Crossfire

by Niki Savage

  The tall doctor smiled at her. “We’ll try our best to save him, Madame Deschamps.”

  She rewarded him with a wan smile. “Thank you.”

  Marcelle followed them through the entrance door, halting in reception while they continued through double swinging doors at the end of the passage. A clinic for the rich, she reflected, surveying the expensive leather furniture and polished wooden coffee table. On the table, she found a tray containing cups, milk, sugar, and a thermos of coffee, strong and piping hot. The strange doctor, whose name she still didn’t know, was definitely a fan, she decided as she sipped appreciatively at the sweet brew.

  The sugary coffee took the edge off her shock, and her hands no longer shook. She walked to the glass entrance door and stared out at the gathering dusk. Normally she abhorred the loneliness of the night, but this time darkness represented safety, anonymity. The men who sought to kill her and the wounded stranger would never find them now. There were dozens of hospitals in Paris, and a small day clinic would never attract their deadly attentions.

  After closing the blinds and locking the front door, she returned to the coffee table. She poured herself another cup before emptying her pockets and sinking into one of the luxurious leather chairs. The passport revealed a photo of a handsome young man, a good likeness to the wounded man. His name was Stefan Nikolai Ziegler, security consultant, unmarried, aged thirty, born in August.

  Marcelle flipped through the pages, noting that this Stefan Ziegler’s security consulting duties had taken him all around the world. The pages of his passport carried stamps from a dozen countries at least, all of them outside Europe. Of course, as a German citizen, he could move freely within Europe.

  The wallet gave her no further clues. Money in various currencies, credit cards, some change. None of this reassured her that the wounded man wasn’t a criminal. Security consultant could cover a whole range of activities. He could be dealing in illegal weapons, which would explain the large amount of cash he carried in the money belt. Yet the killer had called him a great warrior, his contempt failing to mask the grudging admiration in his tone. Clearly, Stefan Ziegler and his would-be killer had been old adversaries. Perhaps Monsieur Ziegler was a secret agent, or an undercover police officer for Interpol. Perhaps she was too optimistic. She decided to protect him as best she could, until he could look after himself, or summon whatever help he needed.

  ~ . ~

  Back at the post office, a group of swarthy men examined bloody drag marks on the floor. They had followed the trail of blood, and it had led them to the deserted building. The leader knelt, and brushed his fingers over the congealed blood. The trail was cold. He rose, shouting at his men, blaming them for incompetence, speaking rapid Arabic. One of the men halted his tirade by calling out to him, motioning him into the darkened entrance hall.

  Moments later a wail of agony pierced the night air, sending the other men rushing into the lobby. They found their leader crouched in a pool of blood, cradling his brother to his chest, his head bent to hear his last words.

  Moments later, the dying man’s body relaxed, and his sibling raised his face to the ceiling, screaming in agony and rage.

  ~ . ~

  Marcelle had dozed off in the comfortable chair when Doc Louis touched her shoulder. She sat up immediately, fearful. “What is it? Is he okay?”

  “He’s still alive,” Louis responded. “He came through the surgery with no complications, and the prognosis is good. Do you want to see him now?”

  “Yes, please.” She pushed herself to her feet.

  Louis’ colleague came to meet them as they entered the hospital ward. He extended his hand to her. “Allow me to introduce myself, Madame. My name is Didier Le Reun.”

  She took his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Doctor. Please, call me Marcelle. Thank you for helping, and lending us your facilities.”

  “It is my privilege, Marcelle. Please, come through this way.” He led the way to a private room.

  A single bed occupied the room. Stefan lay on it, a green hospital sheet drawn up to his chest. Intravenous bags hung above his bed, the dangling tubes carrying life-giving substances to his veins. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, and underneath the bed hung two drainage bags, one partly filled with blood.

