The Spymaster's Daughter

by Allan Cole

  Mark snorted. “Brenner’s got the bedside manner of a drill sergeant.” He looked back at the grandfather and the little girl. “I’ll bring the family in the Jeep.”

  It took half an hour to negotiate the rough road to the Doctors Without Borders medical center – which consisted of half-a-dozen large tents linked together by planked-over pathways with canvas awnings.

  The hospital sat opposite a sprawling refugee encampment that housed hundreds of families in huts, tents, a few barracks and a warren of cardboard-covered dens dug into the earth. The encampment was only one of scores of such places in Southeast Asia that housed hundreds of thousands of stateless people, many of whom hadn’t seen their homelands for decades.

  When they pulled up in front of the main hospital tent and the ambulance doors came open, Ann looked up to see Ruth Guerra hurrying toward her. About Ann’s age, Ruth was her top nurse and a close friend.

  Ann slid out, still keeping pressure on the woman’s wound. “Thank God you’re okay, Dr. D,” Ruth said. “When we first heard, we thought you and Mark…” her voice trailed off.

  Then she saw the woman’s swollen belly. “Oh, you poor thing,” she murmured to the woman. “And with a baby coming.” She turned to Ann, “That’s the third incident this week,” she said hotly.

  “I know, I know,” Ann said. “Don’t blame me. I’m not the landmine commission.”

  “I’d like to give a few of those directors a piece of my mind,” Ruth said. “Better yet, stick them on my ward for a week of cold enemas and blunt needles.”

  Mark pulled up, jumped from the Jeep and helped the grandfather and little Sitha out. He turned them over to Ruth, then helped the medic get the stretcher from the ambulance, while Ann maneuvered around them, keeping the pressure steady.

  Ruth said, “Watch out for Dr. Brenner, he’s in a foul mood.”

  “Is he prepped and ready for me?” Ann asked. Ruth nodded. “Then he can be in any mood that suits him,” Ann said.

  Although by now she was used to it, once inside the main tent Ann was struck by just how desperately overcrowded the facility was – and just how overworked the personnel were. The beds were filled to the overflowing, cots were crammed into every space and the floor was covered with pallets where sick people were surrounded by nurses, orderlies and various aunts, uncles, mothers, fathers and squabbling children.

  Out of this melee stepped Dr. Carl Brennan, short, balding and as officious as an old nun – although Ann knew that he was only a year or so older. He looked at the disorder with distaste, shrinking away as a mob of dirty-faced kids raced past.

  For the life of her, Ann couldn’t figure out why someone like Brennan would have volunteered for Doctors Without Borders. Maybe he was the victim of unrequited love, she thought, amused. And he figured that as a Frenchbased organization that Doctors Without Borders was sort of like the Foreign Legion. An image of dumpy Dr. Brennan as a legionnaire popped unbidden into her mind.

  She had to choke back laughter as Dr. Brennan hurried up. He spotted the wounded Cambodian woman with acupuncture needles in her ear and forehead. His face and bald head turned beet red.

  “Acupuncture?” he said, scandalized. “Really, Dr. Donovan, don’t you think you’ve gone a little overboard with this alternative medicine crap? What were you thinking?”

  Ann sighed. This was an argument so old that it was beginning to draw flies. “Oh, Carl,” she said, “put a sock in it, please. She was afraid of the morphine. Afraid it would hurt her baby. I had to do something for the pain – so I used acupuncture. You can see for yourself how much it’s helped.”

  Dr. Brennan started to break in, but Ann cut him off with a raised hand. “Look, she’s on the verge of going into shock and she’s lost a lot of blood, although not as much as she would have if it weren't for the ‘alternative medicine crap.’”

  “Don’t think I won’t report this,” Brennan said.

  Ann ignored him. She turned to the woman, and said in Cambodian, “We’re going to take good care of you. I’ll be right here and I promise that we won’t give you any medicine that will hurt your baby. Will you let us help you?”

  The woman nodded weakly and closed her eyes. *****

  Later that evening, Ann and Mark came out of the tent, breathing deeply of the fresh night air. They both wore blood-spattered scrubs and had the yellow-tinged jaundiced look of people who badly needed rest.

