Miracle Man

by William R. Leibowitz

  Christina ran toward the lab screaming. The shockwaves from the blasts had blown out all the windows in the guest house where she had been sleeping and the only reason she wasn’t severely lacerated was because the shades in the bedroom had been pulled down and the heavy curtains drawn. By the time she got to the lab, a dozen security guards, brandishing automatic weapons and fire extinguishers were already there. Calls had gone out to the Beverly and Prides Crossing police, fire departments and EMS, all of whom were alerted that they were dealing with a catastrophe at the Austin lab.

  The head of the lab’s security detail, an undercover CIA agent, had already called Perrone, who in turn called Varneys. Varneys immediately called the president. Standing rigidly by the phone in his bedroom, his voice was uncharacteristically shaky and his face was drained of all color. “This is Orin Varneys, sir. I apologize for calling you at this hour, but you need to know that a few minutes ago, Dr. Robert Austin’s laboratory was destroyed. We have every reason to believe he was in the building.” Varneys paused as he listened. He then responded, “No, sir. We don’t know his condition yet. No, Mr. President, we don’t know who’s responsible.” Varneys paused again. He held the phone farther from his ear as the voice he was listening to grew louder. Varneys replied, “We don’t know how it was done. Yes, sir—the facility was under our protection. You’re right, sir. There is no excuse. I take full responsibility. Yes Mr. President, I’ll call you the moment I have more information.”

  As soon as Varneys heard the president click off, he slammed the phone down so hard it cracked its cradle. He called Perrone. “How the fuck did this happen? This is the second time we failed to protect him. The president will have my ass.” Varneys ordered an immediate media lock-down. Perrone and eight agents sped to Reagan Airport and took one of the CIA jets to Boston.

  Three members of the lab’s security force were dispatched on motorcycles to await the emergency vehicles and guide them through the labyrinth of private roads that led to the Manzini lab. Within twenty minutes from the first explosion, the facility was jammed with ten police cars, four fire engines, two ambulances and a medevac.

  Over thirty police and firemen piled into what remained of the lab. Some of them concentrated on extinguishing the electrical fires while others began to sift through the wreckage looking for Bobby. Christina ran into what used to be Bobby’s office. Nothing. She then ran into the section of the main lab where he often worked.

  Combing through the refuse, she yelled to some firemen, “Help me move this stuff.” Frantically, she pulled and clawed at the piles of debris and twisted fragments of equipment, furniture, walls and ceiling, but there was so much of it that it was overwhelming.

  The firemen used their crowbars to move the heavy remnants as quickly as possible, but all they found under rubble was more rubble. Christina wandered around in a panic stricken daze calling out Bobby’s name in the hope that he would answer. Another contingent of firemen entered the ruins with search dogs trained to sniff out people buried in collapsed buildings. One of the dogs began to bark as it stood atop a huge heap of mess. Six firemen hurried over and began to dig. After several minutes of frantic effort, they saw one foot, and then the other. They radioed and the EMS crew came rushing in. Christina joined them, pulling at the rubble with her bare hands. Bobby’s limp body was uncovered. His clothes looked like torn rags. He was twisted, his limbs in unnatural positions. His skin and hair were thickly caked with a mix of blood and white sheet rock dust which gave him a gruesome zombie appearance.

  When Christina saw him, she became hysterical and lay down in the rubble next to him sobbing, her head on his chest. “No God. Please don’t do this to Bobby. He’s been so good to you. Please no.”

  The head of the EMS team yelled out, “Don’t move him. Don’t let her touch him. His spinal cord may be severed.”

  One of the firemen lifted Christina away. The EMS chief administered 10 ml of adrenalin for cardiovascular resuscitation, and began to give a very mild form of CPR to Bobby because his injuries looked too extensive to risk a more forceful procedure. Detecting a weak pulse, he put an oxygen mask over Bobby’s face. He called for a thin carbonite plank that could be slid under Bobby. To immobilize the spine, a restraining device was attached to his head, and his body was fastened tightly with six wide leather straps that would keep him still. He was then given a steroid drip to reduce inflammation and prevent further damage to the cellular membranes that can cause nerve death. Once this was done, four members of the EMS team gently lifted the plank onto a gurney and rushed him to the awaiting helicopter for the trip to Massachusetts General Hospital.

