"You're his daughter," he said. It was not a question. "I'm terribly sorry about, uh, Mr. Charles. I'm Sam Allen, Political Attache at the Consulate General." He said it as though he expected his audience to be duly impressed.
Burke suspected he was something more than an attaché.
"I want to see my father," Lori repeated to the sober-faced Chinese physician.
He glanced around at the chaplain, who nodded. "They have just been removing the respirator, IV's, oxygen, all the paraphernalia," the doctor said. "He looks pretty bad but he didn't suffer. He was unconscious from the time the ambulance brought him in." He held the room door open for her.
Burke turned to Allen. "I'm Burke Hill. I've been working with Logan Charles."
Allen nodded, eyes narrowing. "Yes, I was told you might be coming."
That settled it. Allen was CIA all right. Hawk Elliott had guessed he wouldn't take that advice to forget everything and go back to the Smokies.
"I must go leave word of my whereabouts," the chaplain said apologetically. "I shall be back in a few minutes." He walked off down the corridor.
Burke followed Lori into the room. An IV stand with a plastic bag hanging from a crossbar stood beside the bed, its tubes drooping down toward the floor. A metal tray holding several instruments sat nearby. The mortal remains of Cameron Quinn lay under a white sheet pulled up to his chin. Ugly spots of blood stained the covering. His bare arms stretched out at his sides, atop the sheet. Heavy bandages hid most of his skin, though one wrist was left bare, bruised and bloody where the IV had been removed. Parts of his face that weren’t covered with gauze bore garish purple bruises. He hardly resembled the man Burke had dined with at Lori’s condo a few nights ago.
It was painful to see. Burke began to question what he might have done to avoid this, but he knew it was a futile exercise. Cam Quinn was doing what he loved to do. He took every precaution, but he wasn’t averse to taking a necessary risk. Something had gone badly wrong.
As Lori turned to the doctor and asked a question, Burke stepped out to the corridor to confront Allen. "How did the accident happen?"
"He was driving a rented car east of here in the area of Shau Kei Wan,” Allen said. “It was dark and rainy. The roads around there are hilly, lots of curves. He didn't make one of them. Not a skid mark. The car was a mess. According to the blood test, he was bombed out of his gourd."
Burke bristled. Even if it were true, he didn't appreciate Allen putting it so crudely. "That's what Hawk Elliott said. I find it hard to believe. He was determined to stay off the booze."
"Look, pal, I've seen the official police report. Believe me, it's there, alcohol two-point-zero."
Burke shook his head. "What was he doing on this side of the island?"
"Hell, how should I know? He never even bothered to check in with me. I wouldn't have known he was in town if one of his old SIS buddies hadn't called looking for him. Said their people reported he was staying at the Pearl. Obviously he was out boozing it up somewhere."
Burke showed a pained frown. "It doesn't make any sense."
Allen gave a hoarse laugh. "It's a damned idiotic world we live in these days, pal. If you find something that makes sense, let me know, will you? Say, what name is his daughter using?"
"Her own," Burke said coolly. "Lorelei Quinn."
Lori came out of the room just then, the doctor gripping her arm. Her face was pale but the determined look had not diminished.
"If you'll call me in the morning, Miss Quinn," Allen offered, "I'll help you make arrangements to fly him back to the States. Unless you need something else now, I'll get on back to the office."
And report on my whereabouts, Burke thought.
"No," Lori said. "Thank you very much. I'll call in the morning."
Burke took her hand as Allen walked away. "Sure you're okay?"
She nodded. "Thanks. I'll be all right."
He turned to the white-coated Chinese. "There's one thing we have a problem with, doctor. Mr. Charles had sworn off drinking. Yet Sam Allen said a blood test showed two-point-zero alcohol."
The doctor glanced apprehensively at Lori. "Yes, that's true."
Lori's mouth opened in shock. She shook her head vehemently. "It can't be! He wouldn't!"
Burke still had some doubts, but he wanted to make sure, especially for Lori’s benefit. "Mightn't there have been a mistake in the lab?"
"I hardly think so," the doctor said.
"Lori, my dear, I just got word. I'm terribly distressed." They looked around as a short, distinguished looking gray-haired man came hurrying up the corridor in front of the chaplain.
Lori ran to meet him and threw her arms around him. "Uncle Sydney!" She buried her head into his shoulder and her steely resolve finally broke into muffled sobs.
"There, there, dear," he said in a soothing tone. "Have yourself a good cry. It's perfectly all right."
After a few minutes, she began to pull herself back together, and Burke gave her a handkerchief to dry her eyes.
The older man held out his hand. "And who do we have here? I'm Sydney Pinkleton, Lori's godfather."
"Burke Hill," he said, shaking the hand. "I'm an old friend of…" he hesitated, remembering to use the pseudonym, "Logan Charles."
Pinkleton nodded. "Yes, I've heard him speak of you. Terrible tragedy. I had just talked with him Monday morning."
Lori managed a wan smile. "Remember I told you about Dad's friend in Budapest, Burke? That was Sydney."
The MI6—or SIS — man, Burke recalled. No doubt he was the one Cam mentioned having reported the ex-East Bloc agents on his tail. "It's a pleasure to meet you," Burke said. Then he had an idea. It was probably beating a dead horse, but he thought it best to clear up Lori's doubts. "Maybe you can help us with a little problem here."
"Certainly. Be happy to help any way I can."
"The doctor says they ran a blood-alcohol test and it showed two-point-zero. Lori says her Dad had been on the wagon for months. I should think a re-test would clear things up."
"Well, now," Pinkleton said, suddenly shifting to an all-business tone, turning to the physician. "I am with Her Majesty's Government, sir. Why don't we just have another test run and see what it shows?"
The doctor bowed solicitously. "Let me go call the laboratory." He hurried off to a nearby nurses' station.
The chaplain excused himself again, leaving the three of them alone.
"You say he had given up the Scotch?" Pinkleton said, lowering his voice. "I heard about the suspension last year."
"He hadn't had a drink in months," said Lori. "I could swear to that. Why would he do this now?"
Pinkleton shrugged. "Pressure, perhaps. Though I must say he certainly sounded in a jovial mood when we talked Monday. Do you know anything about the case he was involved in?"
"No, but Burke was working with him."
Was is correct, Burke thought, but he made no allusion to his conversation with Hawk Elliott.
"Were you aware that he was being followed?" Pinkleton asked.
"Yes," Burke said. "I called him from Tel Aviv Sunday night. He told me there were a couple of Bulgarians."
"That's correct. We had run up on them before. A pair of real nasties, worked for the old Bulgarian intelligence service. One of them was suspected of involvement in that attempt to assassinate the Pope. They followed Cameron from the hotel Monday morning, but he shook them off. Unfortunately, we lost track of them after that."
Lori listened with a concerned frown. "Do you think they might have had something to do with this accident?"
Pinkleton folded his arms and shook his head. "I see no cause to consider that at the moment. Unless Cameron were on the brink of making some major breakthrough."
"He had just turned up our first real lead, but I don't know how far he'd been able to pursue it," Burke said.