Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [87]
If Alice were to spend three minutes on the Homeland Security tips site now, Stewart Fleishman aka Russ Augenblick would face extradition, at the least.
“I need you to hack into the customs database,” she told him. “I want you to make me a passport with the information of an American, Canadian, or Brit actually traveling in Switzerland right now.” With such a passport she could waltz out of the country.
He grumbled. “Buy me a mescal shot too and I’ll try. A double.”
After their drinks, she followed him through the back exit and down a windy but otherwise quiet side street to his vintage VW love bus.
Demonstrating surprising courtliness, the forger trudged through slush to open the front passenger door for her. The entire van, apparently restored without regard to cost, smelled new.
With a hint of fresh male perspiration.
Alice knew without looking, but turned anyway. Four men in black jumpsuits and matching body armor sat in the back of the van, each gripping a Sig, the silenced barrels pointed at her.
By way of greeting, the man closest to her said, “Dienst für Analyse und Prävention,” German for “Service for Analysis and Prevention,” the Swiss domestic intelligence agency, which, evidently, had a working relationship with a certain forger.
Despite the antiseptic scent unique to medical facilities, along with walls, cabinets, and a sparkling tile floor that matched the hospital white of a medic’s lab coat, the lack of windows suggested that the infirmary originally had been a locker room or showers.
Sergeant King said, between gasps, “He’s not breathing, Ginny.” The medic’s badge read GENEVIÈVE in big block letters.
“I don’t think he’s got a pulse either,” said Corporal Flint, angling Drummond’s feet toward the examination table.
“Set him down and we will see if we can fix that,” Geneviève said.
Although barely into her twenties, she had the composure of a battle-hardened veteran. She whipped a fresh sheet from the roll of paper at the foot of the table, clamping it into place just as Drummond’s head hit the headrest. Lifting his chin upward with one hand and pressing back on his forehead with the other, she tilted back his face. She opened his mouth and checked for obstructions, finding none. No breathing either.
Pinching his nostrils shut, she fit her mouth over and around his, then commenced breathing for him, inhaling and exhaling slowly into his mouth. His chest rose and fell, again signifying no obstruction. She provided two more breaths, each about a second long, then pressed two fingers to the side of his throat.
“No carotid pulse, as far as I can tell,” she sighed, not so much a lament as a prognosis.
“What can we do?” asked King.
“Call for an ambulance. Say the casualty is having a cardiac arrest.”
King said, “Corporal?”
Nodding, Flint ran out.
Pointing to a white blanket, Geneviève said to King, “Sergeant, if you could roll that up and use it to elevate his feet by about fifteen inches …”
He did, offering better blood flow to Drummond’s heart, which Geneviève prepared to resuscitate by placing the heel of her right hand two or three inches above the tip of his sternum. She lay her left hand on top of her right and interlaced