Miracle Man

by William R. Leibowitz

  Bobby kicked the sand. “Too many people are counting on me. It wouldn’t be right.”

  Alan grasped Bobby’s forearm and looked him in the eyes. “Listen to me. Move down here where nobody will bother you, and live your life with that fantastic woman of yours. Don’t push your luck, Bobby.”

  Bobby pulled away. “I wasn’t given this gift so I could lay out in the sun.”

  “There’s a time for everything, son,” replied Alan.

  Bobby stared out to the water. “And everything has its time,” he replied, with a tone of resignation. “Maybe mine has come.”

  “So that’s why you came here now,” said Alan.

  Bobby nodded. “I wanted to finally meet you. And I wanted to be on Dreamweaver one more time.”

  “Anything else on your list?”

  “Yeah, two things.”

  75

  Bobby’s unusual absence was highly opportunistic for Gunther Ramirez, who confirmed to McAlister that he had formulated a plan for Bobby’s disposal. A deposit of five million Euros arrived in the bank account of one of Ramirez’ corporations in Mauritius through a series of off-shore account transfers arranged by McAlister.

  Only days after receiving the payment, while Ramirez was dutifully tending to the perennials at the rear of the Prides Crossing lab, the back door was unlocked at a pre-arranged time and Ramirez slipped in. He had already de-activated the surveillance system. Knowing exactly where he was going, he entered Bobby’s office and removed three flat discs from his pocket, each of which looked like a clear wristwatch battery. He disconnected the web cameras in the computer monitors on Bobby’s desk and inserted the discs in their place. They fit perfectly and he knew the cameras wouldn’t be missed. Ramirez then hid a tiny remote transmitting camera among the dusty clutter on the bookshelves facing Bobby’s desk. Within ten minutes, he had re-activated the surveillance system, and was back in the garden meticulously “dead-heading” the hybrid tea roses in the perennial bed.

  For their last day on Islamorada, Bobby and Christina invited Alan out for a day’s sail on Dreamweaver. Alan brought his best friend, Lester Sill, a seemingly quiet thoughtful man who Alan had met years before in his charity work. Catching a strong north easterly wind, Bobby put the boat through its paces to give his guests some high speed thrills.

  During a lull in the sailing, he came up behind Christina as she was preparing hors d’oeuvres in the galley. Putting his tan arms around her and taking her hands in his, he whispered into her ear, “Do you know how much I love you?”

  Christina melted backwards into him. “I think I have some idea.”

  “I don’t think you do,” he said, his breath warm against her face.

  He brushed the side of her head with his lips, as his arms enveloped her and pressed her body into his. She nuzzled her face against his chest and breathed in contentedly. A familiar feeling washed through her like a hot wave that wouldn’t subside and she wished there weren’t any guests on board so she could do something about it. While she had always been attracted to Bobby, on this vacation their connection had increased to such a degree that she found herself physically drawn to him all the time like she was a freshman co-ed in the throes of a first adult romance. Zoning out in the comfort of his embrace, her eyes closed, she barely felt it happening until he had just about finished slipping the diamond and emerald ring on her finger.

  “Will you marry me, Christina?”

  Stunned into silence but beaming, she alternated her gaze between her ring finger and Bobby’s eyes. “Oh my God. Yes I’ll marry you,” she said, as she kissed him repeatedly like a giddy teenager.

  “What date should we set?” she whispered into his ear as she wrapped herself around him.

  “Today. At sunset. Here on Dreamweaver. Lester’s a minister. Alan will be best man.”

  “Lester’s a minister?” she asked incredulously. Bobby’s response was his smile. “So his coming today was no coincidence, Dr. Austin?”

  “You know I don’t believe in coincidence,” said Bobby. “And Joe’s here too so it’ll be perfect.”

  Christina’s brow furrowed. “Joe?”

  “He’s all around us. Can’t you feel him?” Bobby asked, his eyes sparkling.

  “But what about Susan and my mom?”

  “They’ll forgive us. We’ll have a reception back in Boston.”

  Frowning in mock concern, Christina said, “I have nothing to wear.”

