He said nothing. He tried to hold
his face still. But his reaction was as clear as day.
"No, don't tell me the lie you were trying to think of," she said. "My husband was Reuben Malich. When I say he and General Coleman served together, I'm talking about the day of the assassination. Do you understand?"
She could see from his expression that he knew now who her husband was, and he was suitably impressed. It worked much better with soldiers than saying she was an adviser to President Torrent. Dozens of people could say that. But Reuben Malich had only one widow.
"Whatever's wrong here," she went on, "I'm going to find out about it. Above all, I'm going to see General Coleman, and I'm going to see him tonight. If you help me, it'll cause a minimum of bother and then I can get to sleep and you can go on about your business."
Ten minutes later, she found herself in a room with a very sleepy and irritated Dr. Miller, the duty officer, and two very tough-looking captains. It was obvious that their plan was to stonewall her. The fact that they thought there was a need to stonewall told her almost everything she needed to know.
"General Coleman is here on this base," she said, "or you'd simply tell me he was not. If he knew I was here, he'd let me come see him. So he doesn't know I'm here, and that suggests some kind of mutiny or that he is badly injured. Which is it?"
"Neither," said one of the captains.
"Very well," she said. "I may have resigned my position as an adviser to President Torrent, but I still have a private cellphone connection to him. It's still early evening in Washington, D.C., so I will certainly reach him and he will certainly want to know what's going on here. And if you try to prevent me from making that call—"
Dr. Miller sighed. "Oh, Lord, she's one of those. 'Do you know who I am?'"
"Who I am," said Cecily, "is a friend of Cole's, and I'm going to find out what's going on with him, come hell or high water."
"Well, he's sick," said Dr. Miller. "Isn't that obvious?"
It was clear that one of the captains wanted to do something non-lethal but memorable to Dr. Miller, while the other captain was relieved. Cecily turned to the relieved one. "He has the nictovirus?" she asked.
"He's been exposed," said the captain. "No symptoms yet, but he's quarantined himself. And the rest of his team. They were all exposed. Captain Camacho and Captain Black are symptomatic."
"Well, that sounds like a championship-level screwup," said Cecily. "Nevertheless, I'm here to deal with sick people. I'll wear a mask and gloves and I won't kiss him on both cheeks as we Washington policy wonks are apt to do. But I'll see the general now, please. And I promise I won't say much about how badly you're all handling this situation."
"This is none of your business," said the hostile captain.
"As the President's personal representative in the Christian relief effort, Captain, it is most definitely my business, and you in particular are my business. If I see you again tonight, or hear your voice, or see any evidence of your existence, then you will be my business for a long, long time. Have I made myself clear?"
The captain was eager to put her in her place, but he wasn't quite sure what her place was, and apparently he began to think that she might have as much clout as she claimed. While he stood there in an agony of indecision, Cecily helped him. "You aren't actually needed in this room right now, Captain. Perhaps there are other duties you could attend to while Doctor Miller helps me find a mask and gloves." Then she turned her back on him and led the doctor and the cooperative captain out of the room.
Of course she knew perfectly well that the hostile captain was actually the more competent of the two—the other one caved in far too easily—but only one of them was useful to her right now, and it wasn't the competent one.
A few minutes later, she was in Cole's quarters. Apparently it was the office of the head of the medical school, converted to military use, and the bed looked comfortable. Cole was not in it, however. He was stiffly sitting in a chair behind the desk, in full uniform.
"Cecily," he said. "How dreadful to see you here tonight."
"Everything" is too long a list to work with.
No one knows everything about anything.
No one knows something about everything.
Everyone knows something about some things.
Anyone could be the world's foremost expert on something.
Anyone who thinks that just because they didn't already know a thing, it must not be true or important, is an idiot.
Chinma studied hard, trying to make sense of Lettie's math textbook. She was only ten years old, and yet she was far ahead of any knowledge Chinma had acquired at the village school.
There were people in Nigeria who got very good schooling. Ire had been given an accountant's education. He would have known everything in this book. But Ire was firstborn son of the second wife. He was expected to amount to something.
Or maybe it was Chinma's own fault. The little marks on the pages seemed to run away from him, and the more closely he looked, the harder it was to see them. He could always see the ones he wasn't looking at, but as soon as he thought about one he could see, he'd look at it and it would run away. So he always had to look at a place that was different from the letter or number he was supposed to be looking at, and so he was very slow at reading and calculating.