MISCHA DIDN'T KNOW where she was, which somehow seemed fitting under the circumstances. This gave new meaning to the term "undisclosed location,"; it wasn't even disclosed to her!332Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡleQ2Bcwfq8
She knew this much: it was a French military compound, and she was in some kind of stockade made of twisted wire that, she was told, would slash, cut, and maim her if she tried to grab it.
She was alive and relatively intact. Given the attempt on her life, her physical injuries were comparatively minor----abrasions on her knee when she fell and more serious cuts to her wrists, which she suffered when their vehicle had jerked to the right and thrown her off her seat, straining her against the handcuffs. Some military doctor had dressed the wounds on her wrists with gauze and tape.
"Are you all right, Ms. Barton?" It was Huey Nickerson, the Department of Justice attaché to the U.S. Embassy. He was dressed in a smart blue suit----courtroom attire, as he'd attended every day of the trial. He addressed Mischa formally, which was pretty much the way he'd related to her over these many months she awaited trial. He'd visited her several times each week, making sure she was being kept secure and fed and not being stripped of all those nice human rights the diplomats look out for. That was his job, to make sure she was being afforded basic dignities while she awaited trial. And he'd limited his conversations with her to those topics.
Still, his formality aside, Huey seemed to genuinely care about her predicament. On the rare occasion when she lodged a complaint, he followed up on it for her. If she had a question, he got the answer. If she just needed to vent, he was an attentive listener.
His eyes moved to her bandaged wrists. She knew what he was thinking. "It's from the handcuffs," she explained. "I'm not suicidal."
"Ah." He nodded.
"Where the bloody hell am I?" Mischa asked.
"An air force base in Criel," said Huey. "About thirty miles north of Paris. No more random jail cells. They're keeping you girls on a military base from now on. You'll be flown too and from court in a military helicopter."
Mischa didn't know if that meant her accommodations would be better or worse. She suspected the latter.
"Who tried to kill me, Huey?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "They don't know too much about him. He was twenty-two. Dropped out of the Sorbonne. He was a political supporter of Diderot. Apparently he had some psychological problems."
"Why are you using past tense?" she asked.
"They killed him." Nickerson sighed. "Three dead in all. Thirty-six wounded. I think they arrested like sixty people or something."
"I saw at least three people get shot," Mischa said.
He shook his head. "The riot squad used rubber bullets. Nonlethal. Only the guards escorting you had weapons with real bullets. They killed the guy who tried to shoot you. Another guy died from a nightstick blow. A third guy, an older man, died from heart failure."
Mischa shuddered. Three dead, thirty-six wounded. She closed her eyes and hung her head in shame. The death toll from their fun little weekend continued to grow.
"Oh, and the Los Angeles Dodgers called," Huey added. "They saw the video of hurling that brick and they want to sign you to a minor-league contract."
She tried to manage a smile. She appreciated his attempt at levity.
"It was a garden variety Molotov cocktail," Huey explained when she asked him what had caused the fire. "Fill a bottle of with gasoline, tie a rag around the stopper, soak it with alcohol, light the rag, and toss the bottle. Homemade incendiary devices. They've worked for centuries."
"They worked today."
He smiled for some reason, then grew serious. "We've been in touch with the interior ministry about the safety of you and your friends. And they're on the same page with us, Ms. Barton. What happened today was a slap in the face for them. They look like fools when something like this happens. And governments don't like to look like fools. Especially new ones formed after their previous president was assassinated." He drew a breath. "Your safety will be guaranteed," he assured me.
Something told Mischa he enjoyed that paternalistic role. She was willing to bet he had a daughter.332Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoFd637Ni9F
"During the trial, you mean," she said. "My safety will be guaranteed during the trial, but not afterward."332Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOQEhQMA27z
Huey didn't debate her. What could he say? If what those people did while she was surrounded by armed escorts was anything to go by, what would happen to her when she was alone in a prison cell, or out in the prison yard?332Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYA5WIj4SIQ
Don't think that way, she told herself. Once trial resumed next week, they had their defense. They had several weeks' worth of evidence. They would testify. Their experts would testify about evidence being planted and hotel key cards duplicated. Their boyfriends would testify that, whatever their faults, they weren't killers.332Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMHVOjPZBLQ
They hadn't yet begun to fight. They still had their defense. There was still a chance.332Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeSOlX5DTMt
"Don't give up hope," she always told her sisters. Mischa had to keep reminding herself to follow that same advice.332Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡduje2UN4qR
