Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine

by Margaret Truman

  “Takes a tough hide to be in politics,” Morrison said.

  “And a willingness to go for the jugular,” Gillespie said. “I get better at it every election. Thanks for the pleasant day, Eric. The lunch was excellent.”

  “Always a pleasure to spend some relaxing time with you, Ron. You need anything, you just have to holler.”

  Morrison watched the senator walk to his red convertible, get in, and drive from the parking lot. As confident as Gillespie was about retaining his Senate seat, Morrison had become aware lately that the senator had lost some of his swagger. “Damn fool,” the lobbyist muttered under his breath as he prepared to leave the dock and get into his car. Gillespie’s marriage to the much younger, sexy Rebecca Prewell had been a huge mistake, a classic case of a man getting older and needing to prove that he wasn’t. Morrison had attended the small wedding and remembered thinking during the ceremony that the esteemed senator had made a bad decision, one that would sap his energy and in all likelihood send him on a downhill spiral.

  “Damn fool,” he repeated.

  Morrison hadn’t been entirely truthful when he said he had a client meeting to attend that afternoon. There was a meeting, but not with representatives of the Pharmaceutical Association of America, which comprised a huge chunk of his client base. He was meeting with a man he knew as George Alard.

  * * *

  Morrison had been introduced to Alard by a friend who had used Alard’s services a few times. “He’s sort of a soldier of fortune,” Morrison’s friend had said, “willing to take on assignments that are—well, let’s just say that he doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, for a hefty fee, of course.”

  Morrison’s initial visit to Alard’s office in a nondescript one-story office building in Washington’s southeast quadrant had occurred two weeks ago. He’d been wary of the neighborhood and the building itself, and had considered calling Alard and canceling the meeting. But he felt he had an obligation to go through with it on behalf of the largest member of PAA, a giant pharmaceutical company with billions in sales each year, much of it from the sale of a popular, and expensive, pain medication.

  That first meeting with Alard had lasted an hour. Morrison’s initial impression was that Alard was nothing like how he’d pictured a soldier of fortune, big, hefty, probably with tattoos up and down beefy arms. Instead, Alard was a small, slender man with slicked-down black hair and a pencil mustache. Morrison thought he resembled a rodent. He was dressed in a blue collared shirt, khaki pants, and black tasseled loafers that looked expensive. Furniture in the small office consisted of a desk, a chair behind it, and one additional chair on the other side. Blank gray walls were brightened somewhat by travel posters. There was no phone on the desk; Morrison’s call to him had reached a cell phone. The office didn’t contain any of the usual business equipment—copy machine, fax, computer. The desktop was bare except for a ruled legal pad and a pen that rested on it. Alard had been seated behind the desk when he buzzed Morrison through the front door.

  “Mr. Alard?” Morrison said.

  “Yes, and you are Mr. Morrison,” Alard said with a trace of an accent. French? “Please, sit down.”

  Morrison hesitated and looked at the chair as though it might contain foreign matter.

  Alard eyed him impassively, a hint of a smile on his pinched face. Once Morrison was seated, Alard said, “I understand from our mutual friend that you might be in need of my services.”

  “Possibly,” Morrison said.

  “Perhaps if you tell me what services are needed I’ll be able to decide whether I’m able to provide them.”

  Morrison, who seldom felt intimated by anyone, shifted in his chair and mentally went over what he’d intended to say. He cleared his throat. “I have a client who might need something accomplished in a foreign country, something—well, it’s the sort of thing that requires…”

  * * *

  Morrison wasn’t sure how to put it. What he was looking for was undoubtedly illegal. It wouldn’t result in physical harm to anyone, although it did involve stealing secrets from another person. But that was done all the time in industry, wasn’t it? Industrial espionage was a necessity in the dog-eat-dog world of big business, particularly in the highly competitive pharmaceutical industry.

  The client who’d raised the issue that brought Morrison to this drab office hadn’t requested any specific action, certainly not an illegal one. Their chat had come out of getting together for a drink at Bobby Van’s Steakhouse.

  * * *

  Morrison’s companion at the small corner table was the vice president of operations for a giant pharmaceutical company, the leading force behind and the largest contributor to PAA. The VP had casually mentioned a concern they had about experiments being conducted in quest of a cheaper form of pain medication. He’d made light of it at first, but as the conversation progressed Morrison realized that the VP was hardly amused by the situation. He needed an answer to his dilemma, and Morrison, the lobbyist for PAA, was expected to provide it.

  “There’s a rogue doctor in Papua New Guinea, of all places, who’s been trying to develop a painkiller from locally grown plants and herbs. He was a hotshot doctor in Australia before moving to New Guinea to open a clinic and do research in a lab he set up. He’s a bit of a crackpot from what I’m told, but he claims that he’s been having success with plants he’s mixing together. Whether that’s true or not is conjecture. It’s not like he’s conducting double-blind clinical trials, just uses the stuff on natives who come into his clinic. Our sources tell us that whatever he’s come up with does seem to work pretty well, and without side effects.”

