by Jake Aaron
“John, I am at wit’s end. I think we’ve covered everything and don’t like what we’ve found. It’s unpleasant. I think I still have robust options, but they’re not here. If my cover here unravels, it will be catastrophic for me and damaging to my friends. I can’t have that. Much as I love my life here, I have to disappear. Out of respect, reporter Tani will probably drop her investigation. I need some time to think.”
“Joan, keep in mind that you can’t disappear without leaving a hole.”
That sounds a little banal, but when it comes from Gunnar, I listen. I take time to think. It will be very hard to undo Joan’s disappearance. I reply, “You make a good point. … So, the deputy director is probably the evildoer?”
“That’s my best guess. He knows we’ll expose him if …” Gunnar catches himself. He stops short of reminding me that I’m in mortal danger. He recovers, then does another about-face, “Exposing him after he kills you doesn’t do you a whole lot of good. He knows that. Sadly, if he does take this small-minded revenge, we can’t expose him because that will wind up exposing you. Follow?”
I acknowledge, “So he feels a little better making my life difficult, knowing there’s nothing I can do?”
“You could come work for me!” Gunnar jokes.
“I just might do that. I would love my boss,” I kid back. He always makes me feel better.”
“Joan, I know that was inappropriate to joke around. This can’t be easy for you. I do feel your pain and anguish. If there is anything I can do, let me know. That damn, son-of-a-bitch Higgins! Let me know what you decide.”
After our talk, I am mollified by Gunnar’s advice. I no longer feel as scattered in my thoughts. I focus on what I can do rather than on what is being done to me and by whom.
That night I take Dr. Aurand, Monique, and Viktoria out to the best restaurant in town. We have lap lap, the national dish of the country. Viktoria chooses for us. She picks beef as the meat to be cooked with pounded yam roots and coconut cream, wrapped in taro leaves. Monique adds poi to the order. Dr Aurand orders the best wine on the island. I tell them how much they mean to me. We tell stories and laugh until midnight. I kiss each on the cheek as we are about to head back to our rooms by the clinic. Dr. Aurand has a sad, knowing look in his eyes as he kisses me on the cheek going out the door of the restaurant.
The next day I go for a swim near the airport. In disguise, I fly out of Vanuatu for the Caribbean. Reporter Tani covers the sad loss of life of Dr. Joan Smith: “an island treasure who brought healing and love to hundreds.” My hundreds of satisfied patients would have run her off the island if she sullied my reputation. Smart lady. Joan’s clothes, shoes, and beach towel are found near an abandoned 1962 Citroen with the keys under the driver seat. Another swimming accident, no doubt.
Phnom Penh, Cambodia
Gunnar wakes up the following day with an inspiration. News lady Tani probably was tipped by an anonymous someone. That someone was likely a man. Why don’t I call Tani and retract the tip?
Gunnar places a call to Tani’s newspaper. He hears, “This is Tani. How may I help you?”
Gunnar speaks through a wax paper cup with the end cut out of it to disguise his voice, “Tani, I called you several days ago,” he pauses. “It was about Joan Smith.”
“You wanted me to investigate her. You said she was a fraud. I have an appointment to see her,” Tani fills in.
“That’s what I am afraid of …” Gunnar answers.
Tani speaks, “You don’t sound the same.”
“These overseas circuits! You must be used to the frequent distortions you get with long distance calls, that tunnel sound …” Gunnar tries to help himself out.
“You get used to it …” Tani replies.
“Well, Tani, I have to apologize for wasting your time. If I could take back that call to you about Joan, I would. It was wrong. I was wrong. I told my priest at confession what I had done. He told me make amends as soon as possible. You see, Joan got into to medical school from our college’s pre-med program. I did not. She also rejected me. I’ve been bitter ever since. I am still jealous. This was the first time I acted on my jealousy. I should not have. She’s a good person. I am not. I am small and petty. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Thank you for telling me. I can’t be a party to a false accusation. You are right to tell me. In the end, you did the right thing. I hope you feel good about that.”
