When Walter spoke of “the conspiracy,” he was referring to Winfield Palmer and his little group of patriots. Of course, Walter had no idea of anything really. He was only loyal because he enjoyed being nasty to people. Working for McKeon and the administration gave him the opportunity to do things that would have otherwise seen him strapped to an execution table with a needle in his vein.
McKeon took a deep breath and pressed his forehead against Ran’s. “This is good news,” he said. “Are you there in Gettysburg?”
Walter cleared his throat. “Unfortunately no, sir. I’m in San Diego on another matter.”
“Very well,” McKeon sighed, looking at Ran. “I’m going to send someone to meet the agents you have on scene. I trust you to have them handle this swiftly and surely. They should use whatever force they deem necessary.”
“Of course, sir,” Walter said. “They’ll scoop up whoever they find. I’ll book the next flight back.”
McKeon ended the call and smiled. He would have kissed Ran on the forehead had it not been for the Navy steward. “Take Marine One and get to Gettysburg as quickly as possible. I don’t want our IDTF idiots to squander this opportunity.”
Ran leaned closer. “Your pet President is in a pissy mood,” she said. “What if he does not want me to borrow his private helicopter?”
“Then kill him,” McKeon whispered, only half joking. “But get out there now. I want Winfield Palmer in a prison cell or in the ground.”
Chapter 21
A stark white light bored into Quinn’s subconscious, needling him awake from an uneasy dream. Every muscle in his body ached as if he had the flu. At least he knew he wasn’t dead. His eyes felt as if they’d been rubbed with sand. Blurry images of Chinese soldiers in green Army uniforms spun in his head, bringing waves of nausea. He blinked, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the light, and found that a tube ran from a catheter in the back of his left wrist to an IV rack at the head of a metal hospital bed. The clang of a chain leg restraint told him he was secured in place by more than a flimsy IV line.
A Chinese woman peered at Quinn over the top of an English copy of The Economist. She looked to be in her late twenties and was pretty, as guards went, with thick black hair piled into a loose bun over an oval face. Black-framed glasses — the kind of glasses that looked like they belonged to a person who might read The Economist in someone else’s hospital room — clung to a smallish nose.
Quinn recognized her immediately as the woman who’d stabbed him just before he passed out.
Her eyes flicked up at the rattle of the leg irons. An audible gasp escaped her lips when she saw Quinn — as if she was surprised that he woke up. She glanced at her watch, then tossed the magazine on the side table and scooted her chair closer.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Quinn?” She spoke in English.
Quinn licked his lips, taking the time to steady his racing mind before he spoke. She knew his name. That was something, since the only identification he carried was a Moroccan passport. He wondered how much he’d babbled while he’d been unconscious.
“I guess I’m okay,” he said, “considering the fact that you stabbed me.” His throat was on fire. He’d been through enough surgeries in his life to recognize the residual pain a breathing tube left in his throat. The bandages on his chest and shoulder confirmed his suspicions. “What happened?”
She gave a little sigh, like she was about to explain something to a child. “Do you know how every story involving politics begins in China?”
“How?” Quinn raised an eyebrow, playing along.
The woman shot a worried gaze over one shoulder, and then the other, before turning back to Quinn. “Just like that.”
“Hmmm,” Quinn grunted. “That might be funny if I wasn’t chained to a hospital bed.”
“You were poisoned, Mr. Quinn,” the woman said.
Quinn ran his fingers along the bandage on his chest. That explained the nausea and the fact that he’d blacked out from such a superficial wound. “The man with the spear. Who is he?”
“A Pakistani,” the woman said. “Unfortunately he did not survive his arrest.”
“That figures,” Quinn said, letting his head fall back against the stiff hospital pillow, eyes closed as another wave of nausea passed. “There were at least four more,” he said. “Did you get them?”
“Perhaps,” the woman said. “We made a large number of arrests, seventeen in all. Three fought back and were killed by authorities. Identifications are still ongoing.”
“What kind of poison?”
“Bì má dú sù,” she said in Mandarin. “Ricin.” She leaned over the edge of the bed, as if she wanted to keep their conversation between them alone. Strands of black hair escaped the utilitarian bun and fell across her forehead. Flushed cheekbones were set high, over a strong jawline. She shot a glance at the door over her shoulder every few seconds, as if still trying to illustrate her earlier joke. “It is a fairly easy substance to procure from the common castor bean. The Pakistani rider was able to inject you with a small pellet from a specially designed metal rod. Crude in its operation, but it would have been effective enough had we not been watching you.”
Quinn put his hand flat on his chest, feeling the surgical wound. He was fortunate this woman had known to look for a ricin pellet. A fleck the size of a pinhead could kill a man. Vomiting, bloody diarrhea, seizures, kidney failure — there was nothing noble about death caused by ricin. The KGB had used it to assassinate a Bulgarian dissident by stabbing him in the thigh with a pellet-shooting umbrella.
“Are you sure you got it all?” he said.
“I removed one pellet while you were still on the buzkashi field,” the woman said. “The doctors here could not locate any more with their scanners. They did some exploratory digging, which I am certain you will feel when the anesthetic wears off, but they did not find anything else. They believe there was only one. The spear was painted with some sort of sedative or I fear you would have fought until you were dead.”
Quinn reached for a cup of water on the side table. It was room temperature but brought some relief to his sore throat. “This Pakistani,” Quinn said. “Might he have been one of Habibullah’s men?”
The Chinese woman shook her head. “I do not believe so,” she said. “We have Habibullah in custody. We will certainly ask him.”
Quinn took another sip of water. A Pakistani. It made sense. One of Mandeep Gola’s men must have recognized him and been working for the other side. “How long have I been out?”
“A few hours.” The woman glanced down at her lap. “You spoke of someone named Veronica while you were still under sedation… in terms that were quite tender.”
Quinn took a deep breath, steadying himself by assessing his surroundings, careful not to say anything that would confirm any of his unconscious babbling.
The door leading out of the room was shut and had no window, but it was safe to assume there was at least one more guard posted outside. The furniture and bed linens were worn and shabby and though the room looked clean, it didn’t have the sterile smell common to hospitals in the United States.
Dressed in nothing but a flimsy cotton hospital gown, Quinn was in a private room in a culture where multi-patient wards were the norm. His only contact was this woman who, though she seemed willing to answer his questions, was surely a government agent. She was tall and trimly built, but well-muscled like she’d just finished boot camp. She wore fashionable jeans and a tight black T-shirt. The imprint of a pistol was clearly visible at the waist of her khaki journalist vest. Quinn couldn’t see her shoes from his vantage point on the bed, but was sure they were at once stylish and utilitarian. There was a sort of awkwardness about the woman, as if she was working from a script, and didn’t quite have all the lines memorized.