Nick had to shield his face and turn away from the blast of heat. From somewhere within the pillar of flame, he thought he heard Koller screaming.
Then the cylinder of fire collapsed, as the flames receded. Darkness began to recapture the recesses of the barn.
Nick raced past the smoldering mound that had so recently proclaimed itself the master of the non-kill. He moved the crates aside and gently rolled Junie to her back. He knew the moment he touched her that she was alive. The bullet had entered her left chest just above her breast. There was no exit wound that he could discern. Her eyes were closed, but she was breathing, albeit shallowly. Her carotids were still reasonably strong.
Jillian, having scrambled down the ladder at the rear of the RV, had raced to Nick’s side. Blood was forming an expanding circle across Junie’s shirt.
“Pulse?” Jillian asked, taking the woman’s hand in hers.
Nick shrugged. “Not so bad, actually,” he said. He leaned over, made a tube of his hand, and used it to check each side of her chest. “She’s moving air.”
“Hey, Junie Wright, it’s Nick and Jillian. Can you hear us?”
Junie moaned, and tried to open her eyes.
“Just lie still, sweetie,” Jillian said. “We’ll take good care of you.”
“Good thing she brought her van,” Nick said.
“Good point. How about if I go and get you some equipment?”
“I know where everything is in there. You keep pressure on this wound and a couple of fingers on her carotid, and I’ll get my black bag and some stuff for an IV. We’ve got a neat little crash kit, too.”
“You going to make it? You don’t look so good.”
“I can do it.”
“Find a phone in there and call nine-one-one,” Jillian called after him. “I’ll bet the guard inside has one.”
“Got it.”
“Flashlights, too, and turn on the headlights.”
Nick passed what remained of Koller, and paused long enough by the guard to affirm that he was beyond fixing. Minutes later, he had the RV’s high beams on, and was lugging the crash kit and some other equipment over to where Junie lay.
“Hurry, Nick,” Jillian called out, “her pressure’s dropping.”
“I called nine-one-one,” he said, breathless from his exertion, “but I had no idea where to tell them we were, and I didn’t want to spend too much time talking to them. The dispatcher said she could barely hear me, but she’d try to locate us using our cell phone signal.”
Working amidst the smoke and the stench, nurse and doctor kneeled side-by-side, establishing an IV, and then another, getting a blood pressure cuff in place, and finally hooking up some oxygen. They spoke little.
“Pressure’s eighty,” Jillian said.
“I’ll add some dopamine to the drip.”
“Nick, she was the real hero. She saved us all. She’s got to make it.”
“She’s going to make it. Come on, lady, enough of this. Deep breaths, deep breaths.”
“Did the dispatcher say how long it would take to find us?”
“All she said was that it would take time.”
“Pressure’s seventy, Nick. We don’t have time.”
“I’m doing about all I can do. The dopamine and the fluid are wide open. All this smoke isn’t helping. I wish we could get her the heck out of here into some decent air.” He snatched up the cell phone. “Any luck? Well, keep trying. Keep trying.”
“Nothing?” Jillian asked.
“Nothing. She needs an OR and she needs it fast. I think we should try and get her into the van, and see if we can find a hospital.”
“Do you have the strength to move her?”
“If I need it, I’ll have the strength.”
“Would it hurt her if we have to drag her over to the RV?”
“Maybe.”
Jillian checked Junie’s pressure again and clenched her fist in frustration.
“Still seventy,” Jillian said. “Come on, God. Don’t you let this happen. We need her. We all need her. I’ve been at least willing to discuss Belle and my faith with you, but if you take this woman, I swear, you’ve heard the last from me. Get it?”
At that moment, the still night was pierced by the faint sound of sirens. Less than a minute later, with the sirens rapidly closing, strobes appeared across the field. Many strobes.
“They found us!” Jillian exclaimed.
“Looks like an invasion from outer space.”
Nick picked up the cell phone and talked for a few seconds. Then he looked at Jillian curiously.
