The First Family

by Michael Palmer

  “So explain the connection to Susie and those twins,” Karen said. “Gleason would have no reason to hurt them. They’re musicians, not chess players.”

  The only good idea Lee had was to take another drink of wine.

  “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “You raise a good point.”

  “Maybe Yoshi’s the one administering something experimental on behalf of the nootropics company, and getting paid for it while making his students’ personal information part of that research.”

  “Could be,” Lee said. “That’s a stronger motive for sure, and it would explain similar symptoms in other students, but it doesn’t explain why Gleason’s been so cagey with Cam.”

  “What’s the next step?” Josh asked.

  “I’m sure as heck not going to Ellen without actual proof,” Karen said. “Real, hard, irrefutable proof.”

  “Why don’t you get some samples of what Cam’s taking?” Lee suggested. “We could have them tested.”

  “It’s a good idea,” Josh said.

  “I don’t have access to those,” Karen said, her voice flattening. “What are you proposing? That I break into Gleason’s office and just take them?”

  Josh and Lee studied each other before nodding simultaneously. Karen exhaled loudly.

  “No,” she said.

  “Then we may never know,” Lee said with a shrug.

  “Fine, I’ll do it,” Karen snapped.

  “You didn’t really need a lot of convincing, did you, Mom?”

  “No, I guess not,” Karen said softly. “To be honest, I’ve been thinking along those lines myself.”

  “A bunch of my army buddies used to take something called modafinil,” Josh said. “They called it the ‘go pill’ because it kept them super alert on patrol. Kind of sounds like these nootropics you’re talking about. I can talk to some of them, see what they can tell me. Might help.”

  “It’s a great idea,” said Lee. “These smart drugs seem like your generation’s kind of thing anyway. Whatever you can dig up, I’m sure it will be useful. So, when are you going to get the samples?” Lee directed his question to Karen.

  “I might as well go now,” she said. “The clinic should be quiet at this hour.”

  “And you?” Josh asked his dad the question, with his eyes focused on his cell phone.

  “Soon as we’re finished eating, I’m headed back to the hospital,” Lee said. “I want to check in with Susie, see if she takes ProNeural or some other TPI-supplied nootropic.”

  Josh handed Lee his phone to show him an article he’d found—a promotional story about the TPI identifying the Stewart twins as star students at the institute. Lee’s expression darkened as he read the relevant passage.

  Josh said, “While you’re at the hospital chatting up Susie, maybe find out if there were rumors swirling around the TPI about the twins’ deaths not being an accident.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Karen dropped Josh off at her place, a modest apartment in Shaw, a neighborhood close to Logan Circle, the place she slept and sometimes ate, but didn’t really live. Her real home was in her small office in the lower level of the White House, or in hotels (always the cheap rooms), or in the cars, airplanes, and helicopters that ferried the first family from one place to the next. Home was wherever this other family went. She was the turtle shell, along for the ride, good for protection. Despite all the challenges, the brutal schedule, the lack of progress on her reform efforts over the span of two different administrations, Karen was proud of the work she did, proud to be a human shield.

  She caught a cab to the White House, showed her ID to two different guards stationed at two different gates, and then strode up a lonely stretch of paved road on the western side of the compound. Twilight was nearing an end and city lights twinkled all around her.

  Off to her right, Karen saw the White House. To her left stood the ornate Eisenhower Executive Office Building, a fine example of French Second Empire architecture. The EEOB, as it was better known, housed most of the offices for White House staff. Plenty of lights still glowed in the windows of the five-story building. The head honchos at the White House could not care less about work/life balance. The same could be said of the Secret Service. Love of country trumped all else.

  Karen turned right and passed under a long white awning before she entered a door leading to the West Wing. Another guard station was just inside, and again she showed her badge. Returning to work to break into the office of the physician to the president would be, to say the least, severely frowned upon. She was not entirely sure this was a risk worth taking. Lee’s theory about Gleason intentionally harming Cam felt like a stretch. Would he do that just so Taylor could be king of Chess Mountain for a while? Perhaps. The memory of that broken tennis racket flashed in Karen’s mind.

