The Babylon Idol Page 3

  As he handed the form back to the paramedics, blood smeared all over the paper from his fingers, he asked if there was room for one more on board the chopper and was told, without hesitation, no chance.

  Ben said, ‘At least tell me where you’re taking him.’ The paramedic replied that Jeff would be flown direct to the Centre Hospitalier Louis Pasteur, the big hospital in Cherbourg, being the nearest facility equipped to deal with major trauma. Ben thanked him and let him go. He stood back, and he and Tuesday watched in silence as the hatch slammed shut and the chopper took off.

  Both thinking the same terrible thought.

  That they might never see Jeff Dekker alive again.

  Chapter 4

  The distance from Le Val to Cherbourg was almost exactly thirty-five kilometres by road. Ben couldn’t get there as fast as a chopper, but he was damned well going to try.

  ‘I’m coming too,’ Tuesday declared as Ben clambered into Jeff’s truck. It was faster than the Land Rover, not that Ben intended to make the drive in either.

  Ben shook his head. ‘Someone’s got to hold the fort, Tues. In a few minutes this place will be crawling with police. In the meantime, kennel the dogs, lock the weapons up in the armoury and get ready for a lot of questions. If they want me, they know where to find me.’

  Tuesday just nodded. He looked as ashen and pallid as it was possible for a healthy twenty-four-year-old Jamaican guy to look. Ben briefly laid a hand on his shoulder. He wanted to give him some kind of reassuring smile, but he couldn’t. He slammed the truck door, fired up the engine and took off over the bumpy ground, wipers slapping, lights burning twin beams through the drifting snow. Tuesday, Vidal and the others shrank in the rear-view mirror until the white veil swallowed them up.

  Ben hammered the truck back towards the house. Less than a minute later he was skidding to a halt in the yard, piling out without shutting the door and sprinting past the big stone farmhouse towards the lean-to garage where he stored his personal car.

  The old BMW Alpina turbo was neglected and dirty, but its 4.4-litre V8 motor could get Ben where he wanted to be just about as fast as anything else on the road, especially when he was the one behind the wheel. He punched it out of the yard and down the rutted track to the security gates that shut Le Val off from the big, bad world. He left those open, too, for the contingent of gendarmerie vehicles that would soon be descending on them in force. Then he was off, heading north, shifting as aggressively as the untreated and slippery rural roads would let him.

  His mind was empty, numb. There was no point in trying to make sense of what had happened. That would come later. And when he figured out who had done this …

  He gripped the steering wheel. He couldn’t afford to let his grief and rage take him over. That would come later, too.

  Traffic grew steadily thicker as he left the countryside behind him and joined the N13 heading towards the city. The sudden snowfall had caught a lot of people unprepared, and the road was heavily congested with sluggish bumper-to-bumper lines of vehicles. Twice he veered off onto the verge to roar by the dawdling drivers blocking his way, and forced past them with his horn blaring to warn them of his approach. People gawked at him from their car windows. He didn’t care.

  A few minutes later, he left the nationale and carved his way into Cherbourg-Octeville. The hospital was located in the north of the city, not far from the port. He screeched through slippery, twisty streets, attracting more stares from drivers and pedestrians, burning through red lights and ignoring one-way systems and not giving a damn about police, until he spotted the sign with a red cross and the words ‘HÔPITAL PASTEUR URGENCES’. Moments later he swerved into the hospital car park, skidded into a space, burst out of the BMW and ran for the entrance without bothering to lock the car.

  It wasn’t until Ben shoved through the doors into the hospital emergency-room reception area that he realised that his hands, face and clothes were still covered in blood and he looked like someone who’d just been dragged out of a train wreck. That probably accounted for some of the looks he’d been getting on the way here. The same expressions were on the faces of the hospital staff as they came rushing to meet him, intent on grabbing him and shoving him onto a gurney before he collapsed on the floor.

  ‘It’s not me. I’m not hurt,’ he explained to the nurses, putting out his bloodstained hands to ward them off him. ‘Jeff Dekker. He was brought here by helicopter. Less than an hour ago. Where is he? Is he—?’

  Not dead, was all the information he could glean from any of the tight-lipped nursing personnel. A large matron kept insisting that if he would please settle down and wait, Docteur Lacombe the head surgeon would update him as soon as possible. Ben got the impression that Lacombe was deep in the middle of working on Jeff at that very moment. Which explained why the nurses were being noncommittal about the condition of the patient. Which in turn implied that things were very much in the balance and could go either way.

  Ben did what they said and went to a small waiting area with banks of plastic seats and a vending machine. He sat by a window that overlooked the hospital car park and gazed out without seeing anything.

