nothing more to Paris than his briefcase and a small overnight bag. He had hoped to distract himself with work to do on the plane, but he had never touched his briefcase, and couldn't have concentrated on his papers. All he thought about that night was his ex-wife.
The plane touched down at 6:51 A.M. in Paris, local time, and parked far out on a distant runway. Passengers came down the stairs in the pouring rain to a waiting bus, and then lumbered and lurched toward the terminal, while Jason stood impatiently, desperate to get into town. With no luggage checked, he was in a cab at seven-thirty, and asked the driver in halting French to take him to the Pitié Salpêtrière hospital, where the unidentified woman was. He knew it was on the Boulevard de l'Hôpital, in the thirteenth arrondissement, and he had written it down so there would be no mistake. He handed the slip of paper to the driver, who nodded and said, “Good. Understand,” in a heavy French accent, which was no better or worse than Jason's French.
The ride to the hospital took nearly an hour, as Jason fretted in the backseat, telling himself that the woman he was about to see probably wasn't Carole, and he'd wind up having breakfast at the Ritz, and run into her when she got back. He knew how independent she was now. She always had been, but she was even more so since Sean had died. He knew she traveled frequently to world conferences on women's rights, and had gone on several missions with groups from the UN. But he had no idea what she'd been doing in France. Whatever it was, he hoped it hadn't taken her anywhere near the tunnel at the time of the terrorist attack. With any luck at all, she had been somewhere else. But if so, what were her passport and handbag doing on her desk at the Ritz? Why had she gone out without them? If anything happened to her, no one would know who she was.
He knew how she loved her anonymity, and the ability to roam around freely without fans recognizing her. It was easier for her in Paris, but not much. Carole Barber was recognized everywhere in the world, which was the only thing that encouraged him to believe that the woman at the Pitié Salpêtrière hospital couldn't possibly be her. How could they not recognize that face? It was unthinkable unless something had rendered her unrecognizable. A thousand terrifying thoughts were running through his head, as the cab finally pulled up in front of the hospital. Jason paid the fare with a generous tip, and got out. He looked like exactly what he was, a distinguished American businessman. He was wearing a dark gray English suit, a navy blue cashmere topcoat, and an extremely expensive gold watch. He was still a handsome man at fifty-nine.
“Merci!” the cabdriver shouted at him from the window, giving him a thumbs-up for the good tip. “Bonne chance!” He wished him luck. The look on Jason Waterman's face told him he would need it. People didn't go from the airport straight to a hospital, particularly this one, unless something bad had happened. The driver could figure out that much. And Jason's eyes and worn face told him the rest. He looked like he needed a shave, a shower, and some rest. But not yet.
Jason strode into the hospital carrying his bag, hoping someone spoke enough English to help him out. The assistant manager at the Ritz had given him the name of the head of the trauma unit, and Jason stopped to speak to a young woman at the front desk, and showed her the slip of paper where he'd written her name. She answered in rapid French, and Jason let her know that he didn't understand, nor speak French. She pointed to the elevator behind her and held up three fingers as she said the words “Troisième étage.” Third floor. “ Réanimation ,” she added. It didn't sound good to him. It was the French term for ICU. Jason thanked her and walked to the elevator in long, quick strides. He wanted to get this over with. He was feeling extremely stressed and could feel his
The plane touched down at 6:51 A.M. in Paris, local time, and parked far out on a distant runway. Passengers came down the stairs in the pouring rain to a waiting bus, and then lumbered and lurched toward the terminal, while Jason stood impatiently, desperate to get into town. With no luggage checked, he was in a cab at seven-thirty, and asked the driver in halting French to take him to the Pitié Salpêtrière hospital, where the unidentified woman was. He knew it was on the Boulevard de l'Hôpital, in the thirteenth arrondissement, and he had written it down so there would be no mistake. He handed the slip of paper to the driver, who nodded and said, “Good. Understand,” in a heavy French accent, which was no better or worse than Jason's French.
The ride to the hospital took nearly an hour, as Jason fretted in the backseat, telling himself that the woman he was about to see probably wasn't Carole, and he'd wind up having breakfast at the Ritz, and run into her when she got back. He knew how independent she was now. She always had been, but she was even more so since Sean had died. He knew she traveled frequently to world conferences on women's rights, and had gone on several missions with groups from the UN. But he had no idea what she'd been doing in France. Whatever it was, he hoped it hadn't taken her anywhere near the tunnel at the time of the terrorist attack. With any luck at all, she had been somewhere else. But if so, what were her passport and handbag doing on her desk at the Ritz? Why had she gone out without them? If anything happened to her, no one would know who she was.
He knew how she loved her anonymity, and the ability to roam around freely without fans recognizing her. It was easier for her in Paris, but not much. Carole Barber was recognized everywhere in the world, which was the only thing that encouraged him to believe that the woman at the Pitié Salpêtrière hospital couldn't possibly be her. How could they not recognize that face? It was unthinkable unless something had rendered her unrecognizable. A thousand terrifying thoughts were running through his head, as the cab finally pulled up in front of the hospital. Jason paid the fare with a generous tip, and got out. He looked like exactly what he was, a distinguished American businessman. He was wearing a dark gray English suit, a navy blue cashmere topcoat, and an extremely expensive gold watch. He was still a handsome man at fifty-nine.
“Merci!” the cabdriver shouted at him from the window, giving him a thumbs-up for the good tip. “Bonne chance!” He wished him luck. The look on Jason Waterman's face told him he would need it. People didn't go from the airport straight to a hospital, particularly this one, unless something bad had happened. The driver could figure out that much. And Jason's eyes and worn face told him the rest. He looked like he needed a shave, a shower, and some rest. But not yet.
Jason strode into the hospital carrying his bag, hoping someone spoke enough English to help him out. The assistant manager at the Ritz had given him the name of the head of the trauma unit, and Jason stopped to speak to a young woman at the front desk, and showed her the slip of paper where he'd written her name. She answered in rapid French, and Jason let her know that he didn't understand, nor speak French. She pointed to the elevator behind her and held up three fingers as she said the words “Troisième étage.” Third floor. “ Réanimation ,” she added. It didn't sound good to him. It was the French term for ICU. Jason thanked her and walked to the elevator in long, quick strides. He wanted to get this over with. He was feeling extremely stressed and could feel his
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