Thomas Prescott Superpack (66 page)

Garret set the pages down. Now this sounded like a cruise he could enjoy. Maybe in a couple months he and Betsy would take their own cruise. Get out of D.C. for a while. Garret envisioned Betsy and himself sipping champagne and eating caviar. As the doting waiter was refilling their glasses, Garret’s iPhone vibrated. He shook his head, picked up the phone and read the message. There were two words followed by a series of numbers.

He looked at the phone number of the sender. He didn’t recognize it. But of course, whoever sent it, wouldn’t want the number traced back to them. And he had a good idea who sent it. He memorized the series of numbers, and then deleted the message. He thought of the two words.

Call Gina.

BOLIVIA

2:41
p.m.

Gina Brady moved the stethoscope down the small girl’s back. The girl had complained of chest pain, cough, and shortness of breath.
Not another one,
thought Gina.

The girl took a deep breath and Gina heard the wheezing of air. Gina smiled. It wasn’t tuberculosis. Thank God. She didn’t know if she could deal with another one. 13 cases in the past four months. Four of them fatal. Three of those, small children.

Gina walked across the small hut and rummaged through a series of canvas bags. She pulled out an inhaler, pulled off the top, and told Dominga to open her mouth. The nine-year-old shook her head, her dark pigtails swishing around her brown face. Gina stuck the inhaler in her own mouth, pushed down the tab, and took a deep breath. Gina smiled, showing the girl the simplicity of the action. The young girl’s anxiety abated and she opened her mouth wide, revealing a large gap where her two front teeth should be. Some things are the same no matter what latitude or longitude you’re at. Gina stuck the inhaler in the girl’s mouth and depressed the nozzle, sending the critical medicine into the girl’s lungs. Gina walked over to a cabinet and returned holding a super-sized Sour Apple Blow Pop (which came once a year with her supplies.) Probably not the best thing for a tiny girl with asthma, but hell, life is short.

The girl wiggled the enormous green sucker into her mouth and Gina pressed the stethoscope to her back. The girl took a deep breath. No wheezing. Clean as a whistle.

Gina had a brief chat with the mother, who started into tears when Gina told her it was nothing more than a case of asthma. When the mother had first arrived with the child, it had been as though she was already grieving over the girl’s death. Bolivia ranked third in the western hemisphere in number of tuberculosis cases and the
death cough
as the natives referred to it, struck a fear into the small village like nothing the doctor had ever seen.

Dominga jumped off the small exam table—well, if you could call a rickety table with a sheet over it an exam table—and stuck out her tongue. It was dark green.

Gina laughed.

The girl and mother left through the open door and Gina smoothed out the small sheet covering the table. She heard footsteps approaching. She prayed it wasn’t a child. It wasn’t. It was Javier Kully, a fellow WHO—World Health Organization—doctor, and as of three weeks ago, a budding romantic endeavor.

The curly haired, self-proclaimed Peruvian-Australian—Gina still didn’t know quite what that meant—smiled at her. He had an amazing smile. White and even. Gina noticed the satellite phone held to his chest. He said, “You have a call my dear.”

Gina raised her eyebrows. This would be her fourth call in three years. The first three from her best friend on her birthday.

Gina asked, “Who is it?”

“He wouldn’t say.”

“He?”

“Yeah.
He
.”

Javier handed the phone to her and said, “Did you give your number out to one of those naked gentlemen at last week’s rain dance?”

“I would have, but I don’t even know the number.” In truth, she didn’t. She had it written down on a scrap of paper somewhere. And her best friend had it. No one else.

Javier winked at her, handed her the phone, then turned and left.

Gina pressed the phone to her ear, which felt unnatural—she might have felt more comfortable holding a banana to her ear—and said, “This is Gina.”

“Gina.”

All it took was that one word. It was him. But why? And how? True, he was one of the most powerful people in the world, but it would still take some doing. “Paul.”

She could hear him pause. Maybe he hadn’t expected her to remember his voice. He said, “The one and only.”

“How did you find me?”
And why?

“Well, actually you found me.” He told her about the text message.

“Why would someone text you this number? And to call me?”

“I’ll get to the why in a sec. As for
the who, I’m leaning towards my father.”

“As in the National Security Advisor to the President?” She was speechless. Why had one of the most powerful men in D.C., a man thought to have even more influence than the Secretary of Defense, tell his son to call her?

Gina’s father, William Brady, and Roger Garret’s paths had crossed in 1979, when both were stationed at Marine Corps Headquarters in Washington. Both brought their families along for the ride, families that had followed them all over the map. Roger Garret and his wife Prudence had a seven-year-old named Paul. William Brady was a widower, his wife falling victim to a strange illness a year earlier, and he had a six-year-old daughter, Gina.

The children at the base were few and far between, and Gina and Paul had been inseparable from the second they’d met. Both their fathers had found a home in Washington and for the first time in memory, Gina was able to cultivate an actual friendship. Over the course of the next ten years, their friendship slowly evolved into a torrid love affair. Gina still remembered the night, three weeks after her sixteenth birthday, when they had first made love, sneaking off the base to a cheap motel just down the road. The memory still made the hair on her arm stand on end. When it came time for college, they both attended Virginia, Paul studying political science, her pre-med. It had been four of the best years of Gina’s life. After graduation, Paul had moved back to Washington. Gina enrolled in the University of Virginia’s medical school.

At first, the mere two-hour drive didn’t impact their relationship, one of them driving down to meet the other each weekend. But over time, it turned into every other week, then once a month if they were lucky. They tried it for a year. And then, three weeks into his her second year, Paul called it quits. He couldn’t do it anymore.

