Crossfire (6 page)

The voice on the other end insisted.

Doc Louis bristled. “No, she can’t race next week.” He listened again, disbelief on his face. “No! A positive test will finish her career. We won’t discuss it again!”

The conversation finished, and Louis replaced the receiver, smiling an apology at Stefan. “It’s a constant battle between Marcelle’s manager and me,” he said, switching back to English. “He would ride her into the ground. He has too much ambition for her.” The doctor shrugged. “So I have to lie to him, to protect her health.”

Stefan frowned. “So she isn’t sick?”

“Of course not,” the doctor said. “Even so, she won’t have much time to train while you are ill, because I can’t sit here for six hours a day. She’ll have to train only two hours a day. She doesn’t believe in racing when she’s not at her best, because she hates to lose. But she’ll be ready for the race in Dijon. She has won it two years running now. It’ll be on television, so you can watch. It will be exciting.”

Stefan smiled at the doctor’s enthusiasm. Clearly, he was fond of Marcelle. He felt guilty for disrupting his rescuer’s life, and resolved to get well, so she could leave him alone while she went out training. He slept for the rest of the day, while Doc Louis caught up on his work in the living room.

~ . ~

Marcelle woke late in the afternoon, and showered before dressing in gray sweat pants and a pink T-shirt. She walked into Stefan’s room to find him asleep. His color looked better, and she felt her mood lighten at the prospect of his recovery. She found Louis in the living room.

He glanced up as she entered. “How are you?”

“Fine thanks. I’ve had a good rest. Thanks for the injection. It put me out like a light.”

Louis rose to his feet and gathered up his documents. “It’s not a solution, chéri. Well, now that you’re up, I can go back to my house. I’ll come back tomorrow morning and stay here awhile, so you can do some training. I’ve told Pierre-Henri you can’t race for the next two weeks, because you have flu. He wasn’t happy, but I stuck to my story.”

Marcelle shrugged. “The next two races are small races anyway, so I can afford to miss them. But I can’t miss too much training. How much longer before I can leave him alone for a few hours?”

“Well, he walked a few steps this morning, though he needed help. In another ten days, he should be well on the way to recovery. For this coming week, it’ll be better if I stay with him while you’re away. But you’ll have to scale your training down to two hours. I have a busy schedule to get through each day.”

“Thanks Doc, I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow then, at around nine or so.” She saw the doctor to the elevator, and then made her way to her patient’s room.

~ . ~

About two hours later, when Stefan showed signs of waking, Marcelle went to the kitchen, and warmed chicken soup for both of them. She added toast and tea to the tray, and carried it to the room.

He was awake when she entered, and rewarded her with a warm smile.

She returned his smile. “Hi, how are you today?”

“Much better thanks. I might be able to eat something this time.”

“How’s the nausea?”

“Gone.”

“Good. We’ll have to start you off on something light for now.” She placed the tray on the bedside table. “Let’s see if you can sit up a bit.”

They ate in companionable silence, the German’s fierce streak of independence asserting itself when he insisted on using his uninjured arm to eat unassisted.

She cleared the dishes away, and took the tray back to the kitchen. She expected to find him half-asleep when she returned, but he was still awake. He pointed at the chair next to the bed. “Come, have a seat. I have a question for you.”

She complied. “What do you want to know?”

“Why did you help me?”

His directness surprised her. Until now, she hadn’t examined her motives for helping him. One motive, her own survival, came to mind, but she could never tell him about the man at the post office. She shrugged, embarrassed. “I could hardly leave you there to die.”

“So you risked your life for a man you didn’t even know.”

“You asked me for help. You said men were coming to kill you, and you had to get away.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I’m not surprised. You were in a bad way.”

“I owe you my life. If you hadn’t helped me...”

“Let’s not talk about that now. Do you want me to contact anyone for you?”

He thought for a moment. He needed to contact Karl, or perhaps only Kris. “Do you have my cell-phone?”

She gestured at the phone on the coffee table. “You’re welcome to use my phone. I don’t mind.”

“The cell-phone has special features, so the conversation can’t be overheard, or the call traced. Is it damaged?” He tried not to let his disappointment show.

“No, it’s here,” she said, crossing to the closet against the wall. “It looks dead as a doornail, though.” She came back with his cell phone and handed it to him.

Stefan pressed a combination of keys with practiced ease. The display of the phone came alive, and he smiled. “The battery’s fine. The phone must have switched off when I fell.”

Without waiting for an answer, he dialed a number with his thumb, though he kept the phone away from his ear. She saw why, soon enough. A loud, high-pitched sound came from the little speaker in the phone. Stefan pressed a button and sent an answering screech back down the line. A few seconds later, he pressed the phone to his ear, smiling in relief when he heard a familiar voice answering.

Marcelle left the room to give him some privacy, even though he hadn’t asked for it.

He spoke in German. “Hello Karl.”

After a moment of surprised silence, Karl’s voice came back to him. “It’s good to hear from you.”

Though Karl spoke in an even tone, Stefan could hear his relief. His lieutenant wasn’t a person who allowed his emotions to show.

“I was worried you didn’t survive, cousin,” Stefan said. “What happened?” He sensed the shrug before the answer.

“When I was sure you had a good start, I staged a little explosion, and made them think I had been caught in the middle of it. They quickly lost interest when the whole place looked ready to explode.” A sardonic laugh echoed down the line.

“Then what happened?” Stefan asked, smiling at his cousin’s devil-may-care attitude.

