by Jaq Wright
Perez sat motionless for a moment, then spoke in Spanish. Santiago turned to Overbridge. “He asks God to bless you.” He waved him closer, putting Perez's hands into Overbridge's. Perez squeezed him tightly, then pulled him close and embraced him, tears streaming down his cheeks from his closed eyes.
“Now,” Santiago said, “let me explain what we need you to do.” He sat in his wheelchair, holding his “uncle’s” hand as he talked.
“To give Luis back his sight and hearing, as well as his legs, we need to put in a complete cortical implant, like the ones you saw for the dogs. Do you think that you can do that successfully?”
“Given an appropriate facility, I can practically guarantee it. But how will we get this approved? I can’t simply add a case of this magnitude to a regular operation like we did with Pierre.”
“I have a state of the art facility in southern Mexico. Everything will be ready by next week.”
“What about the governmental regulations?”
“My stature is immense, and the government will be thrilled for the publicity. We, YOU, will go down in history as the man who made the lame to walk, the blind to see, and the deaf to hear.”
Overbridge was still for a moment, just thinking. This was the most important medical innovation in his lifetime. He was ready. He was all in.
“Yes,” he said softly, “We should, we must, proceed.”
Santiago rolled over to him, shook his hand, and left the room, just catching the side of the chair slightly on the door frame as he passed. Overbridge did not notice.
Maxwell took Overbridge back to the garage. “We will not be picking you up tomorrow evening,” he said. “Mr. Perez is flying Pierre to France for a surprise visit to see his grandfather, to show him he can walk.”
“Can’t I go?” Overbridge would have loved to see the look on the old man’s face.
“No,” Maxwell responded quickly, “keep up your regular routine. Just cancel your schedule for next Thursday and Friday. We will pick you up the day after tomorrow at seven p.m. as usual.”
◆◆◆
As Overbridge entered his apartment, he was surprised to see the message light blinking on his answering device. He pushed the button.
“Cathy Tucker here. Just confirming that we are expecting you at our place for dinner tomorrow night at seven.”
He had completely forgotten. Well, as luck would have it, he was available. He dialed the Tuckers. Cathy picked up, and he told her he was delighted to be coming.
◆◆◆
Cameron and Mitzi went up to his cubicle, logged onto the system, and printed out the file. ServCorp was a half-billion dollar corporation, which was owned by a Mexican national, Domingo Herrera. The FBI file had no information on the owner, who had no known ties to criminal or political organizations.
Cameron's heart skipped. “I knew a Domingo Herrera. He was the father of Selena Herrera, the mistress of Juan Carlos Perez.”
“The girl who nearly got you killed?”
“Exactly..”
“I think that qualifies as a tie-in. How should we proceed?”
“There are a total of seven ServCorp facilities, the two we've been to already, then two in Manhattan, and three in Brooklyn. I say we keep with our pattern.”
“So, to Brooklyn tomorrow?” Mitzi got up. “Let's get out of here. I feel exposed.”
Chapter 32
Thursday, November 3
Brooklyn
It took nearly the entire day to visit the three Brooklyn ServCorp facilities. Each of them turned out to be in the upper floors over ground floor businesses, just like the one in New Jersey, and all were staffed by graduate-student types, who were no more nervous than would be expected for computer nerds being accosted by the FBI. Nothing to suggest anything more than what they purported to be, and certainly nothing in the buildings which would correspond to any sort of command center for Perez.
Each contact was dutifully reported, and Santiago received each additional report with a grim smile. If they kept up their pattern, they should be approaching the uptown office sometime tomorrow. He called Francisco.
“Are you set?” he asked.
“Yes, everything is ready for our guests.”
“It will almost certainly be tomorrow.”
“Understood.” He hung up.
◆◆◆
The bell rang precisely at seven, and Cathy opened the door to find Dr. Overbridge standing rigidly on her porch, his face slightly flushed from his walk through the brisk night air.
“Welcome to our home, Dr. Overbridge,” she said. To her great surprise, he gave her a welcoming peck on the cheek as he entered the front hall.
Jack came around the corner, and Overbridge shook his hand warmly. “Am I the first? Sorry to be so punctual.”
“You are indeed,” Cathy replied. “Why don't you two have a seat in the living room while I help Jean finish the prep.”
Jack led Overbridge in and they sat down. Here comes fifteen minutes of awkward, he thought, but much to his surprise, his guest started right in.
“Such a beautiful evening. My walk was positively invigorating. And this room is lovely, I can see your wife has excellent taste.”
Jack was so taken aback by this normal opener as to be almost speechless himself, but soon they were chatting like old friends. When Cathy stepped in to check on them, the two of them were laughing at the recollection of a prank played on the attending staff by the Neuro Institute residents back when Jack had been in training. The doorbell rang again, and she went over to greet Bill and Amanda.
“Dr. Overbridge, I'd like to introduce you to Bill and Amanda McCullough. Bill is an internist with me at LexMed. We are also expecting Miguel Cardoso, but he will certainly be a few more minutes. He refuses to ever be on time. Says it is a protest against the process of assimilation that is extinguishing his cultural heritage.” Everyone laughed politely.