  79

  Pedaling vigorously on his exercise bike later that same day, McAlister had the sixty inch plasma television in his office gym tuned to the Financial News Network. It was 1 PM when the reporter announced that all television and radio broadcasts in the United States were being interrupted for a special announcement by the president. “More bull crap from that jerk,” muttered McAlister. The president spoke from the Oval Office, his voice somber:

  “My fellow Americans, it saddens me beyond measure to report that approximately eight hours ago, the laboratory of Dr. Robert James Austin was attacked. The laboratory was completely destroyed while Dr. Austin was inside conducting research on AIDS. While he has survived over six hours of surgery to address multiple life-threatening injuries that he suffered during the attack, he remains in critical condition and continues to be in a coma. It is too early to formulate any prognosis as to his chances for survival or recovery. I have asked that he be brought to Washington D.C. so that I can personally oversee his care at a neighboring hospital. An attending team of our leading physicians from all relevant disciplines has been assembled. By presidential proclamation, I am declaring that this week be a week of prayer for his well being. Dr. Austin deserves no less. Nobody has worked harder or with more resolve and efficacy than he, or made greater personal sacrifices to further medical science. He has selflessly dedicated his unique genius to the betterment of the human condition. Dr. Austin’s discoveries have already saved tens of millions of lives and will continue to do so. I dare say that there isn’t a person on this planet who in some way has not been the beneficiary of his tireless efforts. Dr. Austin is not just a national treasure, he is a world treasure. His presence has been an extraordinary gift to us all, and to the future generations that follow us. We can only ponder what further contributions he would be capable of making if the good Lord graces him and us with that opportunity. I ask that you join my family and me in praying for Dr. Austin’s speedy and full recovery. Rest assured that the perpetrators of this heinous crime will be swiftly brought to justice. Thank you, and may God bless the United States of America.”

  His jaw clenched, McAlister hurried from his office, still in his work-out suit. Rushing across Park Avenue, he found a phone booth in the Hyatt hotel and frantically dialed the number Ramirez had given him for emergencies. When it rang, all McAlister said was “212-549-8121,” the call back number of the pay phone. McAlister waited in the booth, rapidly tapping his fingers against the wall. Twelve minutes later, the phone rang. McAlister knew that Ramirez was calling from his scrambler.

  “What the hell’s going on?” sputtered McAlister hoarsely, the veins in his forehead throbbing. “We agreed it wouldn’t be dramatic.”

  “It wasn’t me. It must have been those freaks who hate him.”

  “Bullshit. You got sloppy, Gunther. You wanted to make an easy buck.”

  “If that were the case, I’d be asking for the rest of my money right now—which I’m not.”

  There was silence as McAlister took that in.

  “Well, you wouldn’t be getting it because the son of a bitch is still alive,” McAlister said.

  “My plan was perfect. At the right time, by cellular activation, I was going to release toxic gas in his face from discs I
planted in the cam portals of his monitors. It induces massive heart failure and leaves no residue. It’s undetectable. I’ve used it before. It’s so fucking good, insurance companies pay off on life coverage.”

  “You waited too long, goddammit,” McAlister shouted.

  “We agreed the time frame, Colum,” replied Ramirez.

  “I want my money back,” said McAlister, his voice thick and sullen.

  “That’s not going to happen. I was a migrant worker for two months setting it up. It’s not my fault that someone beat us to the punch.”

  “They’ll find us now.”

  “Impossible.”

  “What about our little friend?”

  “He doesn’t know me,” Ramirez said

  “Well he fucking knows me and I don’t live in Panama.”

  “No one can connect the dots.”

  “I want it taken care of just to be sure.”

  “I’ll deal with it. But get a grip. Nervous people make mistakes.”

  The world media ignited with the news of the tragedy. Virtually every newspaper in every country bore a similar headline. Television, radio and the internet were awash in tributes and speculation as to who was behind the crime. The United Nations General Assembly unanimously passed a special resolution in tribute to Bobby, and most countries followed the lead of the United States in designating days or weeks, and in some countries, even months —as official periods devoted to prayer for his recovery.

  When the helicopter carrying Bobby landed at Edwards Air Force Base, a caravan of military vehicles led the way to George Washington University Hospital, where he was to be installed in a private room at the end of a hallway reserved for VIPS who required special security. Waiting in the room for his arrival were the president, the attorney general and the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security.

  Varneys stood outside Bobby’s room in front of a platoon of his agents and delivered his orders in unequivocal terms. “Whoever did this to him won’t be happy he’s still alive. They may try again and we have to assume that they’re very resourceful. I want a six agent rotation—24/7, two at the entrance to this corridor, two outside his room and two inside. I want two additional agents stationed at the elevator and two more at each stairwell. Nobody gets on this floor without being checked and no one comes down this corridor without our say so. Every doctor, nurse and orderly who goes into that room or who has anything to do with Austin must first pass top-priority security protocols. Every medication given to him has to be double-checked by a physician who has been cleared by us—and I want it administered by a physician. He is never to be alone—-do you understand that? Never. His food will come directly from our supplier.”

  As it turned out, food would not be an issue, as Bobby would be incapable of receiving any nourishment other than that which was administered intravenously.