  She approached the bed, and in keeping with the cover story she had prepared, kissed Stefan on his forehead. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t summon up tears. She didn’t know whether the fire had burned away her tear ducts, or whether the ice had frozen them forever, but she had not cried in two years. Instead, she settled for turning away from both doctors and covering her face with her hands. She let out what she hoped sounded like a convincing sob. Didier reacted as she had expected, hurriedly handing her some white tissues.

  “Thank you,” she said in a choked voice, burying her face in the tissues, rubbing her eyes until she was sure they were red. “I’m sorry, it was horrible. We could both have been dead. I was the lucky one.”

  “There, there,” Louis soothed, stepping forward to fold her into his arms. “Do you want to tell us what happened?”

  “Do you want a sedative?” Didier asked, resting a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “You’ve had a big shock.”

  She shook her head and rubbed her eyes before looking at the two men. “Please, you have to promise what I’m about to tell you won’t leave this room.”

  “Of course,” Didier agreed, under her spell.

  Louis nodded. “You know you can trust me, chéri.”

  She sank into the chair beside the bed, taking Stefan’s hand into hers.

  “His name is Stefan Verleden.” She kissed the back of the limp hand she held, her eyes on the German’s pale face. “We’ve been together for nearly six months now, but we’ve been keeping it quiet. If the paparazzi had to find out, well, we wouldn’t have a moment of peace.” She glanced at Louis. “That’s why nobody knew, not even you, Doc. I hope you can forgive me.”

  The Frenchman nodded. “My feelings are hurt, but I understand.”

  She produced a faint smile in return. “Anyway, tonight, after the race, I picked Stefan up at his flat, and we were on our way to my place, when two men tried to hijack us at a traffic light. I don’t know if they wanted the car, or money, or both. They were half-crazy, waving guns around, and threatening to shoot us. They must have been high on drugs.” She shuddered, remembering the gunman at the post office. “One of them grabbed me by the arm, and said they would take me with them, just for sport. Stefan went wild, taking on both of them with his bare hands. Of course, he didn’t have a chance. He knocked one of them down, but the other one shot him twice. I think they got scared when they saw all the blood, because they ran away.”

  She pressed her knuckles in front of her mouth, swallowing hard. “He bled so much, but I knew if I took him to a normal hospital, the police would get involved and the press would get hold of it. Please, everyone deserves a second chance.” She bowed her head, the picture of dejection.

  “You have my support, chéri,” Louis said. “I wish you two all the best.”

  Didier smiled. “You shall have your chance.”

  “Thank you. I am in your debt.” She rubbed her eyes once more for good measure.

  “Well, Monsieur Verleden came through the surgery all right, despite the fact that he was very weak from blood loss,” Didier said, taking charge. “We gave him two pints of whole blood and removed shrapnel from his wounds, but he had no damage to his major organs. It will be some time before he regains full use of his left arm, because the bullet tore through the muscles in his shoulder. We have repaired them, but healing takes time. He has concussion, and the cut on his forehead required ten stitches. We don’t know when he will regain consciousness, but the CAT scan showed no bleeding inside the brain. It did show evidence of an old skull fracture, and we couldn’t help but notice the scars on his body.” He let the unspoken question hang in the air.

  She didn’t miss a beat. “Stefan is a
professional stunt man. He’s had a few accidents in his career, including a serious car accident about three years ago. I’ve been trying to get him to give up, before he kills himself.”

  “A wise decision,” Didier said. “Well, if his vital signs improve sufficiently you can take him home, provided Louis goes with you.”

  “Shouldn’t he stay in hospital for a few days?”

  Louis responded first. “Of course, that would be the ideal scenario, chéri, but tomorrow the clinic is open, and it will be difficult to keep your secret once the nurses are here. All we need is one of them to speak out of turn.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “You’re right, I wasn’t thinking.” She turned to Didier. “Thank you again for putting yourself and your clinic at risk for me.”

  “Louis and I have been friends since medical school. How could I refuse my oldest and dearest friend? Now I know the full story, I’m glad I trusted my instincts.”

  She hoped her guilt didn’t show on her face as she extended a hand to Didier. “Please let me know what I owe you.”

