Josh drew back his right fist, and as he expected, Chavez moved to deflect the blow. That left Chavez’s chin unprotected for the vicious head butt Josh delivered to the point of his jaw. The Colombian’s head snapped back, and he went limp.
Working to summon the breath to speak, Josh said, “Allison, call 911.” He snatched the pistol from Chavez’s limp grip. “Rachel, use his belt to secure his wrists. Then take the laces out of his shoes and tie his thumbs together—tight.” Josh inclined his head toward a lamp on the end table next to the sofa. “Pull off the cord and use it to secure his legs. If he starts to move, hit him with the base of the lamp.”
The pain in Josh’s shoulder had changed from burning to a deep, severe ache. Blood dripped in a slow stream down his left arm, which now hung limp at his side. His doctor’s mind categorized his injury as a flesh wound, with no arterial bleeding. Then the doorbell rang. His injury could wait a moment longer. He had one more thing to do.
He shoved his left hand under his belt to support his injured arm. With the pistol in his right hand, Josh shuffled toward the door, where the frosted side pane showed the outline of the large man standing on the porch.
Josh opened the door and stepped aside, pointing the weapon at Derek. “Come on in. I’ve been expecting you.”
***
Derek let his eyes take in the entire scene: Chavez was on the floor, apparently unconscious. Rachel was bent over him, pulling a belt tight around his wrists. Allison talked excitedly on her phone. And Josh, his best friend, was pointing a pistol at him.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Derek asked. “And put that pistol down, Josh. It’s me, Derek, your old buddy.”
Josh waved him in and pointed with the gun to a chair sitting by the sofa. “Sit there. Put your hands on the arms of the chair and keep them there.”
Derek complied, the quizzical look never leaving his face.
“Your partner tried to kill us, Derek. I was surprised you weren’t with him. If you had been, he might have succeeded.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The police will be here in a few moments,” Allison said. Then she knelt to assist Rachel in securing Chavez’s legs with the cord from the table lamp.
“Thanks, Allison,” Josh said. He turned to Derek. “Here’s how I see it.” Even as Josh laid out the story, Derek could see by the look on his friend’s face that he realized how far-fetched his scenario was.
When Josh finished speaking, Derek crossed his legs, relaxed in the chair, and shook his head. “You can check my bank account. You can look for overseas secret accounts all you want. You won’t find any evidence of bribes or payments to me. And, by the way, I’ve paid off every penny of the bills I accrued with Robin’s last illness.” He blinked away the tears he felt forming. “I would have given twice that if she hadn’t died.”
Josh tried again, but it was evident he was running out of steam. “How difficult was it to get your friend at the CDC to direct us to Argosy Pharmaceuticals? Who else was in on it? And when did you join forces with Chavez?”
Despite the situation, Derek laughed—a full-throated roar. “Man, you’ve got it all wrong. None of that happened. So far as I know, this is all a big coincidence—a coincidence that ended up saving the life of an ex-president and your girlfriend, by the way.”
“Have you been giving status reports to Gaschen back at Argosy? Is that why you’ve been on your cell phone so much lately? Is he already working on getting the FDA to have another look at RP-78?”
Derek leaned forward in the chair. He didn’t think his friend would shoot him now. “Josh, I’m going to reach into my pocket for my cell phone. You can do it if you’re afraid I’ll pull out a gun.” When Josh didn’t say anything, Derek continued. “I want to show you the log of outgoing calls on my cell phone. I’ve been agonizing over this decision for a couple of days, maybe even a bit longer. During that time, I’ve made several calls about it. I finally made up my mind today.”
He pulled out the phone and called up the screen to show his last few outgoing calls: Kahn cell, Kahn cell, Gaschen cell, Kahn cell, Gaschen cell, Kahn cell.
“What are you saying?” Josh said, lowering the gun.
Derek relaxed a bit. “You can check with these people if you want to. My last call today to Dr. Gaschen was to resign my position at Argosy Pharmaceuticals. Yes, what happened with RP-78 is good for the company, but I won’t get a penny out of it . . . even though I was the one who developed the drug.”
“What about the calls to Nadeel Kahn?” By this time, Josh was no longer pointing his gun at Derek. He’d put it down and was holding a folded handkerchief to his bleeding shoulder.
“I ran into him at the hospital several days ago. We discovered that we had some mutual friends at Johns Hopkins. With Ben Lambert’s death, your clinic is an internist short. He liked me, was impressed with my background and experience. He checked my references, we talked some more, and he offered me a position. I’ve been going back and forth with him about it since then.”
“I spoke with Nadeel earlier today, and he didn’t say anything,” Josh said.
“I asked him not to tell anyone, even you, until I made a decision. After I resigned my job with Argosy, I called him back to accept the position.” Derek spread his hands. “Josh, I’m not one of the bad guys. I’m your new colleague.”
29
Jerry Lang took a deep breath before he tapped on the open door of David Madison’s study. “Got a minute?”
Madison, wearing jeans, golf shirt, and athletic shoes was at his desk, poring over the morning papers. He had formed the habit when in the White House of reading through, or at least scanning, several papers. Retirement hadn’t changed that. The former president removed his reading