But Gina could have. She would have dropped out. Moved to D.C. She would have done anything to stay with him. But she knew it was more than just the distance. Paul, her best friend, the love of her life, had fallen out of love with her. But in the back of her mind, Gina always thought they would end up together. Grow old together.

Over the years, Gina had tried to stay in touch with him. But it was too hard. Every time she heard his voice, the memories would come flooding back. By the time she started her residency, the two were lucky to trade e-mails twice a year.

The last year of her residency, Gina’s father had died in a car accident. Paul had attended the funeral, a gorgeous redhead on his arm. Her current boyfriend, Tony, a fellow resident, had come
with her but she still couldn’t believe Paul had shown up with this
tramp
. Gina wasn’t sure which was more painful, her father’s death or seeing Paul with another woman. That had been six years ago. They hadn’t spoken since.

But Gina still kept tabs on her childhood friend and the only man she’d ever truly loved. Paul married the tramp, who’d spawned him two boys, and was recently named Press Secretary of the White House. And his father, the intimidating General Roger Garret, was now the top man in charge of National Security affairs. The Garrets were two of the most powerful men in the United States. And here she was, living in a remote village in Bolivia.

“What time is it there?”

Gina shook out of her reverie. “We’re in the same time zone.”

“Really.”

“Look at a map sometime.”

“No, I trust you.”

There was something about the way he said these words, which almost brought tears to her eyes. Why, after all these years? She swallowed hard, then asked, “Why did your father tell you to call me?”

“We have something of a situation on our hands.”

Over the course of the next ten minutes, Paul briefed her on the terrorist situation in the Indian Ocean. After he recounted Quaroni’s demands, she said in disbelief, “That’s impossible.”

“Actually, it’s not. If we get the Red Cross involved as well as the National Guard, we could probably get it done.”

“AIDS medication for a million people? Really?”

“Sure. We’re the United States of America. We can do anything.”

She laughed. His dry sense of humor rushing back at her. She asked, “So why don’t you do it? Why not call the Red Cross and get over there?”

“We can’t. We don’t negotiate with terrorists, remember?”

“I forgot.”

“If we cave in to this guy’s demands, we’ll be setting a dangerous precedent for the future. Then every crackpot with a boat is going to try to take over a ship.”

He was right. If they caved, it would be like opening Pandora’s Box. She thought a moment and said, “So where do I come in?”

“The three kids.”

“What about them?”

“Well, this is only conjecture but I think my father—and I agree with him on this—wants you to sneak in under the radar and rescue those three kids.”

South Africa. A remote village. Three kids. Again, she asked, “Why?”

“A bargaining chip. To do something. To not just sit on our asses. Maybe it saves those four hundred people on that ship. Or maybe it just saves those three kids. I don’t think anything bad could come of it.”

“But won’t you be caving to his demands.”

“Maybe. That’s subjective. Hence, all the secrecy. No one else would know about his but you, me, and my father.”

“Why not have a special ops teams sweep in and do it?”

“I’m guessing my father doesn’t want this sanctioned by us in any way. He wants this done off the grid.”

Well that was her.
Off the grid.

Gina was silent for a minute. Deep in thought.

As if sensing her thoughts, Paul said, “Don’t do this for me. Don’t do this for my father. Don’t do this for your country. If you even think of America as your country. Do this to save some kids and some innocent folks on that ship.”

“Well, I’m not doing this for you. That’s for sure. How’s Betsy by the way?”

“She’s good. So are the kids.”

“And what would she think about your calling me?”

She could hear him take a deep breath through the phone. “Look Gina, we were a long time ago. And like I said, no one knows about this but you, me, and my father. Nobody.”

Gina looked around the small hut. Life was good here. A bit mundane at times. But good. And then she had Javier to think about. He was handsome and fun. And a good dancer. But then again, this would be quite the little adventure. And she could save three kids lives.

She took a deep breath and said, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

SHOW LOUNGE

7:36
p.m.

The bathrooms were against the far wall of the lounge. I could feel the nervous stares of my fellow hostages as well as the heavy glares of the three pirates, but the pirates didn’t move, nor appear to care that I was on the move. They were covering the only exit. They didn’t have anything to worry about. I wasn’t going anywhere.

I stepped clear of the chairs and took the ten steps to the bathroom. I pushed through the door, stopped at the faucet, splashed water on my face, and looked at my reflection. In six days, my skin had tanned to a light cinnamon. My hair was short, almost buzzed, the usually brown
hairs lightened to an ash blond by the sun and matched by the light dusting of beard I’d been growing since we disembarked. White slashes of crow’s feet fringed steel blue irises set against sun-pinkened landscapes. Basically, I looked like a guy who was having a grand old time on a cruise ship when it was unexpectedly taken over by pirates.

After a long drink from the faucet, I did an appraisal of the bathroom. There were two stalls and five urinals. I jumped up and smacked the ceiling with my hand. Hard as a rock. No panels.

Looking for a way out wasn’t the only reason I’d come to the bathroom and made my way to a urinal. As I let loose, I did some reflecting. I’d been in a number of tricky situations, but this one took the cake. Taken hostage by a band of African pirates who wanted nothing more than the United States to help them with their little AIDS problem. My brain was having a hard time writing an algorithm for this one:

200 passengers + 160 crew / (10-15 Pirates) x (400,000 Deaths from AIDS + .013 [The probability the USA would meet these demands]) = why are they doing this?