  “That was a hell of a night,” Mark said. “Saved a pregnant woman’s leg, four people with gunshot wounds, one burn victim, and who knows what else. It’s all blurring together.”

  “Don’t forget Dr. Brennan’s so-called cholera patients,” Ann reminded.

  Ruth had joined them in time to overhear the last. “Dr. Brennan should seriously consider abusing Valium,” she said. “Talk about a nervous Nellie. Anytime he sees a case of diarrhea he thinks its cholera.”

  “I know, I know,” Ann said. “But he scared me just the same. The last time we had an outbreak of real cholera we almost had to burn the whole camp down.”

  “I’m only a lowly nurse,” Ruth said. “However, I think it’s more likely that those two patients are HIV positive and just don’t want to admit it. But I couldn’t contradict the great Dr. Brennan.”

  Ann said, “Don’t worry, we’ll fix his mistakes tomorrow.” She shook her head. “In a refugee camp there’s always someone with diarrhea.” Ann chuckled. “Sometimes I think we should call ourselves Diarrhea Without Borders.”

  She turned serious. “Listen, if Ruth’s right – and when is she ever wrong? – we’ve got two more HIV cases on our hands. They’re going to need medication and we are dangerously low.”

  “I know, I know,” Mark said. “I’ve been screaming at the supply guys in Paris like a crazed lab monkey. But they don’t hear me, Doc. Everybody’s screaming. There just aren't enough HIV meds to go around.”

  Ann was about to blow a gasket, but Mark raised a hand in surrender. “Never fear. Soon as I unload the stuff we picked up today, your favorite field nurse, supply chief and permanent latrine orderly will get on the horn and hunt down the right person to yell at.”

  Ruth broke in. “By the way, Dr. D, I have a little girl in the mess tent who’s anxious to see you.”

  Ann smiled, knowing Ruth was talking about Sitha, and let Ruth lead her into the mess tent. Mark started toward the Jeep, flexing large – but weary – muscles.

  Just as he was coming around the back of the vehicle

  – which was piled with crates that towered over even his sixfoot-six height, he saw a skulking shadow leaning into the passenger’s side, fishing around the seat.

  “Hey,” Mark thundered, striding toward the figure, which he now saw was a ragged beggar.

  The beggar jumped back. “Sorry, sir, sorry,” he said, holding up his hands.

  But Mark kept coming. The beggar lost his nerve, wheeled and scurried away. Mark watched him go, then turned and started unloading the crates.

  “Geesh,” he said. “How many times do I have to buy this stuff back?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next day, Ann finished her morning rounds and headed for a much-anticipated coffee rendezvous at Mark’s cubicle. It was toward the rear of the main tent and was cut off from the chaos outside by partitions made of canvas stretched over wooden frames.

  A sign hanging from the entrance read: LOGISTICS CENTER. This is where Mark held forth in between his other duties as a field medic, begging, threatening and sometimes outright conspiring to steal supplies and transportation to deliver those supplies from people all over the world.

  She could hear Mark and Ruth arguing as she approached. Ann smiled. It was a familiar debate.

  Ruth was saying, “How come when you get around to me – your alleged pal who generously tosses you all her castoff beaus – that only lousy numbers are left? What kind of friend are you?”

  “Lousy?” Mark was indignant. “These are perfectly good numbers. The whole bottom half of
the chart is wide open. And as far your castoffs go… Well, you’ve had better luck with mine than I’ve had with yours. At least mine don’t move their lips when they read.”

  “Never mind our mutually rotten sex lives,” Ruth said. “I’m still waiting for some kind of explanation about these so-called open numbers. The last time a cease fire lasted more than seven days Satan was knocking the icicles off the roof of his domain.”

  Suddenly, the two noticed their boss standing in the doorway. “Ghoul pool time again, boys and girls?” she asked with mock sweetness.

  Mark indicated the com-center in the corner. Above it was a makeshift calendar – one through thirty one. The first fifteen squares had names pinned on them. The rest were empty. Hence, Ruth’s piss off.