“Well, I followed them, just in case they caught up with you. They ended up at a small post office, and for a moment, I was worried. But the body they dragged out of there belonged to Mohammed Rashid, little brother of Ahmed, and he had more holes in him than a dartboard. Let me tell you, Ahmed was beside himself, wailing and howling like a bloody woman. You’ve done well, my friend. That almost compensates for Hans and Friedrich. I managed to save their bodies from the fire, and got them out of sight. We’ve buried them on La Montagne, with full honors.”

“Good work.” Stefan tried to remember what had happened at the post office. Had he shot the man? Surely, he would remember it. But he didn’t remember asking Marcelle for help either. Had the concussion given him selective amnesia? “Karl, did you check the place afterwards?”

“Yes, I found a pool of blood and seven 9mm casings, which I identified as our brand. It’s not like you to waste ammunition like that. Where are you? Can I send some men to fetch you?”

“No, I’m safe for the moment. I’m not well enough to travel yet.”

“Are you sure I shouldn’t send a few men to protect you until you’re better?”

“No, I’m safe and receiving good care. If circumstances should change, I’ll contact you again. Station three men in Paris, in case I need them. I need you to stay at headquarters and run things in my absence. If any assignments come along, put a senior man in charge of them and say I’m involved elsewhere. And I want you to find out the whereabouts of Ahmed and his associates. But don’t do anything; I’ll handle this one personally.”

“Sure, I’ve been making enquiries, but nothing so far. We’ll keep trying. Kris is here and wants to speak to you.”

“Okay.”

“Hello Stefan, what are your injuries?”

“Concussion, a cut to the temple, a bullet through the left side, and another through the left shoulder. No damage to major organs, but I nearly bled to death. The person who found me saved my life.”

“Do you want me to come out there?”

“No, I’m fine. I have a doctor taking care of me. We need you out there for the men, Kris. I’m over the worst.”

“Can you trust this person and the doctor?”

“Yes, they’ve put their lives at risk to save me. I owe them everything. I’d rather not say their names, even over this secure line. Tell Karl to run a trace to pinpoint my position.”

Karl came back on the line. “I’ve done that already. Are you sure you want to be there, after what happened?”

Stefan laughed mirthlessly. “If I could choose, I wouldn’t be here, but I guess life has a way of forcing us to face our demons. I’ll be fine.”

“When will we see you?” It was Kris’ voice again.

“I’ll recover fully within the next few weeks. I won’t contact you unless necessary, but let me know the minute you have a location for Ahmed Rashid.”

They said goodbye, and he switched the phone off to conserve the battery. His mind went over all the possible scenarios. How had Mohammed Rashid ended up dead? Had Marcelle killed him? Why couldn’t he remember it? Perhaps that’s why she hadn’t taken him to a normal hospital. The police would have asked too many questions. For a high profile person such as herself, it would be a feeding frenzy if the press got hold of it. Though he knew appearances could be deceptive, he couldn’t believe the young widow capable of killing a man. Did he dare ask her?

When Marcelle came back, Stefan was still frowning.

She caught his mood. “Bad news?”

“No, Karl is alive. He’s back at headquarters.”

She smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“He’s under the impression I had killed one of the terrorists, and left his body for his friends to find.”

“Oh.”

He couldn’t read much into her noncommittal reply. “Marcelle, what happened at the post office?”

She shrugged. “I dragged you to the car, and got out of there as quick as I could. Why, what’s the matter?”

“So you know nothing about the dead man?”

“I didn’t see anyone there. Then again, it was dark, and my attention was focused on you.”

He wouldn’t let her off that easily. “Marcelle, I didn’t kill him. Did you?”

She looked taken aback, and he was sorry he had asked. But it was too late.

“I can’t believe you would try to drag me down to your level,” she retorted heatedly. “From where I stand, there’s only one killer in this room!”

Before he could answer, she turned on her heel and stormed from the room.

* * * *

Chapter Eight

Later in the evening Marcelle looked in on the Stefan, and found him asleep. She regretted her overreaction earlier. He had made a logical deduction, and her anger had been unjustified. If only she had told him the truth from the start.

She returned to her room and took a warm shower before pulling on an oversized T-shirt that had belonged to Jean-Michel, and a pair of shorts. She went to the study, and sank into the comfortable leather chair behind the desk. A pile of correspondence lay in the centre of the desk. She had sent one of the guards to empty her post box, determined not to return to the scene of her crime for a long time to come. She sorted through the letters. Most were business letters, except for one from Jean-Michel’s parents, and she saved it for last.

The tone of the letter was friendly. Christina and Remi Deschamps wanted to know when she would visit them again, and she smiled sadly, her thoughts with the elderly couple. Her late husband had been one of a pair of identical twins, an unexpected bonus for his parents, who were never able to have more children. Tragically, Jean-Michel’s brother had died at the age of eight in a freak accident. A badly traumatized Jean-Michel had survived, raised as a cherished only child. Upon his death, twenty-five years later, his parents had come to regard his widow as the daughter they never had.

She was fond of them, and visited them often on their wine farm in the south of France, spending at least a month with them during the off-season. They were kind to her, and didn’t expect her to spend the rest of her life mourning their son. In fact, they had more than once suggested she should find herself a friend, but she had decided she didn’t want to go through the pain of losing someone ever again. Once in a lifetime was enough.

A framed picture of Jean-Michel stood on the corner of the desk. She picked it up, and set it down in front of her. This room was where she felt closest to him, sitting in the leather chair where he had sat so often.

The many pictures Marcelle kept of her late husband lined the walls of the study. Some showed the two of them in happier days, but she didn’t always like to look at them. On the photos, she could see the love of life she had lost, and the sparkle in her eyes that had now grown dull. Though she could feel life ebbing from her with every passing day, she couldn’t help herself. Healing could never begin while those terrible dreams plagued her, when she lost Jean-Michel again every night.