  The VP didn’t have to elaborate for Morrison why this doctor and his primitive painkilling concoction threatened the veep’s company. It produced many popular prescription drugs, but its biggest seller was a pain medication that worked relatively well, produced myriad possible side effects including addiction, and generated huge yearly profits. Having another company latch on to a competing medicine made of herbs and plants, whose price would be minuscule compared to Morrison’s client’s company, certainly justified the VP’s concern.

  “Are you looking to buy him out?” Morrison asked.

  “Hell, no. What we’re looking to do is put him out of business before a competitor decides to make a deal with him.” The VP snorted. “Although I can’t imagine that happening. This doctor is one of these do-gooders, wants his painkiller to be available cheap, nickels-and-dimes, according to our sources. Not good for our business, Eric.”

  “No, it wouldn’t be. What’s his name?”

  “I wrote it down for you.” He slid a slip of paper across the table.

  “Enough of this,” the VP said, downing what was left of his drink. “I just thought that you might have some ideas how to solve this.”

  As pleasantly as it was put, Morrison sensed the steel behind the VP’s words. There had been rumors that another large K Street lobbying group was using its own considerable clout with Congress as the basis for stealing the lucrative PAA account away from Morrison, and he’d been looking for ways to enhance his value to the pharmaceutical trade association. Solving this problem would put him in good stead. That realization was very much on his mind when he said, “I’ll think about it.”

  “Whatever you do leave me out of it,” the VP said. “Strictly off the record.”

  “Of course.”

  As Morrison was paying the tab the VP said, “This is also off the record, but there’s a hefty bonus if you come up with a way to get rid of this problem. They’re putting the pressure on me.”

  * * *

  Morrison prefaced what he said to Alard during that first meeting with, “Before I get into the specifics, Mr. Alard, it’s important that whatever we decide to do remain highly confidential.”

  Alard nodded.

  “The stakes are large,” Morrison continued.

  “They usually are, Mr. Morrison. Now that we’ve established that discretion is of para
mount importance, please tell me what it is you want me and my organization to do.”

  Morrison told Alard about Dr. King and his experiments. “I assume that you and your organization does business in New Guinea?”

  Alard smiled. “We do business in every corner of the world,” he said. “Please continue.”

  Morrison had learned during a follow-up conversation with the pharmaceutical company’s VP that Dr. King owned an experimental farm in the Sepik region of PNG.

  “This doctor has a patch of land, four acres I believe, in Papua New Guinea. He’s cultivating some of the wild plants on it.”

  Alard said nothing.

  “Some of these plants are used for medicine,” Morrison continued. “You know, it’s like a superstition with the natives there. Anyway, my client would like to see that field disappear.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” Alard said in his tinny voice. “What else does this person you represent wish done about this Dr. King?”

  Morrison stiffened. There was something ominous in what Alard had asked. He quickly said, “Obviously we don’t wish to see Dr. King harmed in any way. We would like, of course, to have access to his files about his experiments, and would appreciate having that material delivered to me provided it can be retrieved without—well, without running afoul of the law.”

  “I understand what you’re asking for, Mr. Morrison, and I can assure you that my people will be able to accomplish what you wish. I have a few more questions, and there’s the matter of our fee.”

  While making arrangements with Alard had been easier than he’d anticipated, Morrison drove away with a knot in his stomach. He’d done many favors for clients over the years, including some that bordered on illegality or immorality. But he knew that arranging for this shadowy group to destroy a man’s crops and steal his research had crossed over the line.

  * * *

  Now, weeks later, he was back with Alard to deliver the second half of the agreed-upon payment for services rendered, and to learn how the project went.

  “The field is no longer there.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Me? Nothing. The native man who oversees that plot of land was persuaded to leave the village for an extended period of time. While he was away there was a fire and the plants burned. Naturally, he was compensated for his decision to vacate the area.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” Morrison said.

  “But I’m afraid that I do not have such good news about Dr. King’s research findings.”

  “Oh?”

  “It seems that the operative I assigned to visit his lab and remove what you requested was thwarted before he was able to accomplish that mission.”

  Morrison’s heart skipped a beat and he came forward in his chair. “What do you mean ‘thwarted’?”

  “It’s been reported to me that when he’d gained entry into Dr. King’s laboratory he was faced with an unpleasant situation.”

  Morrison drew heavy breaths. “Jesus,” he said. “Get to the point. What happened? What was this ‘unpleasant situation’?”

  Alard’s smile was meant to be reassuring. “It seems that Dr. King had other enemies. My operative found him dead in his laboratory, the victim of a knife attack. Naturally it was prudent for my operative to flee the premises without taking the time to search for the materials you were seeking. A project like this always involves some hazards, as I’m sure you can appreciate. My apologies for not having files to deliver to you, but the field is now rubble, as instructed.”

  “I assume your fee will be lower,” Morrison said, summoning the courage to suggest it.

  “Why?” Alard said.

  “Along with destroying the field you were to deliver the pertinent files found in the doctor’s laboratory. That was understood.”

