Mike dropped the phone and bolted for his closet.
“Tony! They got Cecelia! She’s at the hospital! She’s going to be okay.”
Catching the tail of his shirt in the zipper of his pants, Mike went on, “They didn’t tell me much… We need to get there as fast as possible. Peralta Hospital in Oakland.” Mike couldn’t get dressed quickly enough. He ripped his shirt out of the zipper, leaving it undone, and jumped into his shoes—no time for socks.
“Do you want me to drive?” Tony offered.
“That would be great. In my state, I don’t think I could drive across the street.”
To Mike, the car seemed to be standing still. After what felt like an hour, they crossed over the Bay Bridge, drove through Oakland, and pulled up to the front of Peralta Hospital. Mike opened the door before the car came to a complete stop and nearly fell out onto the pavement.
“Take it easy,” Tony called after him. “They’ll be admitting you next.”
Rushing through the entrance, Mike approached the reception desk. “Please, can you tell me where I can find Cecelia Chang?”
The receptionist looked down at the patient admission sheet. “I’ll page Dr. Ross for you.”
In a matter of minutes, a handsome, middle-aged doctor appeared. “Mr. Stone?”
At that point, a policeman stepped between them. “I’m sorry to ask you this, sir, but can you please show me some identification?”
“Yes, of course,” Mike said as he began to sort through his wallet for his driver’s license, which he dropped twice before managing to hand it to the officer.
The policeman examined it, handed it back to Mike, and stepped out of the way.
Dr. Ross said, “She’s on the fifth floor, 517. It’s a private room.” He placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder to stop him. “Before you go see her, let me explain a few things. We’ve cleaned her up and confirmed that she was not beaten, raped, or sexually assaulted. Despite her appearance, she’s in surprisingly good condition. But she’s been totally unresponsive. She hasn’t said a word, and there’s no indication that she’s even heard our questions.”
Mike looked startled. “That’s not like her.”
“The human mind sometimes has a way of shutting down to protect itself from what it can’t handle. That doesn’t mean her brain is permanently damaged. It just means it’s not ready to respond to external stimuli. We’re hoping your presence might help, but you’ve got to be patient. It’s been my experience that emotional traumas like these run deep and can last a very long time.”
“But you do think she’ll be okay, right?” Mike pleaded more than asked.
“I believe she will be, but she needs you.” The doctor took his hand off Mike’s shoulder.
It seemed that the elevator would never get to the fifth floor. When the elevator doors finally opened, Mike burst out and ran down the hall, searching for Room 517. Turning a corner at full speed, he nearly knocked over a nurse.
At the end of a long corridor, he finally located her room. Two uniformed policemen sitting outside asked Mike for identification. He handed it to them, said, “Keep it,” and stepped inside.
Mike saw Cecelia sitting in the middle of the bed, dressed in a hospital smock. Her legs were crossed; her head was down; she was hugging herself. She didn’t make a sound. She looked like a small, frightened, and very fragile child.
Mike crossed the room, sat down on the bed, and wrapped both his arms around her. He held her silently for a long time before lying down on the bed. He gently pulled her down beside him. Holding her in his arms, he began to describe some of their experiences together, hoping she would show some sign of recognition.
While he recounted their trip to Carmel, he looked at her face and thought he saw a faint smile form on her lips. It was enough to give him hope.
He held her closer, whispering in her ear. They fell asleep.
When Mike woke up the next morning, he had forgotten all about his appointment with Dr. Tom. The first call he made was to his father. The second was to Jacques.
Chapter 22
LUNCH AT JACK’S
Jacques’ flight to the West Coast was delayed by mechanical difficulties, so he arrived at Peralta Hospital late in the afternoon—far later than he had intended. He poked his head inside Cecelia’s room and whispered to Mike, “How is she?”
“She’ll be okay.” Mike sat beside her in the bed, stroking her hair.
Jacques could hardly believe that the figure huddled into a fetal position beside Mike was really Cecelia. But he did his best not to let his shock show; that wouldn’t help Mike.