“The dispatcher lady says she’s sorry they haven’t been able to find us. They’re still trying to track us.”
Several police cars and an ambulance pulled up at the barn door.
“I think it’s safe to say there’s a surprise or two waiting in here for them,” Jillian said.
The first to enter the barn was Don Reese, followed by the paramedics, who immediately set about performing their magic, praising Jillian and Nick as they worked.
“Reese!” Nick called out.
The detective hurried to Nick’s side and stared about in uncharacteristic disbelief.
“The police report on this scene should make for some interesting reading,” Reese said. “Who got torched? I sure hope he’s a bad guy.”
“The worst,” Nick said. “How the heck did you get here? Nine-one-one said they couldn’t find us.”
“Remember after you, um, helped me out, I gave you that magnetic GPS logger for your RV?”
“Of course.”
“Well, twenty messages of distress from you freaked me out, Doc. I always thought you were a pretty cool customer. When I couldn’t reach you, well, let’s just say I chose action. I made a quick call to the company and we tracked your position here.”
“Nice going. Now I guess we can call us even,” Nick said as the paramedics gave him a thumbs-up.
“I don’t think so,” Reese responded.
“Oh, come on, Don,” Jillian said, taking his arm. “If I can settle the score I just settled, you guys can settle yours.”
Junie was up on a stretcher. Nick and Jillian kissed her on the forehead as she was rolled past them to the waiting ambulance.
“Do you want to ride in the ambulance with her, Nick?” Jillian asked.
“If they’ll let me.”
“Looks like you’ll need some medical attention too,” Reese said. “We’ll meet you at the hospital. They’ll be taking you to County General. It’s a good place and only five miles from here.”
Jillian and Reese supported Nick and helped him to the ambulance. The rain had stopped. Overhead the clouds had parted, revealing a bright crescent moon.
CHAPTER 50
The white stretch limousine eased its way down Constitution Avenue toward the Hart Senate Office Building. It was the twelfth day of September, a sparkling clear Wednesday, and it would be no understatement to say that there was more interest in the hearing scheduled to resume in half an hour than in any Senate inquiry since Watergate.
“Answer me true,” Reggie said from the center of the backseat, “are we going to get us one of these limos or not?”
“I wouldn’t bet on you not getting one of your own someday,” Junie said, pausing to cough and take a breath, “but only if you do your homework.”
“Hey, Dr. Nick Fury here told me that when I move in with him and Nurse Jillian, I won’t have to do any homework.”
“You wish,” Jillian said. “You haven’t seen the nasty side of either of us yet. Junie, you okay?”
The older woman cleared her throat and nodded. She hadn’t done that well following the removal of the upper lobe of her left lung, and seemed to have aged considerably over her months of recovery. Still, it was no surprise to anyone who knew her that she had managed to parlay her growing celebrity into massive donations to Helping Hands, as well as the promise from Winnebago of a new, deluxe, fully equipped RV.
“Have you
looked outside?” Don Reese asked. “We still have a ways to go and it’s already wall-to-wall photographers and reporters.”
“Let’s hop out,” Reggie said. “I want some more pictures of me in the papers. There’s this girl at school I want to impress and—”
“Enough!” Junie said. “I’ve spoken to your civics teacher, and she’s expecting at least a five-page paper on these hearings. That should be more than enough to impress any girl that’s worth impressing. Nick, honey, the humidity’s getting to me a little. Could we please have the driver take us right up to the door?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“There are a few stairs,” Reese said. “But there’s a ramp. Do you need a wheelchair?”
“I can handle it,” Junie said.
Reese had not only been a lifesaver during the drama in the CIA-owned barn, but afterward as well. It was he who first began to put the pressure on William Conklin, the director of the CIA, whom he knew personally, to do what he could to restore public trust in the agency. Given Ramsland’s stature and power, Conklin had for years turned a blind eye to the activities of the Jericho vigilantes. Now, Conklin’s job was on the line. The nasty publicity the agency was garnering around the globe was unlike anything since the Senator Frank Church hearings in the midseventies, which focused on CIA political assassinations and other excesses.
