An unexpected note of compassion entered Dr. Reynold’s tone as she took in Tranthan’s expression, which must have been pitiable.
“The truth is, we really don’t know. Some folks surprise us. Anything could happen.”
Tranthan stared down at the chart. In bold letters, it said Margaret Elizabeth O’Donald. Until now, he had forgotten what her middle name was.
“Like I said, she’s in 604.” The doctor was already moving away.
“Thanks,” Tranthan said absently, then moved to follow Reynolds. “Excuse me, Doctor. If there is any change, please let me know.”
He handed Reynolds the business card of the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
She was the only patient in room 604 and seemed to be in a deep sleep — the machines continuously beeping in sync with her heartbeat. The room’s window looked out across a courtyard, and the sunlight, through the open shades, illuminated her incredibly small figure in the bed. Small tents formed the shape of her legs that were no longer there. She looked pale and whiter than he ever remembered seeing her. He had always loved that natural tan she seemed to have inherited, with the striking black eyebrows and long, curling hair. But the black eyebrows now stood out against her pale white complexion.
He pulled up the chair and sat down next to her. The chair bumped the bed as he pulled it up alongside, and the slight bump caused her to wince and grimace in pain. She opened her eyes and smiled.
“Hey, you,” she said in a near whisper.
“Hey.”
“Is my car all right?”
He was confused by the question.
“Your car?”
“I just got it yesterday.”
“You must be Robert.” A nurse spoke from behind him.
Tranthan turned around as a woman with a clipboard and floral-printed scrubs in orange and black came into the room. A stethoscope hung around her neck. Her hair was cut short and gray with traces of black.
Tranthan stared at her.
“I am Nurse Cook. Billie Cook. Her nurse assigned to her care.”
“Ah, yes, I know who you are.” Tranthan had specifically approved her assignment. Billie Cook was a veteran staffer at the hospital and had a top-secret clearance. She had been told on day one that Maggie O’Donald worked for the Agency. A patient with a head injury who had worked in the intelligence field could mumble something to the wrong person. She had to be watched and those with access had to be limited.
“I appreciate your helping her.”
“She’s a good patient, behaves herself, and doesn’t get too wild.”
Maggie smiled.
“What is this about her car?”
“She believes that she was in a bad car wreck. This happens a lot with our patients that have suffered a concussion and memory loss.”
Tranthan pulled his chair back as the nurse slid past and began taking Maggie’s blood pressure and pulse. Cook reminded him of his fourth-grade teacher. Her mannerisms were both stern and compassionate.
“She’s come a long way. It’s good for her to have a visitor.”
He knew what that meant. She had no family nearby. Maggie’s father had died while she was at Stanford, and her mother had come down with fatal ovarian cancer soon after. She was gone only a few months after the diagnosis. Maggie cried on Tranthan’s shoulder when the call came. Now, there was no one.
Tranthan looked at his watch. It wasn’t that he was pressed with some more important engagement; it was a nervous reaction and inability to know how to handle the situation. The woman he had fallen in love with was no more.
“Could I ask a favor?” he asked Billie Cook.
“Sure.”
“I need to speak with Maggie alone for a second. It’s about her work.”
Cook nodded curtly. “Okay, but you’ll need to keep it short. She still doesn’t have a lot of energy.”
“Certainly.”
Cook slid the door closed to the room. Since it was intensive care, each room was more like a glass-encased cubicle than a typical hospital room.
“Maggie. Do you remember what you were working on?”
“Sure, sure I do.”
“Riyadh — your source? You never said who your source was or what you had found.”
Maggie had protected her source. No one would know who the source was. It had taken months to develop that trust. Any hint that others knew and the source would be forever gone.
“I know it. I’m sure I know it.”
“Maggie, Patrick, your security officer?”
“Yes, how is Pat?”
“He’s okay,” Tranthan lied. “There was a picture on his cell phone.” It was a miracle that the chip in the phone had retained anything retrievable. The phone, like Patrick, had been scattered in small pieces in the bomb’s crater.
“A man was in a photo from a University of Michigan party.”
“Yes, I remember. Pat asked about him.”
“He’s a Chechen named Umarov. Did you know him?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Maggie, it’s important. Things are rolling. We need confirmation. Who was your source? Who was on the inside in Saudi Arabia? How did you contact him? How do we contact him?”
He didn’t add that the Chechen would, at this moment, be looking for this person as well.
“I know it. Just let me think a minute.”
“We know it was probably one of the members of the royal family.”
“I know it.” Her face was twisted, in a confused look. “I’m sure I do.”
Tranthan heard the slide of the door behind him.
“Sorry. Like I said, not too much.” Cook smiled but was firm in her comment.
Tranthan stood reluctantly and tried to smile. “Bye for now, Maggie. I’ll check on you again in a couple of days. Nurse, please call me, day or night.” He handed her a card as he had with the neurosurgeon.
Tranthan walked out of the front entrance of WRNMMC, down the stairs to his waiting black executive Tahoe. The driver hopped out of the SUV as soon as he saw Tranthan coming, cut around to the side, and opened the door.
“Thanks.”
The driver had been the deputy’s assigned driver for two years now but Tranthan, if pressed, could barely remember his name. Prior to that, the driver had worked for the Agency for nearly twenty years after a short enlistment with the army. He could shoot straight and drive, if need be, like a NASCAR driver.
“Back to Langley.”
“Yes, sir.”
The black Tahoe pulled out of WRNMMC and turned right, heading north.
“Something is going on.” Robert Tranthan stared out at the joggers as they ran past the entranceway to Bethesda. “Something bad.”
CHAPTER 16
“This is not typical.” The instructor in his blue flight suit stood under the covered porch of the cabin. It was a constant rain. On any other day, the porch would have had an unobstructed view of the crystal blue waters of Lake Rotorua. The volcanic mountains that surrounded the lake framed the view like the Grand Tetons.
A class of only three flight students sat in their chairs holding on their laps the three-ring binders of flight instructions. Their faces did not reflect a wealth of experience.
“So who do we have here? It’s a nice class size. We can learn much from each other.” He was right. They always wanted more students but three and the instructor fit perfectly into the aircraft. “We have one from Darwin?”
A man of thirty looked up from his seat leaned up against the post of the porch.