Patient One: A Novel

by Leonard Goldberg

  “Not even close?”

  “Once I was close. Or so I thought. He was a handsome neurosurgeon who was separated from his wife and promised me everything. Marriage. Children. The big house. A vacation home …” She let her voice trail off, her mind drifting for a moment.

  “And?”

  “And he went back to his wife,” Carolyn said without bitterness. “And I went back to dating uninteresting men, with a few meaningless flings here and there.” She sighed heavily to herself before adding, “None of them worth talking about.”

  “And then?”

  “Then you find yourself in your late thirties, and even the uninteresting men aren’t around anymore. So you resign yourself to staying single.”

  “No interesting men at all?” David asked.

  “Only one,” Carolyn said and smiled thinly at him. “And he just came into my life.”

  David squeezed her hand a little tighter. “Have you always been this subtle?”

  “Always.”

  David reached for her chin and guided her lips to his. He kissed her softly, feeling her warmth and her pleasant shiver. “Do you usually sweep men off their feet like this?”

  “Only the special ones,” Carolyn said as she kissed him back.

  “Where’s an empty linen closet when you need one?”

  “Almost halfway down the hall,” she said, smiling slyly and kissing him again. “Do you know what I wish for right now?”

  “What?”

  “For the whole world to disappear for a while, except for you and me.”

  “It just did,” David said softly and drew her even closer.

  They heard footsteps rapidly approaching. Two terrorists were grumbling loudly to one another.

  “Can you make out what they’re saying?” Carolyn asked quietly.

  David shook his head. “They’re speaking Chechen, but I can tell from the sound of their voices that they’re pissed off about something.”

  “Jesus! What now?”

  “Who knows? Just be very careful what you say. Remember, they can understand every word you utter.”

  “Chances are they’ll ask about the guard.”

  “If they do, play dumb.”

  The footsteps were now just outside the door, the voices even angrier.

  David and Carolyn quickly moved apart.

  Aliev hurried into the room, and glared at David and the IV running into his arm. “What are you doing in here?”

  “He was about to pass out from fluid loss,” Carolyn answered hastily. “He needed an IV.”

  “We tried the treatment room,” David lied easily. “But there was no IV pole in there.”

  “And there was an extra one in Marci’s room,” Carolyn added to the lie.

  Aliev’s expression turned into a snarl. He waved away the explanation, either not believing it or not caring. “You were told to stay, and you disobeyed.”

  “But he needed the fluid,” Carolyn argued. “He was about to—”

  “Enough!” Aliev cut her off. “If this happens again, you won’t have to worry about fluids, because you will both be dead. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Carolyn said submissively. Then she swallowed hard and requested. “May we finish the infusion?”

  “No!” Aliev snapped. “The IV is to be stopped at once.”

  “Why?” Carolyn protested mildly. “It’s only a saline solution. It can’t—”

  Aliev viciously slapped at the IV line, jerking the needle out of David’s vein. Saline sprayed onto Carolyn and across the room. Some of it reached Marci. The girl choked back a scream.

  David clenched his fists, resisting the urge to kick Aliev in his testicles and grab the Uzi. The Chechen was close enough for David to do it. But it would also be a death wish, because he and Carolyn would end up dead, killed by the balding terrorist in the doorway.

  Aliev glowered down at David. “Do you have something to say?”

  David shook his head and looked away.

  Aliev’s eyes suddenly narrowed. He quickly glanced around the suite before asking, “Where is the man who was guarding you?”

  David shrugged. “He stepped outside a few minutes ago.”

  Aliev turned to the terrorist in the doorway and barked out orders in Chechen. The balding terrorist hollered down the corridor, then waited for a response. Moments later two voices answered. The terrorist looked back to Aliev and shook his head.

  Aliev glared at David, saying, “We had better find our man or someone up here will pay a terrible price.”

  David was about to suggest that the missing man may have defected, but held his tongue. The last thing he wanted to do was agitate Aliev further.

  Aliev growled under his breath, obviously upset with the turn of events. He checked under Marci’s bed and in the bathroom for the missing terrorist, then came back to David and Carolyn. “When the guard left the room, which way did he go?”

  David shrugged again. “I didn’t notice.”

  “Why do I have the feeling that you are lying to me?” Aliev glowered.

  “We didn’t see the direction he went,” Carolyn reaffirmed. “He just walked …”

  There was a sudden commotion in the corridor, with loud yells and racing footsteps. The balding terrorist stuck his head into the room and blurted out a long sentence in Chechen.

  Aliev clenched his jaw as his face turned a deep red. He grabbed David by the collar and jerked him up to his feet. Then he motioned to Carolyn with his Uzi. “Both of you, outside.”

  In the corridor, Aliev shoved David and Carolyn into the stairwell for the fire stairs, where a terrorist was pointing to a smear of blood on the white concrete floor next to the staircase. Aliev put his index finger on the smear and noted that the blood was fresh. Stepping back, he quickly scanned the solid walls of the enclosure, then peered down the stairs and into the space between the staircases. Finally, he checked the underside of the stairs going up.

