to awake at any second. One instant Jeff had been there at his side, his usual self, cheerful and focused and content with the future; the next there was an empty, desolate space where Jeff used to be. Good old solid Jeff, who was always there when you needed him, whose spirits were so hard to dampen, who had saved Ben’s skin on more than a couple of occasions. Someone like that couldn’t just disappear from your life and not be there any more.
No, it didn’t seem real. But reality would bite soon enough, all right, if Sandrine Lacombe returned to break the news that the patient had slipped away despite all their efforts. Ben had lost enough people close to him to know exactly how he would feel then.
One step at a time, he decided. There was no other way to deal with this.
After his shower Ben towelled himself and put on the clothes that the nurse had left folded on a chair for him. His own, except for his leather jacket, were probably already in the hospital incinerator. What they’d brought him would have fitted a man two inches shorter and forty pounds heavier, but at least he wouldn’t have to meet the cops dressed like an in-patient.
Just as he’d expected, there were six plain-clothes officers waiting for him in the corridor when he emerged from the bathroom. During his years as a kidnap rescue specialist and since, Ben had dealt with a lot of police officers in a lot of countries. A few notable exceptions apart, he’d never been able to form much of an affinity with them. But in this situation, he promised himself, he would try to keep it civil.
It proved to be a hard promise to keep. Even as he walked towards them along the corridor and saw them all turn to stare at him, Ben’s eye had picked out the most officious-looking one and decided he must be in charge. He was right. Inspector Sébastien Tarrare couldn’t have been more puffed-up if he’d been personally appointed by the president as commander-in-chief of French national security.
They waved him into the same small waiting area whose walls Ben had already spent three hours studying. The shortest and fattest of the cops, with a bristly neck and protruding teeth, helped himself to a Coke from the vending machine. Ben gave him a hard look. Tarrare invited Ben to sit. Ben preferred to stand. They’d barely exchanged ten words yet, and already it wasn’t going too well. All six cops looked on edge, shooting him cagey looks as though he was some kind of terror suspect himself. It was a good thing his name was Ben Hope and not Bin Hossain, he thought, or Tarrare and his little posse would have cordoned off a security zone several blocks around the hospital and called in tanks and artillery support by now.
Inspector Tarrare briefly introduced his five colleagues, whose names Ben dismissed from his memory the instant he heard them, and then went on to offer a few insincere-sounding condolences for what had happened.
‘He’s not dead yet,’ Ben said.
‘But I am given to understand he is mortally wounded,’ Tarrare replied, arching an eyebrow.
Ben definitely didn’t like him now.
‘In any case we are obliged to treat this as a matter of the utmost priority. Especially under the circumstances, considering the nature of the target.’
Now it was Ben’s turn to arch an eyebrow. ‘The target?’
‘A terrorist’s dream. Your place of business has more military hardware all stockpiled in a single place than any French Army base.’
Ben said, ‘If that’s true, then the government had better step up its defence spending. We have a small armoury, kept highly secure and subject to regular inspections, every item in it registered and licensed down to the last round of ammunition, with a stack of official paperwork to prove it. Which I know you already know, Inspector, so let’s cut the bullshit. Besides, as far as anyone can prove at this point the target was a man, not a place of business. My friend was shot. I didn’t see a terrorist raiding party storming the compound to blow open the armoury for its contents. Nor did any of the witnesses to the immediate aftermath of the shooting, including several officers of your very own SDAT.’ So put that in your pipe and smoke it, he wanted to add, but didn’t.
‘All