*****
The phone woke Patrick Ripley out of a very deep sleep, a sleep he was having trouble swimming out of as the phone rang and rang, somewhere out of reach. Finally, having knocked the alarm clock and a lamp off the nightstand, he seized hold of the handset and managed to mumble, “Hello” into the phone.
“Sorry, must be the wrong number, I was trying to call New York,” a voice said, and the line went dead.
Ripley was instantly awake, the covers went flying across the bed as he leapt out, running for the kitchen where he’d left his encrypted sat-phone charging on its stand. He grabbed it, cursing as it went through its power-up cycle and verified the encryption keys for the day in a two-way exchange with the satellite twenty-six thousand miles overhead. A minute later the power indicator turned green. He was back in the game, and he speed dialed the number he needed.
“Hello,” the usual deadpan voice again.
“Viper,” Ripley replied. “Do you have something for me?”
“Yes. Activity on the phone we tapped for you, hospital room. There was an outgoing call five minutes ago, do you want to hear it?”
“Play it,” Ripley said.
“Coming at you,” the voice returned.
There was a pause, a few electronic beeps, then a voice. Ripley closed his eyes and tried to picture the faces. He did not understand the language, but he was certain now that it was Arabic. The first voice was a little high, weaker. That would be Kisani, the small man he’d found in the alley. The second voice was strong, deep, commanding. He was asking questions, quickly. Kisani did not seem to have good answers, but he was doing his best. Another question from the other man, another answer. Did the voices change a little? The stronger man seemed to accept what Kisani was saying now. They reached some kind of understanding, then the call ended. It had lasted about a minute.
“Do you have the number, and a location?” Ripley asked.
“We have the number, the location is North Paris, nothing more specific. The call was too short, but we can trace it through the directory in another hour or so. It’s a land line.” The voice read off the number.
“Can you tap this number?” Ripley asked?
“Already done” said the voice. “And, before you ask, we’ve got people working on a translation and transcript now. Should be ready in about an hour. Where do you want it?”
“Paris Station, make it an hour.” Ripley said, and rang off. He looked at his watch: just after eight thirty. Kisani’d had a good, long sleep. Only two -thirty in the morning at Langley, too early for Jones. “Well, I was right about these guys at least. Kisani phoned home to what’s going to turn out to be little-Arabia up toward the airport.” He was thinking now, trying to decide how aggressive to be. Should he call the number himself, listen to the guy, maybe see if he speaks English? “No, too soon, he might tie his call from Kisani to mine, and that might get both of us killed. But what about Kisani? Wonder if he’s going to leave the hospital today?” That would be an opportunity: he’d definitely head straight for home.
He speed dialed again.
“Hello.”
“Viper. I need the Paris West Hospital, Emergency Department.”
Clicks again, a beep, then the phone was ringing. “Hello, Paris West Emergency, how may I help you?”
“Hello,” Ripley said in French, “good morning Madame. This is inspector Cluseau of the Paris Police, I’m looking for a Mr. Kisani, he was brought there last night by the police. Can you tell me if he’s still there?”
“Oui monsieur, but he only just woke up half an hour ago. We only just learned his name. Would you like to speak with him?”
“No, no, don’t trouble him. We are just calling to see if he is all right. Have the doctors decided when he can leave the hospital? Today, perhaps?”
“Oui, monsieur. They are doing his release examination now, and the paperwork will take about an hour, perhaps a little more . . .”
Ripley stabbed the “End” button on the phone. “Shit!” he yelled, running for the shower. He’d have to move fast.
In ten minutes he emerged on the street and ran half a block to the Metro station where he took the steps down two at a time. Inside he swiped his pass card, passed through the turnstiles, ran down the escalator, crossed over to the Northbound platform and waited two minutes for his train to arrive. He boarded the RER C train, he’d decide at Javel station what to do next. He wanted the transcript from the Embassy first, but he was not sure he’d get there in time, and Kisani was the best link he had to finding a bigger target in North Paris, that would have to come first. He looked at his watch again. Forty five minutes until Kisani might be released. He’d probably make the hospital, barely. But without his car, he might lose him if the man had ground transport. “Well, no way I’d have made it in my car anyway, in rush hour traffic it’s almost ninety minutes to the Embassy.” He checked his wallet, there was enough for a short taxi ride, and if he was early at the hospital he could find an ATM and get more cash. He settled in for the train ride, already decided on the direction he would take. Direct to the hospital it would have to be.