Crossfire (5 page)

Afterwards she cleaned the blood off the expensive diver’s watch and put it next to the cell phone. The phone was off, or perhaps the battery had gone dead. Curious, she examined it, trying to work out how to switch it on again, but there didn’t appear to be a conventional on/off switch. Lightweight, black and slim, the phone didn’t have a brand name, and didn’t resemble anything she had ever seen. In addition to the normal keypad of a cell phone, there were a couple of extra keys with strange symbols on them. Pressing one experimentally brought no result, and trying the other keys confirmed her opinion that the instrument was dead.

Marcelle decided to leave the phone alone before she broke anything. She took it and the watch back to her patient’s room, finding him asleep. She opened the closet and placed his possessions on a shelf next to his handmade Italian boots. His washed clothing hung in the closet, except for his leather jacket. The beautiful garment had not survived all the blood and she had cut it to shreds before burning it.

She ran into Doc Louis in the passage, and he accompanied her to the kitchen.

Marcelle made coffee while he told her about the conversation between Stefan and himself. “Well, we’ll have to take his word for it. Maybe he really doesn’t remember anything,” she commented as she carried the filled mugs to the table.

They drank coffee in silence.

“Did he say what he does for a living?”

“I didn’t ask,” Louis replied. “He’s still weak, and he looked quite upset when I told him what he had done to you.”

“Oh. Do you think I made a mistake, Doc? Does he look dangerous to you?”

“It is hard to say, chéri. Right now he’s as helpless as a baby, but later...” he shrugged. “Who can tell? Just because he has a pretty face, it doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

“I can’t believe you said that!”

“What? I’m secure enough to notice if another man is attractive. If I were a woman, I would chain him to the bed, and never let him leave. Once he has recovered, he will be even more handsome.”

She burst out laughing, and Louis watched her with a pleased smile. It had been so long since he heard her laughter ringing out, and he hoped she would laugh more in future. Perhaps she was getting over Jean-Michel at last.

* * * *

Chapter Six

Marcelle stood at the window in Stefan’s room, staring out at the setting sun. A dark wave of melancholy washed over her. She had survived another day without Jean-Michel, and now faced the beginning of another night alone.

The rustle of sheets interrupted her gloomy thoughts. She closed the curtains, and turned to Stefan.

Her brave face didn’t fool him. “Don’t be sad, Madame,” he said, his blue eyes meeting hers warmly.

She forced a smile. “Please, call me Marcelle. There’s no need to be so formal.”

“My name is...”

“Stefan Ziegler,” she interrupted him. When he raised his eyebrows, she explained. “Your passport told me everything I needed to know. Would you prefer to speak English, or German?”

“English is fine.” He tried to sit up, wanting to face her on equal terms, but sagged back against the pillows with a grimace of pain. “Damn, that hurts.”

“Try not to move too much. We don’t want your wounds to start bleeding again.” She pulled the covers up to his chest. “Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“No thanks.”

“Well, we have to get something into you. Some fruit juice, perhaps.”

He sighed. “Please stop.”

“What?”

“You’re acting as if nothing’s happened. The doc told me what I did yesterday.”

She waved it away. “I’m used to warmer receptions, but perhaps my fans have spoiled me.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t remember what happened, but it was never my intention to hurt you.”

“I believe you, and I accept your apology. Now let’s forget about it. I’ll tell the doc you’re awake.”

Marcelle returned a few minutes later with Louis Gautier in tow. The doctor gave Stefan an injection for pain, and redressed his wounds. He replaced the antibiotic drip. “Is the pain better now?”

“Yes, thank you, but I feel as if I want to vomit every time I move.”

“Of course, that’s from the concussion. Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Louis prepared a small syringe, and injected the contents into his patient’s upper arm. “This will clear you up in twenty minutes flat, but it will make you very sleepy.”

“You’ll get no complaints from me,” Stefan mumbled. Sleep would be a welcome release from his discomfort.

When Marcelle returned with cold water and orange juice, the German lay with closed eyes. She put the tray on the bedside table and tried anyway. “You must be thirsty. Can I pour you some water or juice?”

He opened his eyes. “Perhaps later. I’m still nauseous.”

“Maybe we should give that injection a chance to work its magic.” She picked up the tray. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“Please, I need to talk to you,” Stefan said, reaching a trembling hand towards her.

She replaced the tray on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed, taking his hand into hers, trying to give him comfort. “What’s wrong?”

“Those men, who did this to me, might still be looking for me. They are dangerous men, with no scruples. You’ve helped me, and I’m grateful, but you’ve put yourself in danger. They’ll kill you if they find you. You must stay inside until I can summon help.”

She put a cool hand on his forehead. “Don’t worry. No one saw me, and nobody knows you’re here. This is a high security complex. Nobody can get in, I promise you.”

“Anyone who is determined enough can get in,” he muttered.

“What happened to you?”

“We were caught in an ambush. Two of my men are dead. Karl and I survived, but I don’t know what happened to him. I just hope he’s alive. Kris will never forgive me if I let his brother die. They’re twins. Kris is a doctor.”

“Why did they ambush you?”

His eyes fell shut, as if the effort of keeping them open had become too much. “After tracking them for two years, we got too close. Their leader and I are old enemies. I killed his older brother, and he retaliated by killing...” he faltered for a moment, “a close friend of mine. His organization is responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent victims.”

“This is what you do?”

He dragged his eyes open, watching her reaction. “I’m a member of Omega, an antiterrorist organization. Yes, this is what I do. Usually I’m more successful than this.”

“Well, I guess you’ll live to fight another day. At least my instincts were on target. I thought you were one of the good guys, and I was right.”