  The interior of the West Wing was a far cry from the rococo style and elaborate wood carvings of the East Wing, where the first lady worked. The aesthetic here was more like the lobby of a Ramada Inn. Tan carpeting. Hotel lobby furniture. The halls were lined with pictures of President Hilliard at work in his office, signing legislation, meeting dignitaries, or just looking presidential. Once Hilliard left office, pictures of the next president would occupy these walls.

  Beyond the guard station was a stairwell leading to the upper and lower levels of the West Wing. Downstairs were the navy restaurant, offices for the Secret Service, and the Situation Room.

  All was quiet, like a museum at night. There were no crises afoot. All of the people trying to make policy happen were stuck over at the EEOB, burning the midnight oil. At this hour, the first family was upstairs on the second floor of the residence.

  Karen walked past the vice president’s office, and next to that, the office of the president’s chief of staff. As with real estate, with these offices there was only one rule: location, location, location. Proximity to power was itself a kind of power. Reflected glory. The deputy national security advisor was typically offered a palatial suite in the EEOB or a broom closet next to his boss and steps from the Oval Office. Every single person to hold the position had chosen the broom closet.

  Karen continued down the hallway, passing between the Oval Office and the Roosevelt Room, the primary meeting spot for the West Wingers. Soon she was back outside, strolling along the West Colonnade, not having encountered anybody other than uniformed security. She passed through another door and entered the main residence where, up ahead, she spied Stephen Duffy, keeping watch. He was one of several agents placed on duty while the first family was at home.

  Duffy did a double take when he saw Karen headed his way.

  “K-Ray! What are you doing here?” he asked. His voice was louder and carried farther without bodies around to absorb the sound.

  “Dr. Gleason left a prescription for me in his office. I came to pick it up.”

  Karen invented the lie on the spot. Duffy was stationed near the entrance to the diplomatic reception room. He might have noticed her going into the clinic, raising eyebrows she did not want raised.

  “Hey, listen, Karen, I’m glad I caught you alone.” Duffy touched his temple and winced, as if confronting a sudden pain. He did not blink. That penetrating stare of his made Karen a bit uneasy, but tonight it seemed a little more pronounced. His fingers tapped against his legs as if he were playing a piano. Duffy had said his Graves’ symptoms got worse with stress. The Secret Service did not have a less stressful assignment than guard duty inside the White House residence at night.

  What could be bothering him? Karen wondered.

  “I wanted to know if you’ve given any more thought to my getting a raise,” he said.

  Karen tried but failed to keep from rolling her eyes. Duffy was a recording on repeat these days.

  “Look, Stephen, I don’t set your salary. We’ve discussed this before.”

  “But you can put in a good word with the folks upstairs.” He sounded desperate.

  “What’s going on here? Why are you so hot on
this?”

  “Nothing—I’m just—”

  “Are you in debt?”

  “No.”

  But the way he said it made his “no” sound a lot like a “yes.”

  “Are you gambling?”

  With all the strict and rigorous testing procedures in place, Karen doubted it could be drugs.

  “No, I don’t do that. You’re making it seem like a big deal.”

  Karen closed the gap between them. It was a big deal.

  “I hope there’s nothing hanging over you that could compromise your integrity, Stephen,” she said.

  Duffy raised his hands in defense. “Easy. Easy, it’s nothing like that,” he said. “I just have some health expenses—you know, related to my condition—and a little extra scratch would ease the pressure, that’s all. It’s not dire. You’re freaking out over nothing.”

  Karen took a cautious step in retreat.

  “Good to hear,” she said. “In that case, you can stop peppering me for a raise. There are procedures in place for promotions, and you’ll have to get in line and follow them. Do your job well, Agent Duffy, to our standards, and I’m sure things will work out in your favor. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Duffy said, yielding to her with a conciliatory nod.

