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cause she was a politician and Caroline Ryan a mere surgeon? Would it be different had she chosen to become a lawyer? No, probably not, her mind went on, racing as it sometimes did when a surgical procedure went bad unexpectedly. No, it wasn’t that at all. Cathy remembered a night right here in the East Room, facing off with Elizabeth Elliot. It was the same supercilious mind-set: I’m better than you because of who I am and what I do. SURGEON–that was her Secret Service code name, which had not displeased her at all, really–looked more deeply into the dark eyes before hers. There was even more to it than that. Cathy let go of her hand as the next big shot came through the mill.
The Prime Minister departed the line and headed for a circulating waiter, from whom she took a glass of juice. It would have been too obvious to do what she really wanted to do. That would come the next day, in New York. For now she looked at one of her fellow Prime Ministers, this one representing the People’s Republic of China. She raised her glass a centimeter or so, and nodded without smiling. A smile was unnecessary. Her eyes conveyed the necessary message.
“Is it true they call you SWORDSMAN?” Prince Ali bin Sheik asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“Yes, and, yes, it is because of what you gave me,” Jack told him. “Thank you for flying over.”
“My friend, there is a bond between us.” His Royal Highness was not quite a chief of state, but with the current illness of his sovereign, Ali was taking over more and more of the Kingdom’s duties. He was now in charge of foreign relations and intelligence, the former schooled by Whitehall, the latter by Israel’s Mossad, in one of the most ironic and least-known contradictions in a part of the world known for its interlocking non sequiturs. On the whole, Ryan was pleased by that. Though he had much on his plate, Ali was capable.
“You’ve never met Cathy, have you?”
The Prince shifted his gaze. “No, but I have met your colleague, Dr. Katz. He trained my own eye doctor. Indeed, your husband is a fortunate man, Dr. Ryan.”
And the Arabs were supposed to be cold, humorless,
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and disrespectful of women? Cathy asked herself. Not this guy. Prince Ali took her hand gently.
“Oh, you must have met Bernie when he went over in 1994.” Wilmer had helped establish the eye institute in Riyadh, and Bernie had stayed five months to do some clinical instruction.
“He performed surgery on a cousin who was injured in a plane crash. He’s back flying. And those are your children over there?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” This one went into the card file as a good guy.
“Would you mind if I spoke with them?”
“Please.” The Prince nodded and moved off.
Caroline Ryan, he thought, making his mental notes. Highly intelligent, highly perceptive. Proud. Will be an asset to her husband if he has the wit to make use of her. What a pity, he thought, that his own culture utilized its women so inefficiently–but he wasn’t King yet, might never be, and even if he were to become so, there were limits to the changes he could make under the best of circumstances. His nation still had far to go, though many forgot how breathtakingly far the Kingdom had come in two generations. Even so, there was a bond between him and Ryan, and because of that, a bond between America and the Kingdom. He walked over to the Ryan family, but before he got there he saw what he needed. The children were slightly overwhelmed by everything. The smallest daughter was having the easiest time of it, sipping at a soft drink under the watchful eye of a Secret Service agent, while a few diplomatic wives attempted to talk to her. She was accustomed to being doted on, as so small a child ought to be. The son, older, was the most disoriented, but that was normal for a lad of his age, no longer a child but not yet a man. The eldest, Olivia to the briefing documents but Sally to her father, was dealing well with the most awkward age of all. What struck Prince Ali was that they were not used to all this. Their parents had protected them from Jack’s official life. Spoiled as they undoubtedly were in some ways, they did not have the bored, haughty look of other such kids. You could tell much of a man and woman by examining their children. A moment later, he bent
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down over Katie. Initially she was taken aback by his unusual clothing–Ali had feared frostbite only two hours before–but in a moment his warm smile had her reaching up to touch his beard while Don Russell stood a meter away like a watch-bear. He took the time to catch the agent’s eye, and the two traded a quick look. He knew that Cathy Ryan would be watching, too. What better way to befriend people than to show solicitude to their children? But it was more than that, and in his written report to his ministers, he would warn them not to judge Ryan by his somewhat awkward funeral speech. That he was not the usual sort to lead a country didn’t mean that he was unfit to do so.
But some were.
Many of them were in this room.
SISTER JEAN BAPTISTE had done her best to ignore it, working through the heat of the day to sunset, trying to deny the discomfort that soon grew into genuine pain, hoping it would fade away, as minor ailments did–always did. She’d come down with malaria virtually her first week in this country, and that disease had never really gone away. At first she’d thought that’s what it was, but it wasn’t. The fever she’d written off to a typically hot Congo day wasn’t that, either. It surprised her that she was afraid. For as often as she’d treated and consoled others, she’d never really understood the fear they had. She knew they were afraid, understood the fact that fear existed, but her response to it was succor and kindness, and prayer. Now for the first time, she was beginning to understand. Because she thought she knew what it was. She’d seen it before. Not often. Most of them never got this far. But Benedict Mkusa had gotten here, for what little good it had done. He would surely be dead by the end of the day, Sister Maria Magdalena had told her after morning mass. As little as three days before she would have sighed–but consoled herself with the thought that there would be another angel in heaven. Not this time. Now she feared that there might be two. Sister Jean Baptiste leaned against the
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door frame. What had she done wrong? She was a careful nurse. She didn’t make mistakes. Well.
She had to leave the ward. She did so, walking down the breezeway to the next building, directly into the lab. Dr. Moudi was, as usual, at his workbench, concentrating as he always did, and didn’t hear her walk in. When he turned, rubbing his eyes after twenty minutes on the microscope, he was surprised to see the holy woman with her left sleeve rolled up, a rubber strip tight around her upper arm, and a needle in her antecubital vein. She was on her third 5cc test tube, and discarding that, expertly drew a fourth.
“What is the matter, Sister?”
“Doctor, I think these need to be tested at once. Please, you will wish to put on a fresh pair of gloves.”
Moudi walked over to her, staying a meter away while she withdrew the needle from her arm. He looked at her face and eyes–like the women in his home city of Qom, she dressed in a very chaste and proper manner. There was much to admire about these nuns: cheerful, hardworking, and very devoutly in service to their false god–that wasn’t strictly true. They were People of the Book, respected by the Prophet, but the Shi’a branch of Islam was somewhat less respectful of such people than . . . no, he would save those thoughts for another time. He could see it in her eyes, even more clearly than the overt symptoms which his trained senses were beginning to discern, he saw what she already knew.
“Please sit down, Sister.”
“No–I must–”
“Sister,” the physician said more insistently. “You are a patient now. You will please do as I ask, yes?”
“Doctor, I–”
His voice softened. There was no purpose in being harsh, and truly this woman did not deserve such treatment before God. “Sister, with all the care and devotion you have shown to others in this hospital, please, allow this humble visitor to show some of it to you.”