Dark Heart (DARC Ops Book 3) (5 page)

“Maybe he’s in the bathroom?” said Jackson.

“Salmha!” yelled Awadi before launching into an angry tirade of Arabic. It was too fast and too hostile for translation.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, getting up. “I don’t know what’s happened to Salmha.” He started shuffling away while calling his servant’s name again for the twentieth time.

“Should we . . .” Jasper started to say. But Jackson just shook his head. Best to let them deal with whatever it was.

After a minute, Awadi returned with a grave look on his face, like he’d just stumbled upon a dead body. “Jackson, can you have your doctor come over here please?”

“His name is Rick,” said Jackson.

“Rick, can you please come?” He sounded very serious, quiet. Scared, almost.

Jasper joined him in the luxurious bathroom, where they found Salmha on the stone tile floor and hunched in the fetal position. He was breathing, conscious, but in great discomfort. Jasper immediately checked for any signs of blood or vomit, or even drool. But there was nothing.

Awadi said something to him. But there was hardly a response. He then turned to Jasper, saying, “He’s my food tester. Something must be wrong with the food.”

Most of these guys from Saudi come over with their own food testers, to make sure they weren’t about to be poisoned. Who would poison him was apparently beside the point. Awadi was traveling outside the safe confines of Riyadh, and therefore vulnerable.

It could be hoped that Salmha was just sensitive to a little American cooking, and nothing more.

“Salmha, can you hear me?” Jasper said in Arabic.

Yes, he could hear, he mumbled in reply.

“Do you know where you are?”

Yes, he knew that he was in the bathroom in a hotel suite on the twentieth floor. Raleigh, North Carolina. It was all good news, that he was at least conscious and coherent. But what the hell was wrong with him?

“Where does it hurt?” asked Jasper.

The man was clutching his stomach, so that as much was obvious.

“Where does it hurt, Salmha?” asked Awadi.

Jasper had already gotten him to sit up, his back pushed up against the wall. He was holding his chest right below his ribs, but Jasper moved his hands away so he could press onto his abdomen, examining his organs.

Jackson had left the room, returning within a few seconds. “Jasper, the food’s in the other room. Do you want to see it?”

“Yes, do you want to check out the food?” asked Awadi, sounding like he was already interviewing for another food tester.

“There’s no need to check it,” said Jasper, looking at the man’s eyes now. Looking at his tongue. And then looking at his hands. “The food’s fine.”

“Food’s fine?” asked Awadi.

“Probably too fine,” said Jasper as he finished up his exam got back to his feet. “He ate it too fast.”

“What?” Awadi looked confused, looked down at his man.

“Gas pain,” said Jasper, trying not to laugh.

“He’ll be okay,” said Jasper. “Let’s get him up and lay him in bed.”

Jasper and Jackson helped the man off the bathroom floor and walked him into the bedroom. He was apologizing in Arabic, saying that he felt okay, and sorry for all the bother.

“So,” said Jackson, helping the man into one of the suite’s many king-size beds. “Do you think we can talk about the prince, or . . . ?” He was starting to sound annoyed with all the little delays.

“Prince Saif,” said Awadi. “Yes, of course.” They walked back, slowly, to the main room while he began the briefing. “He has many enemies, as you could guess.”

“Why don’t you explain that,” said Jackson. “His enemies. Who are they?”

“Anyone in the business of selling oil, who profits when we keep production down,” said Awadi. “Look at your own country. Your shale oil and fracking wouldn’t be profitable if gas were below thirty-two a barrel. You understand what I mean, right? Our royal family has been flooding the market for over a year now, and not many people are happy. You understand?”

Jasper didn’t want to admit how well he understood. It was called “break-even economics.” And right now, if you weren’t a Saudi, you weren’t breaking even.

“There were threats made,” said Awadi. “Big threats made. Assassination attempts. Two this year already.”

“In the Kingdom?” asked Jackson incredulously.

“Yes. Attempts in the Kingdom.”

“At least your track record’s better here in the US,” said Jasper with a hesitant smile.

“Yes,” said Awadi. “But right now it doesn’t matter where he is. The threat can come from anywhere. The hacking.”

“When is the prince due for surgery?” asked Jackson.

“Surgery for what?” Jasper interrupted.

“His heart,” said Awadi. “He’s getting a new pacemaker.”

Jackson turned to his medic. “They’re worried about the potential for it to be hacked, among other things—like it’s malfunctioning. Badly.”

“Yes, of course, the pacemaker,” said Awadi, his eyes wide. “We have no other choice but to have surgery on his heart. But what if they could stop the pacemaker entirely?”

“They
can
stop it,” said Jackson. “They can hack into it and compromise its functions.”

“Yes, certainly,” Awadi’s eyes were still wide with concern. “They can hack.”

