He wants to stay with Kylie all day, every day. But he knows this is his last chance to see her in Hong Kong. He would put Ryan on high alert if he asked to come again. Requesting this visit was problematic enough.
He’ll meet with Harry Dyer when he’s done. Brannigan’s scheduling has turned out to be overly optimistic. He sends Harry a text.
Running late at hospital. Enjoy the
sunshine. Meet me outside front doors.
They began their discussion in Beijing.
Harry came to his hospital room. Brannigan was sitting up in bed holding his thumb and index finger an inch apart.
“I’m this close to firing Dickie.”
“Have you told anyone else?”
“Not yet. You’re my sounding board.”
“I know you’re unhappy with him. But why now?”
“His behavior after the train wreck.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing. Zero. Nada.”
“Did you say anything to him?”
“Like what?”
“Come to Beijing. We could use your support.”
“He needs to be told that?”
“Dickie isn’t the warmest guy in the world.”
“Neither am I. But most of the other engineers are longtime friends of his. At least they thought they were.”
“He probably figured you had things under control.”
“I did,” Brannigan said. “That isn’t the point.”
“Maybe he was too busy.”
“To be a human being? Give me a break.”
“Talk to him, Michael. Maybe he’ll shape up.”
Harry had smuggled a six-pack into the hospital. Brannigan popped the top of his second beer. “That sound always relaxes me.” His nurse shot them a disapproving look. It morphed into a smile when Brannigan toasted her with a raised Tsingtao.
He didn’t respond to Harry’s suggestion until she left the room. “I haven’t forgotten his strong points, or our personal history. Dickie was a force at Stanford. He chaired the engineering department, managed the Asian Club, and still found time to supervise my master’s thesis. I don’t know how he did it.”
“Maybe he doesn’t have the stones.”
“That’s not it. He has a huge ego.”
“You spent lots of time together. What’s the explanation?”
“Beats me. In the beginning he was a great fit.” Brannigan chugged his beer then squeezed the can until it resembled an hourglass. “He nearly doubled our Chinese business. But lately he’s been resting on his oars. Dickie likes the glad-handing, the first-class trips to China, and schmoozing with the commies. What he doesn’t enjoy is hard work and meeting deadlines. He’s the last guy I’d pick to manage a major project.”
“How long has he been going downhill?”
“A couple years.”
“Distance has to be one explanation. You hardly see each other.”
“It’s more involved than that.”
“Does he resent taking orders from his student?”
“I’ve gotten those vibes.”
“You’ll work it out.”
“I don’t see that happening. He’s become a one-trick pony. Dickie doesn’t originate business from anyone other than the PRC— not even other Asian countries. I need stronger role models for our up-and-coming managers.”
“What’s your next move?” Harry asked.
“A Come to Jesus meeting.”
Brannigan has been waiting twenty minutes.
Too agitated to sit down, he’s pacing back and forth, worried that Kylie took a turn for the worse. “C’mon, Bryce,” he mutters. “What’s going on?”
The lobby is crowded. He steps to his right—the left side of the pavilion is totally blocked off—but he still can’t see down the main hallway. The biggest obstruction is a four-generation Chinese family who have been hogging the elevator. They range in age from newborn to a grandmother who can’t be a day under ninety-five. His view improves when the group slowly drifts toward the front entrance.
He sees a tall Caucasian woman changing direction. The blonde turns to the right and walks toward him. His pulse races when he sees her short hair, stylish clothes, and great figure. The mirage lasts a few seconds before it disappears. This woman is just as beautiful. But when she gets closer, he realizes she isn’t Kylie.
“You must be Michael.”
He wondered how she identified him—until he looked around the lobby. He’s the only Caucasian male in the waiting area.
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m Marielle Herzog, Kylie’s mother.” She lays her hands on his shoulders and gives him a continental kiss. “Thank you for coming.”
“The engineers asked me to express their sympathy.”
“We appreciate all your flowers and cards.”
“I wish there was more we could do.”
The mother looks young enough to be her sister. Their likeness— features, coloring, and physique—is striking. But he’s already noticed a major difference between them. Kylie is a quintessentially modern woman. Her mother’s elegance is from a bygone era—Hohenzollern, not Dietrich.
Marielle slides her arm under Brannigan’s and turns him toward the elevator. “Let’s go to Kylie’s room.” The mother does her best to appear upbeat, but he sees the tears welling in her eyes.
“Is this a bad time?” he asks.
“Not at all. The nurse should be done by now.”
“Any progress?”
“Not yet. Tell me how you’re doing?”
“My injuries weren’t serious.”
“Your face tells a different story.”
“Bumps and bruises. I’m very lucky.”
“So are we. You saved our lives. Hers and mine.”
“Kylie would do the same for me.”
“That doesn’t change things.”
