Killed in Action

by Michael Sloan

  Dr. Cross went into the changing room and took off the yellow protective scrubs, the white hood and goggles, and blue surgeon’s gloves. Beneath them he wore jeans and a T-shirt, which was soaked through. He looked at his face in the mirror. Long and angular, with pale blue eyes, his blond hair bleached in the sun. The strain of trying to help these infected townspeople was evident in his eyes.

  And, of course, his secret work.

  Dr. Cross walked out of the big white tent into the blazing sunlight. The temperature had to be over one hundred degrees. The compound had six large white tents where the infected villagers from the village of Nedowein, just outside Monrovia’s International Airport, were isolated. Blue barricades were up amid the narrow, twisting lanes to each of the quarantine tents. The compound was fenced off and surrounded by jungle. Soldiers from the Armed Forces of Liberia were at the gates. The civil war in Liberia had ended over ten years before, but there’d been pockets of rebel activity recently, and the AFL force was there for the protection of the doctors and nurses as well as the villagers. The guards had never searched Dr. Cross’s Land Rover when he’d driven it out through the main gates.

  But there was always a first time.

  Dr. Cross carried a briefcase of files and a Puma ProCat black tote bag in which he kept slides, medical equipment, including his stethoscope, and a blue Medicool vial cooler and protection case into which his vials fit snugly. He didn’t like carrying the cooler into and out of the compound, but he had no choice. He couldn’t just leave it in the offices. The vials needed to be refrigerated. He could have put a lock on the refrigerator in the kitchen area, but that might have raised suspicions. So he just carried the cooler back and forth with him. That raised no suspicions. He was working with medicines and highly volatile agents, and sometimes he took his work back with him. He was staying at the Mamba Point Hotel on United Nations Drive by the ocean, where there was a refrigerator.

  Dr. Cross put the tote bag and the briefcase into the back of his white Land Rover, fired it up, and drove to the closed gates. One of the AFL officers smiled and waved him through. Dr. Cross drove out of the compound, down the jungle road, and finally into Monrovia. He made a pit stop at his Mamba Point Hotel room, fit the Medicool vial cooler and protection case into the refrigerator there, and then drove to the Palm Hotel on the corner of Broad and Randall Streets in the city center.

  The lights were muted inside the Bamboo Bar in the hotel. Western music played—Lady Gaga saying she was “born this way.” Dr. Cross recognized a couple of the other doctors from Médecins Sans Frontières sitting up at the bar. They acknowledged him, but didn’t wave him over. Cross was known as a loner who liked his space. He collapsed into one of the big cane chairs at one of the tables. A waiter brought him his usual drink: a Green Hornet, a variation on the classic stinger. Cross liked brandy with green crème de menthe, shaken and poured into a cocktail glass with no ice. He glanced up at the plasma TV that was hung over the bar. It was running CNN. There was no sound, but it was all about the fighting in Syria and Iraq. Cross had no interest in it. That was a physical war, with bloodshed and atrocities, wounds that were inflicted from without. In the war Dr. Cross was fighting, the wounds were insidiously inflicted from within. You knew who the enemy was—in this case, Ebola—but not how to destroy it.

  A figure detached itself from the end of the bar and moved to Dr. Cross’s table. She was an MSF nurse named Ann Crosby, who’d shed her green scrubs and was dressed in a denim shirt and skirt, sandals on her feet, a silver cross at her throat. She was petite, just over five-one, in her early thirties, with bright blue eyes and brown hair cut across her forehead in pageboy bangs. She’d told him she was bringing the fifties back, but subtly. It was a kinder, gentler time when innocents weren’t being slaughtered in the name of religion and little boys like Dwe weren’t dying of a disease just because they had hugged their mothers. Ann was somewhat waiflike, but not model skinny. Her breasts pressed hard enough against her shirt for the nipples to protrude. Not that Dr. Cross was looking, of course.

  Ann Crosby sat down in the big cane chair opposite Cross, looking tired herself.

