by Leslie Wolfe
“Got it.” Johnson started to reach for the bottle but stopped in his tracks when he met Fischer’s disapproving look.
“How many did you have today, Bobby?”
“Umm...just one? Two, maybe?”
“Bobby, I told you before, and I’m not going to repeat myself forever. Stop drinking, or I am out of here. One a day, plus a nightcap when you’re between toothbrush and bed and no one can hear you speak anymore. That clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Hope so. War on terror, go!”
“With the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan ending, we’re assisting the peoples of the respective countries in their transitions to peace. We’re dismantling and annihilating any terrorist organizations, whether al-Qaeda, ISIL, or any other new emerging threat. We are committed to maintaining the strongest military force in the world. We will engage to protect, secure, and maintain peace for us and our allies.”
“This is great, Bobby; you did great! You said the right words with the right attitude. Remember that for tomorrow. How come you’re so strong on terror and not really on healthcare? What’s the difference?”
“It’s Dan’s writing; he’s so much better and clearer than Janie. She wrote all my healthcare talking points, and I can’t even remember a single one. But Dan is structured.”
“Is he still here now?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Johnson stood up from the leather couch and opened the door to his front campaign office. “Hey, Danny boy, come on over here!”
A young man, not a day older than twenty-five, came in. “Yes, sir?”
“Did you write the senator’s talking points for the war on terror?” Fischer asked.
“Yes, I did. Anything wrong?”
“No, quite the opposite,” Fischer answered. “Can you slap something together for healthcare too? What’s your background?”
“Sure I can,” he said, displaying exceptionally white teeth in a very wide smile. “I’m pure public relations, sir. I graduated magna cum laude with a PR major. I can write anything about anything, sir.”
“Perfect, go get it done; we need it in an hour,” Fischer said, patting the young man on his shoulder.
“Consider it done,” he said, then closed the door gently on his way out.
“You have a nugget of gold in this boy, Bobby; make sure you keep him happy, you hear me?”
“Don’t I know it?” Johnson answered, resuming his place on the couch.
“Not sure you do. Immigration?”
“My platform calls for the relaxation of immigration rules, allowing a higher number of highly qualified professionals to enter the American job market and build our economy strong.”
“How about unemployment? How about protecting the American laborers? How about the permanent pressure on American salaries due to the constant import of cheap labor from overseas? How would you handle these objections?”
“Well, America was built on immigration. The biggest, strongest economy of the world was built and thrives on immigration. Today, almost 30 percent of all patents filed are authored by new immigrants or H-1B visa holders. We need to bring this innovation to strengthen our economy.”
“Who wrote this for you?”
“Janie.”
“Okay, it’s not as bad as healthcare, but if Dan has the time he should brush this up too.” Fischer ran his hand through his hair yet again. “There are at least two areas where the public can crucify you. One is healthcare, and the other is immigration. Both are slippery slopes, so refrain from diving in too deep or getting pulled into the weeds.”
“Got it.”
“Then anything involving the current or historical geopolitical environment you should avoid like the leper, unless you’re willing to really take this seriously, study, and understand it well. Until you do that, just try to back out of any geopolitically loaded question you can’t grasp. Elevate the issue, or bring the topic back to something you’re comfortable with, like the war on terror.”
“Got it.”
“Are you ready to do this, Bobby? Will you make me proud tomorrow?”
“Yes, I’m ready. I am the next president. I know it. I can feel it in my heart,” he said, his voice sounding full of unwavering faith.
Maybe there was hope. Fischer stood, ready to leave.
“Oh, almost forgot. You’ll be meeting your new best friend, Dave Vaughn, the Texas oil billionaire. I’m bringing him over in a day or two.”
“I don’t know the guy,” Johnson protested, unconvinced.
“That’s irrelevant; you will know him once you two meet. He wants to throw his money behind your campaign, so we’ll be here, ready to accept gracefully and become the best of friends. He’s your age, so you’ll find something in common to talk about. He’s a nice guy.”
“Yeah, but what does he want? Why is he supporting me?”
Involuntarily, Fischer’s hand passed through the remaining strands of thinning hair, pulling forcefully.
“Bobby, listen to me and listen good,” Fischer said in almost a menacing tone.
The senator nodded quietly.
“You need all the help you can get,” Fischer continued, his anger on the rise. “Do you understand me? All. The. Help. You. Can. Get. And for that help, you’ll do whatever it takes, are we clear?” Fischer’s question was faced with silence. He asked it in a different way. “Bobby, what are you willing to do to become the next president?”
“Oh, anything, anything at all, I promise.”
“Good. Then remember that when you meet with Dave Vaughn.”
...42
...Wednesday, February 10, 9:35AM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)
...New Horizons Cardiology & Transplant Center, Office of Dr. Kanellis
...Burlington, Vermont
Alex entered the posh office, following the assistant who held the door for her with a professional smile. A distinguished-looking man, wearing scrubs and the typical buzz cut popular with male medical practitioners beyond a certain age, stood up to greet her.
