Chapter 10

While the shots' echo still bounced back from the walls, realisation hit the Musketeers that it had not been Grimaud who had fired, and that apparently neither of them had been hit. They saw how Grimaud, who had been thrown sideways by the first shot, slid along the wall and down to the ground. A black hole had appeared on the side of his brow, dark blood spilling out and running down the temple. The second shot had hit the Arab guard in the lefthand corner who stared at them with an expression of astonishment on his face, clutching at his throat where the bullet had obviously ripped through the carotid artery. He hit the ground face-first with a thud.

As one, the Inseparables looked to the third man in the room, the Arab who had brought in Porthos.

The man slowly lowered his weapon, removing his sunglasses with his free hand. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to intervene any earlier, I had my orders. It would have blown my cover. I'm really sorry."

The Musketeers stared at the man without understanding.

"General Alaman?" Porthos eventually asked in disbelief, taking a step towards the man.

"I'm no general nowadays, but the name's still the same," Tariq Alaman replied, smiling warmly at them. "What a stroke of fate. The Israeli intelligence service infiltrated this terror cell over two years ago. It's one of the most important operations at the moment, and it was hard work to get so far, that's why I couldn't intervene, even if it was hard seeing you suffer," he added, looking apologetically at Athos. He quickly moved to the door, opening it a hand's breath and peering outside. "We need to get out quickly, Aramis needs instant medical attention, he has already lost too much blood." He closed the door again. "I don't know how long it will take until someone wonders why we're not joining the rest after shooting the prisoners. They'll have heard the shots. Here," he said, thrusting a small knife into d'Artagnan's hand. "Cut them loose."

D'Artagnan stared at Tariq Alaman, apparently not able to process what had happened within the last few minutes, maybe shocked by the fact that he was still standing upright, alive.

"D'Artagnan," Porthos barked. "Get moving!"

That finally shook the Gascon from his temporary torpor and he hurried to cut his friends loose, starting with Pothos.

In the meanwhile, Tariq gathered the abandoned handguns from his now dead, former fellow terrorists, checking on each of them for vital signs, in case his shots had not been lethal.

Before d'Artagnan cut Aramis loose, Porthos put his arm around the torso to prevent him from falling from the chair. "Careful now," he murmured, lowering Aramis together with d'Artagnan to the ground with great care. While searching for Aramis' pulse on the neck with his right hand, he gently stroked the hair out of his friend's face with the other hand. "Aramis," he called softly.

Athos knelt beside Aramis' other side as soon as d'Artagnan had cut him loose, not solely to look after Aramis but also because he didn't trust his legs to take his weight. Kneeling seemed a lot easier at the moment than standing. "He needs to see a doctor immediately."

"Help should be here soon," Porthos said absentmindedly, eventually taking his eyes off Aramis to look at his friend. "You need to see a doctor, too. There's something wrong with your face. Have you broken your nose?"

"Probably, among other things," Athos muttered. "Never mind."

Outside the room, noise was heard. Shots resounded through the house, followed by shouting and the clattering of boots, and some more shouting. Another single shot echoed off the walls somewhere downstairs.

Tariq held out one of the guns he had collected to Porthos. "Here, take this. You and d'Artagnan help me with whoever is coming through that door, Athos can stay with your friend." He handed d'Artagnan the other gun.

"If we're lucky, it's the back-up we called for," Porthos said. "If it's your men, we'll make sure they don't get anywhere near Aramis and Athos until help arrives," he added grimly.

However, before they could make a move the door burst open, two policemen with protective shields in front of them instantly blocking the door. "Police! Freeze! Hands up where we can see them!" they shouted. "Move slowly and drop the weapons!"

With a big sigh of relief Porthos slowly raised his hands. "Don't shoot, we're the ones who've been captured. We need instant medical assistance, two of us are severely injured."

"Stay where you are, don't move and keep your hands up where we can see them," one of the policemen said. "We're coming in now."

More special forces members poured through the door, in full panoply and with their assault weapons at the ready. In no time at all they had secured the room, assured themselves that the two immobile men on the floor really were dead and that Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan were indeed who they claimed to be and the ones the RAID team had been tasked with rescuing. Only Tariq Alaman had been disarmed and handcuffed; the special forces team knew nothing of an undercover agent on-site and were waiting for confirmation from headquarters.

"We need an emergency doctor! Now!" Porthos barked. "Can't you see how badly wounded they are?"

The policeman closest to Porthos quickly glanced at Aramis and Athos, listening to information he received over his headset. "The house is secured. They're sending the paramedics up now," he replied. "If you don't need immediate treatment you should make room and move to the side. Wait over there," he said, pointing to the wall on his right side.