  “Long day?” he asked.

  “Two-in-the-morning-to-three-p.m. shift. We’ve initiated a mass inoculation for measles. Fifty villagers today. Five more cases in the past two days. I looked for you at the compound, but you weren’t around. I thought Scott Pelley of 60 Minutes had corralled you for another interview.”

  Sixty Minutes had been following up on a story they’d televised a couple of seasons ago about the Ebola disease. Cross smiled. “I think you’re the one he wants to interview next. I told him what a fantastic nurse you are and how much you’ve given to Doctors Without Borders.”

  It was Ann’s turn to smile. “You’re biased.”

  He was. He adored her. “Still enjoying this work?”

  “Hundred-plus degrees, eighty percent humidity, sudden heavy rains that drench you in seconds, ten-o’clock curfew when you’re confined to the compound, long toilet drops, and bucket showers by candlelight. What’s not to love?”

  “I heard there was some excitement this morning.”

  “Because I’m an OR nurse and an anesthetist I got called in to assist in an emergency appendectomy. Dr. Millford almost didn’t diagnose it in time.” She leaned across and took Cross’s hand. “How is your work going?”

  Cross lowered his voice. “I’m getting so close. But my stomach ties up in knots every time I drive through the compound gates with those vials in my protection cooler.”

  “Leave the cooler at the compound.”

  “I don’t dare do that and run the risk that some MSF nurse—no offense—will open the refrigerator looking for a sample and find it.”

  “But you’re working on an Ebola cure!”

  “Not sanctioned and not funded. It’s dangerous and volatile because of having to use part of the Ebola virus strain. I’d be fired from Doctors Without Borders and could face criminal prosecution.”

  His voice had an edge. They’d discussed this before.

  “But you’ve got all of the research data to back up your work!”

  “I haven’t made enough of a serious breakthrough to sanction the tests.”

  “But you are close, right?”

  “I believe so.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I’m very proud of you.”

  “You can be proud of me when the vaccine is endorsed by the CDC and it saves one person having contracted Ebola.”

  He squeezed her hand back, then their hands parted quickly. No one knew of their relationship, and it would be frowned upon at Doctors Without Borders. Romances were for civilization, and out here, in the frontier of third-world poverty and despair, all of them had to be focused completely on their lifesaving work.

  Dr. Cross glanced up at the TV screen over the bar. The scene behind the CNN anchor had shifted to an area in Syria. An overturned US Humvee was on the side of a dusty road, black smoke pouring out of it. Syrian Rebel troops were milling around, the footage captured on a handheld cell phone.

  Dr. Cross nodded at the TV screen. “That’s what’s newsworthy. US Army personnel sticking their nose in where we’re not wanted. They get killed and the American public is outraged. But here, in this desperate corner of the world, with an epidemic that could potentially wipe out millions, let’s keep it quiet. Don’t want to alarm folks.”

  Ann Crosby reached out again and closed her hand over his. Her expression of concern tried to reassure him that it was all going to be okay.

  But he knew better.

  * * *

  Whenever McCall entered the Russian Tea Room on West Fifty-Seventh Street, he felt like he was walking into a Fabergé egg. The décor was all gold, with red booths along two walls and tables with white tablecloths. The stained-glass ceiling, in blue and yellow, was gorgeous. McCall glanced over at the girl at the coat check, where Madonna had once worked, to see if he could spot the next Material Girl, but this one looke
d more like a runway model, with thick purple eye shadow and cheekbones that could slice carrots. The restaurant had gone through some tough times, had closed for four years, but had reopened again in 2006. McCall had been there on its reopening night.

  The RTR was packed for lunch. Norman Rosemont was sitting in one of the red booths with two men and a woman. The older man was in his fifties, wearing a red polka-dot bow tie. He looked like he owned the Bank of America. The younger man was obviously Rosemont’s assistant, fresh faced, eager to please. The woman was in her forties, stylishly dressed. She had a husky voice that reminded McCall of Lauren Bacall, whom she somewhat resembled at that age. They were all listening intently to their host.

