Miracle Man

by William R. Leibowitz

Turnbull’s face turned red and his voice rose. “I wanted to, but he wouldn’t let me.”

  “Was the mole the only source of info?”

  “Bushings was hacking Austin’s computers for years hoping to steal something. Trouble is –our scientists couldn’t understand what the heck he was doing.”

  “What’s the mole’s name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you find out by checking financial records in your office?”

  Turnbull’s breathing had become labored. He thrust his hand in his pants pocket and fished out crumpled tissues and ran them over his face and neck, mopping up some sweat. “I can try—but without knowing the amount or frequency of payments to him or the entity he uses to receive payments, it could be impossible. And he might be paid in cash altogether.”

  “What does McAlister think of Austin?”

  Turnbull laughed. “He hates him. Blames him for everything bad in the pharmaceutical business. He says Austin cost him over a hundred million dollars. That’s why he called that meeting of all the other CEOs at his house in the Adirondacks. It was quite awhile ago. The purpose was to see how to deal with Austin.”

  “What was discussed there?”

  Turnbull shook his head. “I wasn’t allowed in the actual meeting. It was just for the CEOs.”

  “So you have no specifics?” Bick rested his pen on the yellow pad in front of him.

  “Just from talking to McAlister, I know that Bushings designed an internet defamation campaign that it couldn’t successfully launch. It was a bunch of bullshit that was supposed to spook the public. Someone intercepted it and stopped it cold.” Varneys blanched and turned away momentarily. “And there was something about trying to use influence to get the Justice Department to go after Austin for anti-trust, and get the FDA to give him a hard time, and I know that McAlister had meetings with a bunch of heavy-weights in the government.”

  Bick wagged his head. “Can you give us those names?”

  “Yes.”

  Bick stood up and surveyed the room as he tapped his pen on the table. He walked over to Turnbull and stared down at him. “Did McAlister know where Austin lived or the location of his lab?”

  “The mole obviously could have told him the lab’s location. I don’t know about the residence, but I doubt it would be too tough for the mole to follow him home or something.”

  Varneys and Bick adjourned into a nearby room. “We have to find that mole,” said Bick excitedly.

  “If he’s still alive,” replied Varneys, as he called Perrone from his cell. “I need a complete report on all personnel at the Prides Crossing lab—names, addresses, number of years of employment, salary, position, bank records, tax returns, phone records, prior employment—-the works. The Corwin lady should be able to help you. Get it to me by tomorrow—I don’t care how many people you have to put on it. ”

  Varneys and Bick returned to Turnbull’s room. “We need you to find out the identity of the mole,” said Bick. “Go back to your office and figure out how you can identify payments to him. I want a list of any regular periodic payments to any person, or any company, that’s not a full-time Bushings’ employee. I’m sure you can devise a screen that will eliminate vendors you know are legitimate. You also need to scrutinize cash disbursements.”

  81

  Martin Turnbull was the CFO of Bushings, and no one had better access or familiarity with Bushings’ financial records. For two days, he scoured Bushings’ computer files looking for anything that could provide a trail to the mole, but there was nothing. He wasn’t surprised. Colum McAlister doesn’t leave bread crumbs for people to follow home.

  Varneys had already established a command center in Boston. He studied the reports Perrone had given him on the Prides Crossing employees. Of the eleven people who had been working at the lab during the entire time period that Turnbull believed the mole had been active, there was one that stood out. Vincent Amaratto had gross pay of $89,000 at the lab. An examination of his banking statements over a period of years indicated no deposits other than his net after- tax salary of $58,740. The checks he wrote each month to cover his credit card bills, undergrad and graduate school loans, car loan and a monthly payment he gave to his mother, used up this entire amount but still didn’t account for his apartment rent or utility bills. But Amaratto had no savings accounts, investments or loans that were being used to fund the monthly shortfall of over three thousand dollars. “Bring him in,” Varneys said to Perrone.

  As he came out of a Starbucks, Amaratto was intercepted by Perrone and two agents who swept him into an awaiting van that was trailing behind them. Amaratto wiped sweat from his forehead. “I’m not worth kidnapping. I don’t have any money. I’m just a lab technician.”

  Perrone and the other agents ignored him and looked out the darkly tinted windows. The van traveled to the back of Boston’s Federal Building and Amaratto was shepherded through a side door marked “Deliveries.” Agents on both sides of him grasped his arms and roughly deposited him into a bare room which contained nothing other than two metal tables and some heavy oak chairs. They locked the door and left him there alone for thirty minutes. Finally, a door on the other side of the room opened and an austere figure walked in. Amaratto stood.

  “Mr. Amaratto— I’m Orin Varneys, director of the CIA.”

  When Amaratto heard that, a wave of nausea swept through him. He quickly scanned the room for the nearest waste basket.

  “Do you mean the director of the entire CIA? The Head of it?” he asked. Varneys nodded.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I think you know, Mr. Amaratto.”

  His voice breaking, Amaratto responded, “I have no idea why I was brought here and I object to it.”

