by Jay MacLarty
Mawl ignored the comment; he suspected as much, and finished wiping the fog off the inside of the windshield. “Something’s going on.”
Robbie snatched up his night-vision scope and trained it on the hospital’s main entrance. “I’m not seeing anything.”
“Check out the guards.”
Robbie moved the scope back and forth, scrutinizing the two men flanking the doors. “Aye, they’re not lookin’ any different to me.”
“See how they’re standing?” It was a foolish question; Jocko was too gung-ho-warrior to notice the subtle things. “They’re expecting something. Someone.”
“I don’t see…” The kid’s voice trailed away as a three-car caravan turned off the Estrada do Visconde and circled toward the entrance. “Must be someone important.”
Mawl laid the crosshairs of his telephoto lens directly on the limousine, one of the six champagne-colored DTS Presidential models that made up the new Pacific Pearl courtesy fleet. “Probably Li Quan.” The Pearl’s general manager was the only major player in the world of Macau gaming who had not yet joined the deathwatch. As the security men moved into protective positions, Mawl zeroed in on the limousine’s rear door, the camera automatically adjusting to the distance and light.
“Those buggers are good,” Robbie whispered, as if his voice might carry the hundred meters. “Very good, aye?”
Mawl nodded. “The best.”
“Maybe the old boy’s gone toes up.”
“Maybe,” Mawl agreed, but he didn’t think so. His inside man, a male nurse with a taste for drugs and gambling, had orders to call the minute Rynerson’s condition took a turn. Up or down.
One of the security men popped an umbrella and pulled open the door. Mawl clicked off a couple quick profile shots before a head of honey-blond hair disappeared beneath the cone of black silk. “Not Li Quan, that’s for sure.”
Staring into the optic tubes of his binoculars, Robbie whistled softly. “Pretty damn sweet for an old bird.”
Old! The woman didn’t look more than thirty-five, but to Jocko, who had never shagged anything older than a teenager, she must have looked like a golden oldie. “Rynerson’s daughter, that’s my guess.”
“Who’s the fella?”
Mawl clicked off a half-dozen more shots before they disappeared into the lobby. “Not a clue.”
“Husband?”
“Not if it’s Rynerson’s daughter. She’s a widow.”
“That right? She looks pretty young to be a widow.”
Mawl smiled to himself—from old bird to pretty young in a heartbeat—and began paging through his background file on Rynerson. “Yeah, that’s her. Kyra Rynerson. I want you on her security team.”
Robbie stared across the narrow space, his eyes devoid of understanding. “And just how am I supposed to be doing that?”
“You have the perfect profile,” Mawl answered. “Ex-military. Young. English speaking. That’s exactly what they’ll be looking for. Most important, when they call the Kowloon Security Service to check your references—” He tapped the cell phone on his belt. “It’ll be me they’re talking to.”
“Well sure, that sounds great,” Robbie said, sounding anything but confident. “But what if they’re not hiring.”
Mawl smiled to himself. The kid was so bloody naïve. “Trust me, they’ll have an opening.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hospitalar Centro Conde São Januário de Macau
Friday, 29 June 01:51:38 GMT +0800
Hospitals, Simon thought, they were all the same, the air thick with the smell of antiseptics and disinfectants, everything gray and white and sterile—including the people. Without so much as a pause, the security team escorted them through the reception area, up the elevator, and down a long hall to a door marked in both Chinese and English: ICU OBSERVATION. The room was nondescript and sparsely furnished—a small gray table with a phone, sandwiched between two gray chairs—about the size of a jail cell.
Simon closed the door behind him, feeling a little awkward and out of place as Kyra embraced her mother. Though the Rynersons had always treated him with great kindness, he wasn’t exactly sure how he fit in, where that dividing line came between friendship and hired help. Finally, after a long, silent minute, Billie turned and took both his hands. “Thanks for coming.” She squeezed hard, the way a person does when they’re hanging on to a life preserver. “I knew we could count on you.”
