The First Patient

by Michael Palmer

  As far as Gabe knew. Blackthorn had been blind since birth. No one in Tyler spoke about it very much. It was as if no one really saw it as a disability—at least not in him. Certainly it was a drawback to be overcome, but rather as an inescapable fact of the man's life—something to work with rather than around, almost like being left-handed.

  On the way into town from the airport, Gabe recounted in detail the bizarre and remarkable episode he had observed in Drew Stoddard before learning from his wife and chief of staff that it was at least the fourth one. Blackthorn, his trademark hat resting on his lap, dark glasses shielding whatever there was of his eyes, listened quietly, but Gabe could tell he was processing every word. In the courtroom, The Chief, as he had inevitably come to be called away from the stenographers, was a forensic expert witness to be reckoned with. He was equally adept at exposing defendants attempting to hide behind a plea of insanity, and championing with irrefutable logic the defense's claims of diminished capacity.

  "You have a sense of how these episodes began?" he asked when Gabe had finished his detailed description.

  "I wasn't there, but his chief of staff tells me it was quite sudden. He reports a twitch or a tic at the corner of the president's eye—the right one, I think—then some disjointed, word-salad sentences, then suddenly, boom, a full-blown, manic craziness with hallucinations, motor irritability, and pressured speech. By the time I arrived at his bedside, he was really quite mad—disoriented, hyperkinetic, sweating, blood pressure and pulse headed off the charts."

  "Then just as quickly it all began to resolve."

  "Exactly. Over about twenty or thirty minutes, the mania and hallucinations gave way to profound fatigue and, soon, exhausted sleep."

  There was a prolonged silence, eventually ended by the psychologist as they cruised over the George Mason Bridge and into the city.

  "We shall see what the testing blots and the blocks have to tell us," he said, "but off what you've told me, it sounds toxic."

  "Some kind of drug reaction?"

  "Or something that's being secreted in his body."

  "Like from a tumor? I thought about that. He's had a normal MRI and a CT scan, but they were just of his head. A chemical-secreting tumor could be anywhere."

  "So what have you chosen to do about all this?"

  "Do?"

  "Well, the man does have a fair amount of—how should I say it?—responsibility."

  "He's been a hell of a president."

  "I agree. So do most of the minorities in the country."

  "And over the next four years there's no telling how much he can accomplish."

  "Provided he doesn't go off the deep end and push the shiny big red button."

  "I need to find out what's wrong with him, Kyle."

  "I'll say you do. You sure you're not the one who needs help?"

  Gabe risked a glance over at the man, but The Chief was facing stoically ahead.

  "I wish I were back home," Gabe said.

  Blackthorn set a hand on Gabe's shoulder.

  "When it's time, you'll come home," he said. "Meanwhile, the president has the right doctor taking care of him. Of that I am certain."

  With help from Treat Griswold, Gabe had surprisingly little trouble getting Blackthorn into the White House and then to the medical clinic, which had been closed since before the motorcade to Baltimore. Then, after ensuring that there were no reporters or other surprise visitors wandering about, Griswold stood guard as the two doctors crossed to the elevator and rode up to the president's residence, where the chief executive waited with his wife.

  After brief introductions, Gabe took advantage of the situation to confirm that Stoddard's lungs were still clear and that he was, in fact, ready and able to undergo extensive psychological and neurological testing. In case of any problem, Carol would remain close by in another room and Gabe would be in the clinic. Neither the president nor the First Lady showed any particular reaction to Blackthorn's appearance or his blindness, although Stoddard did ask the man if he was Democrat or Republican.

  "Arapaho," was the reply.

  CHAPTER 26

  Back in his office, Gabe fished out Lily Sexton's card and called her at Lily Pad Stables. The secretary-designate answered on the first ring, prompting Gabe to wonder what the caller ID read for calls originating in the White House.

  "This is Lily."

