Indirect. That’d done it with the carrier. He paced for a moment longer, puzzling out his approach. Dangerous ground, indirect — finally, he had it. He pushed open the door and stepped into sick bay.
Lobo was curled up on her side in a hospital bed facing away from him. The rails on the sides of the bed were up. A thin cotton bedspread in hospital dingy white was pulled up to her neck. He could see the outline of her body underneath it and saw the shallow, regular breathing change as she came out of a light doze. She twisted slightly, groaned, then shoved herself up into a sitting position.
“Hey,” Bird Dog said. He looked around for a chair. Some ancient prohibition against sitting on the side of a hospital bed rattled around in his mind, momentarily displacing his well-thought-out indirect approach. “Hey,” he started again.
Lobo’s eyes blazed brilliantly in her pale face. Traces of grime clung to one edge of her jaw and her hair was a tattered, spiky mess. She tried to speak but started coughing. Bird Dog glanced around helplessly and started to leave to get a doctor. This coughing — hell, she wasn’t going to die, was she?
In between spasms, Lobo managed to point at the pitcher of water by her bed. When Bird Dog didn’t move, she fixed him with a steely glare. Bird Dog almost knocked the pitcher over scrambling for it.
Finally, he managed to get a glass of water poured into a plastic cup. He handed it to her, then kept his hand over hers to still the trembling in her fingers.
Lobo sipped slowly, grimacing as each mouthful slid down. Finally, when she’d finished half of the water, she moved their hands over the table and loosened her grip on the cup.
“You’d make a rotten RIO,” she said, her voice hoarse and slightly slurred. “Can’t even figure out refueling.”
“I see too good to be a RIO,” Bird Dog said.
“Yeah, well. Sometime seeing’s not enough, you know?” She laid back against the pillows. “So’d you just stop by to gloat? You want to know if they did it to me again?”
“Christ, no, I just — ” Suddenly, his indirect plan was in shambles. How the hell could you sneak up on someone who was always on the attack? She never slowed down enough to be lured into the quiet, sincere discussion he’d had planned, to listen to the few lines of poetry he’d dredged up from ancient English classes.
“I love you,” he said finally. “I came down to see you.”
Lobo stared at him, the shock deepening her pallor. “This would never work,” she said finally. She started shaking her head, winced as some new pain made itself known. “Never in a million years — pilots don’t get involved with pilots.”
“Pilot this.” He leaned over and poised his lips above hers. “Just once.” He moved in slowly, feeling the fear turn into anticipation. Their lips met. Electricity arced between them, fusing their flesh together. For long moments, neither pulled away.
Lobo finally gasped and pulled back. Bird Dog blinked, opened his eyes, and found her hands wrapped around the back of his neck.
“Not fair,” she said. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”
Bird Dog felt a lazy smile of sheer joy spreading across his face. “Let me tell you what my old friend Sunny would say about this.”
THIRTEEN
Ambassador T’ing sprinkled a tiny amount of sugar across the surface of the tea, then watched contemplatively as it sank below the surface. Sarah Wexler decided he must be tracking each atom, timing the exact moment at which it either dissolved completely or sank to the bottom of the cup. She found herself staring, wondering if she would ever be able to understand how T’ing saw a cup of tea.
Or, for that matter, how he saw the currents of power and interest that flowed so chaotically between his country and hers. Was there any possibility that America could truly understand China? Or, for that matter, that China could understand the U.S.?
“As I said — a serious misunderstanding,” T’ing said finally.
Wexler snorted. “A lot of people dead over a misunderstanding.”
T’ing gave her a reproachful look. “Serious, I said. As I’ve said before, Sarah, you must learn to pay attention to the nuances involved.”
Sarah? Now just when did we get on a first name basis? Over the last several years, she thought she’d come to a better understanding of both T’ing and his masters at home than she’d had during the Spratly Islands conflict. She’d even understood what he’d meant when he’d said it was a “serious misunderstanding.” In such circumlocutions are the deals of diplomacy often worked, and she fancied herself more than a little familiar with what China was likely to do in a given situation.
False pride, she’d learned over the last several weeks. Thinking she understood them — it wasn’t a mistake she’d make again. She wondered if T’ing had the same misgivings, dealing with her.
And now first names. A mark of respect? A peace gesture? Or simply a reminder that much of her relationship with him would be wrapped in inscrutable layers of meanings?
She saw quiet amusement in his eyes, and realized that he’d achieved whatever he’d expected to by using her first name, perhaps no more than to throw her temporarily off balance.
Then another possibility occurred to her. Perhaps it was more in the line of a compliment — not using the name alone, but using it and acknowledging that she would take note that he’d done so.
Yes, that was it. She lifted her chin slightly, then gave the smallest of nods. T’ing returned it.
“And one that will end well,” he continued. “Out of the storm comes cleansing. Those unreliable elements in our Special Administrative Region have been pruned, the balance of the people’s government resolved.” He lifted his spoon carefully from the paper-thin cup and laid it on the small saucer to his side. He raised the cup, inclined it slightly toward her. “To a deepening spirit of harmony and cooperation between us, madam.”
“And between our nations, Su,” she said, slipping his first name into the conversation as though she’d been using it forever.
“And that will appear likely as well.” T’ing took a small, appreciative sip of his tea. “Your Mr. McIntyre — we are pleased that he has been restored to you. Such a terrible thing, to be kidnapped by gangsters.” He sighed.
“Indeed.” Wexler tried to keep the doubt out of her voice. Phillip McIntyre’s story agreed far too closely with China’s official party line for her taste. Kidnapped — she watched two grains of sugar collide in her own cup before continuing. “Perhaps some day we will round up the rest of the perpetrators.”
“Perhaps.” T’ing glanced up at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “For McIntyre to pledge so much of his fortune in humanitarian aid for Hong Kong — well, we are humbly pleased. Repairing the damage from the typhoon will take decades.”
“Indeed.” Wexler sensed another layer of meaning behind that statement as well, and filed it away for later examination. The orange blossom scent of the tea was relaxing her.
“And we’ve all learned a valuable lesson, have we not?” T’ing continued, his voice markedly more hearty. “Particularly on how to welcome back parts of our country as they return to the fold.”
“What do you mean?” Wexler said, then immediately regretted the question. With T’ing, one did not ask outright. She saw the faint disappointment in his eyes.
“Nothing specifically,” he said. “I was speaking in general terms.” His eyes held hers across the cup. “Of opportunities.”
Taiwan. A cold shot of adrenaline flooded her system. He’s warning me — Taiwan.