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“I’m touched,” said Bouchard. “Can you spare me a moment to discuss a private matter?”
Giles glanced at Sebastian, who checked his watch. “Ten minutes, no more. I’ll go and brief the ambassador.”
“I think you know my good friend Tony Crosland,” Bouchard said as he guided Giles toward the bar.
“Indeed. I gave him an advance copy of my speech yesterday.”
“I’m sure he would have approved. It’s everything the Fabian Society believes in. What will you have to drink?” Bouchard asked as they walked into the bar.
“A single malt, lots of water.”
Bouchard nodded to the barman and said, “I’ll have the same.”
Giles climbed on to a stool, glanced around the room and spotted a group of political hacks sitting in the corner, checking over their copy. One of them touched his forehead in a mock salute. Giles smiled.
“What’s important to understand,” said Bouchard, “is that de Gaulle will do anything to stop Britain becoming a member of the Common Market.”
“‘Over my dead body,’ if I remember his exact words,” said Giles, as he picked up his drink.
“Let’s hope we don’t have to wait that long.”
“It’s almost as if the general hasn’t forgiven the British for winning the war.”
/> “Your good health,” said Bouchard before downing his drink.
“Cheers,” said Giles.
“You mustn’t forget that de Gaulle has his own problems, not least—”
Suddenly, Giles felt as if he was going to faint. He grabbed at the bar, trying to steady himself, but the room seemed to be going around in circles. He dropped his glass, slid off the stool and collapsed on to the floor.
“My dear fellow,” said Bouchard, kneeling down beside him, “are you all right?” He looked up as a man who’d been seated in the corner of the room hurried across to join them.
“I’m a doctor,” the man said as he bent down, loosened Giles’s tie and undid his collar. He placed two fingers on Giles’s neck, then said urgently to the barman, “Call an ambulance, he’s had a heart attack.”
Two or three journalists hurried across to the bar. One of them began taking notes as the barman picked up the phone and hurriedly dialed three numbers.
“Yes,” said a voice.
“We need an ambulance. Quickly, one of our customers has had a heart attack.”
Bouchard stood up. “Doctor,” he said, addressing the man kneeling beside Giles, “I’ll go outside and wait for the ambulance, and let them know where to come.”
“Do you know the name of that man?” asked one of the journalists, as Bouchard left the room.
“No idea,” said the barman.
The first photographer ran into the bar several minutes before the ambulance arrived, and Giles had to suffer more flashbulbs, not that he was fully aware of what was going on. As the news spread, several other journalists who’d been in the conference center filing copy about Sir Giles Barrington’s well-received speech had dropped their phones and run across to the Palace Hotel.
Sebastian was chatting to the ambassador when he heard the siren, but didn’t give it a thought until the ambulance came to a halt outside the hotel and two smartly dressed orderlies jumped out and rushed inside wheeling a stretcher.
“You don’t think—” began Sir John, but Sebastian was already running up the steps and into the hotel. He stopped when he saw the orderlies bearing the stretcher toward him. It only took one look at the patient for his worst fears to be confirmed. When they placed the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, Sebastian leaped inside, shouting, “He’s my boss.” One of the orderlies nodded while the other pulled the doors closed.
Sir John followed the ambulance in his Rolls-Royce. When he arrived at the hospital, he introduced himself and asked the receptionist on the front desk if Sir Giles Barrington was being seen by a doctor.
“Yes, sir, he’s being checked out in the emergency room by Dr. Clairbert. If you’d be kind enough to take a seat, your excellency, I’m sure he’ll come and brief you as soon as he’s completed his examination.”
* * *
