Даниэла Стил - Turning Point

“My name is Marie-Laure Prunier,” she said in excellent English, with a French accent. “I’m in charge of this office of the COZ, the center of operations for the Paris zone. We have two hundred and sixteen geographical regions and two hundred and twelve metropolitan regions in France. The minister of the interior and the chief of police are my bosses. At the COZ, we coordinate information from all emergency services twenty-four/seven. I’m a physician, but I’m not in private practice anymore. I work exclusively for the center of operations for emergency services in this zone. We try to plan where we will achieve the best medical care in future disasters, and how best to avoid them. I am on-site and work closely with the police when an attack occurs. We do not always deal with terrorist attacks. It can be a fire, a gas explosion, a train collision, a plane crash, a bombing. If there is an emergency situation in Paris, we are there, and my job is to be there too.” She smiled pleasantly. “Our specialty is crisis management. I received my medical training at the Faculté de Médecine here in Paris, I’m thirty-three years old, divorced, and have three children. My medical specialty is neurology and emergency medicine, like you, and I have additional training in surgery. I am a pediatric neurosurgeon by training. In France, all specialists deal with trauma in their particular area of expertise. But our ‘emergency medicine’ resembles your specialty in trauma. I work here now, planning how to save injured children, or overseeing rescue operations, or even ways to prevent an attack. I have been instrumental in setting up the White Plan, which is a means of handling catastrophic events with large numbers of casualties. I’m a civil servant, and at night, I can go home to my children.” Several people in the room smiled and she and Stephanie exchanged a warm look. Marie-Laure had a desk job, which was much easier to manage for a divorced woman with three children.

Gabriel Marchand was the second person at the table to stand up. He looked like a banker except his graying hair was too long for him to be one. He had a powerful frame and was a tall man with wide shoulders. He exuded energy as he greeted each of their American visitors. “Like Marie-Laure, I’m also a doctor, a cardiologist. I work for the Assistance Publique, the public health services, which is a government position. I see patients occasionally, but not very often. I am a fonctionnaire, what you call a civil servant, and like Marie-Laure, we try to devise systems that will keep our citizens safe in case of an emergency. I am forty-three years old, I have four children, and I am very excited to come to San Francisco,” he said, smiling at them, and then sat down. There was something very strong about him, as though he was accustomed to commanding. He was almost military in his bearing and his style, and all four Americans correctly suspected that he had a high-ranking position in public health.

The next person to stand up was a tall willowy woman with a spectacular figure, long blond hair, and a dazzling smile. In a seemingly effortless way, she was noticeably sexy. She spoke English with a British accent, from where she had learned it. “My name is Valérie Florin. I’m a physician, a psychiatrist. I have a private practice of patients whom I see regularly here in Paris. I also devise the programs for victims of traumatic events, with ongoing follow-up care, for what you call post-traumatic stress. Our programs begin immediately after hostage situations and the kind of violence we’ve seen recently. We set up therapy programs on-site, as the event is happening, for victims, parents, and spouses. I work closely with the police in the negotiation with hostage takers. I am a consultant with the COZ and the author of three books.” And then she grinned. “I am forty-two, unmarried and I prefer it that way, and have no children. My patients are my children, and fortunately none of them live with me.” Everyone laughed at that, and she sat down gracefully. She was one of the most striking women any of the Americans had ever seen, she was gracious, sexy, poised, calm, and totally French, despite her near-perfect English. Tom Wylie was staring at her, and looked like he wanted to crawl across the conference table and grab her. Valérie seemed totally uninterested in him, ignored him, and focused on the others, which drove him crazy. He was unable to catch her eye, and she glanced right through him as though he wasn’t there.

The last member of the team they would be working with was Paul Martin, he looked about eighteen, tall, gangly, awkward with a shock of uncombed hair. He was thirty-four years old, single, had worked for the COZ for a year. He was an emergency doctor and a surgeon, and had worked for Doctors Without Borders for three years in Africa, and loved it. He had come to Paris to learn more about violence in the cities, which he said was much more savage than what he’d seen in Africa. Paul was full of life and very excited about everything he said. He exuded youthful zeal, energy, and idealism, and spoke as though he had just been shot out of a cannon, as he ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. He sounded extremely bright and excited about the work he was doing, and what he had learned at the COZ, COGIC, and CODIS so far.

The others at the table introduced themselves and were part of the administration of the various branches that provided emergency services. They took a break after that, so people could talk to each other and get acquainted. Marie-Laure, the head of the office, explained that they would be visiting the hospitals where victims were sent in an emergency. They would also be meeting members of the government and the police. They would be speaking to the SWAT teams that handled hostage situations, and also participate in a drill for a terrorist attack. It was going to be a fascinating four weeks, without a dull moment. As the various people milled around the conference room, Tom Wylie made a beeline for Valérie Florin, and looked like he wanted to gobble her up. More than anything he seemed like an excited schoolboy, and she was visibly amused.

“Dr. Wylie?” She had correctly guessed which one he was.

“I’d love to spend some time talking to you, maybe we could have dinner sometime.” He was hopeful and starstruck and she laughed.

“I don’t think so. But you are all invited to my apartment for dinner tomorrow night, at nine o’clock.” The time was very French and later than they were used to. “Casual, in jeans, nothing fancy. Hachis parmentier, which is one of the few things I know how to cook.” She said it to their four American counterparts and her three French colleagues, all of whom were delighted. She gave them each her address on the rue du Bac, which was fairly close to where they were staying, within walking distance, on the Left Bank.

For the rest of the day, they were barraged with pamphlets, information, statistics, newspaper and magazine articles, and several books in English. They were all exhausted by the end of the day. Marie-Laure went home to her children, and Valérie hurried off to see patients. It felt good to walk into the cold night air at seven o’clock after being cooped up all day.

“No one said there would be homework,” Tom Wylie complained, and his fellow Americans laughed at him and teased him about how he was going to chase women, if he had homework to do. But they were all looking forward to dinner at Valérie’s the next evening.

Bill and Tom rented bikes from a Vélib’ stand to go back to the apartment, and Stephanie and Wendy took the Metro, figured it out, and chatted on the way. It had been a very interesting day, and more serious and intense than they had expected. When they got back to their building, they all went to their apartments to relax. The two men then went to a bistro down the street for dinner, and both women said they were too tired to go out. Stephanie wanted to wash her hair and call her children, and she had to stay up until midnight to do it, to catch them after school. But she reached them this time, and they talked to her for ten minutes and then handed the phone to their father. Stephanie told him all about it, and how interesting it was. He mellowed for a few minutes and told her he missed her. She missed them too after she hung up. She had some of the cheese and pâté from the day before, and poured herself half a glass of wine. It felt very grown up being in Paris without her children or Andy. The Eiffel Tower was sparkling as she looked out the window, sipping her wine. She was thinking about Marie-Laure and wanted to get to know her better. And Valérie was fascinating.