Day after day, Christina sat in Bobby’s room. Frequently, she slept on a cot next to his bed and sometimes she’d squeeze in right next to him at night. She would talk to him animatedly and read to him, hoping he could hear her and that somehow her voice would lead him back to consciousness. Massaging his arms, legs, feet, and hands, she would kiss his forehead, whispering in his ear, “Come back, Bobby. Don’t leave me.”
Two months into the coma, the doctors were increasingly skeptical. As they advised the president, “The longer the coma continues unabated, the less likely he’ll come out of it. The mind becomes accustomed to the vegetative state and it settles in.”
Looking out the hospital window, Christina thought how pretty the hundreds of candle lights were, twinkling silently in the night. The vigils were always there—even in the bad weather. For the first few weeks, there were thousands of candles, glimmering their beacons of hope in the darkness. Now there were fewer—but she was still amazed that they were there, every night. The same thing was happening all over the world. People weren’t forgetting what Bobby had done for them. “You see, little one,” Christina said as she patted her protruding belly, her eyes streaming with tears, “Your daddy was a great man. A very great man.”
“Don’t say ‘was.’” Susan put her arm around Christina. “He is a very great man.”
83
A black Suburban pulled up in front of 550 Park Avenue and parked in front of the “No Standing Anytime” sign. Thompson, McKenna, Perrone, Bick, and two uniformed armed Federal Marshals piled out of the vehicle. They walked quickly into the building, flashed badges and told one of the security guards to take them up to the floor on which they could find Colum McAlister. The guard reached for the phone, saying he’d call upstairs to announce them.
Agent Thompson removed the receiver from his hand, “That won’t be necessary. Let’s go.”
When the elevator doors opened on the sixty eighth floor, the first thing seen by the two beefy Bushings security guards positioned there were the marshals.
“Holy shit,” mumbled one of them.
He was told to go downstairs and wasted no time in complying. The other was asked to escort the troop to McAlister’s office, which he did. As the group entered the private reception area of McAlister’s office suite, they encountered the aquarium’s sharks, which were sullenly gliding through the water of the massive tank, their dead eyes peering through the wall of glass at the visitors. Perrone walked up to McAlister’s two breathtaking secretaries and asked, “Is he in?” While one of them was in the midst of saying, “Mr. McAlister is in a meeting” –Perrone flung open the oversized mahogany doors and led the group into the office. The size and opulence of McAlister’s lair took them by surprise and most of the law enforcement team seemed momentarily distracted as they looked around the palatial surroundings. Perrone muttered to Thompson, “You sure can live large leeching off of shareholders —geez look at this.”
McAlister’s face purpled at the intrusion. Rising from his desk, he shoved his chair back as he bellowed, “Who the hell are you?”
Six badges flashed in answer to his question. McAlister’s tan seemed to disappear instantly.
Bick stepped toward McAlister as he reached into his jacket pocket, removing a piece of paper that he unfolded. His six feet four inches towered over McAlister and his icy stare conveyed a disdain more effective than words. Bick spoke slowly, his patrician Beacon Hill drawl imbuing every word with extra gravitas. “I’m Jonathan Bick, chief United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York.” He stopped and put on his reading glasses.
McAlister shifted from one leg to the other, poker faced.
Reading from the paper in his hand, Bick continued. “Colum McAlister— you are under arrest for multiple violations of the Securities Exchange Act of 1934, the Economic Espionage Act of 1996, the Cyber Security Act of 2002, extortion, blackmail, and conspiracy to commit the murder of Dr. Robert James Austin. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at government expense.”
McAlister looked around at the assembled public servants and began to laugh. It was a hearty spontaneous laugh that didn’t sound at all contrived. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re all nuts.” He turned his head from side to side as he stretched his neck forward, like a prize fighter loosening up before a bout. Removing the white and blue striped silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his Saville Row suit, he patted his forehead lightly and then dabbed the corners of his mouth. Inserting the handkerchief back into its pocket, he took care to ensure that it protruded exactly two inches. McAlister’s eyes became snake slits as he looked over each of the men in succession. His face reddened. The street fighter kid who climbed from the slums of Brooklyn to the sixty eighth floor of Park Avenue wasn’t easily intimidated.
When he spoke, his voice had a hoarseness to it that belied his anger, but his words weren’t loud. “When my lawyers get through with you monkeys, you won’t even be able to get a job flipping burgers. You’re finished. All of you. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” One of the marshals yanked McAlister’s arms behind his back and attached handcuffs. McAlister craned his neck around. “Hey buddy—don’t scratch my watch. It cost more than you make in five years.”
As they left the reception area, McAlister barked orders to his assistants, whose disoriented expressions seemed to reflect their realization that it might be time to update their resumes. “Call Rosenberg at Cravath. I don’t care what he’s doing. Tell him to meet me downtown right now. He’ll know where.”
The procession filed into the elevators and no one seemed to notice the news alert that silently scrolled across the bottom of the TV screen in the reception area: Dr. Robert James Austin wins his ninth, tenth and eleventh Nobel Prizes for TB cure, revolutionary bacteriophage techniques, and arteriosclerosis breakthrough making statins obsolete. Full report to follow.