  Gabe flashed on the woman, elegant, alluring, and stately in her tuxedo—clearly one of a kind. Despite the drawing in Ferendelli's desk and the notion that Lily and the man were involved with one another, the idea of spending some time with her, especially on horseback, held definite appeal.

  "Lily, it's Gabe. Gabe Singleton."

  "Well hi. After the other night I was hoping I might hear from you. Everything all right with the president?"

  Gabe focused on what he and Lattimore had told the world after Stoddard missed the state dinner. It was no surprise, really, but the list of those anxious for information on Drew's health kept growing.

  "He's doing fine."

  "Excellent. After we spoke the other night, then you rushed away on your mission of caring, I decided you needed Serious Therapy, so I've been anxiously waiting to tell you."

  "Are you that perceptive? Half the people who know me think I could use a good shrink."

  "Not a shrink, Doctor, Serious Therapy. He's my best trail horse—an absolute hunk."

  "And here I thought you had brilliantly diagnosed me after just a few minutes together."

  "Maybe I have. We'll see what you need after you spend some time on S.T. I hope you'll agree this is some horse. The president's ridden him twice."

  "Before he became the leader of the free world, Drew and I rode several times at my ranch in Wyoming. For a Navy man, he knows his way around a horse pretty well. Serious Therapy sounds perfect for me."

  "Name the day."

  "Tomorrow if possible. Sometime in the late morning or early afternoon?"

  "Serious Therapy tomorrow at, say, one. You'll love him."

  "I suspect I will."

  "Some tea and maybe a little lunch first?"

  "That would be perfect. One other thing, Ms. Lily. Do you know very much about nanotechnology?"

  There was a hesitation before her reply—just a beat, but definite.

  "At this point, before answering, I'm supposed to ask you why you want to know. But instead I'll just tell you that among certain circles I might be considered something of an expert on the subject."

  "That's terrific. Do you mind if we make our lunch and ride sort of a nanotechnology in-service? I've done some reading, but I want to know more."

  "I'll do what I can. Do you want to tell me why the sudden interest?"

  "Sure. It's probably nothing, but one of the other docs here told me that my predecessor, Jim Ferendelli, had a rather large medical library in his house in Georgetown. I thought I might borrow some of his basic medical textbooks to use in the White House medical office. I'm sort of famous back home for looking things up in front of my patients. I figure that if they know I'm not afraid to admit I don't know something, they might lower their expectations a bit.

  "Anyhow, I mentioned the book thing to Drew, and he had a key to Ferendelli's place. So I went there. In addition to just the sort of books I need, the doctor had a number of volumes dealing with nanotechnology. I brought them home with me and just started reading. Fascinating, fascinating stuff. But educating myself has been a slow-going process. I thought maybe you could give me a bit more grounding."

  "I'll be happy to try," Lily said. "It's impressive that he should be interested in such an arcane subject."

  "Did he ever mention that interest to you?"

  "Hardly. In fact, except for maybe one brief introduction, I've never spoken to the man."

  Gabe felt himself go cold.

  The drawing in Ferendelli's desk drawer, quite well done, with obvious caring, was clearly of Lily. It seemed possible, albeit remotely so, that he could have done
it from photographs, but why? How could the two of them not have known one another, and quite well at that?

  Gabe struggled to remain calm and to come up in tempo with just the right words.

  "Well," he managed, "it sounds like you would have had something in common with him."

  "Probably so. In addition to industrial manufacturing and communications, medicine is probably the most promising area of nanotechnologic research."

  Gabe's mind was swirling through the possible reasons that Lily would deny knowing Ferendelli. He felt desperate to get off the phone before he somehow gave his concern away.

  "So then," he said, "tomorrow it will be nanotechnology and Serious Therapy."

  "And tea," Lily Sexton said. "Never forget the tea."

  CHAPTER 27

  Late afternoon shadows stretched across the esplanade as Treat Griswold, driving a two-year-old silver Jeep Grand Cherokee, maneuvered through light traffic. Half a dozen car-lengths behind, Alison followed warily. There was no reason for Griswold to suspect he was being tailed, but he was a pro and he had seen Alison on several different occasions, including just that morning in Baltimore.

