A circle of white gauze covered the little girl’s eye. She was conscious but groggy, and probably wouldn’t remember much of the next few minutes — which was just fine with Cathy Ryan. Mo Richardson stood by in scrubs like an extra nurse. It was reassuring, having her there. Cathy tried not to take the people who protected her for granted, but it was difficult not to when she was going on with the minutia of daily life. And Mo Richardson made it look so easy.
The real nurse, a slender brunette named Amy, went about her business, calm as could be, apparently not at all fazed by the fact that she had the First Lady and Secret Service agent (who was now armed with a pistol under her scrubs) in the same room. The surgery had gone well, considering. The tumor was confined to the anterior wall of the eye and just small enough that they were able to use lasers to destroy the blood vessels that supplied it. Niu would need to have the procedure done again, probably twice, and chemotherapy, too.
Amy touched Niu on her forehead, said something to her in English. The little girl smiled, then her good eye fluttered shut.
Cathy stood with her back to the door when Berryhill brought the Songs into recovery. As she suspected, they ignored everyone else and rushed to their granddaughter’s bedside. Mrs. Song all but collapsed, taking the groggy child’s hand. She closed her own eyes. Cathy couldn’t understand the words but knew the feeling very well. This woman was praying.
Dr. Berryhill let them have a moment or two, then continued to explain what he’d found, future options, the good chance that Niu would retain at least most of her sight in the affected eye. She needed to rest, he explained, and would be fine to go to the hotel in an hour or so, as soon as they were certain there were no ill effects from the anesthesia.
Overwhelmed with relief, General Song looked up and noticed Cathy for the first time.
He stepped closer, sparing his wife the conversation but drawing an intercepting check from Mo Richardson.
Cathy raised her hand. “It’s okay.”
“I suspected they would send someone,” Song said, deadpan. His English was perfect, with the hint of a British accent from training in Hong Kong. “But I must say, that they would send you is quite astonishing.”
“So,” Cathy said. “You know who I am?”
“Of course, Mrs.… Dr. Ryan. Am I to assume you performed the surgery?”
“I assisted,” she said. “Dr. Berryhill and I were classmates in medical school. Your granddaughter is in extremely capable hands with him.” She paused a beat, then added, “My husband wants me to convey his sympathy and best wishes. And to let you know that there are no strings attached with this surgery.”
“But?” Song said, savvy enough to know there was bound to be more.
“But he is worried,” Cathy said. “He believes you to be a patriotic but practical man. A man who does not wish to see his country plunged into unnecessary conflict.”
“I see,” Song said, glancing at the door. “Was that your doing? I am speaking of Mr. Tsai.”
Cathy shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She cast a sideways glance at Mo Richardson. “But I can tell by the look in my friend’s eyes that it probably was. They apparently kept me out of that part, whatever happened.”
“Will he live?”
Cathy shot another look at the Secret Service agent, who gave a tiny nod.
“Apparently so,” Cathy said.
Song studied her carefully through exhausted eyes. “Your candor is appreciated. I am glad you did not kill him. I do not care for Tsai, but his death would have made things much more difficult for me at home. Still, I am not unhappy to be rid of him for a few minutes.” He pursed his lips, bracing himself. “What is your message, Dr. Ryan?”
Jack had warned her about this part. Song would surely memorize every word she said, dissecting it for intelligence of his own. CIA officers underwent months of training to learn how to make this kind of pitch. She had to create a situation where the general would not feel as though he was violating his personal code. At the same time, she didn’t want to give away the farm by letting him know too much about intelligence the U.S. already had.
In the end, she decided she was not a trained agent handler, but an ophthalmic surgeon — and a damned good one. She’d never have time to learn how to turn a foreign national into an American asset — so she decided not to attempt it.
“Look, General Song,” she said. “I’m a mother, a wife, a concerned citizen who just wants a peaceful world for my grandkids to grow up in. Admittedly, I hear a lot more scary stuff than the average citizen because of who my husband is, but I’m no different in what I want for my family. Neither is Jack.” She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. “He’s worried that something is going on, a kind of power struggle inside China. Something dangerous that’s not necessarily sanctioned by your government.”
