by Rick Acker
“Yes, I remember this talk. I think maybe I will speak to FBI and CIA persons now.”
“Maybe?” replied Ben cautiously.
There was a brief silence, then a sigh. “I will speak to them.”
“Then I’m on my way.”
Ben arrived at the hospital fifteen minutes later to find Elena and Agent Gomez waiting outside Dr. Ivanovsky’s room. “He insisted on having you here before he would let us in,” explained Elena.
“Of course he did,” said Ben with a good-natured smile. “Remember who you’re talking about.”
They went in and found Dr. Ivanovsky sitting up in bed. Most of his bandages were gone, and he appeared to be in much better health than when Ben had last seen him. “Thank you for coming, Ben,” he said. “It is very, very good to see you.” He turned to the FBI agents and eyed them suspiciously, but without hostility. “So, okay. Now my lawyer is here. Ask me these questions.”
“Some individuals were exposed to Variant D,” Elena said urgently. “We need to know how to treat them, and you know more than anyone in the world about how this organism affects humans.”
“I know no treatment. What are their symptoms?”
“They don’t have any yet.”
“No symptoms?” asked the scientist, arching his eyebrows in surprise. “When were they exposed?”
“Three days ago.”
“Not one has symptoms?”
Elena shook her head.
“Then this is not Variant D,” he said definitively.
“We are certain that it is,” countered Agent Gomez, who had worked with the team that analyzed the powder. “We—”
“Then it has lost virulence,” replied Dr. Ivanovsky with unshaken confidence. “You have cultured it?”
“Yes. The cultures all show a fast-growing genetically modified variola major,” answered Agent Gomez, referring to the scientific name for the most lethal strain of smallpox.
Dr. Ivanovsky sat silent for a moment, his brows furrowed in concentration. He looked up. “You have cultured the exact sample from the exposure?”
“No,” admitted Agent Gomez. “That sample was lost. We got ours from one of the other vehicles we captured. We assumed it would be identical, but . . .” He stopped. “There might be some residue left on the container. We’ll check that.”
“This is sloppy. There must be no sloppiness with such organisms!” Dr. Ivanovsky chastised with the air of a senior scientist rebuking a lab assistant. He thought for a moment. “This sample, was it exposed to chemicals or heat?”
“It most likely came from a burned-out minivan,” said Elena, who had heard the whole story in detail while visiting Sergei. “So it was probably in a fire for a while.”
“This fire is wonderful news!” Dr. Ivanovsky beamed.
“Why is that?” asked Ben.
“High heat kills the smallpox,” Dr. Ivanovsky explained. “Especially Variant D because it is engineered chimera organism, so it is not very stable. I do not think you will need to treat these persons.”
After a few more questions, Elena and Agent Gomez broke off their interview with Dr. Ivanovsky. Agent Gomez had some urgent supplemental research to perform. Elena went to talk to the team treating Sergei and the police who were exposed.
When they were alone, Ben turned to Dr. Ivanovsky. “So, why did you change your mind? Was it because the government managed to get Variant D on its own?”
“This is one part,” Dr. Ivanovsky began hesitantly, “but there is more. Those things you said to me—they made me very, very angry. So when Father Ivan from Saint Vladimir comes to visit me next, I speak to him about this. I do not speak of Variant D, but I tell him enough of this story to understand. Then I tell him what you said.”
“And what did he say?” asked Ben.
“He says, ‘Mikhail, did you read The Brothers Karamazov?’ I say, ‘Yes, when I was in school I read this book.’ So he asks me, ‘Do you remember it?’ Have you read this book, Ben?”
“I started it in college, but I got bogged down and never finished it,” admitted Ben.
Dr. Ivanovsky nodded sympathetically. “It is a long book with much talking and depression. I tell Father Ivan that this is all I remember. He says, ‘There is a very interesting story that one character tells. Would you like me to tell it to you, Mikhail?’ I say okay, so he tells me the story. It is about this man who is grand inquisitor in Spain. He is a very important man in the church there. Another man comes to him and tells him that there is a prophet making miracles and healing sick persons in the villages, so the grand inquisitor says he must speak to this man, and the soldiers bring the prophet to him. The grand inquisitor speaks to this prophet alone and he discovers that this is Jesus.”
“You mean someone pretending to be Jesus?”
“No, no. It is really Jesus, who has come back from heaven to earth. So the grand inquisitor kills him.”
“What? Why?”
“Because the grand inquisitor has a secret,” answered Dr. Ivanovsky.
“What was his secret?”
“He does not believe in God.”
“But I thought you just said he knew the prophet was Jesus,” objected Ben. “How can he not believe in God?”
“I asked this same question to Father Ivan. He says to me, ‘This grand inquisitor thinks he is the best one to take care of the poor persons. He thinks his way is best and Jesus will make problems for him. He trusts only him. He does not trust God, so how can he believe?’