  After her return by motorcade from the Convention Center, Alison had spoken to Secret Service director of internal affairs Mark Fuller, who had originally sent her undercover into the White House medical office. Careful not to allude to Griswold in any way, she explained that while she was waiting for something, anything, to break regarding the Ferendelli disappearance, she had decided to do background checks on a number of White House employees, including several agents. Fuller considered her request for access to personnel files and then somewhat reluctantly gave her the passwords she needed.

  Alison took pains to review the files of a dozen randomly chosen men and women. The last thing she wanted anyone to know was that she had a particular interest in any one of them—especially the president's number-one protector. It was frightening to know that she was dealing with perhaps the most thorough, effective, efficient investigative agency in the country. If she had been asked to keep an eye on the White House, there was no reason not to suspect that someone had been given the task of keeping an eye on her. Mixing her subjects and keeping meticulous records as to how long she spent on the files of each, she began to piece together the story of the man who had been decorated three times for his service to three different presidents but who also seemed to have surprisingly little life outside of his job.

  Griswold, a state high school wrestling champion, born and raised in Kansas and educated in criminal justice at K State, had turned fifty-one this past month. He had been married and divorced twice before he was thirty-two—the first time after four years, the second after just two. No children. No subsequent marriages. He lived in what sounded like an apartment complex in Dale City, Virginia, thirty miles south of the capital. There was really remarkably little else to be learned about the man.

  He earned a better than decent salary, approaching $175,000 with Senior Executive Service and SAIC—Special Agent in Charge of detail—pay factored in, but didn't seem to live up to his means. He was right up to the minute in terms of using his fairly generous allotment of vacation time, but as far as she could tell, he had never taken a day of sick time. Never.

  As part of her training, Alison had taken courses in single and team surveillance. Keep slightly to the right of the car ahead. No sudden lane changes. Anticipate the moves of the quarry, and be ready to react smoothly. Employing every rule she could remember, she followed Griswold across the Potomac and onto I-95 leading south into Virginia. On paper, and indeed in real life, Treat Griswold seemed almost too good to be true. To this point, in addition to his not being among the most physically attractive men in the world, the only chink in his highly polished armor seemed to be the inhaler he carried in breach of regulations, or at least in violation of tradition and unwritten protocol.

  The likely explanation, hardly a thrilling one, was that the president had simply found it more convenient to do things that way, rather than having to scout down the doctor on duty each time he felt wheezy while away from the medicine cabinet in the official residence.

  Griswold was driving in no particular hurry, but now, for the first time, something curious had happened. He had passed the exit to Dale City and was continuing south on the interstate. Alison pulled her road map up and smoothed it open over the steering wheel. There was no doubt about it. Griswold wasn't headed home. Five miles . . . ten . . . twenty. . . .

  Alison fished two sticks of bubble gum–flavored Trident from her purse and began working them over with vigor. She had been a serious gum chewer since grammar school, having made her way from Fleers Dubble Bubble, through Juicy Fruit, to Wrigley's Spearmint, and finally to Trident sugar-free, with an occasional jawbreaker thrown in. It wasn't the most attractive habit in the world, she knew, but she was hooked. Over the years, she had come to chew mostly when she was tense, and like a ventriloquist of sorts, she had mastered the art of chewing, when she had to, without visibly moving her jaws.

  They were entering Fredericksburg when Griswold eased off the highway. Alison slowed and managed to keep a car between them, but the situation was getting dicey. Still, there was no hint from ahead that she had been spotted. She risked dropping back half a block.

  According to her map, the city was located on the Rappahannock River, fifty or so miles south of Washington and the same distance north of Richmond. If her memory was right and Richmond, the capital of the state, had also been the capital of the Confederacy, then Fredericksburg must have been in a hell of a tense spot during the Civil War.

