She couldn't bring herself to open any of the drawers. If, as she expected he would, Griswold burned the place to the ground, the world would be the better for it.
During the cab ride up to Arlington, she tried to piece together everything she knew about the man. Griswold seemed once to have been a devoted, effective public servant, who had fallen prey to his own perversity and to someone with the intelligence to document that perversity and to force him to violate his oath as a protector of the president. Perhaps, as his Porsche, second home, and other activities suggested, there was a payoff involved as well. At this point, there was no way to know.
Griswold's mandate appeared to be the administration of psychedelic drugs to the president by way of his Alupent inhaler. Remarkably, though, the drugs remained inactive until triggered by some sort of handheld transmitter, thus making the commander in chief a marionette, who could be caused to go insane by the push of a button, ironically by another marionette.
It was incredible technology—well beyond Griswold's ken, she thought, even though, almost certainly, it had been Griswold who had stolen the blood samples Gabe had placed in the clinic refrigerator.
Unanswered at the moment was how could she provide proof of what she knew to be true, and exactly who was the master puppeteer pulling Griswold's strings. What she knew with certainty was that she was not going to go up against a man with Griswold's reputation and clout without hard, no, impenetrable evidence.
She assumed her car was in the White House parking area where she had left it. The inhaler beneath her seat might get the ball rolling, provided it was still there and was found to be contaminated by drugs and marked by Griswold's fingerprints. But she needed more than that—if there were any lessons to be learned from her L.A. experience, probably much more.
Meanwhile, she also needed to protect herself from becoming a victim once again, this time in every sense of the word. Griswold was no less powerful and respected, and probably even more ruthless, than the Four Cs surgeons in L.A. If she was going to bring him down and uncover the identity of his puppeteer, she was going to need to move quickly and keep Griswold worried and off balance. She also needed help from someone she could trust, and the list of people she could safely approach in that regard was short—very short.
As soon as possible, she and Gabe had to talk.
Alison crossed between two units and carefully approached hers through the backyard. Then she used her elbow and punched in a window panel in her rear door, reached inside, and turned the lock. The neat little two-bedroom had been expertly ransacked. Every drawer had been emptied onto the floor. The rugs had been pulled up, the cupboards swept clean, the pillows on the living room sofa slashed open. Broken glass was everywhere, and what few personal items she had brought up from San Antonio had been destroyed.
Could Griswold possibly have figured out the switch she and Lester had pulled off, or was he just being thorough—looking for anything she might have uncovered?
At first, Alison battled back tears as if Griswold were watching and she didn't want to give him any satisfaction. Then, shuffling to the bathroom to shower, she finally allowed herself a thorough, cleansing cry. The condition of her place didn't matter, she decided as she toweled off. From now until her war with Treat Griswold was over, she would not be staying here—not for a minute.
She found a clean pair of jeans and a navy long-sleeved T. Then she set about looking for the only two things she needed from the place. The first, a spare set of keys to her car, she found on the kitchen floor beneath a bowl. The second was right where she had hidden it—a short, efficient, 9mm Glock 26, tucked neatly in front of a knee-length nylon in one of a pair of four-inch spiked heels that she never wore for fear of breaking her ankles. Tucked in the other shoe, also behind a rolled-up stocking, were two full magazines of ammunition.
Finally, she remembered that she was now in range and turned on her radio. The first voice she heard was one she was listening for.
"Attention, all posts," Griswold was saying, "this is Special Agent in Charge Griswold. Prepare for Maverick departure on Marine One. Wheels up in two hours. Repeat, two hours before departure."
Marine One.
Griswold had said nothing about their destination. Andrews Air Force Base? Camp David? A speech somewhere?
No matter. When she was ready, she would find them. First, though, she needed to contact Gabe. The apartment phone was still working. Standing amid the wreckage, she took up the receiver and dialed the White House medical clinic.
CHAPTER 60
Rotors.
Just a couple of weeks had passed since the president had dropped in at his ranch for a visit. Gabe had been on horseback then, and he was on horseback now, helping Joe Rizzo, the stable master, and Joe's ten-year-old son, Pete, lead four horses from the stable to the rear entrance of Camp David for the president's early evening ride with his physician. The difference between this ride and the many others that various presidents had taken along this trail over the years since 1942, when Camp David—or Shangri-la, as it was called before President Eisenhower renamed it after his grandson—officially became a presidential retreat, was that this time the president would not be coming back.
In just an hour or so, President Andrew Stoddard, among the true visionaries who had ever held the office, would confirm those rumors that he was mentally unstable by escaping his Secret Service protectors.
Totally pleased with the horse, Gabe had asked permission to ride Grendel again. Pete, with whom Gabe instantly connected, especially after he taught the boy a couple of neat rope tricks with the lariat he had brought in the backpack, promised he could make that happen with a rub-down, a cooling sponge bath, and an extra helping of oats.