“Then he says, ‘Mikhail, maybe it would be good for you to trust God more and you less.’ I say, ‘Okay. I trust God. I do not trust these government persons.’ And he says, ‘Maybe God works through other persons and not just you. Maybe you should listen to them and trust them some.’ Then he says I should pray about this thing and think about it. So I did, and . . .” His voice faltered, and he stopped for a moment. “And I begin to think of Mr. Simeon, who is dead; and Mr. Conklin, who will not walk again for his whole life; and all the police who are dead or hurt. Then I think that maybe Father Ivan is right and maybe it was not so good that I did these things alone and did not trust you one hundred percent. So then I called you.”
“I’m glad you did,” said Ben, smiling warmly. “There are many words that describe representing you, but boring isn’t one of them.”
Dr. Ivanovsky laughed. “This is true, but maybe I will try to be boring next time.”
“Don’t start thinking about next time just yet. I’ve got a feeling we’re not quite done with this case.”
Snow fell on Elena and Noelle in big, soft flakes that clung to their hair and coats. They stood on Washington Street watching the State Street Macy’s Christmas window displays. This year, the displays showed scenes from A Christmas Carol, complete with an astounding set of mechanical figures dancing together at the Fezziwigs’ Christmas party.
“So, what are you giving Sergei for Christmas?” Noelle asked.
“I haven’t decided. Any ideas? What do you think he needs?”
“A car.”
Elena laughed. “Yes. He’s actually trying to get his insurance company to give him that. Apparently, his policy does not explicitly cover damage caused by terrorist attacks. They may cover it anyway, though—they’re starting to get bad publicity.”
After the well-attended gunfights, fire, and explosion in Elmhurst, most of the events of the past two months had been widely reported. The intelligence agencies had managed to keep the exact source and nature of Variant D secret, but pretty much everything else had become public knowledge. All the main participants were minor celebrities now. Sergei in particular had been lionized because a news crew had arrived at the industrial park just in time to film his final confrontation with Elbek, which had been conveniently spotlighted by the police helicopter.
“How’s he doing, by the way?”
asked Noelle. “Ben says he’s been kind of quiet since he got out of the hospital.”
“He has been . . . thoughtful. Two times in the past month he thought he was going to die, and all he could do was wait for death. That will have an effect on anybody.”
“Is he okay?”
“I think so,” replied Elena. “Sometimes I’ll catch him just staring into space with a kind of sad look. I ask him what’s wrong, but he says it’s nothing and then he’s himself again—except that he seems a little more serious. He’s also reading a lot of books about religion and philosophy.”
“It sounds like he’s searching.”
“Maybe he is,” replied Elena. She turned away from the window. “And I’m still searching for a gift for him. Any suggestions—other than a car?”
Noelle decided to drop it. If her friend didn’t want to talk about spiritual issues, she wasn’t going to push. Besides, she wasn’t done fishing for information. “Well, that depends on how close you two are. If you like him, but you’re not that serious, I’d go with a pen-and-pencil set or something like that. If you’re serious, cologne or a sweater. And if you’re really serious, talking-about-buying-a-ring serious, then you should get him something for his kitchen. Single men never have enough stuff in their kitchens, and what they have is always cheap—like those frying pans that always burn food. Then once you’re married, they don’t want you to buy new ones until the old ones actually break.”
Elena laughed. “Noelle, you would make an excellent investigator.”
Every pew in the large sanctuary was filled with Chicago heavyweights, gathered to honor Tony Simeon. Half of the aldermen and most of the judiciary were there, as were high executives from many of Chicago’s largest corporations. Also present were representatives of the charities and museums that were the primary beneficiaries of Tony’s will, since he had no living relatives closer than cousins. A scattering of reporters and photographers sat around the sides and back of the church and in the nave.
The Corbins sat in a side pew next to Sergei and Elena. Irina Ivanovsky sat next to Elena at the very end of the pew, and her husband was in a wheelchair in the aisle next to her. His doctors had refused to release him from the hospital and had ordered him not to leave, but they relented when he remained adamant and started dressing himself. They could not keep him in his bed without physically restraining him, which would have been both illegal and medically riskier than letting him go. They finally reached a compromise with him: he could go to the funeral, but only if a nurse went with him (she sat in the pew behind him), he stayed in a wheelchair, and he promised to come back to the hospital immediately after the funeral ended.
The black-draped bronze casket lay on a table at the front of the sanctuary. Floral arrangements flanked the bier. An easel beside the coffin held a large, not particularly recent picture of Tony.
The service opened with a hymn, followed by two of the Lyric Opera’s singers performing the “O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?” segment from Handel’s Messiah. Then came a short liturgy and several eulogies from eminent judges and lawyers who had known Tony well. But their polished eloquence was muted and overwhelmed by the circumstance in which they found themselves.
One justice of the Illinois Supreme Court said simply, “I hold in my hands five pages of notes for a speech praising Tony Simeon, but now that I stand before you I realize that there is nothing I can say that will speak better of him than the actions of the last days of his life.” And he sat down.
Then Pastor Wilhelm ascended to the pulpit to deliver the homily. “I have been acquainted with Tony Simeon for many years, but I only came to know him recently. Tony was a gifted man who had done much in his life, but he told me that he had used his life and his gifts to serve himself. He regretted that, and he regretted having lived his adult life without God.
