Vaccine Nation

by David Lender

  VACCINE

  NATION

  Published by Thomas & Mercer

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, companies, institutions, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover photograph copyright © 2005 by Herman J. Lender

  Copyright © 2011 by David T. Lender

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact dlender@davidlender.net.

  ISBN-13: 9781612182278

  ISBN-10: 1612182275

  VACCINE

  NATION

  A THRILLER BY

  DAVID LENDER

  Table of Contents

  Also by David Lender

  About The Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Excerpt from Trojan Horse

  Excerpt from The Gravy Train

  Excerpt from Bull Street

  For Manette

  ALSO BY DAVID LENDER

  Trojan Horse

  Trojan Horse is a love story built around a thriller about a Wall Streeter who falls in love with an exotic spy and then teams up with her to stop a Muslim terrorist plot to cripple the world’s oil capacity.

  The Gravy Train

  The Gravy Train is the story of a novice investment banker who helps an aging Chairman try to buy his company back from bankruptcy, pitted against ruthless Wall Street sharks who want to carve it up for themselves.

  Bull Street

  Bull Street is the story of a naive, young Wall Streeter who gives a jaded billionaire the chance for redemption, as they team up to bring down an insider trading ring before they wind up in jail or dead.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  David Lender is the bestselling author of thrillers based on his over 25-year career as a Wall Street investment banker. He draws on an insider’s knowledge from his career in mergers and acquisitions with Merrill Lynch, Rothschild and Bank of America for the international settings, obsessively driven personalities and real-world financial intrigues of his novels. His characters range from David Baldacci-like corporate power brokers to Elmore Leonard-esque misfits and scam artists. His plots reveal the egos and ruthlessness that motivate the players in the business world, as well as the inner workings of the most powerful of our financial institutions and corporations.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, thank you to Manette for inspiring this story, for your help with the factual content and for your feedback on the outline and manuscript.

  Thanks to David Slater for coming up with the title.

  Thanks to Richard Marek for your superb editing and guidance; it’s great to work with you again.

  Thank you to the following for your informational resources: National Vaccine Information Center (http://www.nvic.org/), Dr. Joseph Mercola (http://www.mercola.com), Safe Minds (http://www.safeminds.org/), Age of Autism (http://www.ageofautism.com/), Generation Rescue (http://www.generationrescue.org/), AutismOne (http://www.autismone.org) and author David Kirby (Evidence of Harm — Mercury in Vaccines and the Autism Epidemic: A Medical Controversy).

  Thank you to the team at Amazon Publishing.

  And thank you again, Dad, for the cover photo, this one from the dock at Twin Lakes, your last shot, which all of us in the family will honor forever.

  ONE

  DANI NORTH walked down West End Avenue toward the Mercer School, her son Gabe at her side. The air was cold and fresh. Minutes earlier, crossing Broadway, she’d seen tulips on the median, and the leaves on the maple trees were ready to pop. Now, scents of spring—wet earth and hyacinths in window boxes—were apparent. She yawned, bone tired from the hectic weeks of the Tribeca Film Festival wearing her down on top of work and the daily routine of single-parenting a preteen. Tired or not, she was on a high and Gabe walked close enough that she thought to take his hand. That is, if he’d let me. She reminded herself it was perfectly normal for a nine-year-old not to want his mom to hold his hand anymore. Normal. What would those morons at Division of Youth and Family Services in New Jersey say about that? Probably still call him ADHD and drug him up. She’d love to run DYFS into the ground, along with their partners in crime, the pharmaceutical industry. Legalized drug pushers.

  Leave it, she told herself. Channel the anger into something productive. That made her smile. She had, and well. It was starting to feel real that The Drugging of Our Children, her latest film, had won best documentary at Tribeca last night. That channeled anger was doing some good, getting the word out. Educating parents about their choices, ones she hadn’t been aware of for Gabe. Who knew? If she had, she might never have lost that three-year nightmare of lawsuits with DYFS in Hackensack. It forced her to accept mandatory drugging of Gabe, because otherwise the court would have taken him from her.

