The Paris Betrayal by James Hannibal (the dot read aloud .txt) 📗

sound. Ben kept to the main hall, navigating a long curve before pounding up a metal ramp to a garage-style door. He grabbed a control hanging by a thick orange cord and powered the door up. “Loading dock,” he said, breathing hard and looking back. “I told you we’d—”

The hallway behind him was empty.

Clara was gone.

45

Duval woke up handcuffed to a hospital bed. A sling constrained his other arm, strapped to his body with nylon and Velcro. An attempt to move it sent a shock of pain through his body.

Oh, yes. Calix had shot him from behind.

But how could he? Calix had run out of bullets during his charge for the exit—tossed his gun away. Perhaps he had backup.

A fog of medication obscured his memories. Duval grasped at the images. Calix used him as a shield. Yes. So, the shooter and Calix were enemies, not allies. Maybe the American had sent someone else. It fit. The man had always been clear about Duval’s expendability.

“You could have told me,” he muttered in French. “I’d have dropped to give your man a clear shot.”

The curtain next to his bed flew back. Renard lay on a matching bed. He looked angry. Hard to say. A new bandage covered half his face. New yellow bruising spread from underneath it, all the way to his temples. He spoke in a muffled voice, slow, as if each word hurt. “You are awake.”

“Obviously.” Duval jerked at his handcuff. He noted both Renard’s wrists were free. “What is the meaning of this?”

“We should have taken our time—made a plan, flanked him. You said we would take him together when he came outside. You promised me the first punch. But you chased that woman into the dome. And the moment you saw him, you opened fire.” Renard paused to suck in a breath through his mouth. “You idiot.”

“How dare you speak to me in that manner. I’ll have you fired.”

The sergeant tried to snort and winced. He moaned.

Duval rattled his handcuff again. “Renard, I order you to tell me what is going on. Why am I chained to this bed?”

“You are not a man who knows how to make friends. Did I ever tell you this, Capitaine? I have known for quite some time. The paramedics, for instance. You thrashed about and called them names. In your flailing, you hit one in the face. This is when the needle went in. You’ve been sedated ever since.”

“And the thrashing of an abused man is an excuse to handcuff him to the bed?”

“No. The handcuffs are the work of Major Graf, another of your would-be friends. He did not take kindly to our running an operation on Swiss soil without coordination.” The fraction of Renard’s features that Duval could see darkened. “You told me headquarters had sanctioned this. You told me we were cleared to operate in Zürich. You lied.”

Duval let his head fall back on his pillow. “We didn’t have time.”

“We had the long drive from Rotterdam.”

The door to their shared room opened, and a grizzled police major walked in, followed by a lieutenant. The younger officer carried a file brimming with notes and forms. The major’s name tag read GRAF. So this was the man responsible for chaining Duval, a fellow lawman and the hero of the zoo confrontation, to the bedrail.

Graf spoke French, acting as if this were a courtesy rather than a snobbish insult, implying Duval did not speak German. “Recovering, are we, Captain?”

“Slowly.” He raised his cuffed hand as far as he could. “I’d recover better without these chains.”

“Do you promise not to attack the nurses as you attacked your paramedics?”

Duval laughed.

The major waited, raising a bushy black eyebrow. This Swiss blowhard really expected him to say it.

“Yes. I promise.”

“Good.” Graf gave the lieutenant a nod, and the young officer stepped around him to unlock the cuffs. On the way, he passed the file to his boss. Graf opened it and frowned. “I have a lot of information here—all that I need, in fact. The zoo staff all provided statements. Your sergeant has also been most helpful.”

“Has he?” Duval, rubbing his wrist, shot a glare at Renard, who looked away.

“Oh, yes. By all accounts, you fired first—using a weapon you had no authorization or right to carry in my country. I’ll give you one chance to tell me why I shouldn’t lock you in a cell and throw away the key.”

Duval told him of Calix’s exploits in Paris. He told him about the bleached and burned body at the flat, the cottage explosion, the dead ship captain, and the wounded watch officer in Rotterdam. “And he had a hostage.”

“You mean the woman you chased into the dome.” Graf referenced the file. “My witnesses tell me she did not look like a hostage at all.”

“I believe she is . . . confused. Stockholm syndrome.”

“Thin. And your reasoning for ignoring the proper authorization channels?”

“We had a lead. We had to move fast.”

“Ah. Yes. A lead. Excellent. I will follow up for you.” Graf lifted several pages of handwritten notes, turning to a blank section, and readied a pen. “What is the source of this lead?”

“Anonymous.”

The pages fell into place again with a pronounced flap. “What a shame.”

After a long silence, Graf sat on the edge of Duval’s mattress, clicking his tongue, and set the open file on the table beside the bed. A photo paper clipped to the corner showed a dachshund seated on some sergeant’s lap, gnawing a bone like an office pet.

Duval recognized him from Paris. “That dog is evidence.”

“That dog is no longer your concern.” Graf closed the file. “Nor is anything related to this case.”

“You can’t do that. This is my case.”

“No, Captain Duval. It’s mine. You are going home as soon as you are well enough to travel.” Graf leaned close, supporting his weight with a palm laid directly on Duval’s gunshot wound. “Never return to Switzerland. I don’t care if you are chasing the next Bin Laden.” He squeezed, eliciting a