Novel : Dan Brown Digital Fortress : Chapter 22

Chapter 22

 David Becker strode over and stared down at the old man asleep on the cot. The man’s right wrist was wrapped in a cast. He was between sixty and seventy years old. His snow-white hair was parted neatly to the side, and in the center of his forehead was a deep purple welt that spread down into his right eye.

A little bump? he thought, recalling the lieutenant’s words. Becker checked the man’s fingers. There was no gold ring anywhere. Becker reached down and touched the man’s arm. “Sir?” He shook him lightly. “Excuse me… sir?”

The man didn’t move.

Becker tried again, a little louder. “Sir?”

The man stirred. “Qu’est-ce… quelle heure est–” He slowly opened his eyes and focused on Becker. He scowled at having been disturbed. “Qu’est-ce-que vous voulez?”

Yes, Becker thought, a French Canadian! Becker smiled down at him. “Do you have a moment?”

Although Becker’s French was perfect, he spoke in what he hoped would be the man’s weaker language, English. Convincing a total stranger to hand over a gold ring might be a little tricky; Becker figured he could use any edge he could get.

There was a long silence as the man got his bearings. He surveyed his surroundings and lifted a long finger to smooth his limp white mustache. Finally he spoke. “What do you want?” His English carried a thin, nasal accent.

“Sir,” Becker said, over pronouncing his words as if speaking to a deaf person, “I need to ask you a few questions.”

The man glared up at him with a strange look on his face. “Do you have some sort of problem?”

Becker frowned; the man’s English was impeccable. He immediately lost the condescending tone. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but were you by any chance at the Plaza de España today?”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Are you from the City Council?”

“No, actually I’m–” “Bureau of Tourism?” “No, I’m–”

“Look, I know why you’re here!” The old man struggled to sit up. “I’m not going to be intimidated! If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times–Pierre Cloucharde writes the world the way he lives the world. Some of your corporate guidebooks might sweep this under the table for a free night on the town, but the Montreal Times is not for hire! I refuse!”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think you under–”

“Merde alors! I understand perfectly!” He wagged a bony finger at Becker, and his voice echoed through the gymnasium. “You’re not the first! They tried the same thing at the Moulin Rouge, Brown’s Palace, and the Golfigno in Lagos! But what went to press? The truth! The worst Wellington I’ve ever eaten! The filthiest tub I’ve ever seen! And the rockiest beach I’ve ever walked! My readers expect no less!”

Patients on nearby cots began sitting up to see what was going on. Becker looked around nervously for a nurse. The last thing he needed was to get kicked out.

Cloucharde was raging. “That miserable excuse for a police officer works for your city! He made me get on his motorcycle! Look at me!” He tried to lift his wrist. “Now who’s going to write my column?”

“Sir, I–”

“I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my forty-three years of travel! Look at this place! You know, my column is syndicated in over–”

“Sir!” Becker held up both hands urgently signaling truce. “I’m not interested in your column; I’m from the Canadian Consulate. I’m here to make sure you’re okay!”

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.”