  The wait was agonising. He took a few sips of eighteen-year-old single malt scotch from his old steel flask, then stared at it for a moment, thinking back to the time when it had turned a bullet that had been heading for his heart. Perhaps it could have done the same for Jeff. The thought made him want to swallow the whole contents of the flask, but he fought the urge and put it away.

  He paced and sat down. Paced and sat down. The snow had stopped falling outside. The sky was leaden, threatening a downpour of rain that would thaw the streets of Cherbourg to a brown slush. Restless and badly in need of something other than alcohol to settle his nerves, he wanted to duck outside for a cigarette but worried that he might miss speaking to this Lacombe guy. After another half-hour he dialled the Le Val office number, and Tuesday snapped up the call before the first ring was over.

  ‘Well?’ Tuesday sounded breathless with worry.

  ‘Nobody wants to tell me anything much,’ Ben said. ‘I think they’re operating on him as we speak.’

  ‘Then there’s a chance,’ Tuesday gasped. ‘Thank Christ. When the phone rang I thought—’

  Ben preferred not to dwell on what might all too well turn out to be false hopes. ‘What’s happening there?’ he interrupted.

  Tuesday let out a frustrated grunt and replied all in a flurry, ‘Jesus, what isn’t happening here? Now would be a good time to rob a bank, because it seems to me every cop in Normandy’s turned up to get a piece of the action. Not long after you left, four NH-nineties landed in the field, full of guys in black. Then about thirty more vehicles rolled up. They’ve got the whole place surrounded and they’re combing through every square inch like it was the biggest terrorist incident in French history. It’s mayhem. I’ve repeated the whole story so many times I’m beginning to feel like a bloody parrot.’

  ‘Let them do what they have to do,’ Ben said. ‘Maybe they’ll find something.’

  He very much doubted they would. More likely, the guys in black body armour would strut about feeling pumped up and hungry for Muslim extremists to gun down, then they’d eventually get bored and go home to their shoot-’em-up video games.

  He asked, ‘Is Vidal still there?’

  ‘Overseeing his troops like he’s General Patton. There’s something else, Ben.’ Tuesday paused, sounding uncomfortable. ‘I’m really sorry. I had no choice.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They demanded access to the armoury, and I had to let them in. They took the lot. Stripped it totally bare.’

  ‘What do you mean, took the lot?’

  ‘Every last scrap, down to the empty spare magazines. They even took the slings and bipods for the rifles. Said it was a precaution in accordance with the new anti-terror legislation. So if I tried to stand in their way, that pretty much made me a terrorist myself. They loaded everything into an armoured van and
gave me a slip of paper that says it’s being kept in secure storage at a government facility until further notice. Which basically means we’re out of business for the foreseeable future. I’m sorry, Ben. If you want to fire me now, I’d understand.’

  ‘No, Tuesday. You did the right thing and I wouldn’t blame you for a minute, and neither will Jeff. Listen, do me a favour. Middle drawer of Jeff’s desk there in the office. There’s a tatty address book. Look under M and give me his mother’s number in Australia.’

  ‘Got it,’ Tuesday said after a moment, and Ben scribbled the number down on the back of his Gauloises packet. Then he remembered the other call he was going to have to make, a prospect that felt like a cold knife going into his belly. ‘Now look under C.’

  ‘Chantal,’ Tuesday said with a groan. ‘God, I’d forgotten all about her. The poor woman. Hold on. Yeah, there’s a mobile number.’ He read it out. ‘You want me to—?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Ben said grimly. ‘Thanks, Tuesday. I’ll keep you posted when I know anything.’ He ended the call. Then took a deep breath and made the first of the two other calls he was dreading. As the dial tone was pulsing in his ear he tried desperately to formulate what he had to say. A woman’s voice answered at the fourth ring, ten thousand miles away.

  ‘May I speak to Mrs Lynne Dekker?’

  ‘Speaking. Who is this?’

  ‘Mrs Dekker, you don’t know me. My name’s Ben Hope. I work with Jeff.’

  It was one of the worst calls he’d ever had to make. But the next one, to Chantal Mercier, was even harder. First the same stunned silence, then the same cry of anguish, the same gulping sobs. Then, to make Ben even more miserable, followed the rage, the recriminations, the bitter accusations. Chantal was certain that it was as a result of all the awful and dangerous things they did at Le Val that Jeff was hurt. Ben tried to placate her, but could think of little to say.

  When it was over, he put the phone away and went back to the slightly lesser ordeal of waiting. He wasn’t counting the minutes. He was counting the seconds.

  About nine thousand more of them had ticked by in his head, and the hands on the wall clock in the waiting room had left midday far behind, by the time a door swung open and a figure in a blue doctor’s overall appeared, spotted him and started walking briskly over. Ben stood up on jelly legs, his heart rate suddenly doubled. He stopped breathing.