Realizing there was nothing he could do but be as supportive of Mike as possible, Jacques pulled up a chair and sat next to him at the side of Cecelia’s bed. They spoke little throughout the early evening before visiting hours were over, or as Mike drove them to a restaurant for dinner after they left the hospital. It wasn’t until he was finishing his second drink that Mike began to relax. “Jacques, I can’t tell you how many times I prayed for Cecelia’s return. I promised myself I would be so grateful to get her back that I would take care of her, no matter what her condition might be.”
As Jacques drove to the Clift Hotel, he tried to pull his mind away from Cecelia and focus on the problem of the false inspections. If the fake inspectors have made it to the West Coast, that’s good. It means that they still haven’t figured it all out. But it also means that they’re running out of places to look. Either they’ll be getting ready to deal… or they’ll be getting desperate.
______
Jacques arrived fifteen minutes early at the American West National Bank headquarters, overlooking Montgomery Street and the heart of San Francisco’s financial district.
As he exited the elevator on the third floor, a lovely silver-haired woman greeted him. “Good morning, Mr. Roth. The chairman is expecting you,” she said as she ushered him into Mr. Ferrari’s office.
Turning toward Jacques, Pete Ferrari said, “This roguish-looking gentleman must be none other than Jacques Roth. I’m sure you probably don’t remember, but we met briefly at your father’s home, before the war. You certainly have come a long way from the young man not allowed to talk at the dinner table. What a pleasure it is to see you again.”
Flattered that the chairman would remember him, Jacques stepped forward to shake his hand. “Mr. Ferrari, I only wish that I were meeting you again under more pleasant circumstances. As you no doubt have realized, Morgan Stone is really upset about what has occurred.”
“Of course. If Morgan hadn’t called, we might never have suspected that our bank had a similar breach. I took the liberty of contacting Ted Lee, the president of the Bank of Hong Kong here in San Francisco. It turns out that he’s had the same trouble.”
“We checked with our friends in the Swiss banking community,” Jacques said, “and it seems as though someone is inspecting all Allied banks large enough to handle a transaction involving millions of dollars of bonds. They’re trying to trace the identity of the owner.”
“Why?” Pete asked, motioning to Jacques to sit down.
“There were some duplicate bonds circulating in London.”
“Well, I can certainly understand the owner’s concern if a significant block of those bonds have been stolen or forged.”
“No, it’s nothing like that, sir,” Jacques said. “According to the Demaureux Bank in Switzerland, two bonds were presented for cashing at the London Bank of Commerce that had serial numbers identical to two that had been previously cashed. Authenticators examined both sets of bonds and determined that they were both authentic.”
“A glitch, then? Or human error?” Pete speculated.
“Quite possibly. Still, sending in phony inspectors cannot be attributed to ‘human error’ or even a lapse in judgment. It amounts to an invasion of privacy, and Stone City is determined to get to the bottom of it. Do you think it would be possible for us to talk to Mr. Lee? You know Morgan—he’s expecting a complete re
port.”
Pete smiled, picked up the phone on his desk, and dialed a number. It seemed as though Mr. Lee answered on the first ring.
Jacques sat patiently as he listened to Pete making plans. How is it that high-level business executives are always able to reach each other?
Pete put the phone down and looked at Jacques. “All set,” he said. “An early lunch at Jack’s it is.”
A few minutes later, Jacques and the chairman of American West were walking up Montgomery Street. They turned left onto Sacramento and walked the two blocks to Jack’s, the meeting place of many of San Francisco’s business and social elite. Although Jacques had never been there, he knew it by reputation. Even at eleven-thirty there was a line extending from the entrance out to the street.
Walter Taylor, the maître d’—himself a San Francisco tradition—immediately spotted Mr. Ferrari and escorted them past the line and into the restaurant. “Your regular table, sir?”
“Yes, Walter, thanks. And Mr. Lee will be joining us shortly. Would you be kind enough to escort him to our table when he arrives?” Pete said.