He grimaced, closing his eyes again. “I like to think we’re the good guys, but sometimes the line between good and bad can become blurred.” He sighed. “Sometimes, there’s no line at all.”

He remained silent for so long that she thought he had gone to sleep, but then he opened his eyes again. “I have to leave as soon as possible. It isn’t safe here. You must come with me to La Montagne. We have a hospital there, and Kris can look after me.”

He sounded stressed again, and she squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.”

“Please stay for a while.”

“I’ll stay. Try to sleep now.”

Stefan closed his eyes again, and Marcelle stared at his face, feeling endless pity for him. His cheekbones protruded beneath his pale skin, evidence of his rapid weight loss. Cracked lips and the plum colored bruises below his sunken eyes had all but destroyed his good looks. What a price he has paid in agony and suffering for his quest.

From what he had told her, she understood that he fought against the terrorists of this world. She thought it a cruel and bloody occupation, which could cost him his life in the end. Why did her heart ache at the thought? He had chosen this occupation, and if you lived by the sword, you died by the sword.

After a few minutes, Stefan’s breathing deepened and slowed as he fell into a deep slumber. Marcelle stayed with him, guarding him, her thoughts in turmoil. Who were Kris and Karl? He seemed anxious to reach them, and had great faith in Kris’ medical abilities. La Montagne could be a kind of headquarters or secret hideout, which was why he was so sure he would be safe there. Though he didn’t believe it, she knew he would be safe in her home too.

His attackers didn’t know where to find him, and this complex was a fortress. Guards with dogs patrolled the grounds twenty-four hours a day, and high walls with electric fencing and infrared detectors surrounded the perimeter. Jean-Michel had designed the complex in collaboration with security specialists and top architects. Upon its completion four years ago, they had moved into one of the units, happily in love after only a year of marriage.

Jean-Michel had planned the complex with professional sports persons in mind. The units were self-contained and luxurious, though functional, offering seclusion and privacy. Jacuzzis, gyms and saunas came as standard equipment, and each unit had a pool on the roof.

It had been an excellent idea, and Jean-Michel had made millions when he sold the other nineteen units. Owners were limited to professional sports persons, and Marcelle shared the complex with runners, golfers, tennis players, racing drivers, and football players.

If a unit became vacant, any prospective owner had to pass the board, which consisted of the other owners. She held the deciding vote in case of a tie. Jean-Michel had built similar complexes outside five other major cities in France, including one on the French Riviera where they had also reserved a unit for themselves.

The money from the sale of the units, added to Jean-Michel’s considerable earnings and investments throughout the years, had left her in charge of an estate of around five hundred and ten million pounds. Half of this vast fortune generated more income by way of solid investments made by Jean-Michel, and majority shares in several businesses he had purchased. Coupled with her own sizeable earnings, Jean-Michel’s legacy ensured she was amongst the wealthiest people in France.

* * * *

Chapter Seven

Stefan woke in the early hours of the morning. Outside dawn colored the sky pink. He thought he had heard a woman scream. Then he heard it again.

He saw Louis Gautier rush by his room and heard him throwing open Marcelle’s bedroom door. The screaming stopped, and he heard the doctor’s soothing voice before the door closed again, possibly to avoid disturbing his rest. Except he was already awake, alarmed by the screams, and wondering what could be wrong with the woman who had saved his life.

~ . ~

Doc Louis came out of the room about thirty minutes later, and pulled the door shut behind him. Stefan called him.

The doctor entered the room and switched on the light. “Are you comfortable?”

“I’m fine, thanks. What’s wrong with Marcelle?”

The Frenchman sat on the spare bed. “It’s a tragedy. After two years, she still grieves for her husband. She tries so hard to deny it, but at night, the dreams come. I was Jean-Michel’s doctor, but he was also my friend. To bury such a man in the prime of his life...” He paused, staring at the floor. “They loved each other so much, and now he’s gone, she’s like a lost soul.” He shook his head. “I try to help, but I can’t get through to her. I try to keep my promise to Jean-Michel. But, it is difficult.”

Stefan stared at him, guilt tearing at his insides. Previously he had only imagined the damage he had done, but to hear firsthand how badly Jean-Michel’s widow was coping, felt like a cold dagger twisting in his guts. As much as he feared for her safety and his own, he would have to stay in her home, and try to fix what he had broken. But would she still welcome him in her home if she knew who he was? He could never allow her to find out, because the loathing in her eyes would be more than he could stand.

~ . ~

The morning passed without further event. Doc Louis took down Stefan’s drip and removed the catheter. Stefan drank a bit of chicken soup, and made his first trip to the bathroom, leaning on the doctor’s arm.

Louis had made a light lunch, and had just brought it to his patient when the phone rang. The Frenchman snatched up the phone on the coffee table, anxious not to wake Marcelle.

“Hallo, Louis Gautier here,” he said in French.

A voice spoke on the other side.

Doc Louis smiled. “Ah, it’s you, Pierre-Henri. What can I do for you?” He listened for a few moments. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. Our little champion isn’t well. No, you can’t speak to her. She’s sleeping. I’ve booked her off for two weeks.”

The voice on the other side shouted something, and Louis held the receiver away from his ear, winking at Stefan. “Are you finished now, Pierre-Henri?”

The voice calmed down.

“I know you’re the manager, but I’m the doctor, and what I say goes. She can’t race for two weeks. Maybe you will think twice before leaving her to the mercy of the reporters again. They held her up for hours. Now she’s caught a chill from sitting there in damp clothes.” He paused, and listened. “Yes, she’ll be ready at the end of April. The race in Dijon is three weeks away. Of course she’ll win, don’t worry.”