Page 11 of France Face-Off
Petrov barked an order to him in French.
The security guard shrugged, gripped Petrov’s hand and helped him to his feet.
The Russian was still bleeding as he clutched the wound on his chest, but he nodded, smiled at the crowd and spoke in Russian. “I’m okay,” he said, “This incident will not keep me from my duties at this summit.”
At that moment, emergency medical technicians pushed through the crowd with a wheeled stretcher.
They urged Petrov to lie on the stretcher.
Petrov insisted on sitting up, refusing to lie down. He allowed them to wheel him out of the reception hall as he shouted over his shoulder in Russian, “I will be back.”
As they wheeled him toward the door, security guards had already set up a blockade, banning anyone from leaving the reception hall.
A French policeman arrived and stood in front of the onlookers, speaking to them in French and then in English. “Please remain calm,” he said. “Be patient as we investigate this incident. No one will be allowed to leave until we have interviewed everyone.”
Alex turned to Daniel, who was annoyingly close to her. “Good luck explaining that knife in your pocket.”
“What knife?” he said with a grin.
She frowned in his direction. “What did you do with it?”
“Let’s just say somebody else will have to explain why they have it in their pocket.”
“Whose pocket?” she asked.
“Sergei Baranovsky,” he said with a grin, “your Russian friend with whom you were just conversing.”
Chapter 3
Striker had stood beside Alex as she’d spoken to Baranovsky in Russian and while the French police officer briefed the crowd. After Sergei turned and walked away, Striker leaned close to Alex. “What did he say?”
“Someone stabbed Anatoly Petrov. He didn’t see who did it.” Her gaze shifted upward to the corners of the reception hall.
Striker’s gaze followed hers, and he noticed the surveillance cameras.
“If you’re one of the security personnel, you should be able to view the surveillance videos.”
He shook his head. “I told you, I’m not one of the security team, but there might be someone I can tap to gain access to those videos.”
“We’re on it,” a voice said in his ear.
Lucie.
Striker had almost forgotten the communications device through all the drama.
“We’re reviewing the footage now,” Lucie continued. “A laptop will be delivered to your room. Hopefully, by the time it reaches you, we will have access to the videos from the Baie des Anges reception hall. We’ll download them to the laptop.”
As Striker listened to Lucie’s voice, Alex stared at him, her eyes narrowing. “Is there something wrong with you?”
“Not at all. Why?” Striker asked, assuming his most innocent expression.
Sergei had followed the emergency medical technicians toward the exit only to be stopped temporarily by the French police, where they patted him down, searching for weapons. Striker held his breath, waiting for the policemen to find the knife in Sergei’s pocket.
When the police officer allowed him to pass through the door, Striker turned to Alex, frowning. “Could he have found it that quickly?”
“Maybe he had a hole in his pocket,” Alex said.
Hans Sutter, the German Minister of Energy, was next to attempt to leave. When police officers noted his name on an electronic tablet, another checked his passport while a third officer patted him down, stopping when he reached the front right pocket of his trousers. The German frowned fiercely when the French policeman stuck his hands into the man’s pocket and pulled out a knife.
