Melissa poured some bottled water on a cloth and rubbed the baby down.
“To cool him off a little,” she said, first in English, then in slower and less steady Arabic. She got a dropper and carefully measured out a dose of acetaminophen. Gesturing, she made the woman understand that she was to give it to the baby. The mother hesitated, then finally agreed.
As she handed over the medicine, Melissa realized that the woman was running a fever herself. She took her thermometer — an electronic one that got its readings from the inner ear — and held it in place while the woman struggled to get her baby to swallow the medicine.
Her fever was 102.8. More serious in an adult.
And what about her baby? The woman looked to be at least eight months pregnant, if not nine.
Melissa took the stethoscope.
“I need to hear your heart,” she said.
She gestured for the woman to take off her long, flowing top. Unsure whether she truly didn’t understand or just didn’t want to be examined, Melissa told her that she was concerned about the baby.
“You have a fever,” she said.
The woman said something and gestured toward the young child on the examining table, who was looking at them with big eyes.
Realizing she was getting nowhere, Melissa went out to the waiting area to get Bloom to help.
Bloom had nodded off. Melissa bent down to wake her. As she did, the pregnant woman came out from the back, carrying her child.
“Wait,” said Melissa, trying to stop her. “Wait!”
“What’s wrong?” asked Bloom, jumping up from the couch.
“She’s sick. Her baby may have a fever, too.”
Bloom spoke in rapid Arabic. The woman answered in her own tongue. Whatever it was she said, Bloom frowned. She answered, speaking less surely. The woman waved her hand and went to the door.
“You have to tell her,” said Melissa.
“I can’t stop her,” said Bloom as the woman left.
“We could at least give her acetaminophen, something for the fever.”
“She won’t take it,” said Bloom. “It’d be a waste.”
“But—”
“If we push too hard, they won’t come back. They have to deal with us at their own pace.”
“If she’s sick, the baby may die.”
“We can’t force her to get better.”
Melissa wanted to argue more — they could have at least made a better argument, at least explained what the dangers were. But her satellite phone rang.
“I–I have to take this,” she said, starting for the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Thinking it was Danny calling to tell her what was going on, she hit the Talk button as she went through the door.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Melissa, what’s the situation?” asked Reginald Harker.
“Hold on, Reg. Let me get somewhere I can talk.”
She walked outside, continuing a little way down the road. The harsh sun hurt her eyes. There was no one outside, and the nearby houses, which yesterday had been teeming with people, seemed deserted. Otherwise, the day seemed perfect, no sign of conflict anywhere.
“I’m here,” she told Harker.
“What’s going on with Mao Man?” he asked.
“We have him tracked to a house on the northeastern side of town.”
“What about the UAV?”
“We think it’s nearby.”
“Think?”
“We’re not entirely sure.” His abrupt tone pissed her off. Try doing this yourself, she thought.
“When will you be sure?”
“I don’t know. There’s a Russian who’s trying to buy it—”
“Do not let the Russian get it.”
“No shit.”
“Mao Man has to be terminated. Take down the Russian, too. Take down the whole damn village — what the hell are you waiting for?”
“Reg—”
“I’m serious, Melissa. Why do you think I sent you there? What the hell did we invest in your training for?”
“I have no idea,” she told him stonily.
“Don’t let these Whiplash people run the show. They have their own agenda. Tell them to stop pussyfooting around and get the damn thing done.”
“Fuck yourself,” she said. But he’d already hung up.
Melissa pushed the phone back into the pocket of her baggy pants. She was so angry she didn’t want to go back into the clinic; she needed to walk off some of her emotion. She clenched her hands into fists and began to walk.
She’d gone only fifty yards or so when she heard trucks in the distance. The sound was faint, the vehicles far off, but instinctively she knew it was trouble.
Chapter 6
Zen sat in the hospital waiting area, tapping his fingers against the arms of his wheelchair. Not since he ran for the Senate had he felt such a combination of anticipation and anxiety. Not that he’d cared about the outcome — he would have been just as content retiring from politics as a two-term congressman and getting a job in the private sector. In some ways he’d have been happier, since few jobs had such a demand on anyone’s time.
The door opened. Dr. Esrang walked in, alone.
“Doc, how are we doin’?” asked Zen.
“Hard to say,” said Esrang. “Brain activity is normal. For him. Physically, no problems. Mood — well, that’s always the question, isn’t it?”
“Once around the block and back inside,” said Zen.
“You’re not actually—”
“Figure of speech, Doc,” said Zen.
“Yes, of course. All right. We’re ready.”
“I think it’s going to work,” said Zen.
Esrang started for the door, then stopped. “Jeff, let me say something, if you don’t mind.”
“Shoot.”
“There may be setbacks.”
“I understand.”
“If you’re serious, we have to keep at it. If this doesn’t go well, then we try something else. All right?”
“Absolutely,” said Zen.
“We keep at it.” Esrang went in then. Pep talks were out of character for the doctor; maybe it was a good omen.
Stoner emerged a few minutes later, flanked by a female nurse who was nearly as big and broad-shouldered as the two male attendants/bodyguards waiting for him. Esrang trailed them, a concerned expression on his face.
Just a damn walk in the sunshine, Zen thought. But it was the first time Stoner would be allowed into the unfenced public area outside.
A baby step, but an important one.
“Hey, Mark,” said Zen. “I was thinking we’d get outside a bit today and walk around. I’m feeling a bit frisky. What do you say?”
Stoner turned toward him but said nothing. His face was blank.
“Good,” said Zen, as enthusiastic as if Stoner had agreed. “Let’s go.”
He began wheeling toward the exit. Stoner and the nurse followed. Dr. Esrang stayed back.
“Did you catch the game last night?” Zen asked. “Nationals took the Mets with a homer in the bottom of the ninth.”
“Good.”
It wasn’t much of a response, but Zen felt vindicated. He rolled slowly down the corridor, pacing himself just ahead of his companion. Jason Black, his aide, was standing there waiting. Jason pushed open the door and held it as the small entourage exited the building. Zen took the lead, rolling along the cement path toward a small picnic area.
“Good view, huh?” Zen wheeled to a stop.
“Of garbage cans,” said Stoner.
It seemed like a non sequitur, just a random comment. Then Zen realized Stoner was looking at the back of a building some hundred yards away.