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“The look on your face tells me it’s not working.”
“The fact that you are conscious is a very positive sign. We weren’t sure we would get you back.”
If only I’d been able to bring Kevin back, too.
“Have you compared samples with the database at the Organisation for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons?” This was the intergovernmental group, based in The Hague, that worked toward the worldwide elimination of chemical weapons.
The doctor raised an eyebrow. “We did. There were no matches. I’d ask how you know about that organization, but I have a feeling you’d tell me about your reading habits again.”
It was an attempt at levity, but it fell flat. I needed answers.
“If this agent is so powerful, why am I not dead?”
“You didn’t receive as large a dose as your husband,” he said. “And the dive out of your window probably saved your life.”
But not Kevin’s. While I was killing time inside the suite, my husband had been fighting for his life in the hallway just outside, and I’d had no idea.
What if I had opened that door just a few minutes sooner?
CHAPTER 8
IT WAS A strange thing, being at the center of an international incident. “An American couple”—that’s how they referred to us on cable news networks. Our names had not been released to the public. Some of that probably had to do with my former career. Although the TV broadcasts were in German, I understood enough to glean a few facts:
The intended targets were apparently a wealthy Russian oligarch and his daughter—the strangers next door. Kevin and I, the “American couple,” were considered collateral damage, tourists who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.Yeah, you don’t say.
As the hours passed, I began to mark the presence of nonmedical personnel amongst the doctors and nurses. Oh, they were wearing the masks and gloves and the white coats, and pretended to check charts and vitals. But they didn’t carry themselves quite the same way, and they were trying too hard to observe me without drawing attention to the fact that I was being observed.
Good luck with that. I was in a negative-pressure room, just in case any traces of the mystery nerve agent remained on my skin. The walls were mostly windows, making me feel like an exotic creature in an aquarium. I was keenly aware of being watched at all times, and it was driving me slightly insane.
I took stock of my own condition. I still felt like death slightly warmed up, don’t get me wrong, but my limbs were responding to my brain’s commands more frequently and reliably. Could the effects of the nerve gas be wearing off?
Right about the time I was mulling the idea of attempting to swing my legs over the side of the bed, someone entered my fishbowl room. It was the same English-speaking German doctor from earlier. Now I could read the ID clipped to his robe.
“Hello, Dr. Hoffman.”
There was movement beneath the doctor’s face mask. Maybe a grin. Or a grimace. It was hard to tell. He pulled open the curtain surrounding my bed so that I could see more of the room.
“Hello, Ms. Bell-Drexel. Your vision is improving.”
“May I call you Jonas?”
“Only if I may call you Samantha. Listen, I have something very important—”
“Jonas, who are all of those people who keep staring at me? I know they’re not hospital employees.”
“Oh? How do you know that?”
“They don’t carry themselves like they’re approaching the end of a twelve-hour shift. They might be jet-lagged, but otherwise they look like they spent the night in a decent hotel, not a couch in the break room.”
Dr. Hoffman nodded noncommittally. “To be honest, I don’t know who they are. None of them have taken the time to introduce themselves to me.”
“I suppose my name raised some red flags.”
“Why? Are you some kind of international terrorist, Samantha?” he joked.
“No, Jonas. I’m a retired CIA agent.”
I could see Dr. Hoffman cycle through the usual reactions to this news: humor (no, really), disbelief (wait, really) and finally acceptance (wow, really).