  “I think the American Secret Service has taken him prisoner,” Aliev deduced, now speaking Chechen. “And they must have killed my cousin in the kitchen as well. It seems they have found their way around our booby traps.”

  “But how?” the balding terrorist asked.

  “That I do not know,” Aliev said and hurriedly snapped his fingers at a third terrorist. “Use your cell phone and connect me to the Vice President.”

  “Should I tell them why?”

  “No,” Aliev told him, then brought his attention back to David and Carolyn and switched to English. “Did you hear sounds of a struggle?”

  “None,” David answered. “But remember, we were busy caring for a very ill patient.”

  “And what about you?” Aliev asked Carolyn.

  Carolyn shook her head.

  Aliev stared at the couple, looking for signs that would indicate they were lying.

  The terrorist next to Aliev handed over the cell phone, saying, “The Vice President is ready for you.”

  Aliev continued to stare at David and Carolyn as he spoke into the cell.

  “Listen very carefully, Lady Vice President. One of my men is missing and I know he has been captured by your Secret Service. If he is not returned to me within two minutes I will kill a hostage.” Aliev paused and listened closely to the response. “Yes. I will stay on the line.”

  Aliev waited patiently, now looking down through the space between the staircases and listening for any activity. Everything remained still and quiet. Once again he inspected the tripwires on the stairs going down. All appeared intact. Glimpsing at his watch, he said into the phone, “You have ninety seconds.”

  David tried to keep his face impassive, but he knew an innocent hostage would shortly be executed and he was responsible for it. Goddamn it! My
fault! I killed a terrorist, and someone was going to die for it. But I had no choice. It was either kill or be killed. Goddamn it, he growled again to himself, still feeling guilt and wondering who would be chosen to die. Probably Sol Simcha, who Aliev had earlier threatened to push off the roof in his wheelchair. David shivered involuntarily at the thought of the nice old man falling ten stories to his death.

  Aliev saw David’s shiver and asked, “Are you frightened, doctor?”

  “Yes,” David lied, gazing around at the three terrorists and knowing there was no way he could take out more than two and survive.

  Aliev pressed the cell phone to his ear and listened carefully, then cried out, “He what?… You think he must have slipped! Is that what your Secret Service told you to say? Do you expect me to believe that nonsense?” There was a long pause before Aliev spoke again. “Oh! You will send the body up! That is so kind of you.” Aliev curled his lips into a snarl, then said, “I would like you to stay on the line.”

  Aliev turned to the balding terrorist and issued a set of orders in Chechen. The terrorist nodded and smiled, exposing metal-lined front teeth. Then he hurried away.

  David glanced over at the two terrorists remaining in the fire stairs, thinking he could probably kill both, but that would still leave two terrorists who, with their Uzis and grenades, could easily slaughter the First Family and most of the other hostages. Yet, without Aliev, the terrorists might …

  A high-pitched shriek came from the corridor. It was a woman’s voice, crying and screaming and begging.

  Aliev held the cell phone up to the sound, then spoke into it. “Do you hear that, Lady Vice President?”

  Then there were even more screams, louder this time. Then more begging.

  The balding terrorist appeared at the door and pushed Diana Dunn into the stairwell for the fire stairs. “Leela!”—Move!

  Diana Dunn gazed frantically around the group. “Why … why am I here?”

  “To set an example,” Aliev said simply.

  He grabbed her by the back of her hospital gown and shoved her over to the railing that overlooked the space between the staircases. “What do you see?”

  “I don’t see anything,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “Well then, let me give you a closer look.”

  Aliev pushed the frail woman over the rail and watched her fall. She screamed at the top of her lungs until her head smashed into the rock-hard landing one floor down.

  “Did you hear that, Lady Vice President?” Aliev asked into the cell phone. “Like my man, it seems that one of the patients slipped and fell to her death.”

  Aliev nodded to himself. “Ah! You did hear. Now hear this as well. If any more of my men disappear I will kill two hostages. And one of them will be from the First Family. Am I understood?… Good.”

  Aliev handed the cell phone back to the terrorist and instructed him in English to have the hostages lined up outside their rooms.

  “All of them?” the terrorist asked. “Even the very sick ones?”

  “All, except for the President,” Aliev replied.

  “Some are too ill to stand,” David reminded him.

  “One of them won’t have to stand for long,” Aliev responded, checking his watch. “Because he will soon be dead.”

  “These are innocent people,” Carolyn pleaded.

  “So was my dead wife,” Aliev said icily, and stepped toward Carolyn. He poked her in the side with the barrel of his Uzi. “Now you will come with me.”

  “Wh … why?” Carolyn asked fearfully. “What do you want with me?”

  “I’m going to give you the honor,” Aliev said cruelly.

  “What honor?”

  “You will choose which hostage is the next to die,” Aliev said, and pushed her out the door.

  Twenty-five

  Eagle Two skimmed along the coastline in total darkness, at 560 miles per hour. There were no stars or moon visible, only faint flashes that came and went in the distance.

  Special Agent Jake Anderson, the pilot of the Gulfstream turbojet, pointed ahead. “Those lights are coming from the Mexican interceptors.”

  “Are they closing in?” Joe Geary asked.