Concerned about saying too much, he refocuses their conversation. “Kylie will be so glad you’re here. When did you arrive?”
“Yesterday. I would’ve come sooner, but I fainted when I heard the news. My doctor sent me to the hospital for observation.”
“How are you holding up?”
“The shock still hasn’t worn off. I don’t handle stress very well. Kylie and my husband are the strong ones in the family.”
Brannigan is puzzled by the last part of her comment and doesn’t know how to respond. He’s relieved when one of the Stanford nurses approaches them.
“I’m going to the cafeteria, Marielle. Can I get you something?”
“I appreciate the offer, Annie. Maybe later.”
“You need to eat.”
“Maybe a piece of fruit.”
“I’ll bring you an apple and a bowl of soup.”
“That’s very kind. Thank you.”
They enter the room.
This time Brannigan walks right up to her bed. Kylie is still comatose and hooked up to a ventilator. Although he doesn’t notice any improvement, he hopes something—even if it’s not visible—has changed for the better.
“When was her last MRI?”
“Yesterday.”
“What did it show?”
Marielle wipes Kylie’s forehead and smooths her hair. “The swelling has receded. That’s probably why she stopped having seizures. Her doctors are pleased.”
“That’s positive.”
“Yes. But physicians aren’t always right.”
“They are most of the time.”
“Not when she was younger.”
Marielle takes his hand and escorts him out of the room. They sit down in the small waiting area at the end of the hallway. He occupied the same chair during his first visit. She says, “I was afraid Kylie might hear us,” and starts fussing with her hemline. Brannigan wonders if she suspects he and Kylie were lovers. His curiosity heightens when she asks, “Did you spend much time with my daughter?”
Flying down from Beijing, Brannigan anticipated her ex might ask the same question. He
decides to try out his canned response. “We all got to know her. The Europeans thought she was very sophisticated.”
“She may come across that way. But deep down, she’s a country girl.” He can’t picture his lover competing in a tractor pull. Apparently her mother can. “She spent a lot of time at our ranch. Kylie knows her way around the milking parlor and bales hay faster than our hired hands.”
“There isn’t much she can’t—” Brannigan leaves his comment hanging. He doesn’t want to make their relationship sound too cozy.
“What were you going to say?”
“She’s a talented person.”
“That’s true. But I wish she weren’t so competitive.”
“My company needs more people like that.”
“You don’t have to be the best at everything.”
“That’s not for me to say.”
“Kylie doesn’t listen to me anymore.”
“This is way above my pay grade.”
“I shouldn’t bother you—”
“I understand how you feel. My mother and sister had issues . . . What else does she do at your ranch?”
“She’s always loved horses.”
Brannigan had been searching for a safe topic.
“She showed us pictures of her rodeos.”
“I don’t approve of those.”
“Why not? She seems to be good at it.”
“Did she mention her accident?”
“Not that I remember.” Brannigan is certain she didn’t. He has a word-for-word recollection of all their conversations.
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“What happened?”
“It was my fault—”
“I doubt that.”
“You won’t when you know what happened.”
“Tell me.”
“We were in the mountains, riding across rough terrain. She challenged me to a race—and I foolishly accepted. Her horse stumbled, and Kylie took a very bad fall.”
“You weren’t to blame.”
“Of course I was. I’m her mother—”
“It could’ve happened riding with a friend.”
“But it didn’t. My job was to keep her safe, not act like another teenager. The fall changed her life. I’ve never forgiven myself.”
“How seriously was she hurt?”
“She broke her pelvis in several places.”
“That must’ve been painful.”
“She had to sit on a donut cushion for almost a year.”
“Did she need surgery?”
“No. The fractures healed on their own.”
“Was that her only injury?”
“I thought so. But the next month she missed her period.”
“Was that caused by the fall?”
“It had never happened before.”
“How did they deal with that?”
“They predicted it would normalize on its own.”
“What went wrong?”
“Nothing. It self-corrected.”
“Then why—”
“The damage had already been done.”
“I thought you said—”
“Did you know she was married?”
He wasn’t ready for that tangent. Kylie mentioned she was divorced but didn’t get into the details. Deciding he has to respond, he repackages how he learned about it. “I remember her telling an engineer’s wife about her marriage. I was having a different conversation and didn’t hear the specifics.”
“She and her husband were very much in love.” Brannigan assumed as much. But hearing it makes him jealous. The superlatives make it that much worse. “They were excited about having children. Kylie was young and healthy and thought getting pregnant would be easy. It wasn’t.”
“Do you know why?”
“It had to be her fall.”
“Did her doctors tell you that?”
“They couldn’t identify any other problem.”
“There are other ways to have children.”
“We went to a fertility specialist and explored all of them. Kylie would’ve done anything—artificial insemination, IVF, surrogates, even donor eggs. But her husband wanted babies the traditional way.”