Before the paramedics arrived, Retancourt entered. She took stock of the situation, looking at each of the four intently to evaluate their health status. Then she gave a curt nod towards Porthos before walking over to where Grimaud lay on the floor.

A moment later a team of paramedics entered, and now the room seemed to be overcrowded. The special forces leader in charge of the operation ordered his men out, except for two who were tasked with keeping Tariq under guard and one who stood watch by the corpses.

Porthos and d'Artagnan moved aside, away from Aramis on the floor and Athos, who sat on the chair again.

"I feel a bit dizzy," Porthos murmured just when his knees gave way. He slid along the wall, taking a seat on the floor.

"I'll ask one of them to look after you when they've treated Aramis," d'Artagnan said, looking down at Porthos.

"Never mind, I'll be okay in a moment. They should look after Athos and Aramis," Porthos replied with a great deal of anxiety resonating in his voice. He watched how two of the paramedics immediately set to work treating Aramis as soon as they had put down their gear. One of the medics said something over his shoulder to the ones seeing to Athos, and one of them let up on Athos and joined the two by Aramis. Porthos furrowed his brow, anxiously darting a glance at d'Artagnan.

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D'Artagnan had watched the same scene with mounting worry. "He'll be all right," he replied quietly in response to Porthos' worried expression. With a bad feeling, he watched how the newly arrived emergency doctor and accompanying medic promptly joined the others in their efforts to keep Aramis alive. By now, Aramis' torso was exposed to the waist, revealing not only the belly wound that was responsible for the great amount of fresh and partly dried blood everywhere, but also the shoulder wound that had started bleeding again, as well as the bruises on the ribcage. At least three tubes were attached to different limbs. One of the medics gave Aramis artificial respiration and another one stood to his left, holding up IV bags.

Athos had allowed the medics to lay him on one of the folding stretchers they had brought and stoically endured being thoroughly probed and treated. As well as he could in his position he tried to monitor what was happening with Aramis.

Then there was a sudden, short flurry of activity with the medics that treated Aramis when one of them couldn't detect a pulse any more and the emergency doctor ordered them to prepare the patient for shock therapy. Despite his dizziness, Porthos rose, grabbing d'Artagnan's arm for support and both held their breath while watching each of the medics' movements.

"Come on, Aramis, hang in there," Porthos whispered.

"I've got a pulse again," the medic said before the defibrillator had come into use. "Weak but it's there."

The emergency doctor ripped open several small packets, quickly giving Aramis two injections, and then they continued with stabilising Aramis' circulatory and staunching the flow of blood. After what seemed like an eternity, the emergency doctor finally rose. "He seems stable enough for transport now," he said to the medics, but loud enough that everyone else could hear it. "Let's put him on a stretcher."

Porthos briefly closed his eyes and sent a quick prayer heavenwards. When he opened his eyes again, he glimpsed movement and turned towards the door in time to see Tréville enter, supported by Brujon.

"Captain," Porthos said, closing the distance to the door. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in hospital?"

Tréville's lopsided grin didn't match with the rest of his face which looked pale and twisted with pain. "I had to see for myself if you'd come out of this alive." His eyes moved until they caught on Aramis' body on the floor. More gravely, he added, "Given the report I received from Retancourt about the operation in Montrouge and the latest footage of Aramis with Feron, I wasn't sure if this would end well. How is he? And how's Athos?"

"The doctor said Aramis would be stable enough for transport. I hope this is a good sign because he really didn't look well. It seems he's been unconscious for quite a while. As regards Athos, he's tough, at least for a comte. I think he'll live," Porthos replied, and it was hard to tell whether it was his wry humour or plain fact that made him say so.

"And Grimaud?"

"He's dead, thanks to an undercover agent from Mossad who's infiltrated this terror cell. His swift reaction saved our lives. Tariq Alaman, you will remember him from past times," Porthos said, pointing to the other side of the room where the former general stood, still kept in check by two RAID members who waited for confirmation of his identity. Suddenly, a flash of insight seemed to cross Porthos' mind, his expression changing. "Don't tell me he's your friend Moshe from Mossad and you knew of this undercover operation."

Tréville shook his head. "No, Moshe is definitely someone else. I knew they had a big undercover operation going on with infiltrating terror cells, and I knew they were operating in Europe, but I had no idea about this here. What a fortunate turn of events that he was here."

"It was," Porthos said lowly. "If he had not been here, we'd all be dead now."