“Of course.” For exactly what, he had no idea, but suspected the answer to that question would come soon enough. “Any change?”
“Absolutely.” She reached over and pulled open a short miniblind that covered most of one wall. “All good.”
Kyra took a step back, stricken by the scene beyond the glass: her father, the indomitable Big Jake Rynerson, reduced to a comatose mass, his great body being fed through tubes of plastic, his head covered with silver electrodes, his vital signs monitored by an array of electronic meters and monitors. “Daddy…” The word squeezed past her lips in a gasp, like she’d been holding it in for hours.
“No, honey, it’s not as bad as it looks,” Billie said, putting an arm around her daughter’s waist. “Really.”
“How?” Kyra demanded, pulling away from her mother’s grasp. “How could it look any worse?”
Exactly what Simon was asking himself. To his untrained eyes it looked worse than bad—it looked fatal.
“He’s breathing on his own,” Billie answered, “and his vital signs are strong. That’s a big improvement.”
Kyra shook her head, not buying any of it. “You told me he had a mild concussion. The only worry was the gunshot wound.” She stabbed a finger at the glass. “Look at him. Wired up like a damn switchboard. That doesn’t look mild to me.”
Billie, not the kind to take backtalk from anyone, including her daughter, took a deep breath and held it, a rumbling volcano struggling to hold back its lava. “I…didn’t—” She hammered each word. “—want…you…to…worry.”
“For Christ’s sake, Mother, I’m thirty-seven years old, not some child!”
Before Billie could respond, Simon edged his way between them. “Okay, okay.” The last thing they needed was a mother-daughter war. “Let’s all take a deep breath and—”
“I’m not interested in some feel-good version of the truth,” Kyra interrupted, her voice tight with anger. “I want to see the doctor.”
“And why shouldn’t you?” Billie fired back. She snatched the phone off the table and punched in three numbers. “This is Billie Rynerson. Would y’all ask Dr. Yuan to step in here when he has a moment?”
The door opened almost before she cradled the receiver. “You wished to see me, Mrs. Rynerson?” He spoke in the clear, measured way of someone speaking a second language.
“Please.” Billie motioned him forward.
Yuan squeezed into the tiny room and closed the door. He was a short man, middle-aged, with a round somber face and small alert eyes, his stout body covered neck to knee in a white lab coat. Billie inclined her head toward Kyra. “This here is my daughter, Kyra Rynerson.” Another nod. “And our friend, Simon Leonidovich.”
The doctor bowed his head, a small and dignified acknowledgment. “How may I be of assistance?”
“My daughter,” Billie answered, “would like an unbiased evaluation of her father’s condition.”
“Of course.” The doctor’s thick eyebrows drew together, as if trying to decide where to begin. “You know, of course, that your father sustained two gunshot wounds. One to the—”
“No,” Kyra interrupted, cutting an accusatory glance toward her mother. “I didn’t know.”
The doctor hesitated, realized he had stepped into a combat zone and looked at Billie, clearly hoping for some guidance. After an awkward moment of silence, with no help offered, he cleared his throat and continued. “Yes, that is correct. Two shots. One to the thorax area, missing his heart but puncturing his left lung. And one here.” He raised his right arm, indicat
ing a spot about twelve inches below his armpit. “This wound was the most troublesome, severing the superior mesenteric vein and penetrating both the ascending colon and small intestine. The blood loss was significant.”
Kyra nodded thoughtfully. “And these wounds are life-threatening?”
“Not at the moment,” Yuan answered. “Fortunately, your father is a very strong man.” The doctor spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. “But there was considerable fecal contamination within the abdominal cavity. Infection is always a concern.”
“What about brain damage?” Kyra nodded toward her father and his crown of electrodes. “I assume he went without oxygen for a time.”
“Unfortunately,” Yuan confirmed, “resulting in a coma. But—” He raised a finger in warning. “It is still very early. Very important we not jump to conclusions.”
