Chapter 62

Once in the corridor, I took out my cell phone and called Mother.

“How are you, sweetheart?” she asked, her voice cool and contained. In spite of that, I could tell she’d been worried.

“I’m all right. De Becque’s people seem to have everything under control.”

“And Mark? How is he?”

“He’s... he’s been shot. Femme is operating on him.”

“Dear God! From what I observed in the sick bay here, it’s obvious she’s a very accomplished woman, but... what can I do to help?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know of a surgeon here in Paris who wouldn’t dance a fandango at the thought of letting Mark bleed out or turning him over to one of the intelligence organizations that would like nothing better than to have him in their grasp, would you?”

“Hmm. There used to be a surgeon in Italy—he did occasional work for an obscure branch of MI5, but that was almost thirty years ago.”