Joe Rizzo, too, clearly enjoyed having a man around who was both a doctor and a cowboy. When Gabe checked out the horses and suggested the president might like a ride on a dapple gray thoroughbred named Mr. Please, the stable master readily agreed. The horse, Gabe saw, was long in the neck and legs—a mover if ever there was one. It was good money that Grendel and Mr. Please could beat the Secret Service horses in a straight-up race, to say nothing of a contest where their three opponents were floating on clouds of Nembutal, ketamine, and fentanyl.
"They've landed!" Rizzo exclaimed in his charming accent, as the distant thrumming slowed, then stopped. "It should be a very beautiful ride, Dr. Gabe. A little breeze, not too many bugs."
"They wouldn't dare to bite the President of the United States anyway," Gabe said.
There was a hitching post near the rear gate to the compound. Gabe helped tie the horses up and then made preparations for what would be the daunting task of slipping drug-soaked gauze pads beneath the saddle blanket of each one without being seen and without having even the slightest bit of white showing.
From his backpack he took a pair of riding gloves—something he would never wear if he weren't trying to keep himself from absorbing enough mixture through his palms to topple from his own saddle. While rummaging through the backpack, he eased the top off the Tupperware container, separated out three packets of soaked gauze—two pads in each—and replaced the top. At that instant, his radio crackled to life, actually startling him.
"Doc, this is Griswold. Are you there? Over."
"Griz, g'day, mate. I'm here at the rear gate. Got some mighty fine mounts for you. Over."
"We'll be there in five minutes, just as soon as the nurse and corpsman finish loading up the van. Over and out."
Gabe felt himself go cold.
"Joe, what kind of van is he talking about?"
"The medical van, of course. The president never goes out on the trail without three or four Secret Service agents and the medical van. Hey, wait a minute, aren't you the doctor?"
"The new doctor," Gabe corrected, his mind swirling. "I've never been out on the trail before."
So much for carefully contrived scientific formulas. How in the hell could Drew not have mentioned that there was going to be
a van tagging along?
Gabe began rapidly flipping through what little he knew about disabling cars. The best he could come up with on the spot was dropping the sugar lumps he was carrying into the gas tank and hoping for the best. Ludicrous.
"Joe, what happens with the van if we go on a narrower trail?" he asked.
"The van waits where it can. A couple of years ago, one of the horses threw a guest and the man broke his leg. The agents had to carry him back down the trail to the van."
No help.
What a mess!
Gabe glanced at his watch. Even if he and Drew managed to disable the horses and take off, the van would be able to haul the agents back to camp in a matter of minutes. The two of them might not even be in the Impala before a massive pursuit began, with the Secret Service prominently represented in Marine One.
Why in the hell did he ever think he could pull this off?
"Doc, Griswold here. The van's all set. We're on our way. Over and out."
Damn!
"Joe," he said, handing over the two apples, "could you give these to Grendel and Mr. Please? I'm going to check the saddles one last time. I'm in no mood to play doctor out there."
Moving quickly, he crossed behind the horses, feigning a check of the blankets, stirrups, and cinches, while at the same time sliding the gauze as far up under the saddle blankets as possible. He was just easing the third pack into place when the president's entourage appeared and approached the guardhouse.
Gabe glanced at his watch and mentally started timing absorption of the drugs. Thirty minutes.
Trailing behind the three agents and the president as they reached the guardhouse was a small van—a Mitsubishi, with a nurse and corpsman inside. He had met each in the White House clinic.
The thirty minutes were down to twenty-nine, maybe even twenty-eight.
Stay cool, Gabe urged himself. Just stay cool and think.
He approached the president and shook his hand warmly.
"Why didn't you tell me about the van?" he whispered through nearly clenched teeth.
It took several precious seconds for the significance of the vehicle to register.
"In the heat of all that planning, I just never thought of it," Stoddard said. "Are we dead?"
Gabe glanced over at the van. From where he stood he could see the spare that was mounted on the rear.
"I need a minute alone by the van," he whispered suddenly. "Can you get me that?"
"Watch me."
Without hesitating, the president doubled over, grabbed his throat, and crossed unsteadily over to the entrance. Then, using a corner of the guardhouse to brace himself, he started to cough . . . and cough. The moment the agents realized what was happening, they raced to him. By then, Gabe had slid the hunting knife from his backpack.
"A bug!" one of the agents called out. "He says a bug or a bee went down his windpipe."
The racking cough continued—Academy Award quality, Gabe acknowledged. Now, completely concealed from the agents and the medical team, he set the knife handle against his chest and leaned against the side-wall of the spare with all his weight and all his strength. The powerful blade easily slid through the rubber and became buried to the hilt. He withdrew it and had it back in his pack when Griswold called to him from beside Stoddard.
"Hey, Doc, what's going on? Get over here!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming."
Without bothering to explain the delay, he raced over to the group, all of whom were standing helplessly around the hunched-over, distressed, sputtering commander in chief. Gabe set one hand on the front and one on the back of Stoddard's chest.
"It's okay now, Mr. President," he whispered.
He applied a slight, quick thrust with each hand. Instantly the hacking stopped. Stoddard sputtered once for effect, then stood up, smiling.
"Gone," he said. "Damn, but that was scary."