“But you know something?”
A reluctant frown creased Yuan’s forehead. “The tests are complicated and difficult for a layperson to understand. I would not wish to give the wrong impression.”
“And I appreciate that,” Kyra responded, her tone conciliatory, yet persistent, “but I have a bachelor’s degree in virology and a doctorate in zoology. Though I’m hardly an expert, I do have some understanding of human physiology: enough to know that you’re using a geodesic net to map brainwave activity.” She leaned forward, laying a hand on the man’s forearm, as if they were old colleagues discussing a case. “So, what’s the status, Doc? Have you determined a GCS?”
Yuan stared at her as if she had suddenly materialized from another dimension. “You are familiar with Glasgow Coma Scoring?”
“I am.”
The conversation immediately dissolved into a complicated discussion of neurological scales, both of them talking in medical shorthand—incomprehensible acronyms and inexplicable synonyms—all of which meant nothing to Simon, and only added to the confusion about Big Jake’s condition. Billie looked equally bewildered, her attention drawn to the scene beyond the glass: a nurse changing one of the IV bags feeding life into her husband’s arm. Simon tried to concentrate on other things, not wanting to think of Big Jake Rynerson lying in a vegetative state for the rest of his life, but his mind kept spinning back to that very thought, the way a tongue keeps picking at a popcorn husk caught between the teeth. A sudden change in the medical debate refocused his attention.
“Move?” Kyra stared at the doctor in bewilderment. “What are you talking about? Move him where?”
Dr. Yuan looked at Billie, who looked at her daughter. “We’re moving him to Bangkok.”
“Bangkok?” Kyra repeated, her voice rising in disbelief. “Why?”
Billie turned back to the doctor. “Thank you, Dr. Yuan. We sure do appreciate all you’re doing here.”
Yuan not only took the hint, he couldn’t escape fast enough, bowing and backing his way out of the room. Kyra waited until the door closed before going on the attack. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Well, ah course it is,” Billie answered, her West Texas twang flat with sarcasm. “I can’t imagine a more appropriate time for humor.”
“He’s in no condition to travel.”
“It’s only a two-hour flight. They’ve got a first-rate medical facility.”
“But why take the risk?”
Billie raised her chin, the expression of someone sitting with crossed arms. “Dr. Yuan assures me the risk is minimal.”
“We’re talking about Dad’s life,” Kyra shot back. “There is no minimal.”
“You’re right, it’s his life, and I don’t believe he’s safe here.”
“What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t he be safe?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Kyra, your father was shot.”
“A random shooting, you said. A botched robbery. It wasn’t personal.”
“Well, yes,” Billie answered, “but it’s not that simple.” She motioned toward the pair of tubular metal chairs. “Let’s sit down.”
Kyra expelled a deep breath—the exasperated sigh of an adult child when they’re being pushed into something by a parent—and lowered herself onto the vinyl cushion. Simon edged back against the door, hoping neither of them would try to enlist his support—a no-win entanglement, no matter what he said.
Billie slid into the second chair. “What I’m about to tell you—” She glanced at Simon, letting him know the admonition was all-inclusive. “Can’t leave this room.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Mother, don’t be so dramatic. It’s not your style.”
“I assure you, I am not being dramatic, Kyra. This is serious. I mean it. I want your word…both of you…nothing will leave this room.”
“Of course,” Simon answered without hesitation, hoping Kyra would take the hint and give her mother some slack. “Whatever you say, Billie.”
Kyra shrugged wearily and sat back. “Okay. Sure. What’s the big secret?”
Billie glared back at her, ready to pounce, then apparently thought better of it and simply responded to her daughter’s sarcasm. “Yes, Kyra, that’s exactly what it is…a secret.” She paused, still groping for the right words. “Your father’s been working on something very important with the President.”
Kyra glanced at Simon, then back to her mother. “The president of what?”
“The president of the United States.”