Miguel, a tall man with wavy black hair, swept more than walked through the door a few minutes later. He was introduced as a gastroenterologist from Roosevelt Hospital.
“Really, Cathy,” Amanda said in a stage whisper, her eyes rolling loudly, “Four doctors? There goes all hope for polite conversation.”
Cathy knew the risks, but had hoped to find guests who could engage with Dr. Overbridge. She needn't have worried about that, as it turned out. There was certainly lots of medical gossip, but Overbridge also regaled them with anecdotes from his days at Berkeley in the Seventies. Or, as he noted, what little he could remember of them. Overall, Cathy was more than pleased with the dinner conversation. Although, at one point, Bill and Miguel got into a detailed discussion about diarrhea and its treatment, for the most part, the topics were socially acceptable.
When Cathy and Amanda came in from fetching the dessert – Cathy's famous pecan bread pudding – Bill and Miguel were engaged in a spirited exchange on the relative merits of medical mission work, versus donations to organizations like the Lake Foundation, versus political activism as a means to promoting better health in less developed countries. Miguel was originally from Brazil, but had also spent several years in Chile, so he spoke both Portuguese and Spanish, and his English had just enough of an accent to be charming.
“These episodic visits by gringo doctors,” he almost shouted, “are a waste of resources! The money it costs to do that would be better spent paying local physicians to do the same work. These trips are nothing but imperialist medical tourism.”
“You are ignoring the fact,” Bill retorted, “that people are much more likely to make contributions if they had been on mission trips, and that they certainly have SOME benefit to the hundreds of patients seen.”
“I’m more worried about the safety of traveling to emerging countries,” Amanda chimed in. “I am terrified when Bill goes. But he has been on several, and I know he finds them richly rewarding.”
“Yes,” Miguel shouted, “rewarding for Bill!” He turned to Cathy. “Come on Cathy, you know th
at the Lake Foundation, working with local resources, can accomplish things that the tourist doctors can't match.”
“I used to be more certain. This is a bad week to ask me. Local politics and corruption have blocked us again. At least, if you go do a procedure in Tegucigalpa, you know for certain that that particular patient was helped.”
“What happened?” Miguel asked.
“Juan Carlos Perez happened.”
She related the disruption of the sanitation plant. “And it’s not the first time.”
“Go on,” Miguel urged.
“Okay, so six years ago, I was on site in northern Nicaragua, going over final plans for a water treatment plant with my chief engineer. A flunkie from the Ministry of Health rolled up in a Range Rover with two men from MexiVox. They told me that THEIR foundation was taking over the project and the funding, and that the Lake Foundation was out. I was mad as a hornet, but when I calmed down, I decided that, as long as the people got the plant, I should be happy I had more money to put into other projects. Fast forward two years, and I heard rumors that nothing was progressing. I tried to go to the site, but the army goons wouldn’t let me in. Long story short, it has now been six years, and there is no plant. What did happen is that MexiVox has been given a monopoly on mobile service for that whole sector of Nicaragua, and several high officials in the Ministry have retired to lovely estates and fat bank accounts.
Overbridge had started at the name, and broke in. “Juan Carlos Perez? You mean the billionaire philanthropist? I thought he was very much in support of research and helping.”
Cathy shook her head. “That man is only about money and power. The billionaire part is true, but the philanthropy is all for publicity. He promises help, but never delivers, while grabbing up influence with both hands.”
“I agree,” added Miguel. “The news is all about his beneficence, but the rumors are all about corruption.”
“Not rumors, facts. His corruption games killed that sanitation project six years ago, and another one this week. Literally tens of thousands of deaths per year could have been prevented, just on my projects. And all so he can control more government officials and wield more influence and power. The man is a monster.” Cathy was starting to get worked up, and Jack tapped on her knee under the table. She took a couple of deep breaths and got up to fetch some whipped cream.
The subject moved on to recent changes in Medicare reimbursement, and Overbridge became stiffer and silent. Then the siren wail of Miguel's pager went off. He stepped into the other room to answer, then came back in.
“Duty calls. Some five-year-old with a coin lodged in the esophagus. I think I will go remove it. The evening has been lovely. My only regret is that second piece of bread pudding,” he laughed, patting his belly.
Dr. Overbridge also rose abruptly. “I also must say goodnight. I am quite fatigued.” He quickly collected his coat and hat, and was gone.
◆◆◆
On the walk home, he ruminated on the remarks made regarding Perez. Troubled, he began to count his steps, which helped. At that point, he noted that he had NOT counted his steps walking to the Tucker's home, which was most unusual. He fought the urge to walk back to their door to get an accurate count, telling himself it did not matter, but eventually he gave up and retraced his steps.
When he got to his own door, he found, to his satisfaction, that it was an even two thousand steps. Which could only be a good omen.
As he walked past his doorman, however, he abruptly turned and went back out to the street, heading uptown to Our Lady. The main part of the hospital was quiet this late in the evening, but the Emergency Room was, as usual, filled to capacity. None of that interested Overbridge. He went up to his office to use his computer. He didn’t have one at home, and he had resolved to learn all he could about Juan Carlos Perez.
