friend there, too. Merde! Now the Sreteacute; has doubled their alert, and it'll be ten times more difficult to eliminate Zellerbach."
As Captain Bonnard ranted, the second man in the room, whom the captain had called M. Mauritania, the only name by which he was known in the international underworld of spies and criminals, remained expressionless. He was a stocky figure, with a round face and soft, well-manicured hands below the cuffs of a white shirt impeccably shot from the sleeves of a pearl-gray English suit direct from some custom tailor on Savile Row. His small features and bright blue eyes contemplated Bonnard and his outrage with the long-suffering patience of someone forced to listen to the incessant barking of a dog.
When the captain finally finished his tirade, Mauritania, who wore a French beret, tucked a lock of brown hair behind his ear and answered in French, in a voice as hard as his hands were soft. "You underestimate us, Captain. We're not fools. We sent no one to assassinate Dr. Zellerbach at the hospital or anywhere else. It would've been stupid to do at any time, and more than stupid to do now, when it's quite possible he'll never regain consciousness anyway."
Bonnard was taken aback. "But we decided there was no way we could take the chance of letting him live. He might know too much."
"You decided. We decided to wait. That's our choice to make, not yours," Mauritania said in a tone that ended the matter. "In any case, you and I have more important matters to consider."
"Such as, if you didn't send that assassin, who did? And why?"
Mauritania inclined his small, neat head. "I wasn't thinking of that. But, yes, it's a concern, and we'll discover all we can in the matter. Meanwhile, we've studied the notes of the research assistant, which you gave us. We find they coincide precisely, if sketchily, with Chambord's own data and reports. Nothing appears to have been forgotten or lost. Now that we have them, there should be no trouble from that direction. They've already been destroyed."
"Which will keep our activities nicely secret, as I told you," Bonnard said, a touch of colonial condescension in his certainty. He heard it and did not care. "But I'm not at all sure about allowing Zellerbach to live. I'd suggest"
"And I," Mauritania cut him off, "suggest you leave Zellerbach to us. You must pay attention to greater dangers, such as the police investigation into the 'suicide' of Chambord's assistant. Under the circumstances, more than the police will be asking questions. How is the official probe into the suicide proceeding?"
The Mauritania had pulled Bonnard back, and for a moment the captain fought his disgust. But on the other hand, the reason he was doing business with the underworld leader was that he needed someone tough and savvy, as relentless as himself. So what else should he expect? Besides, he saw the logic of the question.
He forced himself to sound more accommodating. "I've heard nothing. But after the assistant ran away when he spotted your men, he stopped for petrol. The people at the station reported the assistant had heard about Emile Chambord's death and was distraught, actually in tears. Devastating grief. That should give the motivation. He couldn't go on without his mentor."
"You know nothing more? Not even from your French army headquarters?"
"Not a word."
Mauritania considered. "That doesn't worry you?"
"No news is good news." Bonnard gave a cold smile at the clicheacute;.
Mauritania's nose wrinkled with disgust. "That's a Western proverb as dangerous as it's stupid. Silence in a matter such as this is far from golden. A suicide is difficult to fake well enough to fool police detectives with any brains or experience, to say nothing of the Deuxiegrave;me Bureau. I suggest you or your people find out what the police and secret service actually know about the assistant's death, and find out quickly."
"I'll look into it," Bonnard agreed grudgingly. He adjusted his weight, preparing to stand.
But Mauritania raised his small hand, and, with a sigh, Bonnard sank back down onto the low, hard chair.
"One more thing, Captain Bonnard. This friend of Zellerbach'shellip;What do you know about him?"
Bonnard would soon be missed from work and wanted to leave. He controlled his impatience and said, "The man's name is Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith. He's an old friend of Zellerbach's, a medical doctor, and was sent here by Zellerbach's family. At least that's what Smith told the hospital, and from what I've been able to learn from my