“Dr. Kanellis? Good morning,” Alex said, “and thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Absolutely, no problem.” The doctor shook her hand. “Take a seat. What can I do for you?”
Why do doctors always have warm, dry hands? Alex found herself wondering for a second, then refocused on the conversation at hand.
“It’s about my mother,” she started to say hesitantly. “She needs a transplant, or so we have been told. I’m afraid I don’t know much of what this entails or how to proceed.” She handed Kanellis the file folder she had brought, where the combined talents of Sam and Lou had carefully constructed her mother’s medical record based on Melanie Wilton’s case parameters.
Kanellis started reviewing, making the occasional uh-uh and aah sounds quietly.
“I’m afraid you are correct, Miss Parker; your mother does need a transplant and without much delay. The severity of fluid accumulation due to her congestive heart failure is what dictates the urgency. Her heart has lost the ability to do its job. We can try managing it with medication until a heart becomes available, but we have to act fast.”
“So what do I need to do?”
“We can start by admitting her here, to the Transplant Center, where I can evaluate her and prepare her case for the transplant committee to review.”
“How hard is it to get approved by the committee?”
Kanellis delayed his answer by a few seconds, dropping his tone from neutral and professional to almost parental.
“I’m not going to lie to you, Miss Parker. Getting a heart is tricky. There aren’t nearly enough available organs for transplant to address the growing needs of our patients. People live longer, healthier lives, so the likelihood of someone needing a transplant during their natural life span has increased tenfold. Despite the growing number of donor card carriers, there are simply not enough hearts to help everyone.”
“What are you saying?” Alex asked. “That she won’t get a heart?�
��
“I am saying that the transplant committee can decide either way, or even if they do add your mother’s name to the list, her priority on the waiting list might change. For example, if a younger patient is accepted before she gets a heart, she might be bumped down on the waiting list. But let’s worry about getting her name on the waiting list first. What can you tell me about her lifestyle?”
“Well, like everyone else, I guess, less than perfect. A few years back she had a DUI, but she’s not an alcoholic. It was just a mishap, when she and Dad were coming back from a party. Will that disqualify her?”
“I don’t see why it should, especially if it wasn’t recent.”
Alex’s head was spinning. What? DUI is not a disqualifier? I was right...Robert was set up. Bastards!
“How about substance abuse or smoking?” Dr. Kanellis asked.
She had to invent something, so she picked at random.
“She is a smoker, I’m afraid. Will that damage her chances?”
“Definitely, I’m afraid,” Dr. Kanellis replied. “Our center requires that patients are smoke free for at least six months before they can be placed on a transplant waiting list.”
“What if she quits now?”
“Based on what I see here,” he tapped gently on the file folder containing the medical records, “I’m afraid she doesn’t have six months left to live.”
“But there must be something we can do,” she pleaded, almost whimpering. The more she entered into her character, the more she felt sympathy for Robert Wilton and what he must have been through. “You can’t tell me there’s nothing that can be done.” She sniffled, then continued. “We have money. We can raise significant amounts. There’s nothing we won’t do for my mother.”
Dr. Kanellis quietly rejected her argument, raising his hand with his palm facing outward, as if to push her away.
“I’m afraid that money won’t make a difference here, Miss Parker. This selection process and the transplant committee were created specifically to prevent the allocation of organs to be dictated by personal wealth, as opposed to medical reasons and individual merit. The heart should go to the patient who has the best chance of survival, the greatest lifespan ahead of them, the cleanest and healthiest lifestyle. Money doesn’t come into play at any point in this process.”
She let him finish, watching him with pleading eyes.
“The only way money makes a difference,” Kanellis said, “is if you try medical tourism. There are agencies that can send you and your mother abroad, to China most likely, where you can get a heart for a very large sum of money, a couple hundred thousand at least. You also have to not mind where the heart comes from. I personally struggle even mentioning this alternative to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, where do you think these organs come from, in such places? Executed prisoners, most likely. You would buy somebody else’s life.”
She shuddered hearing him explain. Good thing I don’t really have this dilemma. It’s a fucked up one to have, she thought.
“Do you think she can make the trip, though? She’s very weak.”
“Most likely, no. Looking at her file, I wouldn’t advise her to be out of bed more than fifteen minutes per day. A flight to China is twenty hours long. It would completely exhaust her and risk her life. Even if she makes it, she’d be entering the procedure weakened and exhausted, diminishing her chances to survive and accept the organ.”
“Then what other options do I have? How about the black market for organs, here in the United States?”
“We’re not having this conversation, Miss Parker,” Kanellis said firmly. “Organ trafficking is illegal, plus it’s almost exclusively about kidneys, not hearts.”
“So there’s nothing I can do? There’s no hope? I can raise a lot of cash that no one has to know about,” she pleaded.
