House Blood - JD 7

by Mike Lawson

  “I don’t know,” Lee said.

  “Earl, you don’t have to take the job. You can walk away, right now, no hard feelings. You can fly back to Africa tomorrow and continue to be Lizzie’s bodyguard. But if you talk to anybody about the discussion we just had, I’ll hire somebody to kill you. I have at my disposal an incredible amount of money—more money than you can possibly imagine—and I’m sure I can find somebody to take care of you if you become a problem.”

  Lee just looked at her for a moment, then stood up and walked over to a window. From the window, he could see planes landing at the Philadelphia airport, and when he looked down, he saw a guy park a Hummer in front of the hotel’s entrance. He’d always wanted a Hummer; he thought they were the coolest cars ever made. He turned back to face Fiona.

  “I want three hundred grand up front.”

  “Fine,” Fiona said—like an extra hundred thousand dollars was nothing. He should have asked for half a million.

  “But I gotta tell you that Kelly and Nelson aren’t going to be easy to kill. I may need help.”

  “No. You’re on your own. We—”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Never mind that. I can’t afford to have more people involved in this. And they won’t be as hard to kill as you might think. Nelson’s been shot and is paralyzed from the waist down, and Kelly’s so worried about Nelson that his head isn’t screwed on right.”

  “When do I get the money?”

  “Stay in this room tonight and tomorrow morning Hobson will bring it to you—but he won’t know why you’re getting it. At some point in the future, you may need to take care of Hobson, too.” She stood up to leave. “I want you in D.C. by tomorrow afternoon. If I need you to do something, that’s probably where it’ll happen. So get a room there and be prepared to move on a moment’s notice.”

  “I don’t have any weapons. I had to leave my gear in Africa when I flew here.”

  “Tell Hobson to get you whatever you need. Guns, a car, whatever.”

  “I was also the guy in charge of Warwick’s protection deal. Don’t you need to find somebody to replace me?”

  “No. Tell one of the guys on your team that he’s in charge now and that you won’t be coming back. Providing protection for Lizzie and Lambert is not the priority it was when you were initially hired. In fact, at this point, we don’t really need Lizzie and Lambert anymore, and if something were to happen to them, that might actually be a good thing.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lee said.

  “You don’t need to understand.”

  Fiona reached into her purse, took out a cell phone, and handed it to Lee. “When I need to talk to you, I’ll call you on that cell phone, and you can use that phone if you need to talk to me, but I don’t want you calling unless it’s important. My number is the only number programmed into the contacts directory.”

  “I don’t even know your name,” Lee said.

  “It’s Fiona.”

  “Fiona. I never met a Fiona before.”

  “Whatever,” Fiona said, and turned to leave.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Lee said. “I’ve been out in the boondocks a long time. I could use a little company. How ’bout we go somewhere and have a couple of beers, maybe some dinner.”

  “A couple of beers?” Fiona said, and laughed. “Earl, just keep your mind on the job, keep your mouth shut, and don’t forget that you’re replaceable.”

  Emma sent a text message to DeMarco and told him to call her from a pay phone. Fifteen minutes later, DeMarco did.

  “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a working pay phone these days? Maybe it’s time to get rid of that tap on my phone.”

  Emma ignored DeMarco’s whining and told him about her discussion with Celia Montoya.

  “That’s good,” DeMarco said when she finished. “Siccing the press on these guys is probably the best thing we can do at this point.”

  “I hope so,” Emma said. “And now you and I need to find a place to hide out for a couple of weeks.”

  “Hide out? Why the hell would we do that?” DeMarco said.

  “Joe, Kelly and Nelson were ex-Delta, the best killers money can buy. Nelson’s in a hospital right now and Kelly’s dead but—”

  “So if Nelson’s hurt and Kelly’s dead, why do we have to go into hiding?”

