Mary tapped the shoulder of an Iraqi delegate heading for his seat. “Please? Where is the Iranian delegation?”
The dead-man-walking glanced at her swollen belly. Pointed to an empty table.
A wave of panic sent her pulse to race. The meek shall inherit the earth, not the mullahs. She hustled out of the chamber, returning to the security desk. “Please, I am late to meet with the Iranian delegation. Where can I find them?”
The woman at the desk scanned her clipboard. “Room 415.” She pointed down the hall. “Take the elevator up to the fourth floor.”
“Spasibo!” Mary hurried down the corridor, coughing up a thick wad of phlegm into her hand. She checked it for blood, wiped it off on her jacket, then pressed the up button and waited, her internal clock ticking.
Leigh Nelson led her V.I.P., his two guests, and their security detail down the hallway to Ward 27, praying all signs of the early-morning baseball wager had been removed.
Bertrand DeBorn’s visit to the VA hospital was far more than just a photo op. While President Kogelo was scheduled to address the United Nations later this morning, hoping to quell hawkish demands for an Iranian invasion, the new secretary of defense was seeding a privately funded covert campaign designed to recruit a new generation of young Americans to the military.
Two prolonged wars required altering the public’s perception of combat. Working in conjunction with one of New York’s biggest advertising firms, DeBorn intended to present America’s wounded veteran as the nation’s new elite — a true patriot whose financial needs were met, his health care guaranteed, his family’s future bright. Slap the Stars and Stripes on it, and even a turd could be sold as smelling sweet… provided the chosen poster boy fit the image.
DeBorn caught up to the female physician and grabbed the petite brunette by her elbow, the back of his hand pressing against her right breast in the process. “No more paraplegics or cancer patients, Doctor. The ideal candidate must be good-looking and middle-class, preferably Caucasian, God-fearing, and Christian. As for the wounds, they can be visible without the gross-out factor. No head wounds or missing eyes.”
Leigh ground her teeth, brushing aside the secretary of defense’s lingering hand. “I was told to show you our wounded vets. Whom you select for your recruitment campaign is up to you.”
Sheridan Ernstmeyer joined in on the conversation. “What about mental clarity?”
DeBorn weighed the question. “I don’t know. Colonel, you’re the expert. What do you think?”
Lieutenant Colonel Philip Argenti, an ordained minister, was the highest-ranking man of the cloth in the Armed Forces and DeBorn’s handpicked selection to lead the military’s new recruitment campaign. Toting a Bible in one hand and a rifle in the other, Argenti aimed to target families still reeling from the recession as well as military stalwarts — apple-pie-eating, flag-bearing rural Southern folk who still viewed service in the military as the ultimate definition of patriotism. “Mental clarity is certainly desired, but not entirely necessary, Mister Secretary. We’ll keep everything to sound bites and tweets.”
Applause and catcalls greeted Leigh Nelson as she led DeBorn’s group into Ward 27. Embarrassed, she casually kicked aside the dented bedpan from earlier, hoping the men have calmed since her last visit. “Thank you, fellas, you do a West Virginia girl proud. Just remember, my granddaddy taught me how to castrate hogs when I was a little girl, so don’t cross the line. I brought a very special visitor with me. How ’bout a warm welcome for our new secretary of defense, Bertrand DeBorn.”
Ignoring the lack of response, the spry white-haired man moved quickly down the center aisle, nodding politely, pressing on as he mentally inventoried each wounded combat veteran. Hispanic… Hispanic… Black… he’s white, but the wrong look. Quadriplegic, no good. This one looks white, but he’s way too skinny, probably on drugs… DeBorn kept his entourage moving, his frustration mounting like an obsessed breeder seeking a hunting dog in a kennel filled with poodles and dachshunds, until Sheridan Ernstmeyer grabbed his arm, the former CIA assassin motioning toward the last bed on their left. The curtain was partially pulled around, but not enough to cloak the disabled soldier — an African-American in his late thirties, probably an officer, paralyzed from the waist down.
“Wrong… look, Sherry.”
“Not him, Bert. The orderly.”
The man dressed in a white tee shirt and scrubs was Caucasian and in his early thirties, his long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail. The jaw was dimpled, his six-foot-four, two-hundred-pound frame chiseled like an athlete. The orderly was changing out his patient’s bedding, rolling him on his side with his right hand, using his opposite shoulder as leverage, maneuvering him easily… despite the fact that he had no left arm.
“Dr. Nelson, that orderly… is he a veteran?”
“You mean Shep?”
“Shep?”
“Patrick Shepherd. Yes, sir, he served four tours in Iraq. But I don’t think—”
“He’s perfect. Exactly what we’re looking for. Colonel Argenti?”
“Strapping young man, obviously an athlete. And working so diligently to aid his fellow soldiers. He’s outstanding, Mr. Secretary. Well done.”
Sheridan shot the minister a look.
Leigh attempted to pull DeBorn aside. “Sir, there are a few things you need to know about the sergeant—”
“Mission accomplished, Doctor. Have the sergeant meet us in your office in ten minutes. Ms. Ernstmeyer, see to it that Dr. Nelson e-mails us his personnel file.” He checked his watch. Still a few hours before the meeting. “Colonel, join me outside, I’m in need of a cigarette.”
“…yet it is not an Iranian armada positioned in the Persian Gulf, nor is it Hezbollah who has established military bases in Iraq and in Afghanistan. It is the Great Satan who is responsible for this conflict… I can smell his sulfurous presence in this building even now. To him I offer this warning: The Muslim world will not allow you to invade the National Islamic Republic of Iran and steal our oil as you did to our brothers in Iraq. We shall fight—”
The security officer lowered the volume of the Iranian leader’s speech on his video screen as he inspected Mary Klipot’s identification. Satisfied, he pressed a button beneath his desk, buzzing into Conference Room 415. “You’ve got a visitor. Russian embassy.”
Mary gritted her teeth, struggling to control the lung spasms urging her to cough.
A metallic click as the door to Room 415 unlocked and opened, revealing an Iranian security guard. “Speak.”
“I am to deliver a message from Prime Minister Putin’s office to the Supreme Leader’s attaché.”
“Your identification.”
She held it up for him to read. The Iranian shut the door.
Mary Klipot’s skin was hot and clammy, her fever rising past 101.5 degrees. She coughed bile into her scarf. Tasting the blood, she wiped it with her right palm, allowing the mucus to remain on her skin.
The security officer seated outside the door cringed. “That’s a nasty cough. Keep it away from me.”
The door reopened. “You have two minutes.”
Mary entered the conference room, the guard motioning her to remain by the door. Two dozen men, some in business attire, others in traditional robes, were watching the Supreme Leader’s speech on closed-circuit flat-screen monitors located throughout the suite.