"It is good to see you again," Sprecht offered.
"This is where you will do the work?" The tone was level, without emotion.
"Yes," Sprecht replied cheerily, as if his greeting had not been wholly ignored. "The procedures will take place here, along with a recuperation period under my personal, full-time observance." He did not bother to mention that he would have an assistant during the surgery. There was really no choice, as certain procedures could never be performed by a single pair of hands. Sprecht, however, had no desire to face the questions that such an admission would bring. As with his other patients, he simply did not address the issue. His nurse would enter and exit the sterile area when the time was right. A wonderful thing, anesthesia.
"How long will my recovery take?"
In an ode to his efficiency, Sprecht directed his patient to a chair and, as he spoke, began measuring facial regions with a pair of calipers. "The amount of work you have requested is significant. I cannot imagine recovery in less than six days. More if you wish." The surgeon stepped back and recorded his results on a notepad. He normally would have taken pictures, but that, of course, was out of the question. "Remove your shirt, please."
The patient complied, and said, "You know how I want everything." There was no inflection at the end of these words, and so it was not a question.
Sprecht said, "Have no worries. I have extensive experience. Your more regionalized features, they will be softened. When I am done, the nose might appear Roman. The eyes — Spanish, perhaps."
As he pursued his examination, Sprecht felt the eyes tracking him, watching every move. He knew his best defense was to keep busy, tied to the rituals of his work. He went to a cabinet and found a section of rubber tubing and a hypodermic needle. Returning to his patient, Sprecht wrapped the tube tightly around one arm as a prelude to drawing blood.
"Is that necessary?"
"Yes, absolutely," Sprecht said in his 'doctor's orders' monotone. "You will lose blood in the operation. I must have an accurate specimen to rule out complications." He performed the procedure quickly, efficiently. "You may get dressed now," Sprecht said. He moved back behind the desk, wanting some distance before again engaging the soon-to-be-Spanish eyes. "When will we begin?" he asked.
"The time is near, but I still require a certain degree of flexibility. Be ready in two days."
"Done. And you have decided to go ahead with everything we discussed? It is truly an extensive amount of work."
"Over the years many photographs have surfaced, doctor. My face is too well known in… in certain quarters. When you are done, I must bear no resemblance to my former self"
"We discussed this at our last consultation. You must understand that—"
"Doctor! Is there any doubt about your ability to perform the contract?"
Sprecht's thoughts stumbled. "I am only saying that you must temper your expectations. The scale of change you demand — know that I am a plastic surgeon, not God."
The patient's gaze fell hard and struck to Sprecht's very soul. The silence was discomforting, and at that moment Sprecht wished it was he who was climbing a mountain in Peru. The surgeon tried to hide his anxiety, yet knew he could not. Then the question came. The same question the others had always gotten around to.
"Do you know who I am, Doctor?"
As always, Sprecht considered a He. As always, he knew it would be a mistake. "You found me with your connections. Not an easy thing, I hope. Yet I have connections as well. I must be every bit as careful as you, my friend, for in my line of work any misstep will be my last."
The patient was absolutely still.
"But to answer your question — yes. I know precisely who you are." Sprecht paused, averted his eyes momentarily. "You are the terrorist, Caliph." When he looked up again, Sprecht saw a thin curl at one corner of a mouth he would soon alter.
"You are indeed a clever man, Doctor. I only hope your work reflects it. Make no mistakes."
"Rest assured," the surgeon said. "When other doctors make errors, attorneys and insurers do battle. If I make a mistake—" Sprecht left it at that.
The press briefing room that had been fashioned in Building Sixty-two was a typical affair. Perhaps a hundred loose chairs were divided in six gently arcing rows, giving the appearance of a poor man's theater. Three cameras were situated at the very back so as to take in the crowd, a small trick used by news crews everywhere to make a venue look bigger, to enhance the importance of an event. Reporters were ushered toward the forward rows, while Davis, along with the other investigators and technical help, kept to the rear.
The room was dressed for a show. A short stage had been constructed at the front with a central podium, lending subliminal authority to the high-and-mighty professionals. Bastien was flanked by three experts on each side. They were not, as one might expect, the working group leaders, but rather a global collection of men and women who had been chosen, judging by the labels in front of them, for their impressive academic credentials. Five of the six had the title "Professor" in front of their name, along with their university association.
Bastien had rolled up the long sleeves of his nicely pressed shirt, giving the image of a busy man who was stealing a few precious moments for the press, taking time away from the somber task of picking up the pieces of World Express 801. His voice was carefully contoured, self-important and airy. Reservedly French.
"Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen. We are here to provide a brief update on our investigation into the tragic loss of World Express Flight 801. Our work is well on course and, though it is very early, we have so far identified a number of issues that warrant further pursuit."
Bastien spread an arm theatrically across the stage. He had the whole point-and-pose act going on again. Davis heard the clicks, saw the flashes.
"As I said in our first briefing yesterday, we have brought in experts from around the world." Clearly not satisfied with yesterday, Bastien proceeded to give a rundown on each person s illustrious qualifications. The words flowed like quicksand.
Lost in a back row, Davis mumbled, "This is like some damned ivory tower academic conference."
"What?" came a reply. The woman from Honeywell had taken a seat next to him.
He asked in a hushed voice, "You don't have a Ph. D., do you?"
"No," she replied. "You?"
He gave her his best you-gotta-be-shittin-me grin. "Guys like this drive me crazy," he said. "They try to impress you with credentials and catchphrases."
"And guys like you?"
"I prefer the straight and true road of common sense. And if that fails, I go right to physical intimidation." He saw a smile from the corner of his eye.
Bastien prattled grandly, eloquently for the cameras, his head oscillating back and forth like a sprinkler giving full coverage. His only visual aid was a simple graph, a thing so embellished it bordered on the ridiculous. There were a dozen different colors and scripted artwork in the margins. Somebody had wasted a lot of time, Davis thought. The vertical axis, blue, was altitude. A chartreuse horizontal line represented time. The data points formed a line that dropped precipitously from left to right, like a stock market index that had fallen off a cliff. Bastien squandered ten minutes on the chart before reiterating that the investigation was in its very early stages. No conclusions could yet be drawn.
He ended in a flourish, and threw the floor open for questions.
A woman in the front row piped up, "Do you have any suggestion as to what caused this disaster?"
Davis rolled his eyes. It was always the first question. And the second, and the third. If the guy in charge was firm enough, the news-hounds would move on, happy with whatever scraps they were given.