“Tani, thank you for your kind words. I can tell you are a wonderful person. I was really way off-track. I’m glad you and my priest prevented me from injuring a fine doctor.”
Gunnar hangs up. He gets a cup of coffee and thinks about what has just happened. It sounds as if Alex’s problem is solved. She can be Dr. Joan Smith for the time being, maybe as long as she wants. He feels very good about what he has done.
He calls Dr. Joan from a public phone. He is informed that Joan is missing and presumed drowned. Gunnar does not believe that strong-swimmer Alex has drowned.
Life After Joan
The million dollars I cared little about before, suddenly has a new meaning to me. I calculate that I have a high probability of accessing it without danger. Thinking like Gunnar, I can increase that likelihood of getting to the money without being killed by reordering my priorities. Instead of going to the Caymans next, I fly to Miami. I purchase supplies and gear. I rent a car and drive to the Washington, DC, area.
I follow my target for several days. Saturday afternoon, the target heads into the Roxy theater. The feature is A Shot in the Dark, with Peter Sellers and Elke Sommer. I get a hotel room across the street with the usual precautions. I have one medium-sized, black suitcase — one of those with an extendable handle and rollers. The room has a nice view of the street.
I head back across the street and purchase a ticket to the matinee. I sit in back. I notice that the audience is totally rapt with the feature. The ushers have come in from the foyer to watch the movie. No one is about to leave the movie early. I depart fifteen minutes before the movie is scheduled to end. No one watches me exit the theater. The lobby is completely empty. I purposely drop my open tote bag outside the closed doors.. I kneel to pick up its contents. I put tear gas grenades next to each of the two front doors. I have pulled the grenade pins, leaving the safe levers in place.
I casually walk back to my hotel room across the street. There I prepare. I am ready at the open window. I sense a deja vu. The theater doors start to swing open. Some of the first departees jostle the tear gas grenades. The safety levers on the grenades release. The crowd presses forward behind the initial departees who want to turn back away from the noxious gas. Deputy Director Higgins follows shortly. The two guards in his protective detail are knocked off their game by the gas.
Higgins is disconcerted. He turns to find the detail with tearing eyes. The back of his head is centered in my telescopic sight 200 yards away.
My mind and body have entered the zone. Nothing else exists but the aim point in my crosshairs. The moment is timeless. My impatient nature changes to infinite patience. I know that I am breathing, but it feels like one breath per minute. The grip of the rifle seems like a handshake from my childhood — familiar, connected, right. My finger is on the trigger, but my mind will squeeze off two very precise rounds to the backside of the deputy director’s cranium.
Pop — pop, my portable automatic .22 rifle fires. I feel almost no recoil at all. The suppressor quiets an already weak sound — a sound partially drowned out by passing cars. The echoes of the pops in the canyon of buildings mask its origin. My room is darkened. I have fired standing on a chair, away from the window to avoid detection. I remove the plastic raincoat, shower cap, and rubber gloves that shielded me from the traces of spent gunpowder. I use alcohol wipes on my face and neck. I disassemble the rifle and store it in the airport carry-on with the raincoat, shower cap, gloves, and alcohol wipes. I glance quickly in the mirror. I don’t recognize myself with the wig and different makeup.
Higgins, meanwhile, is down. I never miss. The two slugs ricochet around in his head carving up his intelligence in each nanometer of progress. At only 978 miles per hour, the projectiles’ velocities are still enough to do the job. He slumps to the sidewalk with no control panel for his neural pathways. He stops breathing; his heart stops pumping; he dies.
His guards see the two small holes in the back of his head. They immediately conclude a professional hit with a silenced .22 pistol — the proverbial double tap. Each takes down a suspicious perpetrator to what was Higgins’ rear. The two persons of interest are handcuffed. One guard calls for an ambulance. Both guards search futilely in the tear gas for a silenced .22 pistol.
