easy target, often automatically shot for the center of the chest.
As much as he wanted to chase Gaudet, his rational mind told him to stay with the targets, Grady and Michael, or risk losing them forever.
He lifted Michael back onto the gurney, and Grady rolled it back down the hospital corridor. It was still quiet; one would never know that a half-dozen bodyguards were chasing a madman through the bowels of the hospital.
One of Sam's men from upstairs ran to Sam and stopped.
'If you find him. Kill him,' Sam commanded.
'Roger that.' And the man was gone.
They took Michael to his room, where nurses swarmed him, checking the sutures even before the doctor arrived. Dr. Ayala's death had produced many somber faces. Soon the off-duty guards began congregating and Sam began with the new instructions. Grady showed no emotion whatsoever and Sam knew it was a tour de force of self-control that would end when the danger was past. When the last of the guards was in place and Yodo had returned from a fruitless search, Grady stepped out of the room. Sam followed and found her sobbing against a wall. Without waiting for good-byes Sam walked her to the elevators and out to the front of the hospi tal, where he hailed a cab and took her to her room at the Copacabana Palace. Safe at the hotel, she still had a bit of a strange look in her eyes and there was terrible bruising on her neck. When he nudged her to take a shower, and he tried to close the bathroom door, she started crying. When he opened it, she clung to him-and so he waited for what seemed a half hour, just holding her. This time when he closed the door, she took a shower. When she had donned new under wear and a T-shirt, he crawled, fully clothed, in bed with her. Wrapping his arms around her back, he held her tight and taught her to breathe in her nose and out her mouth-slow, regular deep breaths. Then he told her things that Grandfather had told him when he first knew him. He told them as Grand father had told them to him as best he could remember them. Then Grady slept.
Baptiste walked through London's Heathrow Airport to the location where he was to meet Rene. It was like a rat maze and didn't have the open feel of the tall-ceilinged de Gaulle International Airport. The smells from the abundant restaurants, which according to Baptiste ranked among the worst in the world, forced him to breathe through his mouth.
He met Rene at the gate to the flight to Turkey.
'Are you getting anything out of Benoit?' Rene asked without preliminaries.
'She's cooperating. I think she's dribbling out the information. I'll see her again soon. Have you found Bowden's location? Confirmed that he survived?'
'Neither, though I can't imagine the shots killed him. I'll tell you, if Sam and his people spy as well as they fight, we'll never find Bowden now.'
'Don't let the admiral hear you say that. I'll expect a re port when I return from Turkey. Make sure you learn some thing.'
'Shall I use Meeks?' Rene asked.
'No. Stay away from Figgy.'
'Why?'
'Because I don't trust him completely.'
'But you're basing this Turkey trip on intel he gave you,' Rene countered.
'Just do your job.'
This was hardly a typical business trip to Turkey. It started with a flight from London to another international airport, followed by a ride in a government car down a highway, followed by a descent into the bowels of a government building in the desert that Baptiste hoped never to see again. When he arrived at the building, he encountered a gate in the midst of a Cyclone fence topped with razor wire. It wasn't as secure as a prison, but, then, when people were brought to this place, they were quickly reduced to physical wrecks and it didn't take much to hold them.
At the gate the guard spoke Turkish. Baptiste shrugged his shoulders, lapsing into English.
'I am a special contractor for the CIA.'
'And I am Mickey Mouse.' The man smirked. 'How would I know this?'
'Because if I lied to your officer, you would make me drink camel piss and send me home a eunuch. That or kill me. Look, Figgy Meeks sent me.'
'Why didn't you say so?'
Inside the building they stopped at a desk manned by a sergeant and two guards. The sergeant looked up with a steady, confident stare.
'What do you want?'
'Figgy Meeks, a CIA contractor, said you had a prisoner that I could interview. This man allegedly knows about a plot against the United States.'
'We don't allow foreigners here. There must be some mix-up.'
'I'll need to speak to your superior officer, then,' Baptiste bluffed.
The sergeant stared at him a moment, then went down the hall and turned into a room. In a moment an officer ap peared. Baptiste couldn't tell his rank from his shirt.
'What do you want?'
Baptiste repeated himself.
'I was told you might come. I can brief you. Alfawd knows nothing of significance, as I'm sure you already know.'
'I still need to talk with him.'
'Please, you are not the CIA. You are the French. So go to hell.'
Baptiste felt a wave of fear and anger. He pulled his gun and stuck it under the officer's nose.
The sergeant jumped up and pulled his gun at the same moment the two guards leveled their M-16s.
'I am from the C, fucking I, fucking A. I am on contract. Figgy Meeks, retired agent of the CIA, was told by the di rector of the CIA to send someone here. If you want to be re sponsible for a bloodbath, you go ahead. I am ready to die. Are you?'
The officer looked to his men, then back at Baptiste.
'Don't think of me as French,' Baptiste said, his tone softening. 'Think of me as American. I work with Figgy Meeks. Figgy works with a man named Sam. Do you under stand?'
The officer's eyes shifted again. 'I have not heard of any Sam.'
'I don't believe that.'
'I need to call my commander.'
'There's the phone.'
The officer stepped to the sergeant's desk. He spoke rapid Turkish for a moment, then waited. There was more talk. Then they waited a long time, the officer still on the phone.
'My colonel called the CIA. The CIA called this Figgy. Figgy says to prove you are Baptiste. Jean-Baptiste Sourriaux.'
Baptiste was sweating now in earnest. It was fear sweat, not heat sweat. It had finally sunk in-what he was doing here. The Turks were merciless.
He handed his wallet to the officer.
'Still, I am not satisfied,' the Turk said at last. 'Tell me the number of your office, Mr. French SDECE man.'
Baptiste gave it to him.
'Tell me your boss's name.'
'Admiral Larive.'
The Turk raised his eyebrows.
'The very one,' Baptiste said, sweat trickling under his collar.
The Turk dialed.
'I want to speak with the admiral.' He looked at Baptiste and seemed perplexed. 'They say I need an appointment.'
'You will not get through to him like this.'
'Tell me, madame,' the officer said. 'You are familiar with Jean-Baptiste Sourriaux? Could you describe him for
