Dan Brown - Digital Fortress

Suddenly there was a dead quiet in the gymnasium. The old man looked up from his bed and eyed the intruder suspiciously.

Becker ventured on in almost a whisper. "I'm here to see if there's anything I can do to help." Like bring you a couple of Valium.

After a long pause, the Canadian spoke. "The consulate?" His tone softened considerably.

Becker nodded.

"So, you're not here about my column?"

"No, sir."

It was as if a giant bubble had burst for Pierre Cloucharde. He settled slowly back down onto his mound of pillows. He looked heartbroken. "I thought you were from the city… trying to get me to…" He faded off and then looked up. "If it's not about my column, then why are you here?"

It was a good question, Becker thought, picturing the Smoky Mountains. "Just an informal diplomatic courtesy," he lied.

The man looked surprised. "A diplomatic courtesy?"

"Yes, sir. As I'm sure a man of your stature is well aware, the Canadian government works hard to protect its countrymen from the indignities suffered in these, er-shall we say-less refined countries."

Cloucharde's thin lips parted in a knowing smile. "But of course… how pleasant."

"You are a Canadian citizen, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course. How silly of me. Please forgive me. Someone in my position is often approached with… well… you understand."

"Yes, Mr. Cloucharde, I certainly do. The price one pays for celebrity."

"Indeed." Cloucharde let out a tragic sigh. He was an unwilling martyr tolerating the masses. "Can you believe this hideous place?" He rolled his eyes at the bizarre surroundings. "It's a mockery. And they've decided to keep me overnight."

Becker looked around. "I know. It's terrible. I'm sorry it took me so long to get here."

Cloucharde looked confused. "I wasn't even aware you were coming."

Becker changed the subject. "Looks like a nasty bump on your head. Does it hurt?"

"No, not really. I took a spill this morning-the price one pays for being a good Samaritan. The wrist is the thing that's hurting me. Stupid Guardia. I mean, really! Putting a man of my age on a motorcycle. It's reprehensible."

"Is there anything I can get for you?"

Cloucharde thought a moment, enjoying the attention. "Well, actually…" He stretched his neck and tilted his head left and right. "I could use another pillow if it's not too much trouble."

"Not at all." Becker grabbed a pillow off a nearby cot and helped Cloucharde get comfortable.

The old man sighed contentedly. "Much better… thank you."

"Pas du tout," Becker replied.

"Ah!" The man smiled warmly. "So you do speak the language of the civilized world."

"That's about the extent of it," Becker said sheepishly.

"Not a problem," Cloucharde declared proudly. "My column is syndicated in the U.S.; my English is first rate."

"So I've heard." Becker smiled. He sat down on the edge of Cloucharde's cot. "Now, if you don't mind my asking, Mr. Cloucharde, why would a man such as yourself come to a place like this? There are far better hospitals in Seville."

Cloucharde looked angry. "That police officer… he bucked me off his motorcycle and then left me bleeding in the street like a stuck pig. I had to walk over here."

"He didn't offer to take you to a better facility?"

"On that godawful bike of his? No thanks!"

"What exactly happened this morning?"

"I told it all to the lieutenant."

"I've spoken to the officer and-"

"I hope you reprimanded him!" Cloucharde interrupted.

Becker nodded. "In the severest terms. My office will be following up."

"I should hope so."

"Monsieur Cloucharde." Becker smiled, pulling a pen out of his jacket pocket. "I'd like to make a formal complaint to the city. Would you help? A man of your reputation would be a valuable witness."

Cloucharde looked buoyed by the prospect of being quoted. He sat up. "Why, yes… of course. It would be my pleasure."

Becker took out a small note pad and looked up. "Okay, let's start with this morning. Tell me about the accident."

The old man sighed. "It was sad really. The poor Asian fellow just collapsed. I tried to help him-but it was no use."

"You gave him CPR?"

Cloucharde looked ashamed. "I'm afraid I don't know how. I called an ambulance."

Becker remembered the bluish bruises on Tankado's chest. "Did the paramedics administer CPR?"

"Heavens, no!" Cloucharde laughed. "No reason to whip a dead horse-the fellow was long gone by the time the ambulance got there. They checked his pulse and carted him off, leaving me with that horrific policeman."

That's strange, Becker thought, wondering where the bruise had come from. He pushed it from his mind and got to the matter at hand. "What about the ring?" he said as nonchalantly as possible.

Cloucharde looked surprised. "The lieutenant told you about the ring?"

"Yes, he did."

Cloucharde seemed amazed. "Really? I didn't think he believed my story. He was so rude-as if he thought I were lying. But my story was accurate, of course. I pride myself on accuracy."

"Where is the ring?" Becker pressed.

Cloucharde didn't seem to hear. He was glassy-eyed, staring into space. "Strange piece really, all those letters-looked like no language I'd ever seen."

"Japanese, maybe?" Becker offered.

"Definitely not."

"So you got a good look at it?"

"Heavens, yes! When I knelt down to help, the man kept pushing his fingers in my face. He wanted to give me the ring. It was most bizarre, horrible really-his hands were quite dreadful."

"And that's when you took the ring?"

Cloucharde went wide-eyed. "That's what the officer told you! That I took the ring?"

Becker shifted uneasily.

Cloucharde exploded. "I knew he wasn't listening! That's how rumors get started! I told him the Jap fellow gave away the ring-but not to me! There's no way I would take anything from a dying man! My heavens! The thought of it!"

Becker sensed trouble. "So you don't have the ring?"

"Heavens, no!"

A dull ache crept through the pit of his stomach. "Then who has it?"

Cloucharde glared at Becker indignantly. "The German! The German has it!"

Becker felt like the floor had been pulled out from under him. "German? What German?"

"The German in the park! I told the officer about him! I refused the ring but the fascist swine accepted it!"

Becker set down his pen and paper. The charade was over. This was trouble. "So a German has the ring?"

"Indeed."

"Where did he go?"

"No idea. I ran to call the police. When I got back, he was gone."

"Do you know who he was?"

"Some tourist."

"Are you sure?"

"My life is tourists," Cloucharde snapped. "I know one when I see one. He and his lady friend were out strolling the park."

Becker was more and more confused every moment. "Lady friend? There was somebody with the German?"

Cloucharde nodded. "An escort. Gorgeous redhead. Mon Dieu! Beautiful."

"An escort?" Becker was stunned. "As in… a prostitute?"

Cloucharde grimaced. "Yes, if you must use the vulgar term."

"But… the officer said nothing about-"

"Of course not! I never mentioned the escort." Cloucharde dismissed Becker with a patronizing wave of his good hand. "They aren't criminals-it's absurd that they're harassed like common thieves."

Becker was still in a mild state of shock. "Was there anyone else there?"

"No, just the three of us. It was hot."

"And you're positive the woman was a prostitute?"

"Absolutely. No woman that beautiful would be with a manlike that unless she were well paid! Mon Dieu! He was fat, fat, fat! A loudmouthed, overweight, obnoxious German!" Cloucharde winced momentarily as he shifted his weight, but he ignored the pain and plowed on. "This man was a beast-three hundred pounds at least. He locked onto that poor dear like she was about to run away-not that I'd blame her. I mean really! Hands all over her. Bragged that he had her all weekend for three hundred dollars! He's the one who should have dropped dead, not that poor Asian fellow." Cloucharde came up for air, and Becker jumped in.