I am feeling good. My face has no affect, but I feel elated. Euphoria is too weak a word. Performing like a virtuoso with the danger of being caught or shot, makes my spirit soar. Not only have I connected with my roots, I feel I have also connected with my destiny. And I feel righteous. Higgins played in the gladiator arena. He was big boy. He wanted to kill me for the same crime he perpetrated. Besides, he was a weasel who agreed to leave me alone. He had a choice. He chose to ruin my happiness, my perfect spot in the world, my dreams. He killed my life, my second life. He was a victim of himself.
Within a minute, I am catching the elevator to the first floor of the hotel. I do a quick scan of the lobby. There is a couple checking out late, at the front desk. Both have luggage carry-ons identical to mine. When neither is looking, I cooly snap the name tag from the female’s bag and retie it to mine. I put my carry-on next to hers. I hear the couple say they are going to Dulles. They depart with “their” bags. I ask the check-out clerk how to get to Dulles. He tells me I might be able to share a limo with the couple who just walked away.
Two policemen enter the hotel looking for suspicious people The same couple, ahead of me, is stopped briefly. The police ask the man several questions. The policemen send them on their way with my bag. I am next for questions.
The senior patrolman puts his arm up to bar the progress of his junior, “What are you thinking, John? She’s probably never fired a handgun, have you, sweetie?”
I flash an embarrassed smile, “Why no, should I?” My slight build and miniskirt make me an unlikely evildoer. I walk on to catch up with the couple to share a ride to Dulles. I rip the name tag from “my” luggage as the driver loads the couple’s bags. At Dulles Airport, my real carry-on will be on top — the one with the least wear on its wheels.
Caribbean
I walk the streets in the Cayman Islands looking for someone approximating my build and age. I casually speak with qualifiers. I choose the third one. We talk briefly. She’s in.
She enters the bank ahead of me. She indicates her business to a teller who summons the president of the bank. She follows him upstairs and is asked to sit in a plush chair. A secretary brings her fresh champagne and chocolate. She produces an account number and asks for a withdrawal. He nods that he will take care of it. I note he does not pull out any list of persons he is watching for. He walks over to check the account against a register in a safe. He does not exit the room to contact anyone.
I am watching this from a chair in the lobby, “waiting for my husband,” if anyone asks. I can see their transaction through the large glass walls of the bank president’s office. The bank president returns to my double. I read his lips: “I am so sorry. I checked twice. I cannot match your account number against those in my files. Would you be so kind as to double check the digits?”
If he had summoned anyone or tried to detain my double, I would have pulled the fire alarm switch. Then, she and I would have bolted. But we don’t have to do that.
I walk up the very open, wall-less spiral stairs to intervene, “Excuse me, this is my personal assistant. I sent her to get the process going. I must have given her the wrong account number. Try this one.” By the bank president’s lack of surprise, I surmise others have employed this gambit before.
The bank president says my account checks out. He doesn’t try to call anyone. He offers to keep the money in the bank for me. Failing that, he offers a cashier’s check. I get five separate checks to diversify my risk.
After we exit that bank, we go to five others. I keep my double with me for each of the deposits. She carries a knife I gave her. It is in her purse for assurance. After the fifth deposit, I pay her $500 for her trouble.
I am now more independent than before. How much more? $1,000,000! Or $999,500, to be precise.
The independence money buys, also frees the mind. Suddenly I realize an option I had not considered before. I have a warm thought of a Gunnarism, “The further you get from a problem, the closer you are to a solution.” Given my new love of practicing medicine, I could get a new identity backed up with a young doctor’s real credentials. I did that before. Some distant location away from the continental United States would be smart, say Kodiak Island, Alaska, or Palau. My fondness for tropical islands inclines me to consider an island like Palau. 805 miles northeast of Guam, Palau would be closer to Gunnar’s area of operations. It’s worth considering.
