'Where did you go?' his wife said.
'I was just thinking about my grandson.'
'Oh, really? Something you haven't told me, John?'
'No, no, I meant Tyrone's son.'
'Lord, he's only thirteen. Let's give him a few more years before we
start asking for grandchildren!'
He put his arm around her.
'Okay. Two years. Granny.'
She leaned her head against his chest.
'Nobody is ever going to call me 'Granny,' not in this life, no way, no
how.'
Coeur d'Alene, Idaho
It sure hadn't taken long, Morrison reflected. He'd made the call
yesterday, and less than a day later, here was a black limo carrying a
Chinese agent pulling to a stop in the hot Idaho afternoon ten feet
away from him. He swallowed, his mouth dry.
Standing a few feet away, Ventura had changed into a green T-shirt,
blue jeans, and cowboy boots, and he made no effort to cover the pistol
bolstered just behind his right hip. He had his thumbs hooked into his
front pockets, and looked like a good old boy with nothing to do
standing in the sunshine. Morrison couldn't see Ventura's eyes behind
the man's sunglasses, but he was more than a little certain his
bodyguard was watching the limo with deadly expertise. This had been a
good idea, hiring Ventura. He felt a lot better knowing somebody like
him was on the job.
Behind them, twenty feet back at parade rest, stood General Smith,
flanked by a pair of his men holding assault rifles across their
chests.
The limo's door opened, and a small, balding, round-faced Chinese man
wearing a white silk summer suit and soft, gray, leather Italian shoes
alighted. He smiled at Morrison and bowed slightly.
'Dr. Morrison, I presume?'
Morrison nodded slightly and offered a nervous smile in return.
'I am Qian Ho Wu, but my friends call me 'Chilly.'
Nice to meet you.' From his voice, the man could have been born and
raised in Kansas--there was no trace of a Chinese accent.
Chilly Wu? Hardly a name to conjure up visions of water torture, was
it? He seemed perfectly harmless.
'Mr. Wu. This is my associate, Mr.--' '--Ventura, isn't it? Also a
pleasure to meet you, sir.'
Wu extended his hand, as if to shake Ventura's hand.
Ventura gave him a broad smile, but kept his hand down.
Wu smiled in return, and it seemed as if something had passed between
him and Ventura, though Morrison couldn't tell what it had been.
'Well. Gentlemen. Where can we talk?'
'Why don't we take you on a tour of the facility,' Ventura said. It
was not a question.
'A ride around to see the sights.'
'Certainly.' He held his hand out toward the limo.