  She looked over at Gabe now. Chin high, proud of how he looked in his Ralph Lauren blue blazer, gray pants and white oxford button-down, school tie snugged up against his neck. Only his black Vans betrayed his age. Yes, normal. Thanks in part to Dr. O.

  Gabe caught her looking at him. “Now that you won, you gonna get a bonus and turn the electric back on?”

  “You mean ‘going to’ and ‘electricity.’” She thought about the last two weeks of burning candles at night. She’d put off the electric bill in order to scrape up Gabe’s tuition for this semester at Mercer. “Besides, we were camping, remember?”

  “C’mon, Mom, that worked on me when I was like five years old. I’m not a kid anymore.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Gabe thought for a second. “All right, but I’m not stupid.”

  “No, I’m not getting a bonus,” Dani said, running a hand over Gabe’s hair, “but I get paid today and we’ll be back to normal. Lights and TV.”

  “Next time I’m telling Nanny. She’ll pay it.”

  “Do that and you can forget about TV until you’re eighteen.”

  They reached the corner diagonally across West End from the entrance to Mercer. “Leave me here,” Gabe said, looking away from her.

  Dani didn’t respond, just grabbed his shirtsleeve between her fingers and started across the street. He pulled out of her grasp and increased his pace. Dani saw Damien Richardson on the opposite corner as they approached. He stood looking at the half dozen kids grouped around the entrance to Mercer, tentative. She knew the bigger boys picked on Damien. She felt a tug at her heart. “Morning, Damien,” she called.

  Damien turned to them. His face brightened and he smiled. “Hi, Mrs. North. What’s up, Gabe?”

  “Come on, Damien,” Dani whispered when she reached him. “I’ll walk you in.”

  Ten minutes later she crossed 79th Street toward Broadway, her mind buzzing with last night’s triumph and her upcoming day. She pulled her BlackBerry out of her pocket, checked the screen. 8:10. Enough time to get through her voicemails and emails before Dr. Maguire, the researcher from Pharma International, showed up. Now she wondered
again what his agenda was, why he was so anxious and secretive about the meeting. But it was something important—at least to Maguire. She’d been calling him for weeks, coaxing him into an interview for the new documentary on autism she was just beginning. She’d been referred to Maguire by his friend, John McCloskey, the KellerDorne Pharmaceutical technician who’d served as whistleblower on KellerDorne’s painkiller, Myriad, after patients who took it started dropping dead from heart attacks. Dani’s interview of McCloskey published in the Crusador was well after McCloskey went public, but somehow it managed to electrify the issue. As a result, the contributions had flowed into Dr. Orlovski to fund the documentaries he produced, including Dani’s The Drugging of Our Children.

  Maybe Maguire needed to get something off his chest, too. Dani picked up her pace. Her BlackBerry rang and her breath caught in her throat when she saw Mom’s number on the screen. How could she forget? Dad.

  “Hi, Mom. How are you doing?”

  “Okay.” She paused. “You know what day it is, don’t you?”

  Dani’s mind automatically did the math. She’d been twentytwo. Seven years. “Of course.” She stopped walking and leaned over the BlackBerry as if sheltering her words from passersby. She said, “Each year I think about him constantly during this day. Sometimes it seems like…” her voice trailed off.

  “I miss him more each year, too,” Mom said. Her voice was steady, like she’d steeled herself to get through the day.

  “When’s his Mass?”

  “One o’clock.”

  Dani didn’t respond right away. “I can’t make it this year.”

  “I know, sweetie. I just wanted to hear your voice. I knew you weren’t coming. You had a big day yesterday. Congratulations. I’m sure lots of people want to talk to you.”

  “It’s not that. I’m just jammed with the usual stuff. Will you light a candle for me?”

