his jacket, cap and pants and slid them behind the latrine cistern.
He walked out of the stall and turned for the exit, pushed through the doorway into the corridor and turned immediate right. A quick glance across the busy lobby revealed that nobody had noticed anything untoward, the staff far too busy to take any notice of another doctor hurrying to and fro.
He knew from his research that Nicola Lopez was no longer under armed guard in her room. The terrorists who had shot her had themselves been neutralized within a couple of hours of the incident, and the conspiracy that they had formed to murder senior politicians in the administration had failed. Thus, there was nobody any longer gunning for Lopez and no need for round the clock protection. Or so they thought.
He moved toward an elevator and then thought better of it, taking the stairs up to the third floor of the hospital where a series of private wards were located. Doctors and nurses milled this way and that as he walked toward a ward tucked away on the south west corner of the building.
His nearest escape route was the stairwell at the far end of the ward, with a secondary route to the elevator should he require it. He knew that he would only have a few moments to enter the room, complete his mission and escape without detection. He knew well the consequences of being identified– Majestic Twelve would spare no expense in removing him from the equation and preventing any connection between them and the murder of Nicola Lopez.
The corridor was deathly quiet as he moved through it and identified the room in which Nicola Lopez lay. Her name was emblazoned upon a chart resting in a plastic holder on the door, and he could see through a window into the room. Even the briefest of glances told him that she was alone, the nurses having already completed their rounds and moved on.
Comatose. That was the detail he had received from his discreet enquiries: that Nicola Lopez had been in an induced coma while her body recuperated, and was now on strong medications designed to maintain her in a sort of stasis, unconscious but not in a coma, to give her body the best possible chance of recovery from her ordeal. He had never before encountered Lopez in such a vulnerable state and now it would serve his purpose well.
He opened the door and walked in. The room was well ventilated, flowers arranged on a table near the bed where Lopez lay amid a tangle of intravenous lines. Her sheets were pure white, her long black hair neatly tied in a pony-tail and snaking like black oil beside her head. Her features were drawn, somewhat pale, her breathing soft and a gentle rhythmic beeping from the heart monitor informing him that she was still alive.
He pushed the door closed behind him and moved toward her bed, one hand slipping into the pocket of his pants to produce a slim syringe filled with a clear fluid. He reached up to the intravenous line plugged into Lopez’s left arm, and carefully slipped the tip of the syringe into the line and squeezed.
In absolute silence the clear fluid emptied from the syringe and flowed into the line, and from there into Nicola Lopez’s helpless body.
*
‘I’m here to see Nicola Lopez?’
The woman leaned casually on the counter and smiled at the receptionist, a young African American nurse who began tapping on her keyboard as she scrutinized her files.
‘Miss Lopez is on a private ward, level three. Do you have an appointment?’
‘I do,’ the woman said, flicking her long blonde hair out of her way as she reached into her handbag and produced a card and an appointment form. ‘I’m Angela Raymond from Clearwater Insurance. We’re acting for Miss Lopez’s family in regard to the shooting that injured her. We’d like to visit her to assure ourselves of her condition so that we can make arrangements on behalf of her family.’
‘And her family are where?’ the nurse asked.
‘Mexico,’ Angela replied, ‘Guanajuato, to be precise.
He walked out of the stall and turned for the exit, pushed through the doorway into the corridor and turned immediate right. A quick glance across the busy lobby revealed that nobody had noticed anything untoward, the staff far too busy to take any notice of another doctor hurrying to and fro.
He knew from his research that Nicola Lopez was no longer under armed guard in her room. The terrorists who had shot her had themselves been neutralized within a couple of hours of the incident, and the conspiracy that they had formed to murder senior politicians in the administration had failed. Thus, there was nobody any longer gunning for Lopez and no need for round the clock protection. Or so they thought.
He moved toward an elevator and then thought better of it, taking the stairs up to the third floor of the hospital where a series of private wards were located. Doctors and nurses milled this way and that as he walked toward a ward tucked away on the south west corner of the building.
His nearest escape route was the stairwell at the far end of the ward, with a secondary route to the elevator should he require it. He knew that he would only have a few moments to enter the room, complete his mission and escape without detection. He knew well the consequences of being identified– Majestic Twelve would spare no expense in removing him from the equation and preventing any connection between them and the murder of Nicola Lopez.
The corridor was deathly quiet as he moved through it and identified the room in which Nicola Lopez lay. Her name was emblazoned upon a chart resting in a plastic holder on the door, and he could see through a window into the room. Even the briefest of glances told him that she was alone, the nurses having already completed their rounds and moved on.
Comatose. That was the detail he had received from his discreet enquiries: that Nicola Lopez had been in an induced coma while her body recuperated, and was now on strong medications designed to maintain her in a sort of stasis, unconscious but not in a coma, to give her body the best possible chance of recovery from her ordeal. He had never before encountered Lopez in such a vulnerable state and now it would serve his purpose well.
He opened the door and walked in. The room was well ventilated, flowers arranged on a table near the bed where Lopez lay amid a tangle of intravenous lines. Her sheets were pure white, her long black hair neatly tied in a pony-tail and snaking like black oil beside her head. Her features were drawn, somewhat pale, her breathing soft and a gentle rhythmic beeping from the heart monitor informing him that she was still alive.
He pushed the door closed behind him and moved toward her bed, one hand slipping into the pocket of his pants to produce a slim syringe filled with a clear fluid. He reached up to the intravenous line plugged into Lopez’s left arm, and carefully slipped the tip of the syringe into the line and squeezed.
In absolute silence the clear fluid emptied from the syringe and flowed into the line, and from there into Nicola Lopez’s helpless body.
*
‘I’m here to see Nicola Lopez?’
The woman leaned casually on the counter and smiled at the receptionist, a young African American nurse who began tapping on her keyboard as she scrutinized her files.
‘Miss Lopez is on a private ward, level three. Do you have an appointment?’
‘I do,’ the woman said, flicking her long blonde hair out of her way as she reached into her handbag and produced a card and an appointment form. ‘I’m Angela Raymond from Clearwater Insurance. We’re acting for Miss Lopez’s family in regard to the shooting that injured her. We’d like to visit her to assure ourselves of her condition so that we can make arrangements on behalf of her family.’
‘And her family are where?’ the nurse asked.
‘Mexico,’ Angela replied, ‘Guanajuato, to be precise.
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