Herman said there weren't, and Gabe set the receiver back on the wall. Then he settled back with his coffee, trying to conjure up a way to separate the president from all those who might be a threat to him, including his Secret Service protectors. By the time the phone rang, in just over forty-five minutes, an idea had germinated and begun to grow. It was an idea that would take some quick planning and some incredible luck, but given what was at stake, it was an idea that had to be made to work.
Sharon answered the phone, listened for a few moments, and then, rather shakily, handed it across to Gabe.
"It's for you," she said. "Man on the other end says he's—"
"That's who he is," Gabe said, managing a grin at her reluctance to give the caller a name or a title.
"What's the address here?" Gabe asked.
Sharon grabbed a piece of paper and wrote it down.
"That you, Gabe?" the president asked.
"In the flesh."
"I've been trying to reach you all night. Where in the hell have you been?"
"Long story. I'll tell you when I see you."
"Roger that. Good move with that Condor note. I never forget a horse."
"Mr. President, I need you to send someone out to get me."
"I'll send a car right out."
"Terrific."
Gabe read the address.
"Twenty minutes," Stoddard said.
"And send along a couple of photos—one signed to the Turners and one a thank-you to Louis Turner. Sometime soon I want you to have Mrs. Turner here and her family over for dinner."
"Done. Any friends of yours are friends of the Stoddards."
"Great. Hey, what were you trying to reach me about?"
"Something bad," Stoddard said. "Very bad. A few hours ago we got notified that your patient Lily Sexton was found dead in her hospital bed."
CHAPTER 50
The two friends sat across from one another enveloped in a somber silence. Twenty-five years ago, they might have been in their room in Bancroft Hall at the Naval Academy, chatting about women or an upcoming exam. Now they were alone together in the presidential study in the White House residence, mulling over the significance of frightening and deflating news—the deaths of former White House Physician Jim Ferendelli and the Secretary-designate of Science and Technology, Lily Sexton.
"The police and Secret Service investigators don't report finding anything unusual or suspicious below the Benning Street Bridge," Stoddard said finally.
"I'm not surprised. These people, whoever they are, are organized and professional."
"You're certain Jim's dead?"
"I'm as sure as I can be without a body to examine. I don't know much, but after all these years as a doc, I know dead. It was really quite horrible. We were running, and suddenly he grabbed the sides of his head, uttered a cry straight out of Edgar Allan Poe, and went down. When I knelt to check him, he wasn't reacting at all. He was not breathing effectively, and he didn't have any pulse that I could discern. It only took, like, ten or fifteen seconds. I think they stopped his heart either directly or through the connections in his brain. The two men were coming at us fast. That's when I took off. Running away from Jim like I did was a reflex reaction, but I'm certain that if I didn't, one way or another, either from some chemical they put into me or from a bullet, I'd be dead now. I'm sorry, Drew. I really am."
"I'm sorry, too. Jim was a very good man. Sounds like he went through hell these past weeks. And he said Jennifer was someplace safe?"
"He wouldn't tell me where, but yes. That's what he said."
"I hope we find his body. Except for Jenny he didn't have much family, but especially for her sake, I want to find it."
"An autopsy might help us answer some questions about you, too."
Autopsy. The word hit Stoddard like a slap.
"This is terrible, Gabe," he said, "just terrible. Listen, I want you to go over things one more time, just to be certain I have it all straight."
Patiently, Gabe again reviewed the events leading up to the meeting in Anacostia with Ferendelli, starting with the note that had been left for him at the Watergate. For the moment, he only alluded to his ill-fated ride with Lily Sexton and the remarkable search of her house that followed. The details he would fill in when it was clear the president had come to terms with the certainty of Ferendelli's stunning and horrific death.
As Gabe proceeded, Stoddard stopped him frequently, asking for clarification of the half hour or so that Gabe spent with Ferendelli and the man's unrequited love for Lily. After Stoddard was satisfied he knew all there was to know, he listened attentively to the account of the arrival of the two killers, the chase to the river, Ferendelli's collapse, the explosion of hallucinogenic drugs in Gabe's brain, and finally the moment Louis Turner found him unconscious in the vacant lot.
When Gabe felt comfortable that the president had processed the death of his friend and physician as well as he was going to, he took Stoddard step-by-step through the discovery of the underground passageway and the nanotechnology laboratory. It took most of an hour and a number of diagrams of drug-carrying fullerenes and brain sketches to bring Stoddard up to speed on how his irrational episodes, Gabe's powerful hallucinations, and Ferendelli's death were related.
At last, the president sank back in his high-backed leather easy chair and stared out the window, breathing deeply and slowly through his nose—a calming exercise Gabe remembered from their days at the Academy.
"Sorry about the car," Gabe said. "On the way back here we drove by where I had left it, but it was gone."
"I think my father has insurance," Stoddard quipped. "Gabe, who could it be? Who's doing this to me? And why?"