  He waved it away. “There is no cost, except an autographed cycling jersey. My eldest daughter is one of your greatest admirers. I will tell her Louis obtained it for me, to stop any questions.”

  She smiled. “Of course, I will see you get it.”

  ~ . ~

  Marcelle slowed as she approached the gates of the complex, blinding the guards with her powerful headlights. She hoped they wouldn’t notice her bloody and disheveled state, or the lateness of the hour.

  As two guards approached, she smiled and held up her identification card for inspection. As usual they greeted her with an enthusiastic, “Bonsoir, Madame Deschamps!”

  She replied in her usual manner, graciously accepting their congratulations on her victory.

  Moments later, she drove into the extensive grounds of the housing complex she shared with other sports celebrities. Three hundred meters on, she pulled into the driveway to her apartment. The term apartment was an understatement for the stylish three-story structure. In the light of the harsh orange security lighting, several other identical buildings were visible.

  The heavy oak door of the garage opened soundlessly as she pressed the remote control on the dashboard of the car. An overhead light came on as the racing car nudged into the spacious interior, large enough for four cars. She cut the engine of the Ferrari, and the garage door whirred shut behind the vehicle.

  A black Chevrolet van, with red racing trim and wide tires, occupied the other half of the garage. In front of it stood a black Lamborghini Diablo, gleaming under the bright lights, waiting in vain for his master.

  Marcelle closed the door of the Ferrari and walked to an elevator at the back of the garage. The doors slid open soundlessly after she keyed a code on the keypad. She entered the mirrored interior, shocked when she saw herself in the polished glass. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and she was pale as a ghost. Now she understood why the doctors had believed her story without question. Louis had been reluctant to let her drive home alone, but she had insisted he stay with Stefan and Didier.

  The doors closed, and the sudden pull of gravity on her tired legs made her grab a smooth rail for support. The doors opened a few seconds later on a luxurious living room. She walked down the long passage leading from the living room, the thick carpet muting her footsteps as she headed for the master bedroom.

  She undressed in front of the massive mirror doors of the wall-to-wall wardrobe. The bedroom was large, luxurious, and decorated in shades of blue and white. Blue had been their favorite color, and she had left things the same way. The room held many memories of Jean-Michel, and she wistfully recalled their first night in their new home. They had held a huge housewarming party, the evening ending in passion on the king-sized bed.

  Marcelle caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and was shocked at the naked longing she saw there. This wouldn’t do. Visibly shaking herself, she went to the en-suite bathroom. The bathroom was a soft baby blue with white tiles, and she made her way to the glass shower cubicle. She turned on the powerful spray of the shower, and adjusted the temperature before stepping under the water.

  The hot water peppered her slender body, streaming in sheets over the washboard ripples of her belly, and cascading down her long legs. The young champion’s body was tanned golden brown, with a darker tan starting midway down her thighs and upper arms, the characteristic tan of a professional cyclist. Marcelle had acquired the tan during her preseason training in Spain.

  She turned her face into the spray, allowing the hot water to relax her tense muscles, and soothe her tired mind. Somehow, the soap and face cloth weren’t enough as she scrubbed herself, trying to cleanse more than just the blood and grime off her skin.

  Twenty minutes later, she had dried her hair and dressed in a comfortable blue tracksuit. She rode the elevator down to the garage, and climbed into the black van. If the guards wondered why she left at such a late hour, they didn’t show it, and she drove in the direction of the hospital.

  ~ . ~

  By the time they had settled Stefan on one of the twin beds of a guest bedroom, it was after midnight. It had been easy to smuggle him into the complex, hidden in the back of the van. They had unloaded the stretcher in the privacy of the closed garage, ensuring complete secrecy. Doc Louis had also brought all the necessary hospital paraphernalia with him. Oxygen bottles and other medical equipment were stacked on the couch against the wall.

