Carrie sat up in the hospital bed, wearing a standard issue gown, feeling wan and pale, and more than a little weak. But at least she was lucid. Her memories of the last 24 hours were spotty at best, but what she could remember was horrifying. A hallway in a hospital - fighting. A night street in Islamabad – shooting. Christ, had any of it really happened? Or all of it? And then struggling to free herself, screaming and struggling. Then, a clear image of Brody, a doppelganger back from the dead to torture her for her betrayal. She was emotionally savaged. She hadn't slept, or eaten. But as the drugs worked their way out of her system, at least she was starting to think straight.
A nurse entered, handing Carrie a brown prescription bottle. "Your new meds," the woman said.
"Thank you," she said, with a sigh. A blood sample had been taken, and analysis was being fast-tracked. But she already knew: someone had switched out her medication, in an attempt to embarrass her, discredit her, maybe even kill her. Carrie shuddered.
Walking so quickly that he brought a breeze in with him, Peter Quinn entered Carrie's hospital room.
"Carrie, where have you been? What happened?" he said, his brow furrowed with worry.
"We have a breach here at the embassy," she said, voice filled with revulsion.
"What?" he barked. Always so defensive of her, he was already looking for someone to shoot.
"Someone switched out my meds," she said, grimly. "I need to brief Lockhart."
Quinn looked steadily at her, noting her ashen pallor, the dark circles under her eyes. "OK," he said. "When you get released, I'll take you home."
She said nothing more, but nodded. Feeling intrusive, Peter showed himself out into the hallway, and sat in a chair just outside the room. Like her very own armed guard, he thought. But where the fuck had she been last night? He had texted twice and eventually called four times, but she had not answered. He should have her chipped like a pet dog, he thought. That way he could GPS her if she went out at night. Her safety was paramount, though the precise reason for this was not clear in his mind. At least not while he was awake.
Half an hour passed while Quinn cooled his heels in the hospital hallway. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, listening. Nurses and eventually a doctor came and went, and in the exam room, he heard low voices, murmurs, and eventually a shuffling sound. He turned to the door to see Carrie emerging, dressed in rumpled street clothes- the same brown suit he had seen her in yesterday. Not that he was in the habit of memorizing women's clothing habits, but with her, he kept a sharp eye. In her case, it was an indicator of wellness, whether or not she was caring for herself.
"I can go," she said briefly, leaning on the door. She had no purse or briefcase, and her hands, hanging open at her sides loosely, somehow increased the sense of pathos he felt about her. "They want me to use a wheelchair, Quinn," she said.
He stood up. "Can you walk okay?" he asked reasonably.
She shrugged. "I think so. I got here somehow," she said. That frightened him too,
"Then you don't need one. Just walk with me," he said. He came around next to her, and extended a crooked elbow. He kept her on his left: he wanted his gun hand free. Habits.
He let her set the pace, and they walked slowly towards the hospital entrance. She walked with her head down, a beaten appearance that he didn't care for at all.
"Should we stop somewhere, get you something to eat?" he asked.
"No," she said. "I have no appetite. And we need to brief Lockhart."
He almost grumbled aloud. "Low blood sugar isn't helping your mood," he said.
They were moving past the hallway that led to the hospital cafeteria. Quinn turned down that hallway. Carrie hadn't even looked up, to notice that he'd taken her somewhere other than the main lobby. Yet another sign of disorientation. Or was it simply that she trusted him?
He led her to a hallway chair, indicated it, pointing. "Sit," he said. It was a testament to how beaten she was that she simply followed his orders. The fault line in his heart opened a little. "Wait here."
Quinn dashed through the hospital cafeteria, purchased a bottled orange juice, and hurried back to Carrie. She hadn't moved. "OK, come on," he urged.
They continued their shuffle towards the main entrance, and Quinn led her on to the G-car he was driving, a black SUV. Opening the passenger door, he held Carrie's hand as she got in, waited to see if she'd fasten her own safety belt. When she did, he handed her the juice. "Drink this," he said, in a tone of voice that brooked no protest.
She took a few meek sips on their way back to the Embassy. Quinn kept stealing glances at her out of the corner of his eyes. She still hadn't spoken. "The whole thing," he urged. She made an effort to swallow more of the sugary drink.
"This is fucked up," she said, finally.
"Yes, it fucking well is," his wrath arising again. "I'm sweeping your rooms today, and changing your locks. Until I'm done, you stay in public areas," Quinn ordered.
She said nothing, but nodded. Finishing the juice, she tossed the bottle onto the floor. "I had a very bad night," she said. "I can't remember most of it. But the things I do remember…" she stopped there, her voice diminishing.
He squirmed, internally. Where the fuck had she been last night? And with whom? He believed that she couldn't remember, but the lack of information was infuriating. He gripped the steering wheel like he could squeeze the answers out of it.
"You're safe now," was all he could think to say.
They arrived at the Embassy, and Quinn parked the car in the underground. He helped Carrie out of the car, and offered her his arm again. In the parking garage, she held it, squeezing it, like she was afraid of letting go. But when they got within sight of the Embassy rear entrance, she released him.
"You were right," she offered. "I needed that. I feel better."
"Good," Quinn said briefly.
They passed through security quickly, since Carrie didn't even have a bag to search. "So you know where Lockhart is?" Carrie asked.
"Um, with the Ambassador, I think," Quinn said. They headed up to the intel suites, on their way to the secure room.
"Pry him away discreetly," Carrie said. "I need you, him and me in the secure room as soon as possible."
Quinn walked Carrie as far as the door to the secure room, still hovering. He waited until she was seated.
"Sure you're okay?" he asked, trying to be brusque and detached.
She looked at Quinn, thoughtfully. "Yeah, I'm okay now," she said.
He turned without further comment and left her there to go to the Ambassadorial Suites.
Fucking mother hen, he said to himself. But he couldn't help it. His behavior toward Carrie was something he didn't seem to have control over. Not his dedicated effort to assist her and keep her safe during the day, nor the protracted, technicolor fantasies he had about her at night.
He was already making a mental list of things to do to re-secure her quarters. Re-key locks, sweep for bugs, check windows for signs of access. The list went on. The safest thing, Quinn thought, would be to just move her into my quarters. The thought aroused a black excitement in his loins, which he tried to force back down.
Opening the door to Martha's Boyd's inner office, he saw Lockhart seated in one of the wing chairs. He kept his tone light, and said, "Excuse me, I'm sorry, Ambassador. But I need to borrow the Director for a bit."
Lockhart stood up. "Did you find Mathison?" he said quietly, as they left Boyd's office together.
"Yeah. She needs us," he said.
Needs me, his mind insisted.
They headed back to the secure room.