  Mark said, “I couldn’t help it. Word just came in about a new truce between the main warlords - or maybe I should say, among, rather than between, since we’re never sure how many warlords are running around killing people at any given moment. You know how the scenario goes. Start with a cease fire, then a prisoner exchange… yada, yada, bang, bang, and the shooting starts all over again.”

  Ruth snorted, jabbing a finger at the betting chart. “You know damned well, Dr. D, that no truce will last longer than a day or two. But all the early squares are taken.” She faced Mark, hands on her hips, foot tapping a furious rhythm. “Thanks to my pal Mark Corey, here.”

  Nonplussed, Mark turned to Ann. “Want to get in on the action, Doc? Two bucks a square.” He gave her his best boyish grin. “I only skim twenty-five percent off the top, which goes into my kitty to buy HIV meds from private sources.”

  Ruth looked chagrined. “Well, I knew that,” she said. “But I’d just like a shot at some better numbers. I’ve never won a stupid thing in my life. It’s the principle of the thing.”

  Ann couldn’t help but smile. Here was the opportunity she was looking for. “Tell you what I’m gonna do, folks,” she said, aping a carnie shill. ”Even though it’s an awful example for a doctor – a medical administrator at that

  – to set for the staff, I’ll not only buy all the remaining squares, my friends, but I’ll also cook dinner tonight.”

  Mark and Ruth gave Ann looks of great suspicion. “You’ll really cook one of your fabulous dinners?” Mark demanded.

  “What’s the catch?” Ruth asked.

  Ann whipped out a sheaf of papers. “As it happens, Paris has been on my case about you two. Your contracted tours of duty are just about up.”

  Mark snorted, “Ah, crap, Doc. I couldn’t do another year of this.”

  Ruth shook her head. “You know what kind of money I could be making Stateside? What with the nursing shortage and all?”

  Mark said, “I’m through with nursing. Hell, I could be managing a chain of warehouses for big, big money. There’s nothing I don’t know about supply and demand and how to get it there soonest and cheapest. Transport’s the name of the game these days. I not only know how to get it there, but with one look I can tell you how many widgets of any size or weight can fit into whatever space is available.”

  Ann gave him a withering look. “That’s how you see your life’s work, Mark?” she said. “Instead of getting every gram of medicine, or ounce of food into a container heading for a refugee camp of sick and starving, shell-shocked people, you want to dedicate your life to stuffing cargo containers full of beer and cigarettes?

  “And what about your medical training? Are you going to let that go to waste, too? Oh, I know. When the beer truck drivers get too tired, you’ll wheel and deal a stash of uppers so they can make the company run on time. Is that what you have in mind?”

  Mark said, “Aw, Geeze, Doc. To hell with money. How about love? I haven’t had a real date, much less a cuddle, since… well… I just can’t remember the last time a cute guy showed up with flowers and candy and moonlight in his eyes.”

  Ruth nodded agreement. “We know you need us, Dr. D. And we both know how dedicated you are.”

  Mark broke in. “But, we’ve done our bit for humanity

  – for Doctors Without Borders – right? Who could ask for more? I want a real life, Doc. Settle down with a nice guy. Maybe get married and a adopt a kid, if the guy’s willing and the government doesn’t head us off at the Constitutional Amendment pass.”

  Ann said, “I won’t push the point… For the present, that is. But I’m not going to give up on you two that easily.”

  Ruth’s smile was sly. “Will you still make dinner?”

  Ann laughed. “Sure. Call it bread on waters – or, in this case, foie gras.”

  Mark grinned at her. “You’d really do that to some poor goose’s liver, huh, Doc?” he said.

  Before Ann could make a suitably cutting retort, there came the sudden Thump-Thump-Thump of an approaching helicopter.

  “That’s got to be our medicine,” Ann said. “Good job, Mark.”

  She raced outside, Ruth and Mark at her heels, with Mark making motions to Ruth that the chopper had nothing to do with him, or any incoming meds.

  By the time had Ann negotiated the whole tent and got outside, the chopper was on the ground and a man was leaping out, bending low to shield himself from the sand and grit whipped up by the blades.

  The moment Ann set eyes on the guy she froze, peering through the minor dust storm to make sure that her eyes weren’t lying to her. He was a tall, very fit middle-aged black man. He wore Jeans, a Western-style shirt, battered cowboy boots and a beat-up Stetson that he held clamped to his head with one hand.

