Once in the busy little office, Ian became a charming, droll, and intelligent host, serving tea and discussing the events of the world to a depth that belied his years. Sarah ached at the notion of how painful it must have been for her friend to be blinded, and then to have to send him away.
“So,” Edith said after a time, “Ian and I have some news to discuss with you two, but first fill me in. How’s Gary McHugh doing?”
“Believe it or not, pretty good,” Lou said. “On one of my visits to see him in jail, in what I suspect was a weak moment, he swore that he would be happy to have his medical license taken away if it meant he could get out of there. He’s getting the chance to prove it. Right now he’s still in the halfway house I was in, and get this, he’s working in Dimitri’s Pizza right below my apartment. He likes it, too. The Costa Brothers, who own the place, tell me that he’s become something of a savant at spinning and flipping dough. An A-plus student, they called him. Gary claims they’ve actually named a toss after him.”
Sarah said, “Once a doctor, always a doctor.”
“I would think another six months of hard work and meetings,” Lou said, “and he could apply to get his medical license returned. It’s a great sign that he never talks about it.”
“And I have some news,” Sarah said. “Bryzinski and the AG just agreed on a plea bargain. Nine years for attempted murder. No parole. I’m not sure yet what will happen regarding the teen he allegedly killed. The best thing he’ll end up with down the road may be a job like Gary has.”
“Death by pizza,” Edith said. “I’ve always felt it was a gift directly from God that we were able to smush him into the trunk of your car.”
“So, what have you got for us?” Lou asked.
Ian opened the top drawer of a cabinet, retrieved a thin file, and opened it on the table. It contained some pink phone messages, pages of handwritten notes and printouts, and a couple of newspaper articles, including one in Hebrew.
“Mom has told me pretty much everything that happened at Reddy Creek, and this past Christmastime at the Dover air base,” he said. “I’m the paper’s vice president and associate editor in charge of research, right, Mom? Well, two weeks ago, I came across a small piece about the leader of the Palestinian terrorist group known as al-Aqsa Martyr’s Brigade being killed in Beirut by a suicide bomber. That seemed a little queer to me because usually it’s the terrorists who are doing the suicide bombing, not having it done to them. So, with the help of some of Mom’s connections, I started to try to figure out who was taking credit or being blamed for this.”
Lou and Sarah were already exchanging concerned glances.
“Go on, Ian,” Sarah said.
“Well, so far, nobody has admitted to doing it. Nobody. That was strange, too. Usually people jump to take credit for this sort of thing. Then, the day before yesterday, I got a call from a man in Israel named Jacob. Mom?”
“Jacob is Mossad,” Edith said, “a spy and counterterrorist now living just outside Jerusalem. Eight or nine years ago, I was researching a piece on the suicide of an important, Iraqi-born atomic scientist in the research triangle in North Carolina. I came across enough information to believe the man was spying for Iran and had been assassinated by the Mossad. Jacob paid me a little visit and asked me to drop the story. He refused to tell me why, but he said if I didn’t, things would not go well for me or Ian. In exchange, he would make certain I was first in line for a number of other stories. Over the years, he’s kept his part of the bargain.”
“So I e-mailed him, asking about this assassination,” Ian went on. “He called Mom and told her that a secret unit of the Mossad had been put together expressly to perform hits such as this one. He said that even members of his unit were being kept in the dark about it, but that he had learned it was connected in some way with research the Americans had perfected dealing with the basis of fear.”
“Did this Jacob happen to know which Americans?” Lou asked, barely able to hold his cup steady.
“Not at the moment,” Edith said. “But he said he’ll keep me posted. You two want me to keep you in the loop?”
Sarah and Lou again exchanged grim looks.
“We’ll let you know,” they answered.
ALSO BY MICHAEL PALMER
Oath of Office
A Heartbeat Away
The Last Surgeon
The Second Opinion
The First Patient
The Fifth Vial
The Sisterhood
Side Effects
Flashback
Extreme Measures
Natural Causes
Silent Treatment
Critical Judgment
Miracle Cure
The Patient
Fatal
The Society
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MICHAEL PALMER is the author of seventeen novels of medical suspense, all international bestsellers. His books have been translated into thirty-five languages. In addition, Palmer is an associate director of the Massachusetts Medical Society Physician Health Services, devoted to helping physicians troubled by mental illness, physical illness, behavioral issues, and chemical dependency. He lives in eastern Massachusetts. Visit www.michaelpalmerbooks.com.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
POLITICAL SUICIDE. Copyright © 2012 by Michael Palmer. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Rob Grom
Cover art by Shutterstock
ISBN 978-0-312-58755-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4299-8011-1 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781429980111
First Edition: December 2012
(2012) Political Suicide Page 31
