N’DJAMENA
Steve Lee and Chris Nissen leaned over Martha Whitney, whom they had poured onto the couch. She failed in her effort to suppress a loud belch. Regaining her breath, she inhaled deeply and accepted the cold cloth that the medic offered.
“Martha, what did she say?” Lee did not want to seem too insistent but he was eager to learn the results of Whitney’s latest meeting with the Frenchwoman.
“Oooh, my goodness,” Whitney exhaled. She forced herself to focus. “That girl can drink but she can’t hold it.”
“You mean you drank her under the table?”
Whitney waved feebly. “I mean, she couldn’ hol’ it. Puked all over her shoes an’ mine!”
“But what did she say? What are they up to?”
“Oooh my.” Whitney pressed the cloth closer to her eyes. “Not so loud, Maje.”
Lee and Nissen exchanged empathetic looks. Both men were trying not to smile. Neither objected to seeing the self-confident Ms. Whitney brought down two or three pegs.
Lee moderated his voice. “All right, Martha. Try to concentrate. Did you get anything out of her?”
“Oh, ’bout three quarts I’d say. My shoes…”
Chris Nissen turned away, clasping a hand to his mouth. Lee saw the sergeant’s shoulders shaking in silent laughter.
Steve Lee pried the wet cloth from Whitney’s stubby fingers. She blinked in the light. “Martha, listen to me. What … did … she … say?”
The former spook smacked her lips loud enough to be heard, then tasted the taste. “Oooh my.” Finally she gestured toward her purse. “Wrote it down in th’ taxi.”
Nissen went through her bag and fetched a notebook. He flipped through the first few pages with assorted notes unrelated to the meeting with Gabrielle Tixier. Then he held the notebook out at arm’s length. A few seconds later he looked at Lee. “I can’t make out anything. Just a couple of words.”
Lee took the pad and squinted. Finally he shook his head. “Martha, we can’t read your handwriting. You’ll have to read it for us.” He held it before her, knowing she lacked the strength to sit up.
Whitney blinked in concentration, trying hard to focus. She raised her head, put a hand on Lee’s, and adjusted the focal length. After a valiant effort she slumped back. “Nobody can read that. Not even me.”
“My God, what’d you drink?” Nissen asked.
“Oooh my, what didn’t we drink? She was ready for me, tha’s fershure, honey. Started with wine, then whiskey. Then somethin’ else. I was doin’ okay. Then she brought out the cognac…” Whitney burped again.
“Brandy?” Nissen frowned. “If you can handle whiskey, why not…”
“Eighty proof,” Whitney ventured. “Seven years old.”
Lee stood up, his hands wide in exasperation. “Chris, we have to sober her up. Time’s important.”
The tall, black NCO shook his head, smiling at the victim. “Major, I can deal with penetrating wounds, fractures, blunt trauma. Even childbirth. But I cannot cure a major hangover. Nature’s gotta take its course.”
Lee slumped into a chair. “So we let her sleep?”
“Look at her!” In the short interval, Martha Whitney had finally succumbed. When they turned out the light and left the room she was snoring like a rhinoceros.