Turning Point(21)

A dozen people were waiting for them when they arrived. The four Americans felt like the new kids in school, and weren’t even sure if their counterparts spoke English, although they assumed they did.

The office that was used for conferences was once again in a very old building that looked like it had previously been a home. There were chandeliers and marble stairs and fireplaces, a large reception area, and everyone shook hands as soon as they walked in. After a few minutes they were led to a large conference room with a long table, where they all took their places, and there was a folder at each seat. Wendy checked hers and found that their schedule for the first week was in it, and some articles in English about the most recent acts of terrorism and which agencies had handled various aspects of them. And there was a brief description of some of the most important hospitals in the city, which the group would visit: the Pitié-Salpêtrière, Pompidou, Bichat, Cochin, H?tel-Dieu, and Necker for children. Some of the hospitals sounded like the medical centers they worked in, particularly Bill at SF General. All of the materials had been printed in English and were informative and easy to understand. In addition, there was a chart showing the hierarchy of French emergency services, from the president to the minister of the interior, the COZ, CODIS, the SAMU medical teams, COGIC, the mayor, and the police. As they read the material, all four Americans were trying to guess who were the four doctors they’d been assigned to, and who would be coming to San Francisco in six weeks for a month’s stay, just as the four Americans were doing now.

Everyone introduced themselves by name as they went around the table. An older man in a suit and tie from a supervisory government agency said that he was sure they were eager to meet the four colleagues they would be working closely with, and he introduced them in greater detail first, as to their credentials, and then let each of them speak for themselves. Two pretty young women served coffee to those who wanted it, and Tom looked at them carefully for a minute with a smile, and then turned his attention to the woman who stood up first.

    “My name is Marie-Laure Prunier,” she said in excellent English, with a French accent. “I’m in charge of this office of the COZ, the center of operations for the Paris zone. We have two hundred and sixteen geographical regions and two hundred and twelve metropolitan regions in France. The minister of the interior and the chief of police are my bosses. At the COZ, we coordinate information from all emergency services twenty-four/seven. I’m a physician, but I’m not in private practice anymore. I work exclusively for the center of operations for emergency services in this zone. We try to plan where we will achieve the best medical care in future disasters, and how best to avoid them. I am on-site and work closely with the police when an attack occurs. We do not always deal with terrorist attacks. It can be a fire, a gas explosion, a train collision, a plane crash, a bombing. If there is an emergency situation in Paris, we are there, and my job is to be there too.” She smiled pleasantly. “Our specialty is crisis management. I received my medical training at the Faculté de Médecine here in Paris, I’m thirty-three years old, divorced, and have three children. My medical specialty is neurology and emergency medicine, like you, and I have additional training in surgery. I am a pediatric neurosurgeon by training. In France, all specialists deal with trauma in their particular area of expertise. But our ‘emergency medicine’ resembles your specialty in trauma. I work here now, planning how to save injured children, or overseeing rescue operations, or even ways to prevent an attack. I have been instrumental in setting up the White Plan, which is a means of handling catastrophic events with large numbers of casualties. I’m a civil servant, and at night, I can go home to my children.” Several people in the room smiled and she and Stephanie exchanged a warm look. Marie-Laure had a desk job, which was much easier to manage for a divorced woman with three children.

    Gabriel Marchand was the second person at the table to stand up. He looked like a banker except his graying hair was too long for him to be one. He had a powerful frame and was a tall man with wide shoulders. He exuded energy as he greeted each of their American visitors. “Like Marie-Laure, I’m also a doctor, a cardiologist. I work for the Assistance Publique, the public health services, which is a government position. I see patients occasionally, but not very often. I am a fonctionnaire, what you call a civil servant, and like Marie-Laure, we try to devise systems that will keep our citizens safe in case of an emergency. I am forty-three years old, I have four children, and I am very excited to come to San Francisco,” he said, smiling at them, and then sat down. There was something very strong about him, as though he was accustomed to commanding. He was almost military in his bearing and his style, and all four Americans correctly suspected that he had a high-ranking position in public health.

The next person to stand up was a tall willowy woman with a spectacular figure, long blond hair, and a dazzling smile. In a seemingly effortless way, she was noticeably sexy. She spoke English with a British accent, from where she had learned it. “My name is Valérie Florin. I’m a physician, a psychiatrist. I have a private practice of patients whom I see regularly here in Paris. I also devise the programs for victims of traumatic events, with ongoing follow-up care, for what you call post-traumatic stress. Our programs begin immediately after hostage situations and the kind of violence we’ve seen recently. We set up therapy programs on-site, as the event is happening, for victims, parents, and spouses. I work closely with the police in the negotiation with hostage takers. I am a consultant with the COZ and the author of three books.” And then she grinned. “I am forty-two, unmarried and I prefer it that way, and have no children. My patients are my children, and fortunately none of them live with me.” Everyone laughed at that, and she sat down gracefully. She was one of the most striking women any of the Americans had ever seen, she was gracious, sexy, poised, calm, and totally French, despite her near-perfect English. Tom Wylie was staring at her, and looked like he wanted to crawl across the conference table and grab her. Valérie seemed totally uninterested in him, ignored him, and focused on the others, which drove him crazy. He was unable to catch her eye, and she glanced right through him as though he wasn’t there.