  They crossed the river and entered a tangle of streets with rows of minimally maintained buildings. Alison was a block away when Griswold suddenly pulled into a short drive in front of a two-bay cinder-block garage, with separate pairs of doors. She ducked down and peered over the dash as he surveyed the street. Finally, apparently convinced that it was safe, Griswold pulled open the doors of the nearer bay and quickly drove inside.

  The street, totally deserted at the moment, had a few duplexes and triplexes but hardly seemed like the sort of place where people paid much attention to their neighbors' business. Five minutes passed. Alison was about to drive past to determine where the man might have gone when he emerged, having changed his black suit for a sporty dark windbreaker and tan slacks and his business shoes for a stylish pair of loafers—European, she guessed. His bulk actually seemed somewhat transformed, although there was little he could do about his thick, stubby neck and bald spot.

  He locked the doors behind him and again warily scanned the street. Hunched low behind the wheel, Alison breathed deeply and exhaled slowly, trying to calm herself.

  At that moment, again apparently satisfied that he was unobserved, Griswold unlocked the second set of doors. Hinges badly in need of oiling screeched as he swung the doors open and disappeared again into the garage. After a few seconds, the subdued thrum of an engine cut through the still air. Alison slid down even farther, until she could just see up ahead from beneath the top of the steering wheel. The engine noise continued—a low, even, powerful growl. Finally, the agent rolled backward out of the garage at the wheel of a pristine silver Porsche 911 Cabriolet convertible—eighty or ninety thousand at least, Alison guessed.

  Clearly anxious to get away as quickly as possible, his pate reflecting the sun, Griswold closed and locked the garage doors, swung out of the drive, and sped back down the street in the direction they had come, passing just a few feet from where Alison was huddled under the wheel.

  By the time she dared to sit up and turn her Camry around, the Porsche was gone. Pessimistic about her chances of reconnecting, she guessed that Griswold must have headed toward the interstate. Doing eighty, she weaved through traffic back across the Rappahannock. At the last possible instant, she caught sight of the Porsche—a bullet streaking onto I-95, headed south away from D.C. and toward Richmond. It took a while to catch up, but she strongly sensed she had done it w
ithout being spotted. By the time they reached the outskirts of the capital of the Confederacy she had written down the license number.

  The car, the clothes, even his swagger—it was as if Treat Griswold had driven into the rickety garage in Fredericksburg and emerged a different man. Now that man was easing off the interstate into the low-rent district of Richmond. Comfortable with the pattern of his driving and his lack of attention to the road behind him, Alison pulled over nearly a block away from where the Porsche had stopped. They were on a street of aging gabled houses that had probably been very special during the Civil War but were now all in need of scraping, paint, and carpentry—all, that is, but one.

  Griswold turned right into the driveway of that house—an immaculately restored Victorian, painted gray with maroon trim and white mul-lions on what had to be at least two dozen windows. It was at once massive and elegant, perhaps half-again larger than the other homes on Beechtree Road. The rooflines of its two street-side spires were gracefully curved, and the lower two of three stories featured broad, circular porches. The curtains on most of the windows were drawn, although, like the street in Fredericksburg, Beechtree seemed like one where the residents kept to their own business.

  By the time Alison risked cruising slowly past the drive, Griswold was gone and the 911 was locked in the garage.

  Out of nothing, something.

  An asthma inhaler had led her a hundred miles from the White House to . . . to what? A brothel of some sort? Her instincts said no, but her instincts had led her astray more than once over the years.

  She noted down the address of the house next to the license plate number of the Porsche. There was no way to check on the owner of either without giving away information Alison needed to keep to herself. She would just have to wait until she got back to D.C. The day might come when she would need to blow the whistle on Treat Griswold for something illegal, but when and if she did, her case would be a hell of a lot better documented than the one at the hospital in Los Angeles had been and she would be a hell of a lot more prepared for the counterattack that was sure to follow.