  The German still wore the gown Louis and Didier had dressed him in at the hospital. His IV bags hung from a drip stand at the head of the bed, and the drainage bags hung from a short drip stand below the level of the bed. Though the oxygen mask still covered his nose and mouth, his face was no longer deathly pale. Marcelle took heart from his improvement. Every time his chest rose and fell, she was thankful for the miracle.

  Doc Louis took a blood pressure reading, and noted the results in a small notebook. He looked pleased as he turned to her. “He’s strong, and he’s fighting hard. I think he will survive.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said, stretching out on the matching twin bed. Now that all the stress was over, she had an overwhelming urge to sleep. She closed her eyes.

  ~ . ~

  Marcelle opened her eyes at Doc Louis’ touch. He held an icy glass of Coca-Cola in his hand. She must have dozed off for a few minutes.

  “This is exactly what you need, chéri.” He sat next to her and offered the soda. “Now, I want you to tell me the real story. I would like to know why I’m risking my freedom and reputation.”

  Marcelle sat up, and took the glass from him. “What gave me away?”

  “Well, you nearly convinced me, but...”

  “But....”

  “I don’t believe for one minute you would have kept it from me if you and this man had been seeing each other. On top of that, I don’t think you’ve seen the scars on his body. He’s no more a stunt man than I am. This man is either a professional soldier, or a criminal.”

  “Do you think Didier would have come to the same conclusion?”

  “Even if he did, he’ll do nothing to jeopardize me. We go back a long way. Just see that he gets the cycling jersey.”

  “I’ll send him a whole hamper of Ultima-Fabelta goodies, don’t worry.”

  “Good. Now, please tell me what happened?”

  Marcelle took a long sip of her Coke, studying her friend for a moment. Louis Gautier was of average height, with regular features, brown hair and kind blue eyes. On the wrong side of forty, he carried it well, showing only a few streaks of gray in his hair. He had the French habit of throwing his hands up at the slightest provocation, or giving an expressive Gallic shrug. He had been Jean-Michel’s doctor long before she entered her late husband’s life. The Frenchman was now the team doctor for her team, Ultima-Fabelta, on her recommendation, earning a massive salary. Yes, she could trust him with the truth.

  “Well,” she said, “you’re not going t
o believe me but here goes.”

  The words spilled from her in a rush, as if she could somehow purge her mind of the experience by passing it on to someone else. She worried about the expression of horror on Doc Louis’ face as she reached the end of her tale.

  “I can’t believe you killed him.”

  “What else was I to do? He threatened me with gang rape and death, and he wanted to kill Stefan. I don’t doubt that he and his pals had shot him in the first place.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police? Leaving the scene of a crime is a serious offence. And murder...”

  “It wasn’t murder. I acted in self-defense, and he deserved what he got. As for going to the police, with my record, would they even have listened to me?” Her lip curled contemptuously. “I can imagine the headlines: Murderous Marcy strikes again! Innocent or not, that’ll spell the end of my career.”

  Louis’ eyes twinkled. “Murderous Marcy strikes again?” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to wipe away his smile. He cleared his throat noisily. “Of course, you are right. So what do you plan to do?”

  “Well, there were no witnesses. You’re the only person I have told about this, and I won’t tell anyone else,” she gestured towards the bed, “not even him. I’ll tell him I found him at the post office, took him to hospital and then brought him here.”

  “He might not believe you.”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Believe me, total silence is the way to go.”

  Louis listened to his friend’s matter of fact tone, so in contrast to her display earlier. She had already disassociated herself from what had happened, the same coping mechanism she always used. Rather than take her on about it, as he has so many times before, he sought to change the subject. “Well, he’s going to be here at least six weeks. How will you train?”

  As usual, everything revolved around her sport. “Maybe you could watch him for the first couple of weeks, until he can help himself. I’ll keep my sessions down to two hours, and you can tell Pierre-Henri I’m sick, and can’t race for the next two weeks. It’s only the beginning of April, so it’s early in the season. I can afford to miss a couple of races.”