Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

The neurologist's grave tones undermined the good news.

"So what's the problem?" Anna asked.

"Where the lesion came from. There I have to admit that I've drawn a blank. There's no sign of any tumor or neurological anomaly. You haven't have any head injuries or suffered from a stroke, which could have stopped irrigation of that part of the brain." He clicked his tongue. "We'll have to carry out some further, more detailed tests in order to diagnose the origin."

"What sort of tests?"

The doctor sat down behind his desk. His glassy stare fell on her. "A biopsy. A tiny sample of cortical tissue."

It took Anna a few seconds to understand, then a wave of terror crossed her face. She turned toward Laurent but saw that he was already looking in agreement at Ackermann. Her fear was replaced by anger. They were in it together. Her fate had been decided. Probably that very morning.

Words trembled out from her lips. "No way"

For the first time, the neurologist smiled. The smile was meant to be reassuring but looked totally false. "There's nothing to worry about. We'll perform a stereotaxic biopsy. It's just a little probe that -"

"No one's touching my brain." Anna got to her feet and wrapped herself up in her shawl, wings of a raven lined with gold.

Laurent broke his silence. "Don't take it like that. Eric has assured me that -"

"So you're on his side, are you?"

"We're all on your side, Anna," Ackermann purred.

She pulled back to get a better look at this pair of hypocrites. "No one's touching my brain," she repeated in a stronger voice. "I'd rather lose my memory completely or die from the disease. I'm never setting foot here again." Suddenly in the grip of panic, she yelled, "Never, do you hear me?"

She ran along the deserted corridor, leapt down the stairs, then came to a halt in the doorway of the building. She felt the cold wind calling to her lifeblood. Sunlight flooded the courtyard. It made Anna think of the clearness of summer, without heat or leaves on the trees, which had been frozen for better conservation.

On the far side of the courtyard, Nicolas the chauffeur noticed her and jumped out of the saloon car to open the door for her. Anna shook her head at him. With a trembling hand, she rummaged through her bag looking for her cigarettes, lit one, then savored the acrid smoke that filled her throat.

The Henri-Becquerel Institute was made up of several four-story buildings surrounding a patio dotted with trees and dense shrubs. The dull gray or pink façades were decked with warning signs:

NO UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY, MEDICAL STAFF ONLY, DANGER.

In this damned hospital, the slightest detail seemed hostile to her.

She breathed in another throatful of smoke. The taste of the burning tobacco calmed her, as if she had cast her anger into the embers of the cigarette. She closed her eyes, abandoning herself to its heady odor.

Footfalls sounded behind her.

Laurent walked past her without looking around, crossed the courtyard, then opened the rear door of the car. He waited for her, tapping the concrete with his brightly polished moccasins, his features tense. Anna threw away her Marlboro and went over to him. She slid onto the leather seat. Laurent walked around the car and got in beside her. After this little silent routine, the chauffeur pulled the car off then drove down the slope of the garage with all the majestic slowness of spaceship.

Several soldiers were on guard duty in front of the white-and-red barrier at the gate.

"I'll go and get back my passport," Laurent said.

Anna looked at her hands. They were still trembling. She took a compact from her bag and observed her face in its oval mirror. She was almost expecting to see marks on her skin, as though her internal upheaval had been like a violent punch. But there was nothing. She still had the same bright, regular features, the same snowy whiteness, framed with Cleopatra-style hair; the same dark blue eyes rising up toward her temples, their eyelids lowered slightly with the languidness of a cat.

She saw that Laurent was coming back. He was leaning over in the wind, lifting up the collar of his black coat. She suddenly felt a warm wave of desire. She observed him: his fair curls, his prominent eyes, that torment creasing his brows… He pulled his coat closer to his body with the uncertain movement of a cautious, timid child, which sat strangely with his power as a top-ranking police officer. It was like when he ordered a cocktail and described with little pinches how he wanted its ingredients proportioned. Or when he slid his hands between his thighs and raised his shoulders to show he was cold or else embarrassed. It was this fragility that had appealed to her, the weaknesses and failings that contrasted with his real power. But what remained of her love for him? What could she remember of it?

Laurent sat back down by her side. The barrier rose. As they passed, he directed a firm salute at the armed men. This gesture of respect irritated Anna once more. Her desire faded. She asked coldly: "Why all these policemen?"

"Soldiers," Laurent corrected her. "They're soldiers."

The car slipped into the traffic stream. Place du Général-Leclerc in Orsay was tiny and immaculately groomed. A church, a town hall, a florist's shop: each element clearly stood out.

"Why these soldiers?" she pressed him.

Laurent replied absently "It's because of the Oxygen-15."

"The what?"

He did not look at her; his fingers were tapping the window "Oxygen-15. The labeled water that was injected into your blood for the experiment. It's radioactive."

"How nice."

Laurent turned toward her. He was trying to look reassuring, but his eyes revealed how annoyed he was. "It's not at all dangerous."

"Which explains why there are all these guards, I suppose?"

"Don't be stupid. In France, any activity using nuclear materials is supervised by the Atomic Energy Commission. And this implies the presence of soldiers, that's all. Eric has no choice but to work with the army."

Anna could not help sneering.

Laurent stiffened. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. You just had to find the only hospital in the Paris region that has more khaki uniforms than white coats."

He shrugged and stared at the countryside. The car had already turned on to the motorway and was heading into the Bièvre valley. Dark brown and red forests rose and fell away into the distance.

The clouds were back. Far away. A pale light was struggling to make its way through the low wisps in the sky. Yet it still felt as if the heat of the sun was about to take command and inflame the countryside.

They had been driving for over a quarter of an hour before Laurent opened his mouth again. "You should trust Eric."

"No one is going to touch my brain."

"Eric knows what he's doing. He's one of the best neurologists in Europe "

"And a childhood friend. As you keep telling me."

"You're lucky he's treating you. You-"

"I'm not going to be his guinea pig."

"His guinea pig?" Laurent clearly articulated each syllable. "His guinea pig? Whatever do you mean?"

"Ackermann was observing me. My condition interests him, that's all. He's a researcher, not a doctor."

Laurent sighed. "You're being paranoid. Really, you are…"

"So, I'm mad, am I?" Her mirthless laughter fell like an iron curtain. "That's hardly news, is it?"

This outbreak of lugubrious merriment made her husband even angrier. "And so? Are you just going to sit there and wait while the disease gets worse?" He was writhing on his seat.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I've been talking nonsense."

Silence once more filled the car.

The countryside looked increasingly like a blaze of damp grasses, reddish, sullen, mingled with gray mists. The woods continued as far as the eye could see, at first indistinct, then as they neared, in the shape of crimson claws, fine chasings, dark arabesques..