  Varneys frowned as he realized that he wouldn’t be spared having to give a performance. Varneys motioned for Amaratto to sit down. He stood in front of him and just stared at him. Amaratto shifted uneasily in the chair. After a few minutes, Varneys bent over and glared at him, his piranha face just inches from Amaratto’s.

  “Why don’t I start by telling you what I know. I know six things, Mr. Amaratto –six.” Varneys began to pace again, his hands clasped behind him. “First, I know that Bushings Pharmaceuticals had a mole in Dr. Austin’s lab for years—the lab where you work. I know that the mole has been feeding information, directly or indirectly, to Bushings. These activities by the mole make him criminally liable for industrial espionage.”

  “Second, I know that Bushings was hacking Austin’s computers, and that in the last year, Austin’s computers were being sabotaged and his notebooks stolen, and that the mole may well be complicit in these criminal activities also.”

  “Third, I know that the information supplied by the mole was used, among other things, for certain executives at Bushings to violate Federal Securities laws. This make the mole an accessory to those Securities crimes.”

  “Fourth, I know that someone tried to kill Dr. Austin and that it is not outside the realm of possibility that the mole’s paymaster might be involved—which would mean that the mole may be a participant in a conspiracy to commit murder or an accessory to that crime.”

  “Fifth, I know that if there is any connection between the attempt on Dr. Austin’s life and whoever was paying the mole, then the mole is in immediate physical danger as he could provide a link to prosecution.”

  “And lastly, I am intimate with your finances, Mr.Amaratto, and know that you are living well beyond your means. I know that the only income which you have declared to the IRS for years—has been your lab salary. Filing false tax returns and failure to report income is criminal tax evasion.” Varneys paused. “Do I need to continue Mr.Amaratto— or is it time for you to tell me what you know?”

  Amaratto looked at Varneys sheepishly. His face was wet with perspira
tion and his greasy black hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed for a week. “If I did anything—which I’m not saying I did—how do I know I won’t be prosecuted if I cooperate?”

  “Because I’m telling you that you won’t be,” Varneys responded.

  “And what if I don’t want to rely on that?” asked Amaratto, his knee rapidly jerking up and down under the desk.

  Varneys’ face reddened and he leaned ominously over Amaratto. “In that case, I’ll do one of two things. Either I’ll throw you back on the street and I wager to say, you’ll be dead in forty-eight hours, or I’ll get on with my investigation of you and alert the SEC, the IRS and the attorney general to join the party.”

  Amaratto began to massage the sides of his neck with both hands. “So what do you want from me?”

  “I want the truth. You’ll be required to swear to it, and to testify in court—if you won’t do that, you’re of no use.”

  “Do I get protection?”

  “Effective immediately. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  Amaratto stroked his left temple. “I’m trusting you, Mr. Varneys.”

  Varneys face was an expressionless mask. “You could do a lot worse. Now, I’m going to question you while you’re hooked up to a polygraph. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No.”

  Varneys called in Perrone, who hurried in with another agent who set up the video and sound recorders and the polygraph.

  “How long were you in the employ of Dr. Austin?”

  “For nine years, but before that I was employed by Tufts Medical School as a chemistry researcher. Tufts had me working on Dr. Austin’s projects. Then Dr. Austin hired me from there—actually he didn’t—it was his assistant, Susan Corwin who did.”

  “When did you first have contact with Bushings Pharmaceuticals?”

  “At a chemistry conference for pharmaceutical research that Bushings sponsored in Boston about eight years ago, but I didn’t speak to anybody from Bushings—I just attended the conference.”

  “How did you start spying for them?”

  “About a week after the conference, I received a call at home. A man said he represented Bushings and asked me to meet him for coffee at a diner off of exit 39 on I-95. He said I would be glad if I did.”

  Varneys showed Amaratto a photo of Colum McAlister. Was this the man you met with?”

  Amaratto studied the photo. “It’s hard to tell. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses.”

  “How tall was he and how was he built?”

  “About six feet and looked fit—but still he looked about sixty or so. You can always tell from the hands. I remember he was suntanned even though it was winter, and except for the baseball cap, he was very well dressed. He had one hell of a wristwatch. I’m a bit of a buff—not that I can afford any. He had a pink gold Patek Phillipe, real unusual—not like any I had seen. Very classy. It might have been custom made. You know that company will do that for a price.”

  “What did he ask you to do?”

  “Just to keep him abreast of what Dr. Austin was working on. He said he’d pay $3000 a month. I bargained him up to $4000.”

  “You thought this was ethical?”

  Amaratto’s face flushed red. “It’s ethical to keep my mother living like a human being, and besides—Dr. Austin wasn’t in competition with Bushings—he wasn’t interested in making money—so what difference did it make?”

  Varneys glared at Amaratto. “How were you paid?”

  “It was always the same. On the last day of every month, an envelope with forty one hundred dollar bills was shoved under my apartment door.”

  “How did you communicate?”

