Page 57 of Wired Target

The door closed on Pim Wat’s frantic, begging moans.Sophie savored the sounds as the elevator carried her up, and into the light.

33

Day 9

Raveaux woke, and in a few moments, his senses booted up and sent him information.

Smells of cleaning solvents, iodine, urine.

Sounds of muffled voices, clanking, a beeping somewhere.Hearing was still bad.Maybe his eardrums had been blown.

Dry, metallic taste in his mouth.

Breathing still hurt.His hands hurt.

Merde,everything hurt.

Raveaux pried his eyes open; they hurt, too, but those eyes would tell him the most about where he was and what had happened.

He was in a hospital bed.His ribs were strapped, and so were his hands and arms.An IV ran into one of his hands, and on the other was a handcuff attached to the bed.

He shook the handcuff in dismay.It must have clattered loudly enough to attract attention because a nurse appeared.

She spoke in a flurry of indecipherable words that barely penetrated the cotton wool in his ears.He gestured to his head with his free hand.“I can’t hear.What’s wrong?”

He said it in English, then French.She frowned, shook her head, poking and checking a bandage around his head that should not have caused the hearing problem.After checking his assorted hookups, she disappeared.

Raveaux peered at the window; it was covered with a heavy metal mesh.This had to be a secure medical facility.

“Bonjour.”The doctor at his bedside held a clipboard and was speaking loudly enough in French for him to understand.“What is your name,Monsieur?You had no identification with you when you were brought in.”

“My ears.”He gestured.“What’s wrong with them?”

“One of your eardrums was burst by the blast, and the other sustained damage.You should recover in time.”The man had a thin nose and heavy glasses that kept sliding down; he pushed them back up as he read Raveaux’s chart.“Broken ribs.A bruised spleen and liver.Concussion.Multiple lacerations from glass.”He folded down the paper he was consulting and eyed Raveaux.“You are very lucky, for a terrorist.”

“Terrorist!Hell no.I did not set that bomb,” Raveaux exclaimed.“I was just—did they bring anyone else in with me?Anyone else injured in the explosion?”

“No.And I’m only a doctor; I am not the one you must explain yourself to.I just know what I was told.Now that you’re awake, I’m sure someone will be arriving soon to interview you.”The man hung his chart on the foot of the bed.“Try to rest.That is what you need to heal.”

“Please.I must make a phone call.”Raveaux lifted his hands, trapped by the cuff, in a pleading gesture.“I promise I’m not a terrorist.I’m a former policeman, an investigator.That house was booby-trapped by someone you really don’t want in your country.Please, I’m begging you.Just a phone call?Surely, I’m entitled to that.”

The doctor glanced at the door; clearly his conscience was struggling with his bias.

He reached into his white lab coat and took out a cell phone.He unlocked it and handed it to Raveaux.“I am listening to everything you’re saying.”

“Of course.”Raveaux’s hand trembled as he took the phone; his fingers were thick with bandages and clumsy as he swiped at the screen.“I can’t ...”

The doctor rolled his eyes and took the phone back.“Tell me the number.”

Sophie’s number was the only one Raveaux could remember in the moment of stress.He told the doctor the digits; the man pressed them and handed the phone back.

Raveaux held it to his damaged ear.Way off in the distance he could hear ringing, then Sophie’s voicemail, her voice muffled.

Disappointment was crushing.

“Sophie.I’m in Corfu, Greece, in a secure hospital.The mission went bad.The house was booby-trapped, and my men are dead.Please send help; they think I am a terrorist and I’m being held here.”He paused.“She wasn’t there.Be careful, she might be coming your way.”

He ended the call and handed the phone back to the doctor.The man slipped the phone into his pocket just as a plainclothes detective and a uniformed officer pushed through the door.

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