“So, our mission,” said Jackson, looking like he was trying to resist rolling his eyes, “is to not let them hack it. We’ll be monitoring it from the outside. And your mission, Rick, is to see to it that the prince has a nice, uneventful stay at the hospital. You know your way around a hospital setting, right?”

“Sure,” said Jasper. He’d been to far too many hospitals, as a caregiver and recipient. In fact, part of his training when he was active duty had him working in the regular rotation at a hospital near Fort Bragg. And part of that rotation was spent with one irresistibly attractive nursing assistant, when they’d learned much more about each other’s bodies than those of their subjects. Several weeks and a pregnancy scare later, it was decided that they’d learned enough. Jasper had to deploy, and the relationship fizzled away.

“So?” said Jackson. “You on board, Rick?”

“Of course.” Jasper tried to get his mind off his night’s turn, tried not to wonder too much about where it’d ended up. “Yeah,” he said. “Count me in.”

M
arva was still alive
. That was one bit of good news, at least. She hadn’t died from some mistake of Fiona’s, some screwup like overdosing her insulin and putting the nice old lady into diabetic shock. She hadn’t screwed up the medication dosage last night. And this morning—thank God—while helping Marva into a more comfortable position, she somehow hadn’t held a pillow over her face until the struggle ended.

So it had been a pretty good day so far. No deaths. No blood splatter—from a blood bag or otherwise. There were no morning discoveries of forgotten catheter clamps. She should be well on her way to a commendation, perhaps even a raise. Or at least no more drug tests. She’d be happy with that.

“How was your sleep, Marva?”

The elderly woman smiled groggily, stretching her arms under the sheets. “Just as long as I wake up, it was a good one.”

Fiona smiled with her, envying the woman’s simple, geriatric contentment.

“And how was yours?” Marva asked. It was a question Fiona rarely heard.

“Oh, fine,” she lied.

“That’s good, Dear. You deserve it. You work so hard here every day.”

Fiona looked around at a few new additions to the décor. Mainly, several bouquets of standard hospital-lobby flowers. A gold frame around an old black-and-white family photograph. Newer photos without frames, but leaning up here and there, wherever they could.

“I see you’ve had some visitors,” said Fiona as she prepared the glucose monitor. It would be the Marva’s first stab of the day.

“Oh, yes, thank Jesus. They finally came for little old me.”

“Your flowers smell wonderful, Marva.”

“Oh, yes. They were so sweet, coming to see me, and bringing gifts and such.”

Fiona checked her patient ID number off the chart, and then checked her ID bracelet. Everything by the book. “You’ll have to thank them for me,” Fiona said, carefully reading her bracelet.

“I already have, profusely.”

“I mean, thank them for
my
gift.”

“Oh?” Marva looked as confused as ever. “I’m sorry? What was your gift, Dear?”

“I had a nice little chat with your family yesterday.”

Marva’s eyes widened.
“What?”

“They came up to me, to say hi,” said Fiona, putting down the glucose monitor. The pain could wait a minute. “They gave me a little box of chocolates.”

“Oh they
did
?”

“Yes, they’re very nice.”

“Well, Dear, I told them about you.” Her smile had broadened. And she’d started nodding, almost like she was in a trance. “I told them you’re the one keeping me alive here. And not just that, but
sane
. You and Jesus.”

Fiona laughed.

“Do they know how valuable you are here?”

She wanted to say yes, but . . .

“No,” she said. “No, they don't.”

Fuck it. They don’t know at all how valuable she was.

“Well, they
will
know,” said Marva. “I’ll be sure of it. By God I will.”

Fiona laughed again. She picked up the glucose monitor while enjoying the mental image of Marva setting the wrath of God against the unbelievers of Fiona’s competency. “You might not like me after this,” Fiona said, waving the pointy end of the detector.

“Oh, Jesus.
That
thing again.” She made a face, like a grimace, and then pulled her arm away. “But what about that other thing we talked about? Where I don’t have to get all these needles all the time?”

“Oh, right, the insulin pump.” Fiona had completely forgotten to inquire about it. She was too busy with interrogations and peeing into cups.

“Am I allowed to get one of them things?” asked Marva.

“We’re working on it.”

“Oh, I need it bad.”

“I know, Marva. But I’m afraid this time we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.”

Marva hesitantly offered her hand.

“I know,” said Fiona, aiming with the device “I’m sorry.” She really was.

“I could sure use that thing.”

“Hold still?”

Marva held still.

“Three . . . Two . . . One . . .”

* * *

S
itting
at a table in the break room, Fiona pushed aside the thick hardcover she was attempting to care about. Chick-lit about some soccer mom with an addiction to Ambien. Needing to counteract the sedation, she slid a slice of blueberry pie in front of her. It came in a clear plastic box and the lid opened with a loud snap. She hunched over her drug, her upper, a stale dose of hospital dessert. It was the one indulgence she allowed herself, unless the hospital administrators were screening for sweets as well as the harder stuff. What would they ask for next? A blood sample? They could borrow Marva’s glucose monitor for the deed. Better yet, they could have Marva, herself, extract the sample from Fiona. Get some revenge against her torturer.