  Bobby put his hands on Christina’s waist and pulled her against him. “You and me under God’s sky. That’s all we need.”

  “I’ll wear the white caftan I bought in town,” she said with a chuckle.

  With the sun setting spectacularly over the ocean, Bobby and Christina stood at the back of Dreamweaver and exchanged their timeless vows. Alan handed the minister identical platinum wedding bands, each of which Bobby had engraved with the mathematical symbol for infinity.

  As she gazed deeply into the eyes that she had once described as ‘windows to another world,’ Christina was radiant. “I do,” she said.

  Peering into the emeralds that had smitten him on first sight, Bobby seemed almost ethereal in his equanimity as he responded to the ancient question.

  76

  Martin Turnbull sat at his kitchen table, busy with the task at hand. It was Sunday, a little after eleven in the morning, and he was doing what he always did at that time on a Sunday while his wife was out running with her trainer. He spread scallion cream cheese on a darkly toasted sesame bagel and then added several thin slices of smoked salmon which he methodically trimmed to fit the bagel exactly. He placed one slice of tomato over the salmon, added a few capers, a slice of onion and then squeezed a generous amount of lemon juice before pressing the two halves of the sandwich together. His doctor had made him promise that he would cut down on bread and fatty milk products, but no medical concerns could impinge upon his greatest weekend pleasure.

  The doorbell rang several times and finally his fifteen year old daughter, Samantha, stopped watching TV in the family room long enough to peer through the glass side panels in the entrance foyer.

  “Dad, two men in suits are at the door,” she bellowed, using all her lung capacity.

  Turnbull yelled back from the kitchen, “Don’t open it. Just tell them we’re not interested in buying anything or making any contributions.”

  Samantha did as she was told. One of the men loudly responded through the glass that she should have her mother or father come to the door.

  Cream cheese smudged on his lips and a mug of coffee in his hand, Turnbull approached the door but didn’t open it. “What do you want?” he asked with obvious annoyance.

  “Are you Martin Turnbull?”

  “Yes I am.”

  “Please look through the glass panels, Mr. Turnbull.”

  He did—and saw that the two men were each holding out badges that were hard to read, but appeared to say Treasury Department on them.

  Turnbull opened the door. “What’s this about?”

  “We’re Agents Thompson and McKenna. Securities and Exchange Commission. We need to speak with you and thought you would prefer to talk outside of your office.”

  In less than two seconds all of the color in Turnbull’s face drained. The hand holding the coffee mug drooped involuntarily, spilling much of the coffee on the ornate Persian rug. Turnbull seemed immobilized as he stared at the agents.

  “What’s going on?” Turnbull asked, sounding short of breath.

  “Can we come in Mr. Turnbull? It’s not appropriate for us to have this discussion on your doorstep.”

  Turnbull motioned them into the house.

  “Dad—is everything all right?” yelled Samantha from the family room.

  “Yes honey,” he shouted back as he led them i
nto his study.

  The two agents sat on the sofa and Turnbull pulled up a chair. One of the agents then withdrew a small laminated card from the black leather badge holder and proceeded to perfunctorily read Turnbull his Miranda rights.

  When he finished reading the card he said, “Do you understand that you don’t have to speak with us in the absence of your attorney?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to proceed?”

  “I reserve the right to stop at any point.”

  “Understood, Mr. Turnbull.”

  Agent Thompson opened his briefcase and removed a file from which he pulled a piece of paper and handed it to Turnbull. “Do you know what this is?”

  Turnbull forced a quizzical expression on his face and made like he was studying the paper, but the look of panic in his eyes answered Thompson’s question.

  “I think so.”

  “It’s a record of all of the sale transactions of shares in Bushings Pharmaceuticals in which you or members of your family had a beneficial interest. Is that correct?”

  “I’d have to check it thoroughly.”

  “You’ll note that you liquidated all of the shares precipitously, approximately six months before public reports began to appear that Dr. Robert Austin had made a breakthrough in medications for arteriosclerosis and atherosclerosis, which ultimately had a highly negative impact on the value of Bushings shares. That’s what we want to discuss.”