“Wouldn’t he compromise?”
“Compromise? He wouldn’t even discuss it.”
“I can understand why she divorced him.”
“She’d never do that. That verlierer walked out on her.”
This is lighting up Brannigan’s own guilt feelings. He marks time while he searches for a segue into a less painful subject. “That must have been hard on her.”
“It was bad enough feeling like a complete failure and worrying about the religious fallout. She hit rock bottom when his new wife had twins.”
Under the circumstances, he doesn’t feel constrained by the truth. “It might not seem that way. But Kylie’s going to recover and have a wonderful family.”
Marielle stands up and wipes a tear from her cheek. “Thanks for your optimism. I just wish I believed it . . . Let’s go back to her room. You came to see my daughter, not her moody mother.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“I feel so weak and helpless.”
“That’s the reaction any parent would have.”
“It’s not just this. I’ve been worried about her for a long time.”
“You shouldn’t be. She’s very successful.”
“Not at being happy.”
Marielle squeezes his hand as they enter the room.
“I don’t know, Michael . . .”
When she hesitates, he squeezes back. “Don’t know what?”
“Why Kylie couldn’t meet a man like you.”
CHAPTER 21
JIANG SHÌLÍN IS catnapping outside the president’s office.
The door latch clicks. His eyes open wide and he sits bolt upright before Lao enters the antechamber. “Come back inside, General.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sorry for the interruption. I had to take that call.”
“It sounded important.”
“The laborers at Three Gorges Dam went on strike.”
“I didn’t know we allowed those.”
“That’s because we don’t.”
“There’ll be a run on candles and batteries.”
“Just what I need—another problem.”
“Think of the bright side. At least you have some variety.”
Lao adjusts his lumbar cushion and sits down. “I wish that were true of my diet. My meals are all the same—tasteless.” The president peels the foil off a tub of cottage cheese. He pushes it away after one spoonful and resumes their conversation where they left off. “There’s no reason to change our approach in Tibet.”
Jiang pours himself another cup of tea. “I agree, Mr. President. Moderation and targeted retaliations work best. Cracking down on the entire province would only make things worse.”
“Will the Indians and Pakistanis think we’re weak?”
“Probably the opposite. The subcontinent will think it’s dis-information. They know we’ll never give up control of the Yangzi or the Himalayas.”
“How are the Tibetans reacting to my policies?”
“There isn’t much dissent.”
“What about their underground newspapers?”
“They’ve never gotten traction. Most Tibetans don’t read.”
“Do they know what happened to your men?”
“The phones and social networks have been quiet. The bodies were in a roadside ditch, but it’s possible no one saw them. They weren’t visible unless you got right up to the edge.”
“How long were they there?”
“Less than twelve hours—and most of the time it was dark. They weren’t there at dusk and we spotted them at sunrise.”
“What else is on our Tibetan agenda?”
“Tracking down the assassins.”
“What about your Tibetan network?”
“I promoted several
people. We’re almost back to full strength.”
“Update me on the Muslims.”
“They’re a much bigger threat.”
“How should we handle them?”
“Continue what we’re already doing.”
“Why can’t we penetrate their command structure?”
“They’ve blown all our agents.”
“I don’t care what else you’re doing. Put ETIM out of business— or I’ll find someone who can. We look ridiculous. The Uighurs mowed down fifty people at Tiananmen Gate, stabbed a hundred and fifty more at the Kunming train station, and blew up an outdoor market in Urumqi. Their Silk Road bombing was even more outrageous. At our next meeting, I expect results, not excuses.”
Jin Kai retains his status as professor emeritus at Fudan University.
During his distinguished career—student polls ranked him their top teacher—Jin published extensively on China’s western provinces. He’s still regarded as the country’s foremost authority on Muslim affairs. His portfolio as chief of staff includes advising the president on how to manage the Uighur problem.
He discussed Xinjiang Province with Lao during his first week in office. The president was optimistic about quelling the unrest.
“They’ll come around if we loosen the reins.”
“That’ll only make things worse.”
“Have you always been a defeatist?”
“When it comes to our Muslim problem—yes. We can’t even agree on the province’s name. They call it the Eastern Caliphate of Turkestan, a continent trapped inside an evil empire. They’ll never consider Xinjiang to be part of China. Giving them greater autonomy will only whet their appetite for total independence.”
“Renaming their desert won’t change anything.”
“Size alone makes it important. Xinjiang is one-sixth of our land-mass. That’s larger than France, the UK, Germany, and Italy combined.”
“You could say the same thing about Greenland.”
“I wouldn’t. They’re much different.”
“You know what I mean.”
“How often have you been there?”
“Two days in Urumqi and a short visit to Lop Nur.”
“Have you been to the southern part?”
“No—and I won’t be going anytime soon.”
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