She took a bite, and was finally satisfied with her break. It finally lived up to its promise of a break away from the hell. The shortest, most bittersweet sliver of a break.

“Hey, Fiona,” said Wendy, pulling out a chair and sitting across from her. “How much longer do you have?”

“Umm . . .” Fiona had to wait for her pie hole to be devoid of pie.

In the meantime, Wendy slid the book over to her side, glancing at the front cover with mild amusement. “Oh, that’s so funny,” she said, flipping the book over.

What was so funny about that?

“My book club’s reading this,” she said. “But I’m not.”

It wasn’t that funny.

“I’ve got a few minutes,” said Fiona after swallowing that big bite of pie. “What’s up?”

“The results are back.”

“For 218?”

“No. For you,” said Wendy. “The urine sample.”

The mental image was enough for her to lose her appetite. She pushed aside her slice of pie. “What is it, Wendy? You’ve got that look in your eye.”

She did look worried, like there may have actually been a reason to be upset.

“Well, go ahead,” urged Fiona. “What of it?”

“I don’t how I can properly convey this, Fiona . . . But I really am sorry.”

“For what?”

She started to look more ashamed than worried.

“I’m just sorry that this happened,” said Wendy. “I had no control over it. It was negative, of course.”

“Then why are you sorry?”

“Because, I, you know, I just feel bad . . .”

“That’s different. You don’t have to be sorry just because you feel bad.”

“I tried to talk them out of it. I knew they wouldn’t find anything, and that, it would just, you know . . .”

“That’s good enough. You tried. Don’t be sorry. Don’t
say
sorry.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s just move on. Right?”

“But they still might want to talk to you.”

She slid her pie over to Wendy. “Want some pie?”

She finally lightened up a little bit. “You’re always pushing sweets on me.”

“What do they want to talk about?” asked Fiona. “Am I really messing up that bad?”

“They seem to think so.”

“Maybe I should talk to the union about it.”

“You should probably just try to clear your head,” said Wendy. “Start getting some good sleep, and just take things slow. Be extra careful for a while.”

“That’s what I’m doing, but it’s making me worse,” said Fiona, looking down to her lap. She was literally wringing her hands. “It’s like the harder you hold on to something, the harder it is to keep it in your hands.”

“I’m not sure if that’s necessarily true,” said Wendy.

Fiona stood and brushed off some crumbs from her lap. “Oh, before I go. What are the chances of getting Mrs. Dawes on that—”

“Who’s Mrs. Dawes?”

“Marva.”

Wendy rose from her seat and followed Fiona to her locker.

“What’s the odds of getting her on that new insulin pump?”

“Maybe we can get her on the trial,” said Wendy, looking away as Fiona opened her locker to return her book and purse. “They’re experimenting with a new product, some new technology. She can get on that for free if she wants. They might even pay her.”

“What are the requirements? She has full-blown Type Two diabetes.”

“That sounds about right for the trial.”

It was odd how Wendy was hanging around like that. Was she spying? Was that the next level of their investigation?

“Well,” said Fiona. “I better get back.”

Wendy laughed. “Can’t I walk with you?”

They walked to the elevators, a growing awkwardness coming from Wendy. Her behavior. What more did she have to say? More apologies?

“There was one other thing,” Wendy finally said as they stepped into the quiet privacy of the elevator. She said it as if it were a surprise, as if Fiona hadn't already been expecting the worst. “There’s been some rumors. Have you heard them?”

“About me?”

“No,” said Wendy. “Not everything has to do with you.”

“Good. Thank God.”

“Have you heard about this undercover person? I guess they’re sending in some secret shoppers, you know, people posing as patients. They’re trying to evaluate us in secret. The union hates it.”

“Well, I hate it, too. It sounds . . . deceitful.”

“There’s been a lot of oversights lately,” said Wendy. “Not just from you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, really. Even the computers are having problems. Anyway, it’s just another reason why you should watch what you’re doing.”

Their conversation died down as the elevator stopped, dinged, and then slid open its metal doors. Fiona stepped aside as two other nurses boarded. She spoke more quietly now, saying, “So, when do they expect this to begin?”

“It might already be going on.”

Unlike the drug test, this was something that Fiona had good reason to fear. She thought immediately of all the screwups of her past week, wondering how any of them were being documented by this team of undercover evaluators. And then she thought back to the catheter mistake . . .

No. She was safe there. No undercover agent would go through that kind of pain.

“So just, you know . . .”

“Yeah,” said Fiona. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Exactly,” said Wendy. “Keep your head up.”