Page 87 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
“No. We can send them to the hospital in Sarajevo for an emergency. These people have all been screened earlier for serious illnesses back in Greece or their point of entry. We’re just taking care of basic needs like fevers, coughs, headaches, small cuts—that sort of thing. And to make sure big issues weren’t missed earlier.”
Aida introduced Jack to a nurse passing by with a chart in her hand, and then a young female doctor who appeared with a hijab-clad mother and her young daughter. Aida knelt down and cooed with the shy child, provoking a wide smile from the mother and the child when she offered the girl a piece of candy from her pocket.
They spent another few minutes meeting other staff, along with several more patients, all women in hijabs and their young children. The staff clearly respected her, and the patients all adored her, especially the children.
Jack was impressed.
She was pleased that he was. “There’s much more to see.”
She led him to the rest of the camp, almost a village unto itself: a large kitchen and dining area, an administrative office, an education building, sleeping quarters for families and singles, along with storage and maintenance sheds.
Aida explained that when the refugees first arrived, they were processed through the administration building, where they were enrolled for whatever Bosnian or international financial aid they qualified for.
Next, they were assessed in their health, education, and employment status, and finally assigned sleeping quarters.
“The Peace and Friendship Association that sponsors this place also generously supplies a monthly stipend for the first six months they are here. Many of the people coming here are surprisingly well educated and professional: doctors, lawyers, accountants. But they’re willing to do any kind of work to survive.”
“Where are all the men? I’ve only seen women and children,” Jack said, as they walked around the camp. The women appeared to be from all over the Middle East, to judge from the wide variety of ethnicities, but all of them were covered to one degree or another.
“For the men who can find regular employment, we use our tour vans to run a shuttle from the refugee center to the city. But for the others who are still in transition, we operate a small furniture factory a few kilometers from here, and sell the furniture to help support the center, while giving them something meaningful to do and the chance to learn a new trade.”
“Why do you use your tour vans?”
“It’s one small way my company can help, and save the center the expense of hiring an outside firm.”
“It’s amazing what you’re doing here. How many people can you accommodate?”
“At full capacity we can serve two hundred people. The idea is to move people in and out of here as quickly as possible, depending upon their employment status. Most families move on within two months of arrival.” She looked around. “It’s not exactly a five-star hotel, but I think it is rather pleasant.”
“I’ve been in worse places, believe me.”
“You? I think you are one of those rich one-percent Americans I keep reading about.”
“Hardly. Not that we were ever poor when I was growing up. My parents work very hard, and raised us to do the same.”
“Good. Then let’s put you to work.”
Jack smiled broadly. “That’s why I’m here.”
—
Aida dropped Jack off in the kitchen and pointed him at a giant stack of dirty breakfast dishes. Without batting an eye, Jack rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands, and filled up one of the big sinks with steaming hot water and sudsy soap.
“I will check on you later,” Aida said, heading back to the clinic.
When she did check back an hour later, not only had Jack cleaned and dried all of the dishes, he’d swept and cleared the dining hall, and he was just finishing up scrubbing the toilets.
“I am impressed, Mr. Ryan. You know how to work.”
“What else do you need done?”
Aida dragged him from building to building. The two ofthem worked together, cleaning, moving, and stacking as the need arose. Aida was as willing as Jack to get her hands dirty. There was a kind of friendly competition between them.
In a storage room full of donated clothes, the two of them sorted and folded for an hour, sharing stories about their childhoods and their parents. Jack found that he did most of the talking, thanks to Aida’s endless questions; he was still careful to avoid divulging his father’s true identity.
“But American doctors make a lot of money, yes?”
“Compared to some other people, yes. But not millions. At least, not my mom.”
