“Has Reynolds come through yet?” She was talking to the night shift nurse about Dr. Anne Reynolds. The clock showed 6:45 A.M., and Billie was getting ready to go onto the day shift.
“No, not yet.”
“I could have killed that little bitch yesterday.”
“Don’t get your blood pressure up. It isn’t worth it.” The desk nurse on the night shift was even older than Billie and had tolerated any number of neurosurgeons during her career at Bethesda.
“She made that young Marine’s mother wait two hours. Told her later she was tied up.”
“Yeah?”
“She was at lunch.”
“Billie, that’s not so bad.”
“She’s a good surgeon, but I am still trying to get her broken in right.”
Billie took a sip of her hot coffee as she opened up the chart.
“I swear, if she doesn’t wake up, I’ll make life miserable for her.” Reynolds was brilliant in the operating room, but she still needed compassion. Billie was determined to teach her that which was not in a text book. Billie Cook didn’t tolerate a physician who didn’t take to her training. Not on her floor. Wolfforth, Texas, produced two things: Billie Cook and rattlesnakes. The snakes were more famous, but anyone who knew Billie could attest as to which had the sharper bite.
“How’s our gal doing?”
Billie was talking about only one patient. Maggie O’Donald hadn’t been there long but had already won Billie over. The two had nothing in common. Maggie was from California and exceptionally beautiful. Billie Cook was exceptional only in one thing, being a nurse. But Billie knew Maggie’s world had changed, permanently.
“Not much better.”
“Are the NICoE people going to do their testing today?” Cook was referring to the new traumatic brain-injury team. With the invention of the IED and nearly a decade of traumatic head injuries, the military had little choice but to accelerate its research into the treatment of head injuries. Now that it existed, the National Intrepid Center for Excellence, like the military’s burn center, would quickly become the place to go for head-injury patients.
“Yeah.”
“You know, I think she’s gonna make it.” Billie rarely said that about a severely injured patient, but she had a certain pride in her ability to call it. Most of the time, the call was that the young man would not make it through the night, or the week, or even the month. But when she gave the gold seal that someone was “going to make it,” she never had been wrong.
“Let me go check on her.” Billie took another sip of her Starbucks and tucked the chart underneath her arm. Her stethoscope bounced around her neck as she waddled down the hallway.
The curtains nearly blacked out the room. Billie pulled them back, letting the bright light of a fall day wake up her patient. Maggie was in a ball, sleeping on her side; where her lower legs should have been the bed’s blanket lay flat.
“Robert, is that you?”
“No, honey, it’s Billie. How are you doing?”
“Okay, Billie.” The inflection of her voice did not indicate that she recognized who Billie was.
“Good.”
“I can’t meet him at the London flat.”
“It’s okay.” Billie really didn’t want Maggie to say more. “Just rest.”
“Tell Robert it’s down to five.”
“Sure, sure, I’ll tell him.”
“The prince needs only five votes. Salman and Mutaib will oppose him.”
Billie checked her pulse. Much slower than normal.
“Five votes, I understand.”
“It’s important, Billie. Salman and Mutaib need to be removed.”
Maggie’s pupils were sluggish as Billie flashed a light toward them. It was as if Maggie were falling into a deep stupor.
“Yes, very important.” Billie didn’t want to agitate her too much.
“No, you have to tell him. The secretary needs only five votes. Time is running out. If he doesn’t get the five votes…” Maggie’s voice trailed away as she spoke.
“I’ll tell him. Get some more rest for now.” Billie pulled the curtains closed and checked the bed rails to make sure that they were locked in place. The IV had just been changed at the turn of the shift. “I’ll check on you a little later.”
“Billie, you will tell him. Five votes? The secretary needs only five.”
“Sure.”
Billie walked out of the room, tossing the last of the Starbucks into the trash can. The chart was clear on what she needed to do next, and Billie knew it.
“Hey, guys, cover me for a few minutes.”
“Sure.” The day clerk looked up from the computer screen at Billie, who continued to walk by.
“I need a cigarette.” Billie Cook thought she had broken the habit several times. And then she had another day like today. She had only been on shift a total of twenty minutes and already she needed a cigarette.
As she walked down the hall to the stairs, Billie looked at the chart again. She reread the words typed and highlighted in bright, bold yellow. It made her sick. Billie Cook was on that floor for one reason beyond being an excellent nurse. She had an eidetic memory. She could repeat anything that anyone said once, exactly. She was a combat veteran, having made two trips to Iraq, and had a top-secret clearance. As the daughter of an Army command sergeant major, she’d known since childhood how to follow orders. And she knew perfectly well what the chart’s words meant.
All conversations reported immediately. Maggie’s chart listed a telephone number below.
It wasn’t later than 7:45 that morning before the transcribed conversation reached Robert Tranthan’s office. His young communications assistant was waiting the moment Tranthan arrived at work.
“What do you have?” Tranthan sensed the communications officer hadn’t been at the Agency long. He appeared to be some young kid, probably just out of Penn State or Michigan, exceptionally smart but exceptionally poor. The days of the nation’s young elite signing up for the CIA were long gone.
“Sir, you were to get any of these communications as soon as they came in.” The clerk held up a red-jacketed folder, sealed on the end with a TS/SCI sticker and the signature of the communications chief across it.
“Okay, thanks.”
Tranthan didn’t bother to ask what was in the folder. The messenger would not have known. He signed for the envelope and carried it past his secretary.
“Morning.”
“You have a videoconference at eleven.”
Laura did her job well. Years ago, Tranthan had interviewed several experienced assistants from the pool before selecting her. She had one asset that he had picked up on immediately, and which he’d appreciated ever since: She could keep her mouth shut.
“Thanks, Laura Lou.” He had given her that nickname.
Tranthan closed the door behind him, thanking his lucky stars again for Laura. Not only could she keep a secret, but she also made sure that a cup of coffee and pack of Marlboros were both waiting for him each morning. He lit a cigarette and took a sip of the coffee. Black as tar. The only way he would drink it. Several years in the Pentagon’s operation centers on the night shift had gotten him into the bad habit of drinking straight caffeine from glass pots coated with evaporated coffee residue. As he took another sip, he turned the communication over and saw its source. It caused him to stop.