“Oh.” She gave her mother a puzzled, somewhat mistrustful look. “I thought Daddy hated politicians?”
“Normally that’s true, but he seems to have a special affinity for this one.”
Kyra’s expression went from skeptical to one of intense interest. “Does that mean those old rumors are true? That he was responsible for putting the President in office?”
Simon found himself holding his breath, wondering if Jake had broken their vow of silence, and had exposed their secret to Billie. A secret, Simon knew, that if it ever slipped out, would change his life forever—and not in a good way.
“I asked him point blank,” Billie answered. “He denied having anything to do with it.”
Kyra frowned, a cheated look, and Simon jumped in, trying to steer the conversation away from old rumors. “So what’s going on, Billie?”
“The President has been working on a trade agreement between the United States, mainland China, and Taiwan.
“Are you saying—” Simon hesitated, considering the ramifications. “You mean China is finally going to recognize Taiwan?”
“No,” Billie answered. “Not exactly. That’s why I said mainland China. It’s all a matter of semantics. They both consider themselves to be the legitimate government of the Chinese people. Officially this is only a trade agreement, the Pacific Rim Alliance, but even that’s a huge concession on the part of Beijing.”
“And what,” Kyra asked, “does Daddy have to do with all this?”
“For want of a better term, let’s say he’s the glue. The incentive package. In return for their cooperation, I’m talking about Beijing, he’s agreed to help with their petroleum problem.”
“I thought Daddy was pretty much out of the oil business.”
“He’s been in and out. Presently in. Most of his holdings are now in South America.”
“But why should he—”
“Because,” Billie interrupted, “Congress would never agree to relinquish any of our reserves. The President needed an independent. Someone big enough to take the heat.”
“That’s Daddy.” She glanced toward the comatose figure beyond the glass. “But why hasn’t this been in the news?”
“They’re trying to keep a lid on the negotiations. Too many things can still go wrong. Half the world would like to see this thing fail, and some of them would do about anything to make that happen. Hell, half the Chinese Politburo would rather drop bombs than trade food with Taiwan.” She nodded toward the inert figure of her husband. “I’m afraid this won’t help. That’s why we need to keep the seriousness of Jake’s condition to ourselves, and just hope he recovers
in time.”
“In time?” Kyra asked. “In time for what?”
“The signing ceremony is scheduled for the twenty-first of July.”
“You must be kidding! There’s no way he’s going to be in any condition to—”
“Your father’s a bull,” Billie interrupted. “If he comes out of this coma…when he comes out…there’s no reason he can’t—”
“Now you’re the one being obtuse, Mother. Just look at him. He’s—”
“Okay,” Simon cut in, “that’s enough. If I know Jake, he’ll sit up when he feels like it, and there’s nothing the two of you can do to change that.” Though somewhat simplistic, it was a statement neither of them could challenge. “What’s so important about the twenty-first of July? I thought that’s when the Pearl was scheduled to open?”
Billie nodded. “The opening, the signing, the whole damn thing. Everything is tied together.”
Simon pulled a small notebook from his pocket, ready to take down the details. “We’ve got a month. Why can’t the ceremony be pushed back?”
“If only we could. The date was established by some famous feng shui master. Something to do with geology. It’s all gobbledygook to me.”
Wrong science, Simon thought, but he couldn’t disagree with the gobbledygook assessment. “I think you’re talking about the Chinese art of geomancy. It’s a method of foretelling the future by reading the geographic patterns produced by small particles thrown at random onto the ground.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it. Geomancy. Jake calls it ‘reading dirt.’”
Simon smiled to himself—Jake did have a way of getting to the essence. “You said ‘the whole damn thing.’ Is there something else besides the signing and opening?”
“Unfortunately, yes. That’s where you come in. You know anything about Chao Cheng?”
“A little. Isn’t he the warlord who unified China into one nation, built the Great Wall, and declared himself Shih Huang-Ti, First Sovereign Emperor?”