“I am informed…,” he started.
“Informed?” the veteran reporter interrupted, stabbing the air with his pencil. “You haven’t spoken to President Foster yourself? You haven’t seen him? How do you have any idea what shape he’s in?”
The questioner kept badgering him, almost hysterically now:
“Mr Secretary… surely the people are entitled to hear from someone with first-hand knowledge?”
The Secretary pulled himself up to his full six-foot-one:
“President Foster is fully… ”
But the reporter wouldn’t give in:
“Mr Secretary, coming so close after the terrorist attack on New York, thankfully thwarted, can you assure the American people these catastrophes one after another are not part of some attempted coup, some conspiracy, some triple assassination attempt to overthrow…”
“America is not Tunisia or Egypt or Lib…”
Ed grabbed for the remote and switched off the TV. “Triple assassination!” he exclaimed. “What crap!”
The screen-flash from the TV burnt Ed’s strange reaction into Dr Cisco’s mind. He reminded himself that he was drained from working under high stress all night without a break, and that it had been years since he’d felt pressure anything close to this, so he dismissed his jumpiness about Isabel’s husband as being due to that and tried to calm himself by scratching useless notes onto her chart.
Davey tugged again. He signed, “Is Isabel going to die?”
“Ask Dr Cisco yourself,” George said, letting Davey read his lips and swinging his own eyes back onto Ed. He had the same reaction as the doctor to Ed’s comment.
Cisco had vaguely overheard George, but had no idea what question he would be answering for Davey so he slipped the chart back into its slot and raised his head, “Ask me what?” He licked his lower lip.
Without shifting his eyes away from Ed, George repeated Davey’s question.
Cisco nodded and sighed, “Ms Diaz has quite a few problems,” he began, and when Davey’s hands flew to his mouth in terror, Cisco continued, “but she will be okay,” saying it slowly so the boy understood. “We gave her some medicine to make her sleep. She’ll be awake in…,” he glanced at the clock on the wall, “two hours, maybe three.” An assuring smile broke out over the doctor’s tired, furrowed face and he tousled Davey’s hair. “Can you wait till then, little man?”
Davey bobbed his head and gave a little gleeful hop, and took George’s hand.
George’s eyes kept drilling into Ed.
NIKI Abbott splashed naked out of the tropical waters to find her valet standing guard where she’d tossed her clothes. Mario had unfurled a towel like a white flag of submission and, as though they’d already been lovers, she ran up to him and let him wrap it around her from behind, snuggling her back into him.
The pair stood silently, both facing the sea. Niki nudged his arms aside and let the towel slide between them to the sand. Purposefully, she grabbed behind through Mario’s loincloth and gave a strong tug, smiled and ran off from him high-stepping into the low lapping surf. Mario pulled the side-knot open and, inspired, hung the crimson cloth off himself and sped after her, laughing as the fabric flapped from side to side.
70
“CHIEF AGENT FRANKLIN, General Loane, special agent in charge of the President’s personal protective division. I gotta discuss your wife’s condition with the doctor, sir.”
Franklin’s tone and bearing were flinty and matter-of-fact, which even to Ed smacked as being frosty, as though the President’s shock asthma attack before Franklin’s own eyes had only been as bothersome as a fishbone in the throat. The arch in Franklin’s eyebrow was pushing Ed out of the room, but the former general stood his ground.
But the special agent wasn’t accustomed to resistance. “In private, sir,” he pressed.
Ed drew back his cuff and glimpsed his watch. “I’ve got to make a call,” he grunted and edged past Franklin out of the room, no mean feat since the man was almost as broad as the door itself.