  Varneys installed Christina in a safe house in Washington so that she could be close at hand. “I want a security detail on her at all times. We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet. No slip-ups, Perrone.”

  80

  Martin Turnbull’s attempt to cut a witness protection deal was languishing. The Justice Department didn’t seem interested and the SEC was annoyed that Turnbull was seeking to circumvent them. Finally, Agent McKenna arranged for an initial discussion between Turnbull and a representative of Justice. When Turnbull saw the twenty-something diminutive female assistant U.S. Attorney enter the room, his heart sank. “How long have you worked for the Department,” he asked.

  “Nine months,” she replied in a chirpy voice.

  Turnbull shook his head. “This won’t work. I don’t mean to be disparaging, but I’m only interested in speaking with someone who has the authority to deliver the deal I’m looking for. I made that clear to the SEC agents.”

  The young attorney looked at Turnbull as if he were a petty criminal trying to bootstrap himself into getting privileges reserved for serious felons. Straightening herself to the full measure of her five feet, she smiled at him patronizingly. “Mr. Turnbull—before anyone at that level is going to even consider investing their time, you have to whet our appetite. We don’t get involved in garden variety insider trading violations like yours. They’re a dime a dozen. What do you got for us?”

  Turnbull glared at her. “The information I have concerns Dr. Robert James Austin.”

  In an instant, her face turned burgundy and her bravado vaporized.

  He continued, “You know—the one the president was talking about on TV the other day.”

  “Excuse me for a moment,” she said as she left the room.

  She called her boss, who had only been at the Justice Department for three years. He immediately called his, and so it went on up the chain of command until thirty minutes later, the chief U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, Jonathan Bick, called the attorney general of the U.S. in Washington D.C. He, in turn, called the president who referred him to Varneys. Varneys’ assistant reached him on the intercom in his office’s private bathroom, and transferred the attorney general’s call to him while he was seated there, attending to personal business.

  “We have a situation, Orin. The CFO of Bushings Pharmaceuticals was caught by the SEC on insider trading. He’s been looking to cut a deal with witness protection, saying he has valuable information. We thought it wasn’t big enough. Earlier today, he said it involves Dr. Austin.”

  The color drained from Varneys’ face. “I’ll leave for New York now.”

  Turnbull had been kept waiting in a small room in New York’s Federal Building for four hours and he was in a foul mood by the time Varneys walked into the room with Bick. When the two men introduced themselves, Turnbull repeatedly flexed his fingers, alternating from one hand to the other. Bick said, “Mr. Turnbull—I’ve been apprised of the deal you want, and if you have information that’s as highly significant as you’ve indicated —then you have my word on behalf of the Justice Department that you’ll get your deal.”

  Turnbull responded, “And how can I be sure you won’t play games with me as to the definition of what constitutes ‘highly significant information’?”

  Bick shot back, “You just have to trust us on that. I’m not going to jerk you around. That’s not how we work.”

  Varneys shook his head. “Look, Turnbull. The Justice Department has better things to do than screw you on your little deal, so shake hands with the man and let’s get going. We have work to do.”

  Vigorously picking at a hang-nail on his index finger, Turnbull asked Bick, “Did you bring an agreement for us to sign? I understand there’s a standard form for this kind of thing.”

  Bick opened his briefcase, took out a folder and tossed it on the table next to Turnbull. Turnbull put on his reading glasses and began to read the document carefully. He was sweating profusely and his deodorant had worn off. Varneys walked over to the thermostat and lowered the temperature.

  “I’m ready,” said Turnbull. As he signed, his hand was trembling. He kept scratching the back of his head as he watched Bick counter-sign the document. Flakes of skin from his psoriasis plagued scalp landed on the shoulders of his frumpy dark blue suit. “I guess my new life begins now,” Turnbull said sadly. “I never thought this is how it would end up for me. They should have taken care of me. McAlister and those scumbags on the Board. They put me in this position.”

  Sitting across from Turnbull with his list of questions in front of him, Bick’s face registered neither sympathy nor judgment. “Let’s get down to business,” he said, as he nodded to an agent to start the video camera and tape recorder.

  “Tell us why you sold all your stock in Bushings six months before Dr. Austin’s breakthrough on arteriosclerosis became public knowledge?”

  “I found out he was working on it and I assumed he’d find a cure so I sold
everything.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Our CEO, Colum McAlister, told me that his mole in Austin’s lab told him.”

  “He had a mole?” Turnbull nodded.

  “Is this the first time that happened with company shares?”

  “No. Long before that, the mole told him about Austin’s TB research and that’s when Colum sold as many shares as he could until the Board stopped him from selling more.”

  “Why didn’t you sell your stock then also?”