“One of the people from Sudan First fired on the leader of Meurtre Musique.”
“I know that. What’s
“That’s all that I know.”
“The problem with you people…”
Bloom let her voice trail off, not bothering to finish the sentence.
“I’ll leave if you want,” said Melissa finally. “I’m only here to help. That’s the only reason.”
“How could I ever believe that?”
The door opened. Melissa felt her body jerking back, automatically preparing to be on the defensive.
A pregnant woman came into the room. In her arms she had a two-year-old boy. The child was listless, clearly sick.
Melissa looked over at Bloom. She had a shell-shocked expression.
“I’ll take this one,” said Melissa, going over to the woman.
She held out her arms. The mother glanced at Bloom, but gave the child over willingly. She said something in African, explaining what was wrong. Melissa could tell just by holding the baby that he had a fever.
“Come,” said Melissa in English. “Inside.”
The woman followed her into the far examining room.
It was an infection, some sort of virus or bacteria causing the fever. Beyond that it was impossible to diagnose, at least for her. The fever was 102.4; high, yet not so high that it would be alarming in a child. There were no rashes or other outward signs of the problem; no injuries, no insect bites. The child seemed to be breathing normally. Its pulse was a little slow, but even that was not particularly abnormal, especially given its overall listless state.
Melissa poured some bottled water on a cloth and rubbed the baby down.
“To cool him off a little,” she said, first in English, then in slower and less steady Arabic. She got a dropper and carefully measured out a dose of acetaminophen. Gesturing, she made the woman understand that she was to give it to the baby. The mother hesitated, then finally agreed.
As she handed over the medicine, Melissa realized that the woman was running a fever herself. She took her thermometer — an electronic one that got its readings from the inner ear — and held it in place while the woman struggled to get her baby to swallow the medicine.
Her fever was 102.8. More serious in an adult.
And what about her baby? The woman looked to be at least eight months pregnant, if not nine.
Melissa took the stethoscope.
“I need to hear your heart,” she said.
She gestured for the woman to take off her long, flowing top. Unsure whether she truly didn’t understand or just didn’t want to be examined, Melissa told her that she was concerned about the baby.
“You have a fever,” she said.
The woman said something and gestured toward the young child on the examining table, who was looking at them with big eyes.
Realizing she was getting nowhere, Melissa went out to the waiting area to get Bloom to help.
Bloom had nodded off. Melissa bent down to wake her. As she did, the pregnant woman came out from the back, carrying her child.
“Wait,” said Melissa, trying to stop her. “Wait!”
“What’s wrong?” asked Bloom, jumping up from the couch.
“She’s sick. Her baby may have a fever, too.”
Bloom spoke in rapid Arabic. The woman answered in her own tongue. Whatever it was she said, Bloom frowned. She answered, speaking less surely. The woman waved her hand and went to the door.
“You have to tell her,” said Melissa.
“I can’t stop her,” said Bloom as the woman left.
“We could at least give her acetaminophen, something for the fever.”
“She won’t take it,” said Bloom. “It’d be a waste.”
“But—”
“If we push too hard, they won’t come back. They have to deal with us at their own pace.”
“If she’s sick, the baby may die.”
“We can’t force her to get better.”
Melissa wanted to argue more — they could have at least made a better argument, at least explained what the dangers were. But her satellite phone rang.
“I–I have to take this,” she said, starting for the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Thinking it was Danny calling to tell her what was going on, she hit the Talk button as she went through the door.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Melissa, what’s the situation?” asked Reginald Harker.
“Hold on, Reg. Let me get somewhere I can talk.”
She walked outside, continuing a little way down the road. The harsh sun hurt her eyes. There was no one outside, and the nearby houses, which yesterday had been teeming with people, seemed deserted. Otherwise, the day seemed perfect, no sign of conflict anywhere.
“I’m here,” she told Harker.
“What’s going on with Mao Man?” he asked.
“We have him tracked to a house on the northeastern side of town.”
“What about the UAV?”
“We think it’s nearby.”
“Think?”
“We’re not entirely sure.” His abrupt tone pissed her off. Try doing this yourself, she thought.
“When will you be sure?”
“I don’t know. There’s a Russian who’s trying to buy it—”
“Do
“No shit.”
“Mao Man has to be terminated. Take down the Russian, too. Take down the whole damn village — what the hell are you waiting for?”
“Reg—”
“I’m serious, Melissa. Why do you think I sent you there? What the hell did we invest in your training for?”
“I have no idea,” she told him stonily.
“Don’t let these Whiplash people run the show. They have their own agenda. Tell them to stop pussyfooting around and get the damn thing done.”
“Fuck yourself,” she said. But he’d already hung up.
Melissa pushed the phone back into the pocket of her baggy pants. She was so angry she didn’t want to go back into the clinic; she needed to walk off some of her emotion. She clenched her hands into fists and began to walk.
She’d gone only fifty yards or so when she heard trucks in the distance. The sound was faint, the vehicles far off, but instinctively she knew it was trouble.
Chapter 6
Zen sat in the hospital waiting area, tapping his fingers against the arms of his wheelchair. Not since he ran for the Senate had he felt such a combination of anticipation and anxiety. Not that he’d cared about the outcome — he would have been just as content retiring from politics as a two-term congressman and getting a job in the private sector. In some ways he’d have been happier, since few jobs had such a demand on anyone’s time.