  Here it comes, he thought.

  Chapter 5

  Dr Lacombe was a she, with a mop of streaky blond hair that would probably have reached down past her waist if it hadn’t been scraped back from her face and heaped and plaited into an elaborate French braid. She was probably around thirty-five but looked older, with shadows under her eyes as if she’d been up all night and was ready to drop from stress and exhaustion. Ben could picture how she must have looked just a minute earlier, in a surgical mask and apron and latex gloves, with even more of Jeff’s blood spattered on her than he had.

  ‘Sandrine Lacombe, head surgeon,’ she said, offering a hand, and Ben could tell from her tone that the news couldn’t be entirely bad. Relief flooded through him like warm honey pouring through his veins. He started breathing again.

  The doctor’s grip was firm and dry. She had a clipped, efficient manner that Ben liked instantly as she started briefing him quickly on the situation.

  It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but it could have been a lot better. Jeff had lost a tremendous amount of blood, necessitating an emergency transfusion the moment he’d been brought in. Meanwhile the path of the bullet, narrowly missing his heart, had caused massive tissue damage and internal bleeding in the chest cavity and collapsed a lung. They’d almost lost him twice during the three-hour operation. Now moved to the intensive care unit, he seemed to have stabilised. Holding on, but still deep in the woods.

  ‘We’ve done all we can,’ Dr Lacombe sighed. ‘I managed to sew up and reinflate the ruptured lung. As for the rest of the damage, now only time will tell if he’s going to pull through.’

  ‘Thank you,’ was all Ben could reply.

  Dr Lacombe puffed her cheeks and gave a little shrug as if to say, don’t thank me too soon. ‘The next twelve hours will be difficult,’ she warned. ‘There’s a high risk of complications. Frankly, given the extent of the trauma I would give him little more than a sixty per cent chance of surviving this. He wouldn’t have made it even this far, if someone hadn’t prevented him from bleeding to death at the scene.’ Her weary but sharp blue eyes flicked up and down, taking in Ben’s bloodied appearance. ‘I take it that someone was you, Monsieur—?’

  ‘Hope. Ben Hope.’

  A flicker of surprise in her eyes, that she wasn’t speaking to a Frenchman. Ben spoke the language without any trace of accent. She went on, ‘It was also you who provided the patient’s blood group. Thank you for that. If we hadn’t known in time, there’s little chance he would still be with us now. It appears you have some medical training?’

  ‘British Special Forces, a long time ago. They teach you a few basics to keep your people going when they’ve been shot, burned or blown up.’

  She nodded pensively. ‘I thought you looked militaire. Anyway, you’ve helped to save his life for the moment, and with any luck he may live to thank you for it. We’ll do everything we can from here. But please don’t get your hopes up.’

  ‘I appreciate your directness, Doctor. That’s exactly what I need.’

  ‘May I ask what is your relation to the patient?’

  ‘Friend and business partner.’

  ‘This business, it’s in Basse-Normandie?’

  ‘We’ve been based here for a number of years.’ Ben left out what she didn’t need to know: that he’d spent a good portion of that time flitting from place to place and getting himself into trouble all over the world, and could speak a variety of languages as well as French. Jeff was Mr Stay-at-Home by comparison.

  ‘I see. What about his family – has Monsieur Dekker any relatives?’

  ‘A mother who emigrated to Australia. And a fiancée a little closer, in Saint-Acaire. They’ve already both been notified. His mother’s got a long way to travel to the nearest big airport, but I’d imagine she’ll be on her way soon.’

  ‘It’ll be a while before I’ll allow him to have any visitors.’ Dr Lacombe paused. ‘What about you? You have a contact number?’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. Any changes in his condition, I’ll be right here.’

  ‘Just in case,’ she said, handing him a card, ‘this is my personal cell number, if you need to talk. I don’t give this out to everyone, you understand?’

  ‘I appreciate your help, Doctor.’

  She paused again, fixed him with those sharp eyes, as blue as topaz, and said, ‘You know I have to report this, don’t you? A gunshot wound of this kind—’

  ‘I understand,’ Ben said, ‘but the police already know all about it. Some of them were already there just after it happened. I’m afraid more of them will be landing on your hospital pretty soon, looking for me.’

  She shook her head. ‘What did happen?’

  ‘He was shot.’

  ‘I can see that. I mean, what happened?’

  ‘We were cutting up a fallen tree. Talking about this and that. He’d just told me that he was getting married. It was a happy time. We had no idea that someone was watching us. Someone hidden, quite a distance away, with a rifle. Then they fired. One shot, one hit. You know the rest.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Ben said. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Does your friend have, I don’t know, enemies?’

  ‘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 t
hey’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.’