84
After four months, Bobby showed no signs of regaining consciousness. Susan had inadvertently created a public commotion when, during an interview, she said that Bobby was on the threshold of an AIDS cure. This gave the media’s talking heads something to debate and prompted endless internet noise about why Bobby’s doctors weren’t doing enough to bring him out of the coma. The president called Bobby’s team of doctors, which included the world’s two greatest coma experts, to the White House so they could brief him.
While a few of the physicians present lobbied for an aggressive regimen of experimental drugs, it was quickly knocked back as being too risky. Similarly, a method called “DPS,” in which electrodes are planted deep within the brain to deliver stimulating electric shocks, was rejected as too dangerous. The consensus was — ‘this brain is not the brain for us to experiment on’ and ‘let nature take its course.’ They advised the president that the prognosis for recovery was very poor.
Five months into the coma, Christina had finally come to grips with the situation. While she visited Bobby every day, and often spent the night, she wasn’t there all the time. She was receiving grief therapy and also attending Lamaze childbirth classes for the single mother. As Washington D.C. lumbered into the holiday season, it was shaping up to be an uncharacteristically cold and snowy winter. The monuments and public buildings that Bobby had first seen when he was summoned by Varneys for an ultimatum at the age of twenty, looked majestic and magical in their illumination. Christina was invited to the president’s Christmas Eve party at the White House. She declined to attend, but changed her mind when the First Lady called her and said, “You may not be aware, but every year the doctor was invited—not just by us, but by our predecessors. He never came and we understand why. But please share this night wi
th us. We’re going to say a special prayer for him. Bring whomever you want. They’re all welcome here.”
Alan, Susan and Anna never thought that they’d be sitting in a government limousine as it was waved through the North Gate entrance to the White House.
As they walked past Marine guards in full dress uniform, and entered through the North Portico, Anna whispered to Christina, “I could get used to this kind of thing.”
Looking rather distinguished in the first tuxedo he had ever worn, Alan began to softly hum, “If they could see me now.”
85
On Christmas Eve, the hospital had a skeletal staff and the smattering of worn holiday decorations made the vacant halls particularly depressing. Two CIA guards watched the small TV in Bobby’s dimly lit room. A nurse’s aide came in to collect some items. She busied herself at the other end of the room and then looked over to see what program the agents were watching. She didn’t notice Bobby’s eyelids flutter, or his right hand move to scratch his nose. Nor did she see his head move slowly from side to side, or his neck gradually crane backwards.
He cleared his throat very softly—once with considerable difficulty, and then several more times. The aide was now laughing with the agents as they watched the antics on TV. Bobby’s hands moved uneasily, but finally found his eyes. His hands rested covering the lids. He then very gently began to rub them. Then, slowly his eyes began to open. Even though the lights in the room were low, a searing pain shot through him as the light overpowered eyes that had been closed for over five months. His body jerked in response to the pain. Shutting them tightly, he decided that he’d have to acclimatize them to the light over a period of time.
His voice was soft, hoarse and halting as he said one word, “Nurse.”
The aide heard nothing and neither did the agents.
“Nurse.” A little bit louder, but it was still very soft. “Nurse.” Is anybody there?” The words came slow but they were intelligible, his voice still deep in his throat.
Nobody heard anything. Finally, the aide came by Bobby’s bed. Now he was still. As she checked his intravenous feeder, the wires to the monitors, and the electric muscle stimulators, he said it again.
“Nurse.” She thought she heard something. “Nurse. Is anybody there?” Bobby’s eyelids were fluttering again and he moved his left hand to scratch the side of his head.
The aide jumped away from the bed as if she had seen a corpse rise out of a coffin. After a moment, she hesitatingly approached and leaned over the bed. “Can you hear me?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m thirsty,” Bobby replied.
She started to yell, “He’s up! He’s up!” and ran out of the room, screaming down the hallway, “He’s up! He’s up! Where’s a doctor?”
The agents by the TV bounded over to Bobby’s bed and cautiously leaned over it. “Are you there? Can you hear us?”
“I’m so thirsty. Can I get some water?”
One of the agents whipped out his cell phone and dialed Varneys’ direct office line. It was 9:15 Christmas Eve. Varneys sat at his desk and looked at the caller ID. He saw it was one of the agents at the hospital. They had never called him before. He just stared at the phone as it kept ringing. His eyes welled-up with tears. He picked up the receiver.
“Hello,” was all that Varneys said, his voice soft and tired.
“Sir, it’s Collins at the hospital.”
“Yes, agent,” replied Varneys, resignedly. He noticed that his hands were trembling and he had a hollow sore feeling in his gut. “You’re calling about Austin I presume.” Varneys moved the phone further from his ear, as if he didn’t want to hear what the caller had to say.
“Yes, sir. He’s up.”
Varneys looked at the receiver incredulously, and then placed it hard against his ear. “What did you say?”
“He’s talking. He wants water. Says he’s thirsty.”