  “Sure. I’ll speak to you later. Gabe okay?”

  “He’s great. Maybe we’ll get out this weekend. How’s Jack?”

  “The same.” Dani felt her hand muscles tense around the BlackBerry.

  “Anything going on?”

  “The usual. He was out most of the night, couldn’t get up for work.”

  “I’ll get out there this weekend,” Dani said. They signed off. She continued walking, feeling guilty. Lisa and George lived far enough away that they never made Dad’s Mass. And Jack was high half the time, so it was like she was alone even if he came with her. At least Mom could count on Dani. Or so she thought. This was the second year in a row Dani would miss Dad’s Mass. It hurt. Particularly knowing how devout a Catholic Mom was, how much Mom wanted Dani to experience her faith the way she did. She sighed and kept walking, thinking she’d find a way to make it up to Mom, feeling unworthy.

  Dani reached the entrance to Dr. Yuri Orlovski’s office at 79th and Broadway. A half dozen patients already sat in the waiting room when she stepped through the door. She paused to wave at Carla behind the reception desk, who mouthed “Congratulations.” Dani nodded and smiled, then headed up the steep, 20 steps to her office. By the time she reached the top, she reflected as she usually did, What would I do without Dr. O? It was the best job she’d ever had, even aside from him rescuing Gabe a year ago from Child Protective Services, New York’s equivalent of New Jersey’s DYFS. Dr. O’s homeopathic remedies and detoxification had purged Gabe’s body of the mercury and other poisons that Dr. O maintained were largely caused by vaccines. And he certified as an MD that Gabe’s ADHD was “cured.” That got Gabe off Child Protective Services’ list and off mandatory ADHD medications to attend public school. This year she’d scrounged up enough to afford to get him into Mercer.

  And now she ran the nonmedical practice side of Dr. O’s mini-empire, as he jokingly called it. But it was no joke. It was a flourishing Internet business of whole food-based vitamins; health-related DVDs and books; and healthy lifestyle products like juicers and water filters. And a good portion of the profits funded Dr. O’s real passion: the documentaries on health issues that Dani produced and directed, the only thing—except, of course for Gabe—that got her out of bed every morning.

  Her colleagues, Richard Kaminsky, Jason Waite and Seth Weinstein stood talking near the entrance to Dr. O’s Vitamin Shop when Dani got to the top of the steps. Richard started applauding and the others joined in. She stood, cringing from embarrassment, yet secretly relishing the recognition. They walked over and greeted her with hugs.

  “I knew you’d do it,” Richard said.

  “Absolutely,” Ralph said.

  They were joined by a half dozen others, including Kaitlin Drake, her editor. Dani was gradually overcome by an odd sensation of discomfort. She recalled how she’d wilted under the spotlight when asked to say a few words on accepting her award last night. It made her feel as if her colleagues would think she was undeserving of their praise if they’d seen her frozen with panic. She’d wanted to say something about creating a film that spoke her truth, and that of thousands of other mothers, but she was unable to utter more than “Thank you,” in front of 2,000 people.

  It took Dani another ten minutes to reach her desk. She booted up her computer and started going through her emails. Eighty-four today. Oof. The usual: mothers with no money and sick children, desperate to see Dr. O. Many she was counseling on vitamins and remedies. A few like Jennifer Knox: a mother with an autistic child who Dani had interviewed for her new documentary, who needed to vent to someone who understood, keep her from going crazy. Finally, a number of congratulatory wishes. Then her voicemails. Thirty-six, more of the same. One was from James, at first congratulating her, next a little pathetic and finally lecturing her about not throwing away five years. As she neared the end of her voicemails she heard his voice again, and feeling nothing at all—rather than angry or impatient—deleted the message without listening to it. That one probably hammered at James’ constant theme: commitment. After she finished with her voicemails she checked her blog: 3,748 pageviews yesterday, about 50% more than usual. She wrote a quick blog post thanking her supporters and urging them to continue to spread the word on Drugging and it’s message, looked at the time—8:58—then sat back in her chair to wait for Dr. Maguire.