  Norman Rosemont was a big man, also midfifties, immaculately dressed in a Hugo Boss gray windowpane wool suit with a Turnbull & Asser blue dress shirt. McCall recognized him from various TV appearances, where he’d been opening a new Manhattan skyscraper or debating the economy on Fox News.

  Their main course had just been served. The banker was having kulebyaka—salmon, mushrooms, onions, and vegetables in pastry with cabbage—the woman executive was nibbling at sevruga one-ounce caviar, Rosemont’s assistant had ordered vareniki, which was Russian-style ravioli, and Rosemont was digging into côtelette à la Kiev, not worrying that the herb butter stuffed into the breaded chicken breast squirted out across the table every time he stabbed his fork into it. The banker was laughing at something Rosemont had said. The female executive smiled tolerantly, but the story had obviously been a little off-color. Rosemont’s assistant chuckled and remained poised for more iPhone notes.

  McCall reached the booth. “Norman Rosemont?”

  The corporate CEO looked up at him quizzically. “That usually precedes being served with divorce papers, and my wife was very friendly this morning before I left home.” Rosemont grinned at his guests to see if they were amused—the banker chuckled and the woman executive looked frosty. Rosemont returned his attention to Robert McCall. “Or am I under arrest?”

  “I’m not serving you papers and I’m not a cop.”

  “You can see I’m in the middle of a lunch meeting. If you need to make an appointment, you can contact my assistant, Mark, here.”

  “I don’t need an appointment.”

  Rosemont played to the table again, being magnanimous. “Can I do something for you, sir?”

  “Not for me.”

  McCall placed four eight-by-ten photographs on the table. One was a full shot of Gemma Hathaway standing in her living room, the red marks on her face and arms looking like mosquito bites. Two pictures were close-ups of the bites on her arms and legs. The last picture was a close-up of her face.

  “This little girl is covered in rat bites,” McCall said.

  “And why should I give a rat’s ass about that?”

  Rosemont glanced around the table to see if his play on words had had an effect. The banker grinned and took another mouthful of kulebyaka. The female executive set down her fork, looking at the photographs with some concern. Mark, ever the faithful assistant, wouldn’t have cared if the photos had been body parts that had been discovered in Rosemont’s office.

  “This little girl and her mother live in a building you own in the East Village.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Move your tenants out, bring in exterminators, move your tenants back in when it’s safe for them to live in their apartments. Or have the building condemned.”

  Rosemont made a face to the banker as if to say, Is this guy for real?

  McCall said, “Why don’t you look at the pictures, Mr. Rosemont? They tell a more eloquent story than whatever anecdote you’re regaling your guests with.”

  Norman Rosemont had not, in fact, looked at the pictures. Nor did he when he nodded curtly to Mark, who scooped them up and handed them back to McCall.

  “They’re not my concern.”

  “Do you want to know which of your apartment buildings the Hathaways live in?”

  “I do not. If your tenant friend has a beef about her building—”

  “She’s not my friend.”

  “Girlfriend, sister, whatever. Have her take it to the proper authorities.”

  “Linda Hathaway tried that. She went down to city hall and filed a formal complaint. Nothing was done.”

  “Obviously they found no merit in it. Now, I’d like to have my lunch meeting with these good people without further interruption. Or do I have to call the cops?”

  McCall put the pictures back into his jacket pocket. “No need for that.” He looked around the table. “I apologize for disturbing you.”

  “Not at all,” the female executive said.

  McCall looked back at Norman Rosemont and smiled. “Have a good day.”

  McCall headed back through the RTR. Rosemont shook his head and went back to his chicken Kiev. The banker went back to his kulebyaka. The female executive looked after McCall, having not picked up her fork, as if she had lost her appetite.

