43
Ardennes, Belgium
And then there was light. An overhead light and a white ceiling with a small, square ventilation grill. The last thing Baptiste remembered was the steering wheel of the SUV spinning out of his grip as he sped across the suspension bridge.
Now he lay in a hospital bed, tucked rigid under a sheet and pale-blue blanket. The Russian scanned the room, left to right. Pastel-pink walls. An empty chair with a discarded newspaper left on the seat, the headlines in French.
The room was private with a closed door and a nurse passing by on the other side of a window covered with an open Venetian blind.
On the other side of the glass, Baptiste noticed the head and shoulders of a police officer. He sat guard with his back to the room in the hospital corridor, and could only be