Varneys dark eyes danced, the corners of his mouth turned up and his face glowed like he was four years old and it was time to open his birthday presents. “Well, goddammit. Give him some water. I’ll be right over.”
Varneys put the phone down. He knew he had to call the president but he sagged back in his chair. He sat there motionless with his eyes closed for a few minutes and then leaned forward, elbows on his desk, his chin pinioned on his clasped hands, his eyes shut tightly. “Thank you. Thank you for saving my boy,” he murmured. He remained in that position for a few minutes, silent and still, his wet eyes sealed. After awhile, he began to breathe in deeply, and slowly exhale. A few minutes later, he stood up, wiped his red eyes roughly with the back of his hands, pulled his vest straight, tightened his tie, and called the White House.
“It’s Orin Varneys. Please put me through to the president.”
“Hold on, sir.” It seemed like an eternity, but two minutes later, the president’s chief of staff got on the line. “Merry Christmas, Orin. The president is in the middle of his party. Can this wait?”
“No it can’t. Please get him for me.”
A few minutes later, the president got on the line. “What’s so urgent Orin?”
“He’s up sir.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Austin came out of the coma a few minutes ago. He’s talking. He’s thirsty.”
“God almighty. I can’t believe it. It’s a miracle. And Christina’s here. We’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”
The president hurried back to the party room, made a bee line for Christina, interrupted the conversation she was having and took her hand. “I just got a call,” he said as he began to quickly lead her toward a quiet corner of the room. Christina’s emerald eyes flooded and her face went pale. Her feet felt like they were encased in lead as she struggled to cross the room with him. She had prepared for this moment. The president stopped and turned toward her, placing his hands on her trembling shoulders. She felt faint and tried to cement in her mind that if she fell, she had to be sure she didn’t fall on the baby. “He’s up, Christina. Robert’s talking.”
86
When Christina and Susan arrived at Bobby’s room with the president and two SUVs full of secret service guards, Varneys was already there, as were a throng of doctors. The doctor in charge announced that Bobby could only have one visitor at a time.
Smiling broadly, Varneys announced to the presidential party, “I said hello. He remembers me.”
Susan rolled her eyes.
Christina entered the room. At first Bobby didn’t see her because he was looking toward the windows. As she rushed to his bed, he turned his head and his eyes locked with hers. He held out his arms to her as best he could, his muscles weak and the intravenous tubes still attached, and when she bent over him, kissing him all over his face, her eyes streaming tears, he pulled her on top of him. “My beautiful girl. My Christina,” he said, weaving his fingers through her hair as he kissed her forehead.
“I never thought I’d hear your voice again,” she said, unable to stop crying.
It didn’t take Bobby long to notice Christina’s belly. He didn’t say anything, but the look on his face did. “No it’s not Twinkies,” she chuckled.
“Mine?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
Christina punched his arm playfully. “Of course it’s yours, you fool.”
87
For the first forty-eight hours, Bobby was coddled like a newborn and his doctors ruled out his being subjected to any questioning, but as soon as that period elapsed, the interrogations began. Perrone was the first.
“Doctor Austin, what’s the last thing you recall happening in your lab?”
“I was deeply engrossed in working. I had achieved some kind of break-through and I was writing in my journal and typing on the computer. Then I felt this terrific crushing pressure against my head, and the next thing I
knew, I was propelled into the air. I don’t remember anything else.”
Next up were the team of neurologists. Dr. Michael Miller, the world’s leading coma specialist, showed Bobby a partially charred notebook. “Does this look familiar Dr. Austin?”
“It’s the type of notebook I use in my research. Where did you get it?”
“It was found in the wreckage of your lab, buried under a mountain of debris. It’s filled with equations and formulas. Your assistant, Susan, says it’s your handwriting. Take a look.”
Bobby opened the notebook and slowly viewed a few of the pages. After about a minute, he closed the book and pushed it away. “That’s my handwriting.”
“Is that your work on AIDS from that night? Dr. Austin—is that what you were working on?”
“Could be. I don’t know.”
“Please take another look at it.” Bobby opened the book again and appeared to be concentrating very hard. He flicked through a few more pages.
“I’m sorry. It means nothing to me.”
“You don’t recognize the formulas?”
“No.”
Miller stood up and gently patted Bobby’s shoulder. “That’s all for today, Dr. Austin. Get some rest. Regain your strength. We’ll talk again tomorrow.” The notebook was left on Bobby’s bed stand. He felt very tired. He closed his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.
The next day, the neurologists visited when Christina was there. One of them was holding a shopping bag containing all five volumes of the special edition of the New England Journal of Medicine that introduced Bobby’s autoimmune disease theories to the world—the historic breakthrough that earned Bobby two Nobel prizes at age 25. After some polite chit chat, the physician pulled out a few of the volumes and asked Bobby to peruse them and “refresh his memory.” Christina stood by Bobby’s bedside while he began to read. She noticed how slowly Bobby was reading. He was laboriously plodding through each of the introductory paragraphs of the first volume, tracing his finger under every line.
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