“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him happy before.”
“Buddy,” Hill said, “that’s ’cause he ain’t ever been happy before. It’s a scary idea.”
“Scary … how?”
Hill got thoughtful. “When you get happy,” he said, lowering his voice, “you forget to look behind you. You start trusting people. You make mistakes.”
“Then, I guess,” Sumi said, “I’ll not make any more mistakes.”
The man stared hard at her. “I’m talkin’ about Crane,” Hill said, finishing his drink. He looked at the glass. “I’m going for more refreshments.”
She watched him leave, realizing he didn’t trust her. Of course not, why should he? It didn’t matter anyway. Soon, she would be exposed for more of a fraud than any of them thought. She hoped it wouldn’t interfere in any way with Crane’s dream. She’d wanted to give that to him, to make up for everything she’d done.
“I hate to drink alone,” Kate Masters said from beside her. “How about you?”
Sumi smiled wanly. “I enjoy your company very much.”
“Good. How about your dorph recipe?”
“My secret.”
A group of Nepalese Sherpas had come out from their hidey-hole and were doing a vigorous display of acrobatics, tumbling and diving in syncopation over one another to the delight of the crowd.
“You have a lot of secrets, I think.”
Sumi’s body jerked involuntarily. “How so?”
“You really want to talk about this?”
“Yes.”
“Well, first off, you’re not who you say you are.”
Sumi’s heart was pounding. She could feel it in her throat as her face flushed. “You are mistaken, I—”
“I knew your mother,” Masters said. “The Women’s Political Association was in a limited partnership with your parents in a business deal. We all took a beating on that deal, your folks most of all. Your mother spoke of you constantly. It always bothered me that you dishonored her name by remaking your past.”
“It would have been a greater dishonor had I not,” Sumi replied, eyes cast down. “You knew, yet you said nothing?”
“I’d hoped we were friends. Are we?”
“Outside of Crane, I never had a friend.”
“And look what you did to him.”
Sumi was surprised again. “How—”
“I figured it out. I’m a smart girl.”
“Yeah,” Sumi said. “Me, too.”
Masters just stared at her, but her eyes were different. They were studying, dissecting. “You mean that literally?”
Sumi nodded. “Mr. Li knew and forced me to change my ancestry. To keep the world from discovering my parents’ deception I went along with him.”
“Does anyone else—”
“Only you.”
“Why are you telling me?”
Sumi took a deep breath. “I’m in trouble. I-I’m not sure what to do. I need … help.”
Masters fell forward, as if she’d tripped, her hand swinging out, touching Sumi’s crotch, pulling back immediately as she straightened. “Sorry, hon,” she said. “I’m from Missouri, still the ‘Show Me’ state. What sort of trouble?”
“By law,” Sumi said, “the President and Vice President must take a physical once a year. I’ve managed to avoid it far too long. The White House physicians are getting contentious about it. People are wondering why I’m avoiding it. Believe me, that kind of wondering will lead to terrible trouble for me.”
“Why trust me?”
“Somehow I’ve always felt you were trustworthy. I don’t know if I completely trust you, but I do not trust the White House physicians.”
“Do you have to use them?”
Sumi shook her head. “I could demand my own doctor.”
“Okay,” Masters said. “We’ll start there.”
“You’ll help me?”
“Hey, I represent the Women’s Political Association, remember. Welcome to the club, sister.” She hugged Sumi.
“Thank you,” Sumi said, tears welling.
Kate Masters’ eyes twinkled. “Thank me when you’re President,” she replied.
Chapter 16
COMPRESSIONAL STRAINS
“The proposal has some merit, and I’ll certainly consider it,” Mohammed Ishmael said.
Abu Talib sank farther down in his chair. “Brother Ishmael,” he said. “I gave Mr. Tang my word on this.”
“Tang,” he said scornfully. “A flunky. Mui Tsao’s harpy who is nothing but a double-ported chippy. And who were you speaking for, Talib?” Ishmael’s expression was serious as he stared across the table at Talib.
They were in a bunker that was small, claustrophobic, the long, glowing table taking up most of it. Somewhere under the Zone, it was a redoubt that Talib hadn’t seen before. The walls were lead, the door heavy and airtight like ones found in submarines.
Metal bunks folded out from the walls. Storage lockers and shelving covered every available space and were crammed with bottled water, canned food, and staples in sealed jars. A classically designed and supplied bomb shelter and bunker.
Ishmael walked around the table and leaned low, his face only inches from Talib’s. “I asked you who you were speaking for,” he said loudly. “Because it sure wasn’t for me—and it sure wasn’t for my people!”
Talib bristled and jumped up, his chair overturning and clattering to the floor. Martin Aziz darted around the table and placed himself between the two men.
“My brother,” Aziz said to Ishmael, “Talib’s agreement with Tang gets us almost everything we want, and in return all we have to do is to agree to stop the violence. Do you understand?”
“What I understand,” Ishmael said, pushing his brother aside to face Abu Talib, the two men eye to eye, “is that my methods have brought us this far—a foothold in our Homeland, the whites sucking up to us, asking for favors. If these methods have brought us this far, why should we abandon them now?”
“Have you forgotten the focus buildings?” Talib asked. “Liang Int knows, and threatens to shut them all down.”
Ishmael raised his hands in exasperation. “The focus buildings,” he said. “Always the focus buildings.” He arched an eyebrow. “You weren’t around then, Brother, but we survived just fine before we had focus buildings to give us power. Damn!”
He walked away from Talib, squeezing past Martin Aziz to stand at the head of the table, fifteen feet distant. He slammed his hands, palm down, on the tabletop and stared fire at Talib. “And has it ever occurred to your rock head that if they were to shut down the focus buildings we’d probably respond with a massive exodus to New Cairo? Imagine that, if you will. Imagine the Memphis exodus multiplied by fifty with no earthquake to cover it. Imagine the fights. Imagine the bloodshed. Imagine the public relations.”
Talib felt suddenly stupid. “I never thought of that.”
“Well, your white friend Mr. Tang certainly did! And, so, for an end to the violence that’s got us this far, what do we really get in return? Only a promise that they would keep doing what they’re doing now—nothing. If they’d figured an advantage to be gained by shutting down the focus buildings, believe me, they wouldn’t have consulted us about doing it.
“The reason they haven’t fought it out with us is simple: We are a part of this … this landscape, part of the fabric of this country. If everybody else sees them going after us, it’ll get them thinking about themselves. Case in point. The G was called off the Zone fighting in Memphis almost immediately for PR reasons and Liang made sure the teev was full of pictures of the quake, not the exodus.”