"As you and every other president and president's physician knows, there are no limits to the number of 'whys.' All I can tell you, Drew, is that Ferendelli felt that in order to dose you with drug-carrying fullerenes, and then to fire off the transmitter that causes them to open up, at least one of the people responsible had to be someone close to you—possibly someone in the background of your life, like an aide or a valet or a secretary; possibly someone quite visible, like one of your advisors, a Secret Service agent, or even a cabinet member."
"I'm getting a damn migraine just thinking about this."
"Speaking of Secret Service agents, there's another problem I'm really concerned and frightened about. Alison Cromartie, the undercover agent working in the medical clinic, may have vanished. She left me a note saying to contact her at one of two numbers, but she wasn't answering either before I left for Anacostia."
"Lord. Can you try again now?"
"I'm afraid her note was in my pocket when I went for my little swim. Maybe whoever rolled me took it. But I have a staff list in the clinic. I can get her numbers from there."
"Good. I'll contact Mark Fuller at the Secret Service offices right away and get people on this."
"Thanks. I'd appreciate that."
"I'm sorry, Gabe. I hope she's all right. First Jim, now Lily."
"And Alison's disappeared. I've been thinking the same thing. What happened at the hospital with Lily?"
"I don't have much to tell. She was transferred sometime last night to the medical center here in D.C. From what's been reported to me, she was perfectly stable. At some point today she was due to have her shoulder operated on. Then, a few hours after she was admitted, she was found dead in bed. So far no one's been reporting having seen a thing."
"I told you, these guys are professionals."
"You think she was murdered. Magnus was told they were thinking embolism—the sort that happens sometime when bones are broken or operated on."
"Fat embolism," Gabe said. "It's the fat in the bone marrow. Pardon me for my skepticism, but two people who are connected to you and knew each other well are dead within a few hours of one another. I'm just not big on coincidence. With an IV line and a chest tube in place, there were plenty of ways to see to it she didn't talk."
"There's an autop
sy scheduled for later today."
"Don't bank on its finding too much. These people are good."
"I just don't believe this. Gabe, what should I do?"
For a time, Gabe studied his hands. The filth from the river and the vacant lot, still embedded under some of his nails, seemed to underscore the direness of the situation. Someone physically close to the president, at least intermittently, had the virtually unstoppable capability of either driving him insane or killing him.
"The problem is," Gabe said, "we don't know if Ferendelli's death has changed the rules—maybe caused whoever is behind this to alter their goals or their timetable."
"Do you think it could be Tom Cooper? It would seem he's got a lot to gain if I go bonkers, or worse."
"Or Dunleavy, or the Koreans, or the psycho terrorists, or the drug lords, or . . . or . . . or."
"If you're right, Gabe, than you might be in danger, too."
"I might. But I'm not the President of the United States. And to tell you the truth, Drew, at the risk of hurting your feelings, I wouldn't want to be."
"It requires a special kind of madness."
"You're making a difference, my friend. There's a spirit of optimism throughout much of this country. We've got to keep you healthy and in the game."
"I knew I brought you here for a reason—it's to remind me of stuff like that."
"The way I see it, we need to start grilling the scientists and administrators in that lab attached to Lily's place—find out who they're working for other than Lily, and what they might know that will help get those fullerenes in you neutralized or eliminated. But before we do that, I really think we should find a place to hide you away from anybody who might possibly be behind this."
"What do you mean by anybody?"
"Just that."
"My wife? My Secret Service protection? My staff? The country?"
"Drew, you're no good to any of us dead. At the moment, virtually everyone connected with you in any way is a suspect."
"Excuse me, my friend, but haven't you seen what life is like for me? Except for here in our little temporary apartment, I'm not able to go to the bathroom without a phalanx of agents standing by. It's their job, and they do it well."
Gabe tapped his fingers together and worked through the idea that had taken root in his mind.
"I have an idea for a way we might be able to get you separated from everyone—everyone except me, that is."
"Pardon me for my skepticism, but I've seen the Secret Service in action. I don't believe you can do that."
"I didn't say it was going to be easy."
Gabe stared out the window and again played through the scenario he had concocted.
"You have figured out a way to kidnap the President of the United States?" Drew said.
"It's not kidnapping if the president goes along with it—more like borrowing. What we need is a place to go—a place where you might be able to hide out for a few days."
"We would have to notify Tom Cooper that he's about to become president."
"Nonsense. It's his job to be ready to become president. That's why you picked him. Besides, as you suggested, he might be the last person we want to tell anything to. Drew, the Constitution and the laws of the land have been put together to handle situations involving you having to take a break from running the country."
"I suppose. I can't believe that my ratty ol' cowboy pal is lecturing me on constitutional law."
"Believe me, sir, your ratty ol' cowboy pal has been busy making himself something of an expert on this. Now, if we're to succeed in separating you from the world, it will have to be soon. Should be today, but I'll need time to get some things together. So tomorrow."
"I'll try and stay in here alone or with Carol as much as possible until then."
Gabe flashed on the unsettling exchange with the First Lady the night of Drew's psychotic episode.
