“You appear in good health, Mr. Ch’o,” said the doctor. “Your blood pressure is a little high.”
Ch’o wanted to tell him that he was in perfect health, but his tongue wouldn’t move.
The doctor packed up his stethoscope and blood-pressure cup.
“I can give you a pill for anxiety,” said the doctor. “It might make you feel more at ease. I think you’re just—It was probably quite an ordeal coming here. You’re still not over it.”
Ch’o couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He simply couldn’t talk. He remained motionless on the bed.
“Do you want the pill? It’s very safe.”
With the greatest effort, Ch’o shook his head.
“No?” said the doctor.
No, thought Ch’o, shaking his head again. No devil poison. You’ll have to kill me yourself.
The doctor found Rankin and the CIA people standing like bookends, arms folded and backs against the bulkhead a short distance from the cabin.
“It looks a lot like post-traumatic stress, something along those lines,” said the doctor. “What happened to him?”
“I’m not sure,” said Rankin. “He wanted to be rescued from North Korea.”
“This happens,” said Jimenéz. “Let me try talking to him.”
“No,” said Rankin, putting out his hand to bar the way.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I don’t want to spook him worse than he’s spooked now.”
“He can’t get much worse.”
“Pushing him around’s not going to help us.”
“I’m only going to ask him some questions. Relax.”
“We have to go slow. I’ve seen people like this. It doesn’t do any good to push them.”
“You’ve been in combat, Colonel?” said Jimenez.
“Yeah, I’ve been in combat,” Rankin told him. “And I’m not a colonel.”
Jiménez scowled but said nothing.
“I agree with you,” the doctor told Rankin. “I’d go very, very easy on him. I offered him a pill for anxiety, but he shook his head.”
“Give it to me and I’ll give it to him,” said Jimenez.
“Absolutely not,” said the doctor.
“We can go easy on him,” said Rankin. “There’s no rush.”
“How do you know there’s no rush?” said Jimenez. “If we don’t talk to him, we don’t know anything.”