  “I don’t wish to comment on that.” Turnbull glanced away.

  “We have time. We’re not here to talk about that in isolation. We think you may be in a position to educate us as to the activities of others at Bushings –or perhaps even other pharmaceutical companies.”

  Turnbull became indignant, his voice rising. “You mean become an informant? A snitch?”

  “Your cooperation can make things go very differently for you.”

  “You’re assuming I did something wrong.”

  “For purposes of this conversation, let’s make that assumption. In that case, your cooperation could make a difference, the magnitude of which depends on the value of what you have to say. But it could potentially be life altering for you.”

  Turnbull was perspiring even more heavily than usual. “Let’s be clear,” he said. “I’m admitting nothing.”

  As the agents got up from the sofa, they each handed Turnbull their cards. “We’ll be in touch. Enjoy the rest of your bagel,” McKenna said.

  77

  The cruise to Florida seemed like a dream from the distant past, even though only six months had gone by since Bobby and Christina’s return. Immersing himself in AIDS research, Bobby felt as if he were under attack. All of the difficulties he had encountered in the past were magnified, and now even his lab seemed to be under siege. Frequent computer crashes disrupted his work, hard drives would wipe clean for no apparent reason, back-up memory was inexplicably destroyed, printers wouldn’t print, and his notebooks often went missing. His IT technicians had no explanations. His sense of foreboding increased.

  Christina had had enough. Bobby was living in the lab virtually full time now. As she busied herself in the kitchen making dinner, she was so annoyed that she avoided eye contact with him. He trailed after her, offering to help.

  Amid the clanging of the pots and pans she was impatiently pulling out of the cupboard, she said, “Look mister. You’re going to have to make a choice very soon because I’m not going to live like this. If you want to kill yourself, I’m not going to be the cheerleader.”

  Bobby did look terrible. Increasingly disheveled and unkempt, his eyes red and bleary, he was exhausted all the time. Obsessed with his AIDS research, the regimen he was following was punishing him brutally. “I’m sorry. I feel I’m getting close to something. I promise you —after this — I’m going to cut way back and we’ll lead a normal life. Maybe we’ll even move.”

  Christina brushed her hand against his cheek. “It’s crazy Bobby. We agreed to start a family, but what’s the point? You can’t keep your eyes open you’re so tired and you’re constantly spaced out.”

  Bobby tried to use his charm to get over on Christina, but this time it wasn’t working. And he couldn’t blame her. This was no easier on her than it was on him. The relentless night terrors from which she had to salvage him and her struggle to pull him back to present reality when he got too far out there, were grueling for her. He was endangered and she knew it, and that destroyed any sense of stability for her in their relationship.

  “I just can’t turn my back on this disease, Christina. It’s already killed twenty five million. It’s killing almost three million more every year. Thirty five million are infected and another three million get it every year. How can I slow down?”

  The situation wasn’t helped when Calvin Perrone paid a visit and advised that Bobby’s TB cure and arteriosclerosis treatment had lifted him into the number one position on the crazies’ hit list, beating out the president. Perrone insisted that the security presence at Prides Crossing be increased.

  McAlister and Ramirez agreed an overall time-frame for the completion of Ramirez’ assignment. Ramirez wouldn’t give an exact date nor would he tell McAlister what method he’d use. “It’s in place,” was all that he would say. Years of experience had taught Ramirez that the less clients know, the safer he was. “So how will I know when it’s going down?” asked McAlister.

  “Watch CNN,” Ramirez replied.

  Kurt Osmond, the operations head for RASI, stared intently at the enlarged map of Prides Crossing which was taped to the wall of the command room. Standing next to him was Ashfaq Bashir, a veteran officer of the Pakastani armed forces who had entered the United States on a visitor’s visa six years earlier and stayed on illegally. Technically skilled and rabidly anti-Western, his fundamentalist zeal had propelled him to a position of power in RASI in only two years. Osmond and Bashir reviewed every aspect of the meticulously planned assault. They examined the sleek bomb that had enough explosive power to easily obliterate the Prides Crossing laboratory. A single engine Cessna Corvalis stood ready at Woburn Airport. It could reach the lab in under twelve minutes. Prides Crossing had no defense against an aerial attack.