“Certainly, sir. Would you gentlemen please follow me?” Walter led them past a small bar on the right, and then headed toward the rear of the restaurant to Pete Ferrari’s regular table.
As they passed through the famous eatery, Jacques took in the decor. Black-and-white tiles gave the floor a chessboard appearance. The ceiling was high, and the walls were paneled in alternating sections of floor-to-ceiling mirrors and gleaming white paneling. The tables were covered with crisp, white linen tablecloths. The waiters were dressed in tuxedos and sported dishtowels tied neatly around their waists. In the back of the restaurant, a flight of stairs led to the private dining rooms.
Several people rose to greet Pete as he walked by. The chairman knew them all by name and was very careful to introduce his guest to each one. Jacques was amazed at how many of their names, if not their faces, he recognized.
After they were seated, Walter motioned for the waiter. “Have a delightful lunch, gentlemen.”
The waiter approached as soon as Walter left the table. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ferrari.”
“Oh, hello, Harry. Would you please bring us a bottle of your house white burgundy? We’ll have that while we’re waiting for our other guest.”
The waiter removed one place setting and put a basket of sliced French bread and small dishes of unsalted butter on the table. He then opened a bottle of sparkling mineral water, poured it, and disappeared downstairs to the wine cellar.
“Jacques, Ted Lee and I go back several years. He’s been managing the Hong Kong Bank since before the war, about two years before Japan began its invasion of Indochina. His family moved here from Hong Kong when he was very young. Over the years, Ted and I have worked together on many projects. I consider him a good friend as well as a very capable banker.”
The wine and Ted Lee arrived at the same time. They all shook hands, and introductions were made. “Jacques, I understand that you are friends with Cecelia Chang,” Lee said. “I’ve known her family for years and we’ve all been so worried about her. Mike called this morning to tell me she was found alive and has been rescued. Is there any more news?”
“It’s too early to really know how well she’ll recover,” Jacques said. “Months of forced confinement can do some real damage.”
Lee shut his eyes tightly for a moment, visibly pained by his report. “But if you know Cecelia,” Jacques continued, “then you also know that she’s one of the toughest-minded people on earth, pound for pound.”
Pete said, “Jacques, the three of you—you, Ted, and Cecelia—have something in common. You all attended the University of California.”
“We did, indeed,” Ted said, seeing Jacques’ surprise. “I was class of ’31 and I know you were there from ’35 through ’38.”
Pausing for a moment to allow the waiter to pour a second glass of wine, Ted continued. “I was in attendance when you presented your research. I came to hear Cecelia, and I must admit that it was a nice piece of work. Your predictions were, unfortunately, more accurate than anyone could have realized at the time. Tell me, whatever happened to your suggestion about some kind of watchdog organization to identify abuses of power?”
“Unfortunately, nothing,” Jacques responded, taking a quick gulp of water.
I could be paranoid, but I get the feeling Mr. Lee knows more than he is letting on.
“With the pressure of starting new careers, the distractions of another world war, and our scattered locations, I am sad to report that we allowed the idea to die.”
“That’s too bad,” Ted said. “Just like the rise of fascism that occurred so quickly after the First World War, I wouldn’t be surprised to see the spread of Communism start shortly after the conclusion of this one. The Communist Revolution that was well under way before the Japanese invaded China has not been stopped by the outbreak of war, only delayed.” Lee toyed with his fork for a moment, then looked at Jacques. “Just for the record, how would you have distinguished your watchdog organization from a contemporary form of vigilantism?”
Jacques was intrigued. “Mr. Lee, you have asked a very interesting question. It’s one that we debated for two years after first thinking up the idea. Vigilantism implies taking the law into your own hands. At no time did we ever consider doing anything that would be illegal or outside the strictest letter of the law. More important, we concluded that internal checks and balances would never constitute a total solution, nor would the fact that the organization stood to gain nothing. Once we chased the problem all the way through, I think we concluded that nothing we hoped to accomplish could have been achieved without the cooperation of other people. Our only hope in obtaining their assistance depended upon their viewing our actions as being consistent with the public’s best interests.”
