Covert One 3 - The Paris Option Read Online Free PDF Page B

outside the door into the unit itself. Smith identified himself formally in French to the nurse as the American medical representative of Dr. Martin Zellerbach's family. “I'll need to talk to Dr. Zellerbach's lead physician.”
    “You wish to see Dr. Dubost, then. He's arrived for rounds and has already seen your friend this morning. I'll page him.”
    "Merci.
    Will you take me to Dr. Zellerbach? I'll wait there."
    “Bien sr. S'il vous plat?”
    She offered him a distracted smile and, after one gendarme had examined his army medical identification, took him inside the heavy swinging doors.
    Instantly, the hospital noises and the vigorous ambience vanished, and he was moving in a hushed world of soft footsteps, whispering doctors and nurses, and the muted lights, bells, and winking LEDs of machines that seemed to breathe loudly in the silence. In an ICU, machines owned the universe, and patients belonged to them.
    Smith anxiously approached Marty, who was in the third cubicle on the left, lying motionless inside the raised side rails of a narrow, machine-operated bed, as helpless among the tubes and wires and monitors as a toddler held by each hand between towering adults. Smith looked down, his chest tight. Frozen in a coma, Marty's round face was waxen, but his breathing was even.
    Smith touched the computer screen at the end of the bed and read Marty's chart. Marty was still in a coma. His other injuries were minor, mostly scrapes and bruises. It was the coma that was worrisome, with its potential for brain damage, sudden death, and even worsea permanent suspended state neither dead nor alive. But there were a few good signs, too, according to the cyberchart. All his autonomic responses were workinghe was breathing unaided, occasionally coughed, yawned, blinked, and showed roving eye movementswhich indicated that the lower brain stem, the vital part that controlled these activities, was still functioning.
    “Dr. Smith?” A small man with gray hair and an olive complexion walked toward him. “I understand you've come from the United States.” He introduced himself, and Smith saw the embroidery on the front of his long white physician's coatEdouard Dubost. He was Marty's doctor.
    “Thank you for seeing me so quickly,” Smith told him. “Tell me about Dr. Zellerbach's condition.”
    Dr. Dubost nodded. “I have good news. Our friend here seems to be doing better.”
    Immediately Smith felt a smile grow across his face. “What's happened? I didn't see anything on his chart from this morning.”
    “Yes, yes. But you see, I wasn't finished. I had to go around the corner for a moment. Now we'll talk, and I'll type at the same time.” The doctor leaned over the computer. “We're fortunate with Dr. Zellerbach. He's still in a coma, as you can see, but this morning he spoke a few words and moved his arm. He was responding to stimulation.”
    Smith inhaled with relief. “So it's less severe than you originally thought. It's possible he'll awake and be fine.”
    He nodded as he typed. “Yes, yes.”
    Smith said, “It's been more than twenty-four hours since the explosion. Of course, anything past that makes it more worrisome that he'll regain complete consciousness.”
    “Very true. It's natural to be concerned. I am, too.”
    “You'll put in an order to have the nurses work with him? Ask him questions? Try to get him to move more?”
    “I'm doing that right now.” He typed a dozen more words and straightened up. He studied Smith. “Don't worry, Doctor. We know what we're doing here. Your friend is in excellent hands. A week from now, with luck he'll be complaining loudly about his aches and pains, the coma completely forgotten.” He cocked his head. “He's your dear friend, I can see that. Stay as long as you like, but I must continue rounds.”
    Warmed by the hope that Marty would not only emerge from the coma but with all his brain functions intact, Smith sat beside the bed, among the flashing dials and