  * * *

  Helen Coleman moved back the curtain at her living-room window when she heard the sound of the car pulling up. Twilight was wrapping the front lawn and trees of her colonial house in dusky violet colors. The vehicle was a black Lincoln town car. Three military men got out, all in dress uniforms. One was a two-star general, the second an Army colonel, and she thought the third man was an Army chaplain. She didn’t know them, but she knew why they were here. For a moment she just stood paralyzed. The three somber men walked up the flagstone path to her porch.

  Helen Coleman allowed the hot tears to roll down her face as she walked into the hallway to open her front door to the news of her older son’s death.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Equalizer sat on a park bench in the playground in Sara D. Roosevelt Park. He was watching some teenagers playing a pickup game of basketball. He remembered back to another afternoon when kids like these were shooting hoops, throwing passes, and just having a grand old time. The Equalizer had two older brothers, Zachary and Caleb, whom he idolized. Zachary had been seventeen on that summer day. Caleb would have been twenty. The Equalizer himself had been sixteen. But Zachary had allowed the Equalizer to play basketball with his friends on that day. Zachary had actually motioned to him to get into the game.

  “Let’s see if the runt can show us some good moves!”

  Zach’s friends had all hooted derisively, but they’d let him join them. It had been an unexpected and thrilling moment. The bigger kids had shoved him around and stolén the basketball from him every time, but he hadn’t cared. He was playing right alongside his big bro Zach, who tried to look out for him, but the Equalizer was such a nerd in those days, awkward moves and flailing arms. He didn’t get many passes thrown to him, but it didn’t matter, it had felt so good.

  He didn’t see the black Dodge Intrepid pull up on the road right outside the playground. It had idled there for three seconds, more than enough time for the teenage gang members inside to pump seven bullets into Zachary’s body. The Equalizer had been standing right there beside his brother when he fell. Blood had spurted like fountains. He had collapsed to his knees, cradling Zachary’s head, not knowing what to do. He remembered screaming, “Get help!” But no one had moved. He heard the squealing tires as the Dodge Intrepid sped away.

  Then the other kids had pulled him off his dead brother. His legs had been rubber. He looked after the Dodge Intrepid, but he could not have identified any of the killers. He knew Zach had belonged to a gang called the White Jaguars. The Equalizer had always been enthralled by street gangs. They had such cool names: Lower East Side Dragons, the Assassins, Cut Throat Crew. The Equalizer had learned later that it had been the White Jaguars who had murdered his brother. But Zach had not been their target. It was his older brother Caleb against whom the White Jaguars had a grudge. He once had a chance to join them when he was younger and had refused. Caleb had not wanted anything to do with any of the street gangs. He was older than his other two br
others and was going to law school. But the White Jaguars had sent a message that afternoon to Caleb. No one ever walked away from their gang.

  The cops finally arrived. None of the other high school kids had been hurt. The bullets had only been for Zach. The cops would investigate, sure, but it was just another drive-by shooting in a tough neighborhood. By that time, the Equalizer had been dragged away by his mom.

  For years after that he would be harassed by gang members. Not just by the White Jaguars, but by other gang members, too. He remembered once being cornered by a street gang called Dead Man Walking in his neighborhood and had thought he was going to be beaten senseless. But they had just bloodied his nose. And always with the same taunt: “Hey, Pussy.” He had allowed his brother Zach to get killed. He had done nothing to stop it. The name had stuck to him. He remembered at school kids whispering when he walked past, “Hey, Pussy, what’s up?” But he always just kept on walking, his head bowed.

  Now the Equalizer sat once again in Sara Roosevelt Park, on the same park bench, watching teenagers playing a pickup game of basketball, feeling good about himself. He thought about rescuing Megan Forrester in that alleyway in Essex Street and kicking the shit out of the two gangbangers who had tried to rape her. He wasn’t sure if they were members of the White Jaguars gang or not. It didn’t matter. He had sent his own message to the White Jaguars or any other gang who preyed upon the innocent in this city. They had been warned. The Equalizer was here. He patrolled these mean streets now.