  “Because we’re dealing with a company that has billions of dollars at its disposal. They hired Kelly, Nelson, Hobson, and Lambert. They funded facilities to warehouse people while they experimented on them. And if they could hire Kelly and Nelson, they can hire more people just like them. So I think we need to go underground for a while.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know, but at least a couple of weeks. After Montoya publishes her story, everything we know will be out in the open and killing us won’t make sense. In fact, at that point, it would be dangerous to kill us.”

  “I dunno,” DeMarco said. “I don’t like the idea of letting these people drive us out of our homes.”

  “I don’t like it either, but it’s the prudent thing to do.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I need to talk to Mahoney about this.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do. Where would we go?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll figure something out. And I’m taking Christine with me.”

  Oh, great! Two weeks around Christine was gonna be a real treat—like a nonstop root canal.

  “You know,” DeMarco said, “there’s one guy we’ve kind of lost sight of during this whole thing, and that’s Brian Kincaid. So far we don’t have anything that’s going to help get him released from prison.”

  “I know, but there isn’t anything we can do about that right now. Maybe we can make something happen after Montoya’s story breaks.”

  But DeMarco wasn’t really thinking about Brian Kincaid. He was really thinking: Two weeks with Christine? God help me.

  Celia Montoya knew that in order to write the story, she needed to organize things like a military operation. She had to get reporters in four different countries to descend on Warwick’s facilities simultaneously, and she had to interview Lizzie Warwick at the same time. If she tried to conduct the interviews in series, Warwick or Mulray Pharma would make sure nobody talked.

  She called four reporters. She didn’t know any of them personally, but she knew of their work, and after she talked to them, she came away with a good feeling. To cover Pakistan, she contacted an Oxford-educated Pakistani who worked for the BBC. In Africa there was a crazy Aussie who had covered wars over there for twenty years. He had a reputation for being a drunk when he wasn’t working, but when he worked he stayed sober and was willing to take risks that most people wouldn’t. In Peru, she found a woman who had gone to school at American University in Washington, D.C., and now worked as a stringer for a number of European papers. For Indonesia, she found another BBC stringer, a Dutchman who had married a local woman and had lived in the country for years.

  After each reporter agreed to work with her, she set up a conference call to talk to all them at the same time. She told them the first thing they had to do before approaching anyone was find out if Warwick had set up other facilities like the one that Emma had discovered in Peru. The facilities would most likely be in an isolated location some distance away from the disaster area where Warwick had initially gone to deliver aid. Then they would have to identify the person managing the facility—most likely a local nurse or emergency medical technician like the guy in Peru. Once they had located the facilities and identified the facility manager, the reporters would go to each of the facilities at the same time and question the manager and the patients—the inmates, the guinea pigs—whatever the appropriate term was. She wanted the reporters to confirm that the patients had been administered drugs and that tes
t samples had been sent to Mulray Pharma’s lab in Delaware. They should attempt to find out what the drugs were intended to treat and, most important, they should try to determine if test subjects had died after being given the drugs. She was confident the reporters would succeed. These were talented, experienced journalists; they knew how to cajole, badger, and wheedle information out of people, and if the facility managers were as unsophisticated as the one in Peru, they’d find out what Montoya needed to know.

  “And what are you going to be doing?” asked the Aussie reporter, the one who would visit the Warwick Care Center in Uganda.

  “I’ll be confronting Lizzie Warwick and René Lambert,” Montoya responded.

  “Well, then,” the Aussie said, “we’ll have to raise a pint together when you’re done with that.”

  Emma decided they should hide out in a high-end resort on Hilton Head, which was fine by DeMarco since Emma was picking up the tab. She checked them in under phony names, paid in cash, and made sure no one followed them to the resort. She reminded Christine and DeMarco about ten times not to use their cell phones or credit cards. Once they arrived, she and Christine went for long walks on the beach and visited boutiques and antique stores. Christine played her cello. Emma visited gardens and greenhouses in the area and annoyed the staff with questions about how they grew their plants. DeMarco ate with them a few times, but most of the time he allowed them to dine alone, because he knew that they wanted to be alone.

