Montgomery had just reminded him of the angry mobs that attacked Vice President Nixon’s motorcade in Caracas in 1958. The windows had been smashed, the car severely damaged, before the Secret Service had miraculously been able to pull away from the furious crowd. “We’re following social media trends in Indonesia now,” Montgomery added. “It wouldn’t take much to set off a mob if they believe you are coming to break your friend out of prison.”
“Noted,” Ryan said, giving Montgomery a passive smile, though he felt like picking up the Lincoln bust and throwing it through the window.
Gary was too good a guy for that kind of treatment. The two had become, if not actual friends, as close as protector and protected can be. “I trust your experience and intellect,” Ryan said, “but I am going to Indonesia. I’d hoped you might bring some guys and maybe a helicopter or two and come along with me.”
“Mr. President,” Montgomery said, closing his eyes in an effort to come up with more convincing words. “You know we will make it happen, but—”
“Excellent,” Ryan said. “That’s what I wanted to hear, Gary.”
Van Damm bounced a fist on his knee. “President Gumelar was right. In addition to the social media buzz, we have word from Ambassador Cowley that the Muslim majority is being whipped into a frenzy by someone. The ambassador’s not sure exactly who’s behind it, but it’s got to be Beijing. Riots are popping up hourly all over Java calling for swift justice against Father West. As his friend, you’d be—”
“Guilty by association,” Ryan said. “I get it. Hell, President Gumelar probably leaked that I was coming to try and stave off the visit.” He looked back at Montgomery. “I’m not suggesting we go in without a plan. But I am going. My friend or not, something is going on over there and I’d like to get to the bottom of it.”
Van Damm opened his mouth to speak, stopped as if he’d thought better of it, then, unable to contain himself, said, “You have people for that sort of mission, Mr. Pres—”
The door from the secretaries’ suite opened and DNI Foley stuck her head in. She held up a manila folder with a striped red-and-white border.
Ryan motioned her inside. “Good thing for Arnie you got here when you did. He was about to say something impertinent.”
Foley smiled. “He wouldn’t be Arnie if he didn’t.” She stood to the side of the desk, the folder clutched at her waist, clearly waiting for the other men to leave before showing its contents to the President.
Montgomery got to his feet. “I have more concerns, but I’ll go over the specifics with Mr. van Damm.” Ryan gave them a closed-mouthed smile, a silent dismissal. He hated to do it. They had his best interests at heart, but there was something at play here that required getting off his ass in real time, not just thinking about it. There were moments when you had to worry about something besides your own skin. Like that Mike Rowe guy said, “Safety third.”
“Looks like they’re planning to mutiny,” Mary Pat said when she and Ryan were alone.
“It’s their job to make me see things.”
“And are you?” Foley said.
“I’m looking,” Ryan said. “Not necessarily seeing. What have you got for me?”
She pushed the folder across the desk.
“Remember the two PLA generals who are battling it out?”
Ryan opened the folder to find three photographs of General Song and his wife holding hands with a little girl of seven or eight. The photos weren’t covert. Everyone was smiling and looking directly at the camera.
“Okay.” Ryan arranged them side by side so he could compare. “Taken on separate occasions… What else am I looking for?”
Foley put the tip of her index finger on the little girl’s face. “This is Song’s granddaughter, Niu. Her mother, Song’s only daughter, died shortly after the child was born. The general and his wife have raised her from infancy. All accounts say he dotes on her the way most Chinese men dote on a son.”
“Okay…” Ryan said, still not following.
Mary Pat tapped the photo again. “Now take a closer look at her left eye.”
Ryan picked up the nearest photograph, studied it for a half-minute, and then shook his head. “Could be the angle,” he said. “Is it cloudier than the other one?”
“It is,” Foley said, lips set in a grim line. “Our experts think the little girl has something called a retinoblastoma.”
“A tumor?” Ryan said. Cathy was an ophthalmologist, so this was a term he’d heard before — medical knowledge by osmosis.
“Exactly,” Mary Pat said. “You hear of parents finding out their kids have it after they post a photo on social media and someone points out the white cloud in the iris.”
“Does General Song know?” Ryan asked.
Foley shook her head. “We don’t believe so. He and his wife keep the little girl completely off social media. She makes few public appearances at all, for security reasons.”
“How dangerous is this condition?”
“Very,” Foley said. “It can be fatal if left untreated. If it’s not removed quickly enough, she could lose her eye, or the cancer could spread beyond her eye to other parts of her body.”
“You weren’t thinking of trying to leverage this?” Ryan said.
“That’s your call, Mr. President,” Foley said. “I’m a mother, so…”
“And I’m a human being.” Ryan pushed the folder away to distance himself. “We have to tell the general straight-out. It’s not that child’s fault we find our two countries at odds.”
“Song will want to know how we discovered it.”
Ryan drummed his fingers on the desk. “The little girl makes no public appearances?”
“We’ll find something, somewhere.”
“I’m not a doctor,” Ryan said. “But we’re talking cancer, so I’m assuming time is of the essence. I want General Song informed of this sooner rather than later. Offer him any help we can in the way of medical care.”
Foley sighed softly. “I thought you might feel that way. We considered inviting him to bring the child to Wilmer Eye Institute but ruled that out since your wife practices there.”
“I appreciate that,” Ryan said. “On oh-so-many levels.”
“I know one of the surgeons at Kellogg Eye Center in Ann Arbor,” Foley said. “A Dr. Berryhill. He’s evidently a med school classmate of Dr. Ryan’s.”
“Dan Berryhill?” the President mused. “He’s an eccentric coot, but yeah, he’s a hell of an eye surgeon, to hear Cathy tell it.”
“I’ve already taken the liberty of reaching out to him,” Foley continued. “Dr. Berryhill has agreed to see a VIP patient at Kellogg on short notice. He doesn’t know who yet, but he’s done sensitive work for us before. He’s been through a vetting process.”
“Very well,” Ryan said. “Protect our source, but do everything possible to let Song know about his granddaughter, within the hour if possible. And get with Scott to make sure State smooths the way for any entry visas. I want him handling this personally.”
“Right away, Mr. President,” Foley said. “It’ll be touchy, but we can get a note to the general through our embassy.” She turned to go, then paused. “I’m proud of you, Jack.”
“Because I chose the life of a sick little girl over national security? I’m not sure that’s the right call.”
“Maybe not.” Foley’s eyes sparkled. “But it’s the call I knew you’d make.”
28
Cathy Ryan set the manila folder down gently beside her plate, as if she might injure the child in the photographs inside if she were too rough. “They have to get this little girl to a hospital.”
Her usual prohibition against reading at the table took a backseat when the material had to do with medical issues. Neither she nor Ryan had much of an appetite, and their light dinner consisted more of moving the seared sea bass around the plate than eating it.