This afternoon, Reese’s work with the CIA chief was hopefully going to come to fruition.
Following a morning of testimony from Paresh Singh, officials and surgeons from Shelby Stone Memorial Hospital, and relatives of the seven victims from operating room ten, Lionel Ramsland had begun what to Nick and the others was an utterly frustrating denial of any direct wrongdoing.
Soon, after the man completed the remainder of his testimony, it would be Conklin’s turn. The final testimony, although it would be only hearsay, would be from Nick.
“Don’t expect to be called if they run out of time,” Nick’s attorney told him. “They may reconvene tomorrow or they may delete you because your story is unsubstantiated with objective evidence.”
The reporters crowding the curb and spilling over into the street seemed to have been tipped off about the occupants of the approaching limo. There had been lengthy articles on Nick, Jillian, and the others in the Times, the Washington papers, and People, as well as on all the networks and CNN. The Ten Little Indians OR Murders, People had headlined their cover story.
David Bagdasarian, the group’s attorney, and one of the legal team representing Nick and Jillian before the boards of medicine and nursing, had arranged for the transportation. Now, he met them at the curb, opened the door for them, and led the group into the modern Hart Senate Building. Nick’s and Jillian’s licenses to practice had been suspended, but then the suspensions were stayed pending further investigation.
“Ramsland’s real good,” Bagdasarian said as they passed through the nine-story atrium and by the massive Alexander Calder metal mobile, Mountains and Clouds, and ascended to Room 216. Today, the legendary hearing room was the home of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. “He admitted to being the tenth man in the operating room video the senators saw, but he denied doing anything illegal. And of course, even with the plastic surgeon’s testimony, no one can figure out definitively who was on the operating table that day three years ago, or what happened to the body. Supposedly, an autopsy was performed, but no one has produced the results. God bless ’em all.”
“Hey, don’t press that panic button just yet,” Reese said as they took their seats in the third row behind the witness table. “As Yogi Berra said, the opera ain’t over until the fat lady sings.”
Reese had admitted to Nick and Jillian that, for weeks, he had been working with William Conklin at the CIA, but he had shared few details until this morning.
The six of them were all seated except for Nick. Thanks to his flight from Franz Koller, his shoulders and knees still balked at being kept in one position for very long. Physical therapy had helped, but his joints continued to feel a decade or two older than the rest of him. His PTSD was another story altogether. His ultimate triumph over the killer, his continued EMDR therapy, and his new life with Jillian and Reggie were working wonders with his condition. His SUD score was now consistently between three (Mildly upset, worried, bothered to the point where you notice it) and two (A little bit upset, but not noticeable unless you take care to pay attention to your feelings and then realize, “Yes, there is something bothering me”) with an occasional one (No acute distress and feeling basically good) thrown in.
Nick was massaging the muscles at the base of his neck when Lionel Ramsland entered the packed hearing room. He had lost some weight, and almost certainly was wearing expertly applied makeup. But in general, he appeared as cocky and confident as ever. And as Bagdasarian said, he had strong reason to be.
Nick had taken great pleasure in the man’s announcement two months ago that in the interest of not being a distraction to his party, he was stepping down as a vice presidential candidate before being nominated.
Now, as Ramsland approached his seat, his eyes and Nick’s met. For a few frozen seconds, neither of them moved. Then, never releasing his gaze or altering his expression, Ramsland raised his right hand and saluted. Nick, swallowing a jet of bile, shook his head derisively and took his seat between Jillian and Reese, facing the panel, and behind them, the massive marble wall with the seal of the Senate.