  Stevens waited while his partner, Turnbull, double-parked their police black-and-white in front of the doc’s office.

  “Don’t be long, Alice,” Turnbull said.

  “How come I gotta listen to your shit every time I go to buy my vitamins?”

  “And don’t catch a wittle cold while you’re there, girlie-man.”

  Stevens opened the door. “I need five minutes, asshole.”

  “Five more minutes for the crooks to prey on our harmless citizens.”

  Stevens stepped out of the car, looked back at Turnbull and said, “Less time than it takes you to feed greasy fries and cholesterol to your fat ass at Burger Heaven.” He slammed the car door and headed toward Dr. Orlovski’s. At the top of the steep stairway he turned right and got in line behind three other customers at the Dutch door, open at the top, that served as the sales window for the Vitamin Shop.

  Hunter Stark sat behind the wheel of a Ford Taurus across the street from Dr. Orlovski’s office, a spot he’d staked out at 6:30 a.m. to make sure he was positioned properly. He rubbed his hands, admiring his custom-made nappa lambskin gloves. They were an essential element of his professional toolkit, as important as his Ruger; form-fitting and almost like wearing nothing at all. At $500 a pair from Dominic Pierotucci’s shop in Genoa, they were a bargain.

  Stark’s gaze scanned the street in front of Dr. Orlovski’s office. He was tense. These jobs were tough enough in a low-risk environment, but this last-minute bullshit didn’t allow for any planning, choice of site or operational subtlety. Still, figuring out things like this and taking the risk were why he got paid the big bucks.

  The girl had entered about 8:15, and now he checked his watch again—just before 9:00—as he saw a cop car pull up. One of the unifor
ms got out and walked through Orlovski’s front door. Not good. It would be a complication if Maguire showed up with the cop in there.

  He felt one of those odd pains he got behind his eyes when things were about to go wrong. Less than a minute after the cop went in, he’d seen a guy that matched Maguire’s description on the corner of 79th Street. Stark glanced down at the picture he held in his lap. Maguire, no question about it. Shit, they told him the man was big, but he must be 6’5”, shoulders like an ox. A guy who looked like he could take right lead from Muhammad Ali and keep coming. Maguire walked with his head tilted down at the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, real purpose in his stride, moving fast.

  Stark felt adrenaline surge through him. Off your ass. Doubletime. Move, move, move. He threw open the car door and headed across the street, matching Maguire’s pace, then faster. He unzipped his jacket as he passed the police cruiser, slipped his right hand inside and grabbed the handle of his knife, just underneath his Ruger in its chest holster. By the time Maguire reached the door Stark was only a few strides behind him. Stark felt the familiar thud of his pulse in his ears, dryness in his mouth, his jaw clenching involuntarily. Here we go.

  When Stark got inside Maguire was on the third step, his feet pounding like he was Frankenstein. Stark glanced up to the top of the steps just as he reached Maguire. Nobody there. He swung out the knife and plunged in a clean stab all the way to the hilt in Maguire’s kidney.

  Maguire let out a howl like a bullmastiff and grabbed his back. Stark pulled the knife out for another stab, saw blood on the blade and felt the rush. Maguire then spun to face Stark, just as they always did, so Stark could go for the kill gore just below the solar plexus. But the guy was big and strong. Too late, Stark saw the left hook coming toward his head. The knife hit bone just as Maguire’s fist caught Stark on the chin. The lights went out for what must’ve been only a fraction of a second because Stark found himself grabbing the banister, his back against the wall but still on his feet as Maguire thundered up the steps. Stark righted himself and started after him, shoving the knife back in its holster, grabbing the Ruger with its silencer attached and sliding it out of his jacket. By the time Maguire got to the top of the stairs and turned left Stark was only about six steps below him.