"With Carol would be better," he managed. "I don't want you to be alone. If you can, I'd appreciate it if you make your main priority mobilizing people to help find Alison. I'm really worried about her."
"Count on it."
"Just keep the rest of the world as far away as possible. And please, tell her as little as you can get away with."
"Gabe, our marriage just doesn't work like that."
"I understand. Do what feels right. Remember, the person we need to be frightened of could just as easily be one of Carol's connections as one of yours. Now, what we need most of all is a place we can escape to where the minimum number of people, if any at all, will get a look at you. Specifically, I'm looking for a place within, say, a hundred miles of Camp David."
"What?"
"Camp David. Tomorrow afternoon or maybe evening, we're going to escape from Camp David."
"It can't be done."
"Maybe not, but maybe so. I'll go over the details with you and then see what you think. But first, we need a place."
"Within a hundred miles of Camp David."
"More or less. I'm actually wondering how Sharon Turner's house would work out, back here in D.C."
"I don't want to put her or her family in harm's way," Stoddard said, "and as neat as that woman sounds, there aren't many who could go without saying to some friend or relative, 'Oh, by the way, guess who's staying over at the house for a couple of days?' "
"Ferendelli's brownstone?"
"That would be one of the first places the Secret Service would look. As investigators those guys are the best. Hopefully you'll see that when they set out to find Alison." Stoddard hesitated, a resigned expression on his face. "I know of a place we can go to," he said almost reluctantly. "It's in Berkeley County in West Virginia about thirty miles west of—"
"Hagerstown," Gabe said. "I know the area. I spent a year of my life there, much of the time studying maps against the day when I reached the end of my rope and decided to make a break for it."
"Oh, God, I'm sorry for not being more sensitive, Gabe. I'm really sorry."
"No need to be. There just happened to be a prison there, and I just happened to be in it. What have you got in mind?"
"The place is called The Aerie. It's a castle, a real medieval castle, complete with moat, set on the top of a high hill, or maybe you could call it a low mountain, right in the middle of some of the wildest, densest forest this country has. It was built by my grandfather—my father's father."
"So it's secluded."
"Nobody goes there anymore, but it's still in the family. There's like some sort of family trust, but it only meets every couple of years and hardly anyone comes. I think someone comes in every month or two to do battle with the cobwebs and dust off my grandfather's collection of armor and weapons. I don't know for sure. But I am a trustee, and I do have a key."
"Electricity?"
"As far as I know. Either way, there's a generator."
"Sounds promising."
"Gabe, are you sure this is necessary?"
"Are you sure that it isn't?"
"Okay, okay. And try not to worry too much about Alison. I'm sure there's a simple, logical explanation why you haven't been able to connect."
CHAPTER 51
Hatred.
There were no windows in Alison's prison, only the unadorned concrete walls, the scattered pieces of junk, and the bare bulb hanging directly over her head, making it unpleasant to open her eyes. After four sessions of Griswold's droning interrogation, each followed by a dose of the unbearable, muscle-tearing intravenous drug, he had left and not returned. Alison had discerned from her own sense of time and some remark he had casually dropped as he was heading off that it was morning.
Now, she guessed, it was evening again. Thirty-six hours—maybe more. She remained strapped on her back, drifting in and out of wakefulness. Her wrists and ankles were expertly secured by rope to the metal frame of her cot. She was helpless and in throbbing pain throughout her body. With her arms stretched above her head and barely able to move, her shoulders were especially uncomforta
ble. When—if—she finally did get to lower her arms, she wondered if they might simply fall off.
At some point during the endless hours, or perhaps during the actual torture that had preceded them, she had wet herself. Griswold, if he was aware of that fact, had made no attempt before he left to change her or to help her change.
Beside her, two plastic intravenous bottles, hooked in parallel, drained saline into her arm, one crystal drop at a time. Why would Griswold ever want her to dehydrate to death and deprive him of his sport?
During the time she was conscious, Alison was consumed by a hatred for Treat Griswold more powerful than any other emotion she had ever known. Being a quarter black, she had encountered racism from time to time, but never had it taken the form of overt hatred. In Los Angeles, there was no question as she watched her friend Janie's life be decimated that Alison hated the arrogant, self-serving surgeons who were masterminding the onslaught.
But never enough to kill them.
This time, she wasn't at all sure.
The president's number-one protector was a master at torture—at breaking his subject down until every statement, every revelation, was certain to be the truth. Clearly, he did not yet feel he had reached that point with her. The doses were progressively larger and more excruciating. By the end of the all-night session, the muscles throughout her body were no longer able to relax fully between injections. The persistent spasms of her jaws threatened to pulverize her teeth, her scalp muscles to crush her skull.
"Who else knows about this?" . . . "Why did you follow me?" . . . "Did someone specifically tell you to investigate me?" . . . "Tell me again about the inhaler. What was it I did that made you suspicious?" . . . "What did Con-stanza and Beatriz tell you?" . . . "Who else knows about this?" . . . "Who else knows about this?"
The First Patient Page 27