“Because you’re under a lot of personal hardship I will forget you mentioned that, but I’m afraid our conversation is over, Miss Parker.” He stood up frowning, visibly offended by her blatant bribe offer.
She left quietly, thinking he was a little too offended by an offer he must receive every now and then, considering what he did for a living.
Damn. Back to square one.
In her car, she grabbed her encrypted cell and speed-dialed a number.
“Hey, Lou, how’s it going?”
“Hey, partner, we were just talking about you. How are things?”
“Not impressive, I’m afraid. Need your help.”
“Shoot.”
“See if you can’t snoop around in the New Horizon systems a little. I couldn’t get anything from this Kanellis guy; he just wouldn’t budge. But I’m sure there’s something to be found. Use Melanie’s admission date to help you find the info.”
“All right, I’ll get to it. What are you up to while I work?”
“I’m gonna cruise the local watering holes, see where these surgeons like to have their dinners and drinks. Might be useful for later.”
“Sounds like a plan. Please be careful,” Lou said, all serious.
“I will,” she replied.
I most surely will, Alex thought, starting her engine and checking her surroundings for the tenth time. No one was following her; she hadn’t noticed any familiar cars, faces, or anything. Yet her gut was telling her to be on full alert.
...43
...Wednesday, February 10, 10:12AM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)
...New Horizons Cardiology & Transplant Center, Office of Dr. Kanellis
...Burlington, Vermont
Dr. Kanellis resumed his morning activities after the frustrating Miss Parker had just left. It wasn’t her fault. He softened a little. It’s hard for people to walk the line when their loved ones are dying.
His cell rang, disrupting his thoughts. One look at the cell’s display, and his stomach tied into a knot. It was him again, the man that a twisted fate had brought into his life, the man by the name of Helms.
“Hello?” He picked up the call in an almost normal voice.
“Who was that?”
“Who was who?” Kanellis asked, confused.
“The woman who just left your office.”
“Umm...nobody. Just a patient’s daughter looking for an exception.”
“What was the issue?”
“Patient’s a smoker, won’t qualify. I sent them to China. I probably won’t see her again.”
“Very good.”
“Listen, you said you were going to leave me alone. It’s been months! How much longer are you going to be lurking around?” Kanellis was getting angry.
“We’re going to leave you alone when we decide you can keep your end of the deal and your mouth shut.”
The caller hung up, leaving Kanellis boiling with frustration. It had been months since he had made the biggest mistake of his career, and it just seemed like it would never go away.
...44
...Wednesday, February 10, 9:09PM Local Time (UTC+1:00 hours)
...Millennium Ballroom, Zurich Marriott Hotel
...Zurich, Switzerland
The last of the guests were leaving slowly, smiling and chatting left and right. They had enjoyed themselves very much, and their generous donations to the Eastern Africa Development Fund were statements to the caliber of parties Ahmad Javadi could throw. The venue was classy and well-serviced by armies of waiters with impeccable manners. The music was soft, not too loud, yet encouraging his guests to dance if they liked. The hors-d’oeuvres were the best in all of Europe, freshly imported from exotic destinations and complementing a selection of the most exquisite wine collection. The custom fireworks at the end of the evening, a splendid show of light and color, caused everyone to gasp when the last round of bursts wrote EADF above the Zurich skyline.
His guests—bankers, businessmen, and high-ranking officials—deserved the best in food and drink but also in company. Javadi’s negotiating abilities had secured for the evening the presence and endorsement
of famous musicians, entertainers, and movie stars. Even last year’s Wimbledon champion had spoken on behalf of EADF. The evening, carefully planned by one of the greatest fundraising minds of the time, had been a complete success, one that would be mentioned in newspapers for weeks to come. Almost ten million dollars in donations in one evening. That was impressive, even by Javadi’s standards.
All his rushed efforts to set things up had paid off. Javadi was happy. Satisfied, he headed out onto the terrace, where just an hour earlier everyone applauded his fireworks show in the brisk Swiss mountain air. He lit a cigar, then extended the antenna on his sat phone. When the other end of the line picked up, he only said three words:
“Phase one complete.”
...45
...Wednesday, February 10, 3:15PM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)
...Starbucks, Burlington Town Center
...Burlington, Vermont
“Thank you,” Alex said gratefully, grabbing the grande coffee from the barista with both her frozen hands. Winter was serious business anywhere else but California.
She sat at a small table in the corner of the coffee shop and started sipping the hot liquid, savoring the heat and inhaling the strong scent of fresh-brewed house blend. Her encrypted cell buzzed, displaying Lou’s mischievous smile on the LCD screen.
“Shoot,” she said.
“Yep, got what you asked for, with some limitations though,” he blurted at machine-gun speed.
“Meaning?”
“I found the procedure in the New Horizon system, but the details are sketchy. Most of the surgical staff is identified by initials, not by full names. There’s no patient registration information, just a note saying that the patient had been transferred from Municipal to recover post-surgery; although there are entries that confirm the surgery took place at the Transplant Center.”
