A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [69]
Dr. Llewellyn Comfort, an eminent plastic surgeon, had been flown over from London for the operation. Dr. Comfort’s skills were apparent as he softly hummed arias from La Bohème and Tosca as he worked. Quinn had remained conscious and exchanged banter with the doctor.
Quinn tightened up and emitted a pained wince of remembrance now, under his wrappings. He could think outside of the raid for a time, but the cycle always closed: Jeremiah Duncan dead, Novinski dead, Cherokee dead, Marsh dead, their faces and body parts blobbing off him, his vision blinded by his own blood…
Nightmare! How in the name of God had he managed to pilot the SCARAB to rendezvous with the tanker plane with Barakat reading coordinates on a map, a pair of field compasses, IV rasping out instructions, and Grubb and Jarvis placing Quinn’s hands on the controls. Rocking and thumping over mountainous desert with a Marine-load of sallow green-skinned men deep in prayer.
“Hey, Gunner.” Someone interrupted his memory chain. It was the nurse, the kindly nurse who rubbed against him whenever the occasion presented itself. She wanted to baptize him in waters of compassion. “It says on your chart that Dr. Comfort is going to remove your bandages today.”
“It’s going to be nice to unglue my eyes.”
“The doctor immobilized them so you wouldn’t inadvertently tug on your stitches.”
She patted his face, old Mandy did, and sighed a companionable sigh, then set his wheelchair into motion.
“Where we going? I don’t have to whittle yet,” Quinn said. “The sun feels good.”
“There’s someone here to see you,” Mandy answered. “There’s a quiet little room off to the side.”
The big door bumped open, and as Quinn drew a breath, he knew. “Greer?” he whispered, barely audible.
“How in the name of—”
“It’s that stuff you’re wearing, aroma of boys’ locker room.”
“It’s Arpège, and you started me off on it. Too bad you can’t see me, I look great.”
After all the bloody years, boom, in she walks, just like that. Hi, stranger, remember me? “Well, now, let me guess,” Quinn said. “How did Greer know Quinn was in Frankfurt? What is it that you own? A radio and TV network, forty-six papers, seven magazines, and satellites-o-rama?”
His heart speeded when her lips found his cheek.
“Well,” he said, “there’s good news. My dick just tingled. It’s still working. How’s Vampira, the media queen?”
“Hey, man, I’m just a salaried employee of Warren Crowder—”
“…of We Own the World, Inc.”
“I’m, in fact, the CEO of a medium-large division.”
“I heard you’ve elevated the face of television and radio programming clear up to semiliterate.”
“Did you know that the Great Symphony Orchestras of America series draws more than arena football and women’s fight-night combined? Might I say I’m friggin’ proud of the fact that I can still find a civilization breathing under all the sitcoms and sludge talk shows. How do I do it? I find subjects on the ad nauseam channels and packages culture. Shakespeare sells corn flakes.”
“Yeah,” Quinn said, “Disney makes dirty adult pictures now, too. But here we are talking shop. How did you find me?”
“I never lost you, Quinn. I always had an eye out.”
“What do you know about my recent past?”
“Marine Recreational and Morale team raided and flattened—no, obliterated—an ancient mountaintop Persian fort near the Great Salt Desert, snatched Bandar Barakat, and made a clean escape.”
“So, news of the raid is out?”
“No, not exactly,” Greer answered. “A few rumors, mostly wild guesses. Barakat’s banker gave me the first tip. I took it from there.”
“Then it’s not out…”
“The President called me in and asked us not to run with the story,” Greer said. “He realizes he can’t sit on it too much longer. So the White House wants to call a press conference and put Barakat on display. Major anti-terrorist coup.”
“You agreed to give up a scoop like that?”
“Sounds a little corny, but even though I’m in the media,