  “Mr. Morrison, you insult me,” Alard said. “What you required was an illegal act, which you specified you’d prefer to avoid. Nevertheless we attempted it on your behalf. I must ask you for the full balance owed despite the unfortunate outcome with the doctor. As I said, a mission like this always involves some risk of discovery, and things don’t always go as planned. As it stands nothing about this incident can be traced back to you but…”

  The threat behind Alard’s words weren’t lost on Morrison. The friend who’d introduced Morrison to Alard had alluded to Alard’s organization being involved in myriad illegal activities around the globe, including some that involved physical violence. He was not someone to be trifled with.

  “You needn’t worry about anything being traced back to you—or to me, for that matter, Mr. Morrison,” Alard said to calm his client. “My people are the best at what they do. They never leave tracks. The balance of the agreed-upon fee, please.” He held out his hand.

  Morrison turned over the money and quickly left, relieved to be out of the little man’s presence. He got into his car, closed his eyes, and banged his head against the headrest. He waited until he’d calmed down sufficiently to start the engine and drive back to his office. By the time he arrived he’d formulated a different view about what had happened to Dr. King, at least as far as what he would tell his client.

  Dr. King and his tract of medicinal plants no longer posed a threat to his client’s pharmaceutical company. He, Eric Morrison, powerful Washington lobbyist, had gone out on a limb to get it done. It was a shame that the doctor had been killed, but he, Morrison, certainly hadn’t played a part in that. He’d specifically told Alard that he didn’t want anyone hurt.

  Had Alard been telling the truth about the doctor’s death? Had one of his own operatives, as he was fond of calling them, been confronted by the doctor and stabbed him in self-defense? Morison decided that it didn’t matter. What did matter was that he was owed the bonus the VP had promised, as well as undying loyalty to his lobbying firm. He was just relieved that it was over, and looked forward to getting home and enjoying a drink with his wife on the patio.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Jayla took a few days to recover from jet lag before returning to work at Renewal Pharmaceuticals and to fall back into the pattern of everyday life. She remembered that Flo Combes had put aside a dress for her, and went to the store where she was welcomed warmly. “What an ordeal you’ve had to go through,” Flo said after hugging Jayla and making her a cup of tea in the small kitchenette she’d had installed during the shop’s renovation.

  “I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the shock of that phone call I received the last time I was here. It all seems surreal, although I know it’s real, very real. I’m lucky to have one of my father’s best friends, a lawyer, handling all the legal issues, selling the house, executing his will, dealing with the police.”

  “They haven’t caught the person who did it?”

  “No, and I wonder if they ever will. The police there aren’t exactly models of efficiency. There are so many questions to answer. My father’s research notes were missing, and someone burned and bulldozed a four-acre plot of land he owned where he grew plants used in his research.”

  “That’s odd,” Flo said.

  “More than odd, I think. I visited where his land had been razed. It’s in a remote part of the island known as the Sepik, very primitive. I thought that by going there I could make sense of his murder, find some link between what had happened to the land and his death.”

  “A wasted trip?”

  “It turned out that way.”

  The small bell over the door announced that customers had entered the shop.

  “Go try that dress on again,” Flo said, getting up to greet her new customers.

  “I’ve lost weight,” Jayla said.

  “Not a problem,” Flo said over her shoulder. “I work with a terrific tailor.”

  Jayla’s weight loss had worked in her favor where the new dress was concerned. It fit perfectly. Pleased with the way she looked, she changed back into the clothes that she’d worn to the shop and was preparing to leave when Flo rejoined her, blowi
ng an errant strand of hair from her forehead. “There are some people you simply cannot please,” she said, nodding toward two women leaving the shop. “They want clothes to make them look like super-thin models but their bodies say something else.”

  Jayla laughed.

  “It’s different with you. You could easily be a model,” Flo said.

  Another laugh from Jayla to brush away the compliment.

  “It’s good to see you laugh,” Flo said. “I know it’s difficult, but a good laugh cures lots of the blues. Are you holding up okay?”

  “I guess so, only my father’s murder is always in my thoughts. Who could have done such a thing to a gentle, loving man who only wanted to help other people?”

  “I suppose there’s some sort of wise saying to answer that, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “People have been telling me that time heals all wounds,” Jayla said. “I wonder if that will ever be true for me.”

  “It does help,” Flo said while knowing that it hadn’t seemed to help Robert Brixton get over the daughter he’d lost two years earlier in a terrorist bombing attack in a D.C. outdoor café.

  “It comes to me at the strangest times,” Jayla said. “I’ll be thinking about something else and there it is, someone’s voice that sounds like my father, seeing people I work with at the lab in their white coats. It’s always there.”

  “Mind a suggestion?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Robert and I are having dinner tonight with dear friends, Mac and Annabel Smith, at their Watergate apartment. You’ll love them. Mac’s an attorney. Annabel gave up law to open a pre-Columbian shop in Georgetown. Mac has been a mentor to Robert, set him up in an office next to his and gives him all his private investigation work. A federal court judge and his wife will also be there, and a dear friend of Robert’s, Will Sayers, a real character. He’s the Washington editor of the Savannah Morning News. Please say you’ll come. A night out would do you tons of good.”

  “You’re sure I wouldn’t be imposing?”

  “Absolutely not. Want us to pick you up?”