“It is,” Foley said, lips set in a grim line. “Our experts think the little girl has something called a retinoblastoma.”
“A tumor?” Ryan said. Cathy was an ophthalmologist, so this was a term he’d heard before — medical knowledge by osmosis.
“Exactly,” Mary Pat said. “You hear of parents finding out their kids have it after they post a photo on social media and someone points out the white cloud in the iris.”
“Does General Song know?” Ryan asked.
Foley shook her head. “We don’t believe so. He and his wife keep the little girl completely off social media. She makes few public appearances at all, for security reasons.”
“How dangerous is this condition?”
“Very,” Foley said. “It can be fatal if left untreated. If it’s not removed quickly enough, she could lose her eye, or the cancer could spread beyond her eye to other parts of her body.”
“You weren’t thinking of trying to leverage this?” Ryan said.
“That’s your call, Mr. President,” Foley said. “I’m a mother, so…”
“And I’m a human being.” Ryan pushed the folder away to distance himself. “We have to tell the general straight-out. It’s not that child’s fault we find our two countries at odds.”
“Song will want to know how we discovered it.”
Ryan drummed his fingers on the desk. “The little girl makes no public appearances?”
“We’ll find something, somewhere.”
“I’m not a doctor,” Ryan said. “But we’re talking cancer, so I’m assuming time is of the essence. I want General Song informed of this sooner rather than later. Offer him any help we can in the way of medical care.”
Foley sighed softly. “I thought you might feel that way. We considered inviting him to bring the child to Wilmer Eye Institute but ruled that out since your wife practices there.”
“I appreciate that,” Ryan said. “On oh-so-many levels.”
“I know one of the surgeons at Kellogg Eye Center in Ann Arbor,” Foley said. “A Dr. Berryhill. He’s evidently a med school classmate of Dr. Ryan’s.”
“Dan Berryhill?” the President mused. “He’s an eccentric coot, but yeah, he’s a hell of an eye surgeon, to hear Cathy tell it.”
“I’ve already taken the liberty of reaching out to him,” Foley continued. “Dr. Berryhill has agreed to see a VIP patient at Kellogg on short notice. He doesn’t know who yet, but he’s done sensitive work for us before. He’s been through a vetting process.”
“Very well,” Ryan said. “Protect our source, but do everything possible to let Song know about his granddaughter, within the hour if possible. And get with Scott to make sure State smooths the way for any entry visas. I want him handling this personally.”
“Right away, Mr. President,” Foley said. “It’ll be touchy, but we can get a note to the general through our embassy.” She turned to go, then paused. “I’m proud of you, Jack.”
“Because I chose the life of a sick little girl over national security? I’m not sure that’s the right call.”
“Maybe not.” Foley’s eyes sparkled. “But it’s the call I knew you’d make.”
Cathy Ryan set the manila folder down gently beside her plate, as if she might injure the child in the photographs inside if she were too rough. “They have to get this little girl to a hospital.”
Her usual prohibition against reading at the table took a backseat when the material had to do with medical issues. Neither she nor Ryan had much of an appetite, and their light dinner consisted more of moving the seared sea bass around the plate than eating it.
She tapped the photo with her index finger, driving home her point. “Yesterday would not be too soon. Enucleation — removal of the eye — may be the only option if the tumor has advanced far enough.”
Ryan’s wife often gave him a fresh perspective and, since she knew him so well, pointed out instances where his personal biases might be clouding his judgment. She didn’t have the nuclear codes, but she knew what made Ryan tick. In the great scheme of things, that was almost the same thing. The problem was, right now, he didn’t want to be calmed down.
He’d just finished a BLUF — bottom line up front — briefing about recent events, including Father West’s text and the feuding Chinese generals. He saved the folder with photographs of General Song’s granddaughter for last, ending with the proposed surgery at Kellogg Eye Center.
“I should assist,” Cathy said. “Dan Berryhill is a brilliant surgeon, but I can help him.”
Ryan resisted the urge to pound the table at the notion. “Well, that’s out of the question.”
“Why? This is my expertise, Jack. Let me help.”
“That’s not… It’s not on the table,” Ryan said. “Mary Pat is formulating a plan as we speak.”
“To talk to the general?” Cathy asked.
“Best we don’t discuss specifics,” Ryan said. “But yes, that’s about the size of it. Someone from CIA will make contact, see if the general is interested in giving us anything.”
“Here am I,” Cathy said. “Send me.”
“Quoting Isaiah doesn’t help your cause.”