  Karen did not often pull out the boss card, but when necessary she could castigate her subordinates like unruly children.

  “I’m going to grab my meds and then I’m getting out of here,” said Karen. “I’ll see you tomorrow. And don’t bug me anymore about your raise, Stephen. I mean it. If you need to borrow some money, ask me. I’ll help you out as much as I can.”

  “It’s cool,” Duffy said. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll let you know.”

  Karen made an about-face and backtracked to the clinic area. She had a master key on her person—the Secret Service could not be locked out of any rooms in case of an emergency.

  The clinic was dark, and Karen flicked on the lights. She ventured into the exam room where not long ago Lee had conducted his physical exam on Cam, and made her way into Gleason’s spacious office. She found the key attached to the tennis racket key chain where she had seen it before—in the top drawer of Gleason’s cherrywood desk. In no time, she was back in the exam room, rifling through the medicine cabinets in search of those damn TPI neurological supplements.

  Only now did her heart start pounding. Drops of sweat traveled the contours of her neck and slid all the way down her back to stain the blue shirt she’d worn to work that day.

  This is wrong … this is dangerously wrong.…

  Karen pushed those thoughts aside as she scanned the contents in the meticulously organized cabinets. The plastic bins were clearly labeled, so it was easy for Karen to distinguish Cam’s medicines from those of his parents and other White House staff who came to the clinic for their prescriptions.

  On the third shelf Karen spotted a bin marked CAM TPI. In it she saw three different clear plastic jars with the ProNeural branding. The jars were similar in width and size to the container of face cream she favored. The graphic design made the containers look more like vitamins than prescriptions. The labeling was bold and professionally done. Emblazed on one jar was the word “FOCUS,” next to a line drawing of an open eye. The front of another jar read “SUPER O-3,” with a lightning bolt for a corresponding image, while the third jar, this one called “SOAR,” had wings sprouting from the letters.

  Karen opened each jar and dispensed some of the contents into the plastic bag she’d put in her purse for this exact purpose. FOCUS was a yellow pill, SUPER 0-3 a white one, and SOAR came in a brown casing. The pill casings themselves revealed a powdery substance within.

  Using her phone, Karen checked the ProNeural Web site and saw that the products in the medicine cabinet matched the inventory available for purchase over the Internet. No FDA regulation. No age restriction. All it took to FOCUS or SOAR was a home address and a valid credit card.

  Karen took a pill from the plastic bag and examined the casing closely. It did not look like it had been tampered with, but that did not mean anything. It stood to reason that Dr. Gleason had the medical knowledge to replace the ProNeural formula with his own special concoction. All he would have to do is seal the casing to conceal his tampering.

  For being such a practical woman, Karen was a bit surprised at the faith Ellen Hilliard had invested in Yoshi Matsumoto and his cognitive enhancers, but she recalled what Hal Hewitt had said about parents being ultracompetitive with their progeny. For these high-achieving kids it was easy to see how not taking ProNeural would seem like a major handicap, especially considering the dramatic results from the neurofeedback testing.

  The professionalism of the design, testimonials, and reviews from well-regarded publications like The New York Times lent added credibility to the product. But ultimately, all that would be required for Ellen and the president to approve of Cam taking these pills was Dr. Gleason’s endorsement.

  Satisfied with a job well done, Karen closed and locked the cabinet, and returned to Gleason’s office. She put the key back in the desk drawer exactly where she’d found it.

  She was on her way out when a figure materialized in the doorway. Karen froze. She tried to take in a breath, but the air seemed to have left her lungs. A cold, terrifying chill swept through her.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Karen?”

  No thoughts came to her. No excuses like the one she gave Duffy popped into her head.

  “Dr. Gleason, I’m sorry about this.”

  “Again, what are you doing in my office, Karen?”