Pete Ferrari nodded.
Lee appeared satisfied with Jacques’ explanation, as though it had answered another unasked question. “So, Jacques, I hear Morgan Stone has sent you here to discuss the problem we’ve been having with these unauthorized inspections.”
“Yes, sir. Stone City Bank is determined to get to the bottom of this breach of security. In fact, I think it might be a good idea if I were to go to London and speak with Sir Desmond concerning this issue.”
“Thank you, Jacques. That would certainly save us all a trip, not to mention a lot of time and trouble,” Pete said.
“Well, then,” Ted said, “I guess it’s agreed.”
As they finished lunch and rose to leave the restaurant, Jacques couldn’t help but notice that a bill never came to the table.
Chapter 23
WINE COUNTRY
Hoping that he might jog her memory by bringing some of her personal items into the hospital room, Mike had gone to Cecelia’s apartment and brought back some clothes, a few pictures, and a stuffed dog wearing a U Cal T-shirt.
Mike helped Cecelia change from her hospital gown into what he happily called her “out of Peralta” uniform: her favorite red sweater, an old polka-dotted skirt, penny loafers, and no socks. During the whole time he was helping her, she clung desperately to the stuffed dog.
Will leaving the hospital make her worse, or is it the first real step toward a full recovery? Careful not to let his anxiety show, he talked to her in a normal, conversational manner as he helped her change clothes.
“Cecelia, today we’re going to have lunch at Larry Blake’s. You remember the place—it’s that beer bar and restaurant near campus. Would you like that?” He was watching her closely for any signs of recognition. Still no reaction.
Careful to keep up the one-sided conversation, he escorted her out of the hospital, walked her to his car, and drove to Berkeley. Along the way, he pointed out familiar places.
Mike was trying to keep his own spirits up and enjoy the fact that Cecelia was actually there, sitting beside him. He glanced over at her, sitting bolt upright with no look of comprehension. How different thi
s girl is from the one who snuggled close to me on the way to Carmel. I want Cecelia back… the real Cecelia. My Cecelia.
The next day, he took her for a walk on the Cal campus. It was twelve o’clock, and the bells in the campanile began to chime. Turning to Mike, Cecelia said, “It must be noon. Let’s go to the ‘I’ house and meet the others for lunch before class.”
Mike looked at her. Where is she? In her mind, it’s still 1938. But at least she remembered and reacted. And that’s something.
For the next several days, Mike took her to all the old places, hoping to trigger more memories: Cal Stadium, Wheeler Hall, a college baseball game, dinner at the cheap student places near campus, and shopping at her favorite stores in Berkeley. At least once each day, she would respond to what she was seeing, occasionally asking questions. Each time she spoke, she had more to say. Mike could tell from what she said that her mind was still traveling through time.
The following week, he started taking her to familiar places in San Francisco, trying to reacquaint her with the neighborhood near her apartment. They had lunch at the Buena Vista Café and fed the ducks at the Palace of Fine Arts. She seemed to be enjoying herself and smiling more. Maybe she’s starting to feel safe enough to come out of her shell.
On a bright, sunny day, Mike decided to risk having Cecelia revisit her apartment. She had already reconnected with the past—maybe it was time to let her live again in the present.
Telling her that he needed to gather a few more things, he began to drive her across the bridge. Next, he chose a route through San Francisco that would pass by things she might recognize. As they neared her building, he watched her closely: no reaction, no signs of recognition. At least she was sitting calmly, a serene look on her face.
Mike parked the car near the front entrance and they walked the short distance to the door and into the lobby. She seems fine, maybe even peaceful. Standing in front of the elevator, he reached forward and pressed the button. She watched as the numbers lit up in decreasing order, waiting patiently for the car to arrive.
The Sentinels: Fortunes of War Page 14