Just then, the medics made their way to the door with Aramis on a stretcher. Before they could pass, Tréville addressed one of them. "Where are you taking him?"

"Most likely Saint-Louis or Croix Saint-Simon, they are closest, but the ops centre will have to check the intake capacity and tell us when we're on our way. We don't have confirmation yet."

"Would he be stable enough to take him to the Hôpital Val-de-Grâce?" Tréville asked.

The medic turned to he emergency doctor to hear his opinion. The doctor contemplated the question for a moment. "The drive would be ten minutes more give or take, he seems stable enough that we have the extra time, but we would need confirmation that they'll take him. We can't go on a cruise in search for intake capacity if they turn us away. He needs proper treatment, and he needs it soon."

"They will admit him, I cleared it before I came here. As soon as you're on your way I'll call them and announce your arrival. They'll have two teams waiting for you in the casualty department."

"I'll go with Aramis," Porthos said, moving to follow the stretcher.

"No," Tréville said, grabbing Porthos' arm. "Go with Athos. I'm sure Aramis is in good hands and they might need the extra space in the ambulance for treatment." He turned to address the medic carrying Athos on a stretcher. "Take him to the Hôpital Val-de-Grâce, too, they have teams waiting." Lightly touching Athos' shoulder he said, "You look awful."

"Dito," Athos replied. "Why are you here and not in hospital?"

Tréville stared at Athos for a moment. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked quietly. "As your captain it's my job to check on you personally. The reports and updates I received suggested that just this once the odds were against you."

Athos opened his mouth to reply, but before he could answer a heavy thud behind Tréville caught their attention. Porthos had lost his balance and fallen to the ground like a felled tree.

"Don't you dare to get up again," d'Artagnan hissed, kneeling down beside his friend. "Stay where you are until a medic has time to look after you. I knew you were not fighting fit. I should have listened to Constance."

"I have just lost-" Porthos started, trying to push himself up.

"I swear I'll knock you unconscious here and now if you don't stay on the ground until someone has a look at you," d'Artagnan growled with a slightly trembling voice, pushing Porthos back down on the floor vehemently. "Just because you're not bathed in blood like the others doesn't mean you're okay. Get yourself treated in hospital like the rest of them. If he wasn't lying unconscious and half-dead on that stretcher, Aramis would give you a right royal lecture if he could see you now."

"It's okay," Tréville said softly, putting a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Come on. I'll make sure he's admitted to hospital as well. Go with Athos. I'll need to settle a few things here and meet you there later. I'll personally see to it that Porthos is thoroughly looked at, leave it to me."

D'Artagnan seemed ready to argue, but then he nodded reluctantly. Angrily glancing one last time at Porthos he followed the medics who carried Athos downstairs.

"You shouldn't put any more stress on his shoulders if it's avoidable," Tréville said. "He was already worried sick when Athos had gone missing, Aramis' capture and your health issue didn't make it easier. He's still so young."

"Sorry, it wasn't my intention," Porthos mumbled, looking a tad embarrassed.

"I know. Now let yourself be treated, I'll see you later in hospital."

Brujon, standing beside Tréville and listening to the conversation, said, "Sir, you should also go back to the hospital. You're far from being fit again. I shouldn't need to remind you that you've not been officially released yet."

"Brujon," Tréville replied leniently, directly looking at the young man. "There's still a lot you need to learn. Anyway, believe me when I say I have gone through worse than this, I'll survive. Now give me a moment, I need to sort things out with the officers over there, afterwards we can go back." He waited until two medics started looking after Porthos, before he slowly walked over to where Tariq Alaman stood.

"Bonjour, General Alaman," he greeted.

"Not general, I'm in the rank of a common lieutenant," Tariq replied. "But it's good to see you again, Captain Tréville. Or do you also go by another title or name?"

"That's okay, I'm used to it," Tréville replied with a faint smile.

"You know this man?" one of the special forces members asked.

"Yes, I do. He's a foreign agent working on an undercover operation and just saved the lives of my m-, er, of the men that had been captured here. Would you kindly take off the handcuffs?"

"I need confirmation from headquarters, sir," the officer replied.

"I'm commissaire divisionnaire Peyrer and accountable for this operation, now release this man. I vouch for him," Tréville ordered decisively.

The officer nodded curtly, taking a key from his pocket. When he had uncuffed Alaman, he took a couple of steps away from both men, but still close enough for a quick intervention, if necessary.

"My friend Moshe Maisel told me there was an undercover operation going on, but I had no idea that it involved you. A rather nice surprise, I must admit," Tréville said.