Medical School
I have missed a year plus of medical school, but I think I can lift up the needle on the record player of life and put it in the vinyl groove where I left off, to use a record player analogy. I wear women’s business attire: white blouse under a knee-length Navy blue skirt with matching jacket. My two-inch heels match my outfit. My lipstick is a subdued red. My hair is a professional-looking bun. I look serious.
I mentally review my personal reasons for wanting to pursue my MD degree again. Largely, I miss that familiar feeling of forward momentum I have experienced in pursuing a worthwhile challenging, long-term goal. This is almost the opposite of my contentment in just being, the feeling I enjoyed in Vanuatu. As I seriously consider the pursuit of a surgical residency, I can almost feel a hormonal shift in my system. I sense some of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies mysteriously returning. That I favor one way of life, then the other, makes me feel like a whimsical ball on the ping-pong table of life.
My self-reflection is interrupted when a secretary tells me I’m up. She escorts me into small, austere white room. The three-member panel of faculty doctors sit side-by-side at two tables pulled together. An identical, perpendicular third table forms a shortened T. The narrow end of that table has a chair for me to sit, interrogation-style facing my judges.
“Sit, Ms. Olson,” curtly begins the chairman in the center. No smiles, no handshakes. Compassion is reserved for patients, not would-be doctors. I guess a hug or kiss on the cheek is out of the question. “We’ve been reviewing your history. Top marks, undergraduate. Remarkable MCATs. First year academics here, outstanding. Then, you dropped out. Care to elaborate on that?” He looks up from his notes and stares at me like a prosecuting attorney.
I hate formalities, but when in Rome … “Thank you for the opportunity today to be heard. I appreciate the time and attention this board is giving me to show that I should be readmitted to this elite institution’s medical program.” I take a breath for effect and continue, “The sudden death of my twin brother Gunnar in combat in Vietnam was a major shock to me. He was the only family I have other than my aunt and uncle who raised us. Gunnar and I moved in with them following the accidental death of my mother and father before our entering high school. My twin and I were always exceptionally close, so I took his death extremely hard …” Sometimes a sob story plays.
And sometimes it doesn’t. The doctor on my right interrupts, “We are not unsympathetic to your loss, Ms. Olson. Although it is belated, you have our sincerest condolences. Our purpose here today is evaluate whether you should be readmitted, keeping in mind that students need to have very strong persistence and character to get through this very rigorous program. The standards here are the highest in the world. I should add that the pressures of being a doctor are equally challenging. I also remind you that your departure wasted a valuable slot in the program another student could have filled w
ith success. Please explain how we can expect that some other unforeseen setback will not cause you to drop out again.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I answer as I rehearsed. “To be very frank, I have not needed to drop out of any program before, and I swear to you that I absolutely will not drop out again. I am totally dedicated to excelling in this program here and becoming a doctor who is a credit to this preeminent institution. I cannot foresee any circumstance that could possibly give me …”
The chairman in the center interrupts, “What my colleague is trying to ask is whether you can handle the pressure.”
My mind answers, I shot a sitting president of the United States and evaded being caught — successfully. How’s that for handling pressure? My mouth answers, “I think my record speaks for itself in that regard …”
The doctor on my left intervenes, “God forbid, but what if your aunt or uncle unexpectedly dies? You said it yourself, your life has had an unusually high incidence of serious emotional trauma. We know, as physicians and students of medicine, that stress is cumulative. Couldn’t the next blow in life be too much, forcing you to once again give up? What about a setback like mononucleosis? Ms. Olson, are you resourceful enough to handle the unexpected?” It felt as if each panel member was trying to out-hypothetical the other.
My brain scoffs, I eluded the greatest spy agency in the world. My words: “Going back in time to running businesses in high school …”
“That is in your record,” the impatient chairman cuts me off. “This board is concerned about your response to the vagaries of life. How will you handle them?”
How about performing emergency life-saving surgery on the spot without ever having done the procedure, I mentally argue. I can’t bring up my practicing medicine without a license under an assumed name. “I can assure each of you that I am up to any challenge,” I actually say.