  “It’s hard to tell,” Anderson answered. “But they sure as hell aren’t any farther away.”

  “Do you think they’re just trying to scare us?”

  “For now.”

  Geary peered at the radar screen in the panel before him and asked, “How many interceptors can you make out?”

  “Four,” Anderson reported. “And that’s three more than they need.”

  “Will this instrument panel tell us if they’ve got their missiles locked in on us?”

  “No.”

  The turbojet hit a small air pocket and dipped slightly, then regained altitude. Both men glanced out at the flashes in the blackness again. The Mexican interceptors were definitely closer now.

  “Do some fancy flying and get us out of this mess,” Geary urged.

  “We’ve just about used up all of our tricks,” Anderson told him. “If those Navy jets don’t get here soon, we’re toast.”

  Geary grumbled under his breath. Everything that could go wrong was going wrong. Their chances of success were slipping away. He turned on a penlight and restudied the diagram of the Beaumont Pavilion and the plan to rescue the President. It should work, he kept trying to convince himself. If they could get back to Los Angeles in one piece, and if their timing was good and if the terrorists were in place, it should work. But all it would take was one mistake and there’d be a firefight with the President and his family in the middle of it. He sighed inwardly, wishing they still had a man on the inside they could communicate with. That would give them the edge they needed. But Ballineau was either dead or captured. He was no longer of use to them.

  The radio crackled loudly before an accented voice came on. “Aircraft number N-Four-Three-Four-Two-P, this is Mexican Air Force jet flight leader. You must turn right to zero-two-zero and follow us to a nearby air base. Do you read? Over.”

  “Ignore him again,” Geary said at once.

  “We’re going to really piss them off,” Anderson warned.

  Geary shrugged. “That happens in our line of business.”

  They flew on in the blackness, their gazes alternating between the outside and the instrument panel in front of them. One of the screens provided a heads-up display of the exterior terrain and beyond. It showed the sea and open air. No incoming jets were discernible.

  Another twenty seconds passed before the Mexican flight leader spoke again. “Do you read, N-Four-Three-Four-Two-P? You are requested to acknowledge.”

  “Keep going!” Geary directed. “Maybe he’ll think our radio is screwed.”

  “That won’t last for long,” Anderson said hoarsely.

  “We don’t need long.” Geary checked his watch. The terrorists’ deadline was rapidly approaching. “How close is the U.S. border?”

  “Twenty-two minutes.”

  “They’re not going to let us reach it.”

  “Tell me about it!”

  Suddenly a Mexican jet zoomed overhead, producing a deafening roar. It was so close the Gulfstream shook violently and rattled in its wake.

  “Holy shit!” Geary blurted out.

  Anderson struggled with the controls and righted the turbojet. “That was to get our attention.”

  Ahead the Mexican interceptor slowed and leveled off, then began tilting its wings from side to side.

  “And that’s the international call sign for ‘Follow me,’” Anderson went on. “We can’t make believe we didn’t see it.”

  “They’ve got us boxed in, haven’t they?” Geary asked, steadying his nerves.

  “And some,” Anderson replied. “What do yo
u want to do?”

  Geary was sweating through his thick combat fatigues, trying desperately to think of a maneuver to reach the border with his team intact. He concentrated his mind and searched for an answer, but he kept coming up with the same conclusion. They were trapped with no way out. And landing on a Mexican airstrip was out of the question. They’d not only be delayed, they’d be put in jail. “Do you really believe they’d blow us out of the sky?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Anderson said without hesitation. “To them, we’re just a rogue plane carrying people who shot up a Mexican town.”

  Geary glanced to his right and left. He could see the lights of Mexican interceptors off both wings. Christ! They’re making a sandwich out of us! Again he tried to come up with a way to buy time. “Do you think these Mexican pilots have ever seen combat?”

  “No way,” Anderson replied. “The closest they ever got to it was in some training exercise.”

  “So in all likelihood they’d be either gun-shy or trigger-happy.”

  “I guess gun-shy, real gun-shy.”

  “Me, too,” Geary said with a firm nod. “I want you to call them and say we’re a United States plane.”

  “What!”

  “Just do it.”

  Anderson switched on his radio and said, “Mexican Air Force flight leader, this is N-Four-Three-Four-Two-P. We are a United States government plane. Do you read me? Over.”

  There was no response.

  “Tell them we’re authorized to be in Mexican airspace,” Geary added quickly.

  Anderson repeated the lie, and waited.

  Still there was no response.

  Seconds ticked by in the silence. Then the Mexican jets on their wings peeled off into the darkness.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” Anderson asked.

  “Probably checking with their higher-ups,” Geary said, looking out for the telltale flashes of the Mexican interceptors. He saw only blackness. “That should take a little while.”

  “I only need nineteen more minutes and I can get this baby to San Diego.”

  “They won’t be having that long of a conversation.”

  Eagle Two flew on in the dark night, maintaining an altitude of three hundred feet and a speed of 560 miles per hour. The only sound inside the cockpit was the loud hum of the plane’s two Rolls-Royce engines. A few minutes passed without the interceptors reappearing. There was no activity on radar or on the night vision screen.