Alaman looked genuinely surprised. "You know Moshe? I've never heard him mention your name, though I knew he had contacts in Paris," he replied.

"He doesn't know me as Tréville, to him I'm Jean Peyrer. In fact, nowadays only a handful of men and women still call me Tréville," he added thoughtfully. "Anyway, I'll see what I can do for you. However, you'll have to accompany my people to the police station for further questioning before you can report back to your agency. I won't be able to go with you now, but I'm sure I'll see you later." He extended his hand, waiting for Alaman to grab it. Firmly shaking the former Moorish general's hand, he said quietly, "Thank you for saving their lives."

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Two days later, Hôpital d'instruction des armées du Val-de-Grâce

Athos immediately knew that something was wrong the moment d'Artagnan stepped into the hospital room. He could read from the boy's face that something must have happened. "What's wrong?" he asked, internally preparing for the worst kind of news.

Carefully, d'Artagnan closed the door and stepped up to the bed. A faint smile that didn't reach his eyes played around his lips. "It's good to see you awake. When they rolled you out of surgery yesterday you didn't look too well."

"D'Artagnan, the look on your face tells me something is wrong. Just spit it out. Is it Aramis?" he asked, fearing the answer as soon as he had voiced his concern.

D'Artagnan shook his head, hurriedly replying, "No. I've just come from the ICU. Porthos is with him, he's keeping watch and waits for Aramis to finally come around. He hasn't woken yet but the doctors say that's nothing to worry about, apparently they want to keep him in an artificial coma for a little longer. The surgeries seemed to have gone well, according to the nurses."

Athos nodded. "Tréville was here late last night and informed me about Aramis' state of health. He also told me Porthos had been ordered to stay in bed, lest I wondered why he wouldn't come and see me. Is he sharing a room with Aramis in the ICU or how come he's by his side?" Athos perked his brow in his typical comte-ly way.

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulder. "You know him. I think he threatened the nurses to let him get up and stay with Aramis. But you know what? I couldn't care less if he's gambling with his health again. He has always been so pigheaded," he replied slightly aggressively.

The boy's untypically aggressive tone of voice alarmed Athos even more. "What's it then? I can tell you've something on your mind."

D'Artagnan swallowed down a lump in his throat before answering. "My uncle called. My mother was involved in a car accident. I need to fly to Quebec."

"My God, I'm sorry to hear that. How is she? I hope it's nothing serious?"

"She's in hospital, severely wounded but not life-threatening, at least that's what my uncle said. I need to see her, Athos," d'Artagnan said, almost pleadingly.

"Of course! Have you booked a flight? Let me know if you need anything, no matter what. I hope she'll recover soon, stay with her as long as is necessary."

"I'd hate to leave you, what with you all being hospitalised at the moment, and Aramis not even awake yet, but I would never forgive myself if something happened to maman and I wasn't there. I couldn't stand the thought."

"Come here," Athos said, beckoning the Gascon to sit down on the bed. He moved to change into a more upright position, making room for d'Artagnan. "Listen, we'll be all right. What's important is that you go and see your mother, nothing else. She needs you now. You hear that?" he said emphatically.

"Yes," d'Artagnan nodded. "I'd like to ask Constance if she would come with me, at least for a few days, if that's okay for you." Expectantly he looked at Athos, clearly unsure about his request.

Athos looked surprised. "But of course, yes! Why do you even ask?"

Now d'Artagnan looked surprised. "But, with all of you being bedridden at the moment, there'd be no one in the office except for Charlène. I've no idea how she'd be able to attend to the work if she's on her own. There's already a list of clients-"

"D'Artagnan," Athos said softly, interrupting the boy. He cupped the back of d'Artagnan's neck with his hand, squeezing it lightly. "Don't concern yourself with that now. That's not your problem. You've already done so much in the past couple of days, take Constance and go see your mother."

"But," d'Artagnan started.

"No. Leave it. I don't want to hear any more of this. If you need help with booking a flight or anything else, let me know, expense is no object. We'll get by, don't worry, just make sure that your mother gets well soon."

D'Artagnan quickly hugged Athos as well as was possible with the bedridden man. "Keep me informed about how you all are faring, especially Aramis. Let me know as soon as he's conscious. I'll stop by again later when I've arranged flights and everything, okay?"

Athos nodded, giving d'Artagnan a reassuring smile. He watched the boy leave the room, wondering with a queasy feeling if it was pure coincidence that d'Artagnan's mother had been involved in a car accident on the other side of the Atlantic ocean right now, taking d'Artagnan thousands of kilometres away from his injured, bedridden friends.