The entourage, amazed and totally impressed, turned to Gabe.
"Kind of a Wyoming version of the Heimlich maneuver," he said matter-of-factly. "Now, let's ride."
With six minutes gone, they mounted and headed up the trail.
One tire down, Gabe was thinking, at least one to go.
Quickly the Secret Service trio dropped back, allowing twenty or thirty yards to open between them and the two riders ahead.
"Nice acting job, Mr. President," Gabe said.
"Just like the olden days. Remember those coeds from Goucher?"
"This was better."
"Did you accomplish anything?"
"I disabled the spare. Now I have to get at one or two of the other tires and we've got a chance."
"Sorry I forgot about the van."
"Nonsense. Listen, Drew, I am just so grateful you are trusting me with all this. I know it isn't easy for you."
"I'm scared to death with what we're doing, and I'd be just as scared if we weren't doing it."
Gabe checked the time.
"With any luck, we've got fifteen or twenty minutes. The farther away we are from Camp David, the better. If nothing happens to their horses, I think we have to abort. But if the sedatives kick in, I'm going to go back there. I want you to keep steadily putting distance between us. I'll go back to check on their horses. That's when I'm going to try and take care of the van. Questions?"
"When do I take off?"
"Keep drifting ahead; then, when you see me move, you hit the gas. There's a trail to the left somewhere up there that'll take us to the car. I've set up a pile of stones on the right about thirty or forty feet before the trail. Keep an eye out for it. Also, I've marked the trees at eye level where we're supposed to turn. By then I should have caught up with you."
"I'd feel less frightened trying to elude my Secret Service people in a jet."
"You're doing fine."
For some minutes, the two rode in silence. Then Gabe leaned over slightly toward his onetime roommate.
"Drew, there's something I want to say. I don't know how to put this in any delicate way, but I want you to know that for years and years, even though I haven't had a drop of alcohol, I've been popping pills—never without a reason, mind you, headaches, insomnia, and the like—but you can probably guess that those reasons are more like justifications or excuses. I should have told you when you came to the ranch."
"Do you really think that would have mattered to me? Look at all the things you've done with your life."
"The funny thing is, since I had to watch Jim die, and focus on what was being done to you and to the country, and deal with Alison's disappearance, I haven't wanted to take a pill no matter how tense or frightened or sleepless I've been. It's like Jim's death was a slap of perspective for me—a shot across the bow of my life, telling me that I wasn't doing any justice to the lost lives of that woman in Fairhaven and her child by systematically destroying mine. I just needed to say it before we—"
"Doc, this is Griswold," his radio boomed. "You two slow down and get back here. There's something wrong with the horses."
"We're on!" Stoddard exclaimed.
"God bless Ellen Williams. Okay, Mr. President, just keep walking ahead, slow and steady."
Without bothering to respond by radio, Gabe gave Grendel's reins the slightest right-hand tug and then urged him ahead. The powerful animal spun like a seasoned rodeo performer and charged back down the trail. Gabe was pleased to see the size of the gap that had opened up between them and the agents. If they were paying as much attention to the president as they were to their horses, which wasn't likely, it would still be hard for them to realize, or to believe, that he was still moving away.
Confusion and distraction. Those were his biggest allies now. Confusion and distraction.
Even at a distance, he could see that the agents' horses were in no condition to keep going. Two were standing still, muzzles hanging down almost to the ground, their riders still sitting in their saddles, urging them forward. The third, Griswold's mount, was leaning against a hickory, contentedly rubbing his sh
oulder against the shaggy bark. Griswold was standing by the tree, looking into the horse's eye. But best of all, both the corpsman and the nurse were out of the van, checking to see if they could be of any help.
Be calm, Gabe urged himself as he dismounted and led Grendel toward the van. Be calm and look like you know what you're doing.
The handle of the hunting knife was in his palm, the blade concealed up along his forearm.
"Would somebody go after the president," Griswold ordered.
"This guy won't move," one of the agents said.
Gabe bent over and hammered the broad blade through the sidewall of the left rear tire. Soundlessly the van sank toward that side.
"Then get down and run!" Griswold was shouting. "Never mind, never mind. I'll get him myself. Hey, Mr. President. Stop!"
Of the three agents, Special Agent in Charge Griswold was carrying the most bulk. Exactly what shape he was in, Gabe mused, would be determined momentarily. Griswold threw off his windbreaker and started sprinting after Stoddard. With everyone watching Griswold, Gabe was able to take out the right rear tire with a single adrenaline-driven thrust. The van dropped to its rear end like a prizefighter who had just taken one to his glass jaw.
"I'll get him!" Gabe hollered to no one in particular. "I'll get him!"
He couldn't remember the last time he had done a running mount, but he never hesitated. With massive Grendel charging from standstill to full gallop in a single step, Gabe grasped the dense mane with his left hand and the saddle horn with his right and jammed his left foot into the stirrup. He went to push off his right foot, but he was already airborne, sailing along beside the powerful horse like a streamer. A second later, using strength he never would have guessed he had, he was upright in the saddle, thundering past Griswold.
The First Patient Page 31