  Fred Gleason had on a suit and tie, but his workday was long over. What is Fred doing here? Probably checking up on Cam, Karen realized. She had been careless. Of course Dr. Gleason might have been on the premises. His charge was still recovering from surgery.

  “I had some work to do, and I got a terrible, terrible headache. I was hoping there might have been some Advil in the clinic. I’m sorry, I should have called.”

  She sounded sincere, but she could read the skepticism in Gleason’s eyes. She clutched her purse with the supplements inside close to her side.

  “Did you touch my computer?”

  Gleason’s rage was palpable.

  Confusion sparked on Karen’s face. “No, no, I told you. I needed something for my headache.”

  Gleason closed the gap between him and Karen in a blink. He did not get right in her face, but got close enough for her to want him to take a step or two back.

  “I’ll ask you again.” Gleason’s eyes became slits, his shoulders going back as his chin jutted forward, the posture entirely threatening. “Did you look at my computer for any reason?”

  Karen glanced behind her, where the computer was, and only now realized that the monitor resting atop his desk was aglow, a screensaver displayed. But no, she had never touched his computer, and said as much.

  “I’m sorry for being here, Fred, honest I am, but my head was killing me.”

  Gleason held a menacing stare for several beats.

  “Don’t ever come in here again without my permission,” he eventually said, “or by God, I swear I’ll have you fired.”

  Karen slipped past him and Gleason let her go without so much as offering her an aspirin.

  CHAPTER 27

  Lee had no idea if Susie Banks would be awake or asleep when he arrived at the MDC at seven thirty on Friday night, though he did know she’d been transferred from the ICU on 6 to the medical floor on 5. His heart ached for all her suffering. Has she had any visitors? Is someone making arrangements for her parents’ funerals? Hopefully someone was hard at work trying to locate the right people to care for her. The doctors and nurses could see to Susie’s physical recovery, but the wounds she had suffered went far beyond anything medicine alone could cure.

  Lee made his way along several quiet corridors en route to the elevator bay. After the sun went down, a certain hush settled over the hospital, and tonight was no exceptio
n. Plenty of foot traffic was about, but the pace had downshifted to a noticeably lower gear.

  Lee liked it here at this hour. Hell, he liked it here at any hour. Medicine may have become a terrible business, but it was a calling he would do for free if he could afford it. His father would have done the same.

  He rode the elevator alone, reminding himself to keep it brief for Susie’s sake. Later, he would try to find the name of the social worker assigned to her case, assuming the assignment had been made.

  Another thought came to him. If the eye exam he planned on giving Cam revealed a cherry-red spot on his macula, Lee would have to align himself quickly with Susie’s primary care physician. A medical mystery connecting the president’s kid to other gifted students attending the TPI would send shock waves through Washington and beyond. Lee had to brace himself for the coming tsunami, and that meant getting to Susie’s doctor before Gleason had the opportunity.

  Thoughts of Gleason made Lee think of Karen. He wondered how she had made out. By now, if everything had gone to plan, she should have secured samples of the nootropics Cam was taking. An itch of worry raced up his neck. She’s fine, he assured himself. Karen was always fine. But he wondered. Was he telling himself this, or trying to convince himself of it?

  The elevator came to a bouncing stop and Lee got out. He waved his badge in front of the card reader, unlocking the secured doors to the medical floor. Having admitting privileges granted Lee full access to the MDC’s many units.

  To Lee’s left were the hospital rooms, and to his right were stretchers and wheelchairs. A set of portable oxygen tanks stood near the curved nurses’ station.

  Lee waved to the nurse in floral scrubs seated behind the desk. Other nurses popped in and out of rooms like whack-a-moles, appearing and disappearing at random intervals. Down the hall a tired-looking nurse with hunched shoulders, dressed in blue scrubs, a stethoscope clasped tightly around his neck, came toward Lee with his face buried in a medical chart. Lee had his eyes peeled for Susie’s room and the two almost collided in front of the nurses’ station. Were it not for Lee’s fast and fancy footwork, they would have.