“Tony came to faith late, but he did so with a strength and courage that awe me as I stand here today. Tony knew the danger that awaited him along the road he chose. He knew the end to which it might lead. Yet he took it nonetheless. He did not rationalize or temporize. He did not look for an easier way. He saw the task that God had set before him, and he did it without flinching or faltering.
“Through Tony, God delivered millions—including, no doubt, many in this church—from a horrible death. Without Tony’s sacrifice, there would be many, many more funerals today. And tomorrow. And every tomorrow until there were none left to mourn the dead or bury them.
“God’s deliverance will remain with us even though one of today’s deliverers is gone. For our lives do not rest in the hands of terrorists, and the hour of our death is not appointed by men. We belong to God, who promises, ‘You shall not be afraid of any terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day; of the plague that stalks in the darkness, nor of the sickness that lays waste at midday.’
“God delivered Tony too, but he delivered him through death—not from it. Christ defeated death, but he did not destroy it. In the end, we all receive in our bodies the bitter legacy of the first sin. The earthen mouth opens to receive us, and the worms consume us.
“Many people do not see death at all and live happy, carefree lives—until death catches them unawares and unprepared. Others who are wiser see the loneliness, the pain, and the empty darkness of death, and they despair.
“But Christianity is a religion of hope, even in the presence of death.” He held out an open hand toward Tony’s casket. “Not because we do not see death, but because we see beyond it. We do not hope blindly, but with vision unclouded by fear or despair.
“We know that beyond the wrenching horror of death lies life such as we have never known. The infant in the womb must pass through the trauma of birth to emerge into the light of the sun and the loving embrace of his parents. So too, Tony has passed through the trauma of death and stands now in the light of the Son and the loving embrace of his Father.”
EPILOGUE
SETTLEMENT
“Ninety-eight percent of all cases settle, so why hasn’t this one?” demanded Judge Ryan. The Circuit Dynamics trial was only two weeks away, and the judge had taken Ben, Steve Rocco, and John Weaver back into his chambers for a pretrial conference. Their meeting involved a large dose of arm-twisting aimed at settling the case.
“Your Honor, we’ve made a good-faith offer,” said Rocco. “My client has put $5 million on the table, which is frankly a lot more than this case is worth. The plaintiff hasn’t moved off of $25 million.”
“They’ve offered $5 million on a $100-million case, Judge,” retorted Ben.
Judge Ryan rubbed his watery blue eyes. “All right. I’ll talk to you each separately, plaintiff first. Mr. Rocco, Mr. Weaver, please wait in the courtroom.”
Once they were alone, he turned to Ben. “Five million dollars is a lot of money, particularly to a small business like your client.”
“That’s true,” Ben acknowledged, “but $100 million is a lot more.”
“It is, but to get it you have to both win and collect. I’ve seen your evidence, and it’s got some holes. I also can tell you that the defendants will almost certainly take every appeal they can if they lose. Your client won’t see a penny for years.”
“That’s why we’re willing to accept twenty-five.”
“Is that your bottom line?” asked the judge. “Because if it is, we’re just wasting our time. You have to be willing to show some flexibility.”
“We can show some flexibility, Your Honor, but not when they’re at $5 million. This is not a case that is going to settle halfway between their position and ours. It just won’t.” The bottom line Fred Schultz had given him was actually $12 million, but Ben intended to do better than that.
“All right. I’ll see what I can do. Send those guys in.”
Ben went out to the courtroom and told Rocco and Weaver that the judge was ready to see them. Then he sat down to wait. The judge hadn’t
pushed very hard, which worried him a little. If the judge didn’t apply more pressure on Rocco and Weaver, the case wouldn’t settle.
Back in the judge’s chambers, pressure was being applied.
“I don’t care how strong your case is,” Judge Ryan said. “Do you really want to try a case against Ben Corbin less than two months after that business with the terrorists?”
“I don’t see what bearing that has on—” began Weaver.
The judge cut him off. “Jurors read papers and watch the news, Counsel. I will guarantee you that someone on your jury will recognize him. By the end of the first trial day, they’ll all know the whole story. Only an idiot or a masochist would go up against him at the moment.
“Now—what are you going to do to settle this case? Don’t think about how much your damages expert told you it’s worth. Think about how much the jury will hit you for when the man who helped save them from terrorists asks them for $100 million dollars plus punitive damages.”
Ben walked into the Petrograd half an hour after he was supposed to meet Sergei for lunch. He spotted the detective already seated at a table, eating his lunch.
Ben pulled out a chair. “Sorry I’m late. My pretrial conference ran a little longer than I had planned.”
“No problem,” replied Sergei around a mouthful of shuba herring salad. “How did it go?”
A waitress came over as Ben sat down, and he quickly ordered lunch. “The conference went great,” he said, turning back to Sergei. “I came in offering twenty-five million, and we settled for twenty plus a license fee of a million a year for the next ten years.”
Sergei stopped chewing. “So basically you were willing to take twenty-five, but you got them to give you thirty?”
“Basically, but I was willing to take less than twenty-five.”