  “I was given a phone number and told to call it from a pay phone booth on the fifth and twentieth days of every month at 11 PM.”

  “Did he ask you questions?”

  “He’d ask me to try to find out certain things.”

  “Was he the same person you met in the diner?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he like on the phone?”

  “He seemed to get angrier over the years. Sometimes he would comment about how much money Austin was costing Bushings, but usually he said very little.”

  “Would you recognize his voice if you heard it now?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Why did you sabotage the computers in the Prides Crossing lab?”

  Amaratto straightened up in his chair. “I swear I never did that.”

  “Did you facilitate the hacking of the lab computers?”

  Amaratto shook his head emphatically. “I’d never do that because it might make me expendable.”

  “Did you steal Dr. Austin’s notebooks?”

  “I stole three of them.”

  “Why?”

  “I was asked to. I was paid ten grand for each one. Austin didn’t need them. He had a photographic memory.”

  “Did you give the address of the lab to him.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about his residence?”

  Amaratto squirmed in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. Varneys repeated the question.

  “Austin lives in the guesthouse on the lab premises,” Amaratto said.

  “I mean before that.”

  “I don’t know. I may have given the address of an apartment.”

  Varneys moved closer to Amaratto. “What role did you play in the lab explosion.”

  Amaratto wiped his forehead with his left hand and then pulled on his nose. “I swear on my mother’s life that I never knew that was going to happen. I would never do anything to hurt Dr. Austin or destroy that lab.”

  Varneys asked “What exactly did you do?”

  Amaratto looked around the room and shifted uneasily in his chair. “During one of my regular calls, I was given a number and told to call it from a pay phone. I wasn’t given a name, just the number. I was told to do whatever the man who answered the call would ask me to do, and I’d be paid twenty-five thousand after I did what was requested.”

  “What were you asked to do by this man?”

  Amaratto buried his face in his hands momentarily and then appeared to be massaging his eyebrows. Looking up at the ceiling again, he said, “When I spoke to him the first time, he asked me to draw a detailed floor plan of the lab. He also asked me to write down the model numbers of the monitors that Austin used at his desk and he wanted to know if Austin used his webcam.”

  “Were there any more calls?”

  “A few more.”

  Varneys glared. “And then what? Don’t sugar coat it, because if you do, you’ll be on the street in five minutes.”

  Amaratto slumped in his chair and looked down. After pausing for a minute and then taking a deep breath, he mumbled, “In the last call, we agreed a day and time when I would leave the back door to the lab unlocked for twenty minutes.”

  Perrrone shot up from his chair. “You son of a bitch.”

  Varneys motioned Perrone to sit down. “And why did you think that the man you were speaking to wanted this information and wanted the door left open?”

  “He told me he was going to plant some surveillance equipment in Austin’s office.”

  “You don’t know his name?”

  “No.”

  “What did he sound like?”

  “He had a heavy Latino accent.”

  “Would you remember the voice?”

  “It was pretty distinctive.”

  “Did you ever see him? Did you see him come through that door.”

  Amaratto shook his head. “No. He told me that if I tried to, he’d know and I wouldn’t get paid my money—and I’d lose my monthly gig, too.”

  In Washingto
n, D.C., the U.S. attorney general had finished questioning the notables whose names had been supplied by Turnbull: Neil Foster, Randall Lindsay, Graham Waters and Michael Petersen. While these heavy-weight politicos declined to indicate the precise nature of the videos with which McAlister was blackmailing them, they confirmed that they contained ‘material of a personal nature.’ On the understanding that the recordings wouldn’t see the light of day, they agreed to cooperate. The attorney general obtained warrants to search Lands End, McAlister’s other residences and the My Time yacht.

  82

  Three weeks after Bobby was admitted into the hospital, the surgeon general briefed the Cabinet:

  “Severity of coma is measured on the Glasgow Coma Scale, the worst being 3 and the best 15. Dr. Austin’s score hasn’t improved beyond the 4 he had on admission. There still is no way to determine when and if he’ll ever come out of the coma, or what cognitive or physical impairments will remain from the neurological trauma he suffered. His intravenous feeding will continue, as will a vigorous regimen of physical and electrical pulse therapies to keep his muscles from atrophying and to avoid the onset of pneumonia, which often causes death in long-term comatose patients.”

  There was no shortage of visitors. Bobby’s hospitalization deprived him of the anonymity and privacy that he had so carefully cultivated. His incapacity became the vehicle for luminaries to finally have the opportunity to “meet him.” In addition to visits from major U.S. politicians and religious leaders, Bobby’s hospital room became a “must-stop” on the itinerary of international dignitaries visiting Washington. The CIA cleared each person ahead of time, each visit was limited to ten minutes and no photographs were permitted. If she was there, Christina tried her best to be gracious, but as time went by, the visits increasingly took on the air of “paying last respects” and this further depressed her. Susan and Anna were her support system and Alan, who drove up from Florida every few weeks and called her regularly, took on the role of devoted father-in law.