  As he ran out of the prop wash, any doubts Ann might have had about his identity vanished. “Crap,” she said.

  Ruth asked, “Who is he?”

  Ann said, “Crap, crap, crap.”

  Mark said, “Does this mean we don’t get dinner?”

  As the chopper powered down the man strode straight for Ann, stopping a few feet away.

  He stripped a bandana from around his neck and wiped the grit from his face.

  Ann said, “You can just turn around and get back on that damned thing, Frank Holiday. I have absolutely no intention of speaking to you.”

  Frank wiped his face again, then gave her a sad look. “It’s about your father, Ann.”

  Ann snorted her disgust. It was like she was smelling a whole corral full of bullshit. “Big surprise,” she said. Then she added, “Well, save yourself a great deal of time and wasted energy and get your butt back on that whirly bird and go tell my father that you talked to me until you were spitless. And I said ‘Go to hell,’ like I always do. But this time I mean it double. Double, double.”

  Frank’s eyebrows arched. “Are you saying that you haven’t seen your father? That he hasn’t contacted you?”

  Ann’s eyes narrowed at the hostile tone in Frank’s voice. She said, “Sure, I’m sure. And if he had contacted me

  – and also wanted me to keep it quiet – I wouldn’t tell you anyway.

  “For crying out loud, Frank, I am the original CIA brat. As much as I am pissed off at my old man, I wouldn’t tell you if he was cold sober or drunk on his butt the last time I saw him.”

  Frank grabbed at that and tried to bore in. “So you did see him,” he said. “When? Where? What did he say?”

  Ann started to tell him to screw himself, but then calmed down. Something was very wrong here. “What the hell’s going on, Frank?” she said. “What’s happened to my father?”

  Frank said, “We think he might have gone renegade on us.”

  Ann reacted to this as if Frank had given her an openpalm shot across the face. She said, “You’ve gone out of your teeny little CIA mind, Frank.”

  Frank said, “There are indications.”

  Ann said, “Oh, bullshit, and there are aliens on the moon and Lenin is going to rise from his crypt and lead them against the Free World.”

  Then, unaccountably, she found herself wanting to reason with Frank Holiday – a man so imbued with Agency double-think that, in her opinion, he was incapable of s
eeing an ordinary human world.

  She said, “How can you believe that my father, of all people, would go renegade? The Donovans practically invented the Agency. Hell, if I weren’t such a stubborn child determined to defy her father, I’d be a fourth-generation spook myself.”

  Frank made a wry smile. “Not like we haven’t tried,” he said.

  Ann shot him a dirty look and then started walking away, Frank keeping apace. She said, “Okay, I get it. This is another of my father’s cunning plans. The two of you have cooked up a stupid little plot to get me into the Agency. Well, it won’t work – okay? I have no interest whatsoever. I’ve found my calling with Doctors Without Borders.”

  She turned to Frank, appealing to him. “I’m totally fulfilled with the work I’m doing. So, why don’t the two of you knock it off with the kid stuff and leave me the hell alone?”

  Frank hunched his shoulders and set his face into a hard, dark mask. “Let me cut this short, Ann,” he said. “I’m not here at your father’s behest – much less to recruit you. Bottom line: Jack Donovan has come up missing. And there’s every indication that he was running some kind of number on his own. The time has long passed for him to have reported in.

  “The trip wire point, as they say, has been bent all to hell.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Ann said. “You know my father is the most loyal… and, yes… the most truly patriotic American who ever lived. He would never betray his country. He would never betray the Agency. Not for any amount of money.”

  Frank shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “For money? No,” he said. “Not for money. There’s something else going on.”

  Ann scoffed. “Like what?” she said. “Like sex? My father caught in some kind of a honey trap? Give me a break. The Russians threw girls at him. The East Germans. The Asians. Gorgeous girls. Girls trained to melt stone. To no avail.”

  A short, bitter laugh. “Hell, I suspect he even did a couple of them and turned them into double agents. They ended up seducing their KGB pimps and reporting back to dear old Dad, the last I heard.”