Ramsland’s continued testimony was gaveled to order by the chairman, a wizened senator from Missouri named Blackstone. Over the next hour, under oath, the man who might have been a heartbeat from the presidency lied again and again about his relationship with Franz Koller, the electronic device under CIA contract that could stimulate portions of the brain or cause the electrical pathways of the brain to short-circuit and stop functioning altogether, his role as creator and mastermind of the black ops Jericho unit, and his relationship and dealings with Aleem Syed Mohammad. He also swore that he had never had a cell phone conversation with Nick, and that records of the calls made from his personal cell phone showed absolutely no calls made during the time period Nick had stated in his deposition.
Nick’s fists were clenched throughout the barrage of dishonesty. At one point Reese leaned over and whispered, “It’s all just rope, Nicky-boy. Every lie is just more rope.”
“Well, he’s almost finished,” Nick said, “and I don’t see any noose.”
At that moment, as the final senator was finishing his five minutes of largely redundant questions, Reese looked over his shoulder. His expression, which had been getting somewhat gloomy, brightened considerably. Again, he bent over close to Nick.
“Let the games begin,” Reese whispered. “The fat lady has arrived.”
Nick turned around to see CIA chief William Conklin standing by the rear doors between what appeared to be two lawyers. Minutes later, with Ramsland now seated to the side of the room, Conklin, in his midfifties with thick white hair, the body of an obsessive athlete, and heavy bags under his eyes, was called forward, sworn in, and asked by Blackstone to identify himself.
“I notice that you have not been present for the early portion of these hearings,” Blackstone said, clearly prepared for this witness.
“No, I just flew in. The flight was delayed.”
“You were traveling alone?”
“No, I traveled with deputy CIA chief Arthur Senstrom.”
“Lionel Ramsland’s successor to that post.”
“Yes, Senator.”
“And where did you fly in from, Mr. Conklin?”
“From South America, Senator. I cannot disclose the country.”
“The purpose of your trip?”
“We spent two days with the terrorist Aleem Syed Mohammad.”
The hearing room erupted. Everyone, it seemed, was speaking at once. In an instant, Blackstone’s gavel was pounding.
“Nice going,” Nick whispered to Reese.
“Conklin’s scramblin
g to keep the Agency together. I helped him to see that this was his only chance. I just didn’t know if the trip was going to accomplish what we hoped. Now it appears as if it did. Tell Jillian she can take out that photo of her sister she’s got in her bag.”
Nick did as Reese asked. Jillian set the photo on her lap. It was a five-by-seven black-and-white candid of Belle, in a spring dress, seated with her back against a tree. She was reading a book. Her shoulder-length hair framed a porcelain face that was at once beautiful and transcendently serene.
Nick had seen the photo a number of times before, and knew Jillian had taken it. He reached across and squeezed her right hand with his. A single tear broke free from the corner of her eye, and landed on his wrist.
Gradually, order was restored to the chambers.
“You have come back with evidence pertaining to this case, Mr. Conklin?” Blackstone asked.
“Yes, Senator.”
“Objection,” Ramsland’s lawyer shouted, leaping to his feet. “I demand the right to review this evidence before it is presented.”
“Mr. Dietz, this is a hearing to gain facts. Your client is not on trial here, just under oath. I am going to permit the presentation of any evidence that will help us expeditiously get to the truth. Please proceed, Mr. Conklin.”
The CIA chief set two tape recorders on the table before him and turned the first one on. A man’s deep voice filled the room. He spoke in Arabic.
“Rather than play the full recording, I’m going to read you the translation,” Conklin said, shutting off the tape as he began. “ ‘Voice prints will confirm that I am Aleem Syed Mohammad. You will also find my fingerprints on this and another tape. I am speaking to you from a concealed location in South America. In exchange for my cooperation here, as well as for any further information Mr. Conklin may require, I have been given permission to continue living my life in secrecy.
“ ‘Some years ago, after the death of my oldest son, I grew extremely weary of war and of the jihad. For reasons that will become clear to you, I sought out Mr. Lionel Ramsland of the CIA, and he agreed to meet with me.
Michael Palmer Page 32