  Standing in his office at 550 Park Avenue, Martin Turnbull gazed blankly out the window. He realized he had no choice but to cooperate with the SEC investigation. And he decided that maybe he could turn a negative into a positive. His career was in the toilet. He had already been advised by the Bushings board of directors that while they weren’t renewing his employment contract “at the present time,” they were willing to keep him on as an “at will employee” under the same terms until “they had clarity as to their long-term plans.” He knew, of course, that they were already looking for his replacement, and once it became known that he was being investigated by the SEC, he would be a pariah. He would be terminated immediately and would become unemployable. So Marty Turnbull made his decision. He needed to not only cooperate—but to make himself so invaluable that he could enter the government’s witness protection program—- a new identity, a new job, a new life and the retention of all of his assets. That’s what he needed.

  Turnbull pulled Agent Thompson’s wrinkled card from his pants pocket and dialed the number on his cell phone. They agreed to meet at three that afternoon in Bryant Park at 42nd Street on Avenue of the Americas.

  Shifting uneasily on a wooden bench, Turnbull’s eyes darted around as he surveyed the small park to be sure that no one from Bushings was there. Remembering something he had seen in a spy movie, he held a newspaper in front of him as he spoke to Thompson who was sitting by his side. “Let me be perfectly clear. I’m not admitting anything. I’m here to discuss possibilities that are so far reaching that a deal would have to be cut.”

  “We already said that things could go easier on you if you cooperated.”
>
  Turnbull turned radish red and his voice rose along with his blood pressure. “No. What I’m talking about is much bigger than that. You don’t know what I have. I want full immunity plus first-class treatment for me and my family in the witness protection program.”

  “That’s out of the question,” Thompson replied.

  “Then we have nothing to talk about.” Turnbull clumsily scrunched up his newspaper as he got up from the bench.

  “Wait a minute,” Thompson said. “That kind of thing is beyond the jurisdiction of our Agency.”

  “I thought it might be. So what you need to do is to involve the Justice Department—and I mean at a high level. I’ll only talk to someone with authority to cut the whole deal.”

  “Do you really think you have enough value to warrant a deal like that?”

  “I know I do.”

  78

  Sitting motionless in front of four computer monitors at 4:30 in the morning alone in the lab, Bobby was in a trance -like state that had already lasted over three hours. Then he snapped out of it. Without a moment’s pause, he began to scribble notes in his journal at a feverish pace, breaking only to type on the keyboard at maniacal speed. Page after page, equation after equation, his mental energy was blazing.

  A smile crossed his face. “I got you now, you son of a bitch.”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when he felt a crushing pressure on each side of his head. The chair that he was sitting on was propelled into the air like it was an ejector seat in a jet fighter. His head slammed into what remained of the ceiling. The second blast catapulted him thirty feet across the room. He bounced off a wall and crumpled on the debris ridden floor like a broken doll. Barely conscious, he felt a freezing cold wind blow through what remained of the structure as an unearthly howling sound echoed in the ruins. His head felt as if it were clamped in a vice and being slowly crushed. He expected to hear the sound of his skull cracking at any moment. A few computer monitors still flickered as they lay on the floor not far from him. The distorted image he thought he saw on the screens was a face—the same elongated amorphous face that had terrorized him in his most recent nightmares. “You’re finally doing it, you bastard,” Bobby mumbled. “Finally, after all these years.” When the third blast hit, it sent out a shock wave that was so powerful that it ripped the mainframe computers off their mounts and sent them and anything else in their path hurling through the air. One piece of a huge computer landed inches from Bobby’s head. When a large filing cabinet and a jagged piece of the conference tabled slammed into him with crushing force his luck ran out. The last remnants of the ceiling caved in as electrical fires burned. Bobby’s limp, cut and twisted body lay buried and bloody under a mountain of rubble.