Covert One 3 - The Paris Option by Robert Ludlum Read Free Book Online

returned the identification case.
    “My Sig Sauer, too. S'il vous plat,” A security guard handed it down, and Smith said, “Now tell me about the 'orderly' with the submachine gun. Who was he?”
    The doctor looked up at the security man. “The other man was an orderly?”
    “Must've been Farouk al Hamid,” the guard said. “This is his section.”
    Another guard disagreed. “That wasn't Farouk. I saw him running, and it wasn't Farouk.”
    “Had to be. It's his section.”
    A nurse chimed in, “I know Farouk. That man was too tall to be Farouk.”
    “While they try to sort through the mystery, I'm going to finish my examination,” the doctor announced to Smith. “This will take only a moment.” He shone the light in one of Smith's eyes, then the other.
    Smith struggled to contain his frustration. “I'm okay,” he said again and this time meant it. His head was clearing, the pain subsiding.
    The doctor removed the light and sat back on his heels. “Are you dizzy?”
    “Not a bit.” Which was the truth.
    The doctor shrugged and got up. “I understand you're a physician, so you know the dangers of head injuries. But you seem like something of a hothead.” He frowned and peered worriedly at Smith. “You're obviously eager to be out of here, and I can't stop you. But at least your eyes are clear and tracking, your skin color's good, and you may actually be thinking rationally, so I'll just warn you to take care of yourself and avoid further injuries. And if you start feeling worse or lose consciousness again, come back straightaway. You know the dangers of a concussion. You may have one.”
    “Yes, Doctor.” Jon struggled to his feet. “Thanks. I appreciate your concern.” He decided to ignore the comment about his being a hothead. “Where's the hospital's chief of security?”
    “I'll take you,” one of the guards told him.
    He led Smith down the emergency stairs to a tucked-away office of several rooms, all equipped with the latest in electronic surveillance and computers. The security chief's office looked out over a parking area, and on the wall were several framed photographs that were personal. One was a black-and-white photo of five exhausted, hollow-eyed men with defiant faces in field uniforms. They were sitting on wooden crates with thick jungle all around. Smith studied the photo for a moment, then recognized Dien Bien Phu, where in 1954 the French were defeated in a brutal, humiliating siege that proved the end of France's longtime control of the region.
    The guard explained, “Chief, this is the gentleman who tried to stop the armed orderly.”
    Smith held out his hand. “Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, U.S. Army.”
    “Pierre Girard. Have a seat, Colonel.”
    Girard did not get up from behind the clean lines of his modern desk or shake Smith's hand, but nodded to one of the straight chairs. A thick, burly man of medium height, the security chief wore a stained gray suit and loosened tie. He looked more like a longtime Sreteacute; CID detective than a private security man.
    Smith sat. “The orderly, or whoever he was, and there appears to be some doubt, came to the ICU to kill Martin Zellerbach, I think.”
    Girard glanced toward the guard. “The man wasn't an orderly as reported?”
    “It's Farouk al Hamid's station,” the guard explained, “but some witnesses say it wasn't him.”
    The chief reached for his telephone. “Get me personnel.” He waited, his face neutral. A former detective, no doubt of it, accustomed to bureaucracy. “You have an orderly named Farouk al Hamid who works thehellip;yes, ICU. He did? I see. Thank you.” Girard hung up and told Smith, “He wrote a note saying he was sick, his cousin would do his job, and he sent the note with the cousin, who, it seems, was our tall orderly with the gun.”
    “And who,” Smith said, “was no orderly, and maybe not even Algerian.”
    “A disguise.” Girard nodded to himself. “Possibly. May I ask why someone would