A Google search yielded eighty-five million results. Not very useful. He started with the Wikipedia article. It appeared to have been written by a publicist, although it gave the basic facts. Perez was fifty-five and had grown up in southern Mexico on a farm. He had left for Mexico City when he was fifteen and lived on the streets there for several years, then got a job as a delivery man. He worked his way into running his own messenger service, which eventually was acquired by DHL, netting him a small fortune. This was just as cell technology was starting to take off, and he was able to use his cash to lock up the licenses for the radiowave bandwidth in most of southern Mexico and Central America, leading to a fortune that seemed to grow exponentially. Typical rags-to-riches stuff. Made him look like a scrappy, hard-working, lucky guy. Overbridge looked further.
He logged onto Amazon, and searched for biographies on the man. This was a little more manageable, only about ninety hits, and really several of those were different editions of the same book, so only about fifty to sift through. One caught his eye, “I Have Your Number: The Rise of Juan Carlos Perez.” The description mentioned that the author had died under mysterious circumstances soon after the book was published, and that the allegations in the book had been vigorously denied. The book was out of print, but there were some used ones listed. One was from a vendor in Manhattan. He memorized the address and telephone number, then logged off.
He walked home, completely absorbed in his own head, and oblivious to the possible dangers of walking through Harlem at midnight. Nor had he noticed the man in the dark coat who was following him, staying fifty yards behind in the shadows.
Chapter 33
Friday, November 4
Paris
Perez received the call from Santiago in his Paris apartment. Two in the morning in New York, but a reasonable eight a.m. in France. This foray by Overbridge into Harlem at night was well outside his usual pattern. As was the visit with the Tuckers. His isolation had been one of his best characteristics, in Perez's estimation. He was annoyed he had not arranged a camera inside the doctor's office. His men had seen the glow of the computer in the window, but did not have any way of knowing what he had been doing.
Personnel was always the trickiest problem. For some tasks, like the implantation, there were simply too few individuals who were satisfactory. Perez’s body would be dead in six months, perhaps six weeks, and for his plan to succeed, it was important that there be no loose ends. World-class neurosurgeons at obscure hospitals with no personal attachments were rare. He would need to step up his surveillance. Since the man walked everywhere, and never appeared to take the slightest notice of any of his surroundings, following him had been easy. Perez simply needed to add monitoring of his phone and office computer. He so instructed Santiago, and was assured that everything would be in place by the time Overbridge's office staff arrived in the morning.
He also wondered about the Tuckers. He had run checks on them, of course. Dr. Tucker was quite public, both at work and in his church activity, and other than apparently being irritatingly ethical, there were no real concerns.
Cathy Tucker was a little more problematic. She had spent a lot of time in his part of the world, and her Foundation dealt with the same governmental and criminal organizations that he had been involved with for the past thirty years. It was altogether possible that she had connections that could be troubling, if brought up.
The real question was whether Overbridge had discussed any of his business with the Tuckers. He would feel him out on the subject, but if there were any question of danger, it may simply be safer to eliminate them. Of course, he could not do anything to alert Dr. Overbridge. It would not do to make your surgeon uncomfortable just before he literally took your head off. Spy shows notwithstanding, Perez knew better than to think that surgeons would perform well under duress. He would not threaten him as he had Cabrera, not with his own life at stake.
◆◆◆
This entire trip to France had been envisioned as a way to pull Overbridge further into Perez's circle. He had had a film crew set up, and had recorded every second of the poet's walk up to his grandfather's door, the joyful reunion, a
nd the touching gratitude of the old man, which had occurred the evening prior. Perez himself was in the recordings, but would make sure that the version edited for Overbridge showed him only from the side and back, where the resemblance to Santiago was more than acceptable.
Today, they would take the Gulfstream back to New York, and Pierre would be re-installed in his room. His grandfather would die of a heart attack, which no medical examiner would ever suspect was due to an injection of succinyl choline. Perez was not interested in any uncontrolled witnesses.
◆◆◆
One of the biggest hassles for Cameron and Mitzi was parking. New Jersey had not been too bad, but back in the city, it was a nightmare. The ServCorp facility in lower Manhattan, like all the others, was as boring as paint drying, but because they had ended up parking about three blocks away, after a fruitless hour of circling the streets, the process had taken nearly two hours. They had lunch nearby, and talked it over.
“We're wasting our time,” Mitzi said. “Even if these are owned by Perez, they may just be what they appear. He does have billions of dollars in legitimate high tech businesses. We need to think of another way to find him.”
“I don't know,” mused Cameron, “why would he have it set up through Herrera if it were legit? Unless you have another idea, we should at least check out the last address. There's really no downside.”
As they drove past the building, looking for parking, Cameron noticed that the street was unusually quiet. Not a business open on the entire block. No parking spaces, either, of course, so around the block they went. It looked like this was a bigger facility than the others, and had alleys on either side, with garbage bins overflowing. As they came around, Cameron could see that there was also an alley that ran all along the back of the building. Three beat-up panel vans were parked there, which bothered him a little, vaguely. Eventually, they found a space two streets over, and parked.