  So while Emma and Christine were enjoying a romantic getaway, DeMarco read mystery novels, played golf, and watched sports on ESPN. One day he went fishing, got sunburned, and caught two small sea bass. Considering what he’d paid to go on the charter boat, he figured those fish cost him about fifty bucks a pound—but they were worth it.

  Earl Lee checked into a cheap motel in D.C. He could have afforded better, but he didn’t feel comfortable in someplace swanky. He started working out every day at a local gym; if he had to take on Kelly, he needed to get back in shape. He also visited a gun club in Virginia and practiced with a .45 semiauto.

  When he hadn’t heard from Fiona in two weeks, Lee called her. “Uh, I’m just wondering if there’s anything you need me to do. I’m just sittin’ around here.”

  Fiona said, “Goddamnit, I told you I’d call you when I needed you. Don’t call me again or I’ll ship your ass back to Uganda.”

  Lee hung up, thinking: Man, that is one nasty bitch.

  32

  Celia Montoya hired a helicopter in Kampala to take her to the refugee camp in northern Uganda. Her editor hadn’t been too happy about paying for the chopper but agreed that it was safer for Montoya to fly to the camp than drive there. He didn’t want one of his best reporters to end up kidnapped—or dead.

  Montoya didn’t call Warwick and Lambert to tell them she was coming. She just showed up at the refugee camp, introduced herself as a reporter for the Washington Post, and said she wanted to interview them. They naturally assumed that she wanted to write a story about all the suffering refugees—man’s inhumanity to man, that sort of thing. They also assumed she would take photos of emaciated African mothers holding their starving babies, babies with huge, bewildered eyes. And Montoya did nothing, initially, to dispel their assumptions.

  She conducted the interview in Lizzie’s tent, which was stifling even though the flaps were open. The only one sweating heavily, however, was Montoya. It appeared that Lambert and Lizzie had become acclimated to the climate—but no one could become acclimated to the smell of the refugee camp or to the sight of the poor people who lived there.

  The tent contained a simple folding cot, two folding canvas camp chairs, and a collapsible table. On the table were a laptop computer, a satellite phone, and stacks of paper that looked to Montoya like they might be supply invoices. Lizzie offered Montoya one of the folding chairs and Lambert sat in the other. Lizzie sat on her cot.

  Lizzie was wearing a long-sleeved white blouse and faded khaki pants. A straw hat covered her frizzy red hair. Lambert had on jeans and a blue shirt, the color of the shirt matching his eyes. They were a striking couple, although for different reasons. Lambert was as handsome as any Hollywood star, while Lizzie, with her pale face and tired, compassionate eyes … Well, there was something saintly about her. But what saint would ever do what she was doing? They smiled when Montoya took their photograph; she was sure they wouldn’t be smiling by the time she left.

  “Do you mind if I record this?” she said, taking a small digital recorder from her pocket.

  “Not at all,” Lambert said.

  “I have information,” Montoya said, “that the Warwick Foundation is testing drugs manufactured by Mulray Pharma on the people in your so-called care centers. That is what you call them, isn’t it? Care centers?”

  “What? What are you talking about?” Lizzie Warwick said, and Montoya had the impression she was genuinely confused.

  Lambert didn’t say anything.

  “Approximately four hours ago, reporters working with me visited your care centers in Pakistan, Indonesia, Peru, and the one here in Uganda near Lake Victoria. I’ve been informed that in all these facilities, except for the one in Indonesia, people are being administered drugs and biological samples are being taken and sent to a Mulray lab in Delaware.”

  It appeared that the care center in Indonesia was either a control group or a group that Mulray Pharma was holding in reserve in case it needed to do more testing.

  Turning her head to look directly at Lambert, Montoya said, “You selected the test subjects, Dr. Lambert, and you trained the people who administer the drugs and take the samples. You also inserted RFID chips into these people so that you’re able to tie the samples to the subjects.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Lizzie said. Before Montoya could answer, she turned to Lambert and said, “Do you know what she’s talking about, René?”

  Lambert didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at Lizzie. He just continued to stare at Celia, his mouth set in a firm line.

  “Ms. Warwick,” Celia said, “can you explain to me why all the patients in your care centers are elderly people in good health? Why is it that none of these people have full-blown AIDS or tuberculosis or any of the other diseases commonly found in this part of the world? I saw an old man as I was coming to your tent. His legs were grossly swollen with elephantiasis. Why isn’t he at your Lake Victoria care center? Are you afraid that people who have other significant diseases will invalidate the drug testing results?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Lizzie screamed, and struck her clenched fists on her thighs. “All I know is that the people René placed in the centers have no one to care for them, and if we didn’t help them, they’d be dead by now. Isn’t that right, René?”

  “Well, Dr. Lambert?” Montoya said. “Would you care to comment?”

  “I’ve done nothing illegal,” Lambert said. “All the people in our facilities have consented to be part of the trials.”

  “What!” Lizzie said, rising to her feet.

  Ignoring Lizzie, Montoya said to Lambert, “What you’re doing may be legal, but it’s unethical. It’s immoral. You’ve taken advantage of these people.”

  “Exactly how have I taken advantage of them, Ms. Montoya?” Lambert responded. “If reporters have visited our facilities as you say, then they’ve seen people who are healthy and well cared for and suffering no ill effects from the drugs they’ve been given.”

  “René, I want to know what you and this woman are talking about!” Lizzie shrieked. There were two bright red spots on her pale cheeks and her small hands were clenched into fists.

  “Dr. Lambert,” Montoya continued, “we’ve discovered that a number of people in your care centers have died after being administered the drugs. In two places—in Peru and Pakistan—there have been multiple fatalities on the same day, a
nd in all your facilities, fatalities have occurred at regular intervals, almost as if they’re dying to suit some sort of schedule.”

  “That’s true, people have died,” Lambert said.

  “Oh, my God,” Lizzie said.

  Lambert continued. “As you said, the people in our care centers are elderly. Old people die. And these old people have all suffered the trauma of a natural disaster or a war. But they didn’t die to suit a schedule; I don’t even know what that means. And we performed autopsies on those who died, and the autopsy results document the cause of death, which was most often cardiac arrest or respiratory illnesses that the elderly are particularly susceptible to.”

  “Who performed the autopsies?”

  Before Lambert could respond, Lizzie said, “René, I want you to answer me! Are you saying that this woman is telling the truth, that you’ve been using my foundation to conduct testing for a pharmaceutical company?”

  Lambert rose. He didn’t even look at Lizzie Warwick. “Ms. Montoya, you need to be very careful. You’re implying that Mulray Pharma and I have done something illegal and underhanded when that is in fact not the case. I won’t hesitate to sue you and your newspaper if you impugn my reputation.”

  And with that, Lambert left the tent.

  Lizzie Warwick just stood there for a moment looking thunderstruck, then she dropped back onto the cot where she’d been sitting as if her legs had suddenly turned to rubber.

  “Are you all right, Ms. Warwick?” Celia said.

  “No. I’m not. You have to tell me what’s going on.”

  After the reporter left, Lizzie went looking for Lambert. She was normally a tranquil person, often frustrated by the difficulty of the work she was doing, but rarely angry. As she walked toward Lambert’s tent, though, she was so angry she was literally shaking. When she found that Lambert wasn’t in his tent, she searched the camp for him, crying out his name. One of the United Nations soldiers protecting the refugee camp finally told her that Lambert and his security people had left the camp in a jeep, and that’s when Lizzie sat down on the dry, red African dirt and cried as the people in the camp looked on. An old woman who was nothing more than skin and bones sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders as Lizzie sobbed.