Page 87 of French Escapade

He wants to play? I can play.

I turn toward the bottles he’s connected to and read the labels of the substances dripping in his veins. When I find the one I’m looking for, I unplug it.

“You know, in war zones, all hospitals look the same. I’ve spent a lot of time visiting them. Not because I was injured. I was there to act as an interpreter. That gave me chance to notice something. You wanna know what?”

Silence is his only answer. I carry on anyway.

“No matter what the origin, type of wound, faith, or language, the patients all shared one thing: they were in pain. Everyone has a threshold. For some, it’s high. For others, it’s very low. But they all reach a point of no return. A point where they would do anything for a higher dose of morphine. What do you say we try to figure out yours?”

I return to my stool. Already, I can see the pain in his steel blue eyes. Now I just have to hope that I have enough time to make him talk.

I wait for a few minutes and ask again. “Where is Tiffany?”

He chuckles. Good, he can make sounds. A second later he speaks, and it looks like it’s taking all his energy to do so. “Don’t know.”

His answer should depress me. It doesn’t, because I’m guessing he’s not telling me everything.

“It’s your chance to do some good before burning in hell. Why don’t you try to leave this earth on a positive note? You would have the satisfaction of a better conscience. Tell me what you know.”

He stares at the ceiling. “You Americans, you’re so arrogant. You think you know all there is to know about good and evil…”

“Believe me, I know just what evil looks like. I’m staring at it.” I lean over him. His face is drenched with sweat. “You think you’re so smart? I am too. I asked about your condition. You’re only half dead. The doctors still think they can save you. What they probably didn’t let you know yet is that, if they do, you’ll spend the rest of your life in a bed. The bullets caused so much damage that you will never walk again. And then there’s the rest. I’m not sure your men will obey the orders of a man who won’t be able to wipe his own ass. So I’ll give you a choice. Help me and I help you go with dignity. You refuse, and you’ll spend the rest of your miserable life regretting your decision. You get to choose.”

I see that he can tell I’m not bluffing. By now, the effects of the morphine are largely gone. He’s in pain, and he’ll soon reach the point where he’ll do anything to end it. It’s time to press on.

“Where is Tiffany?”

“I don’t know,” he repeats. His face is twisted with pain when he continues. “But I know there was a man, an Italian, who wanted her no matter the price.”

“His name?”

“I don’t know it. He goes by a code name.”

“What is it?”

“Il Santo.”The Saint.

“What else can you tell me about him?”

“Not much. This man is a mystery. We know very little about him. I hear he’s the head of a major organization in Italy with foreign branches. But so far, he’s never been in any trouble.”

Strangely, I think he’s sincere. He doesn’t have anything else to tell me.

I plug the morphine bottle back in and look at the control. Removing the safety as I’ve seen military doctors do too often, I put the device in his hand.

“If you press here, you can regulate the flow. I removed the security they used to avoid any chance of overdose.”

Our eyes lock and, in his, I think I read a “thank you” that he will never say out loud.

I leave the room knowing that, in a few minutes, alarm bells will ring, the staff will rush to Arkady’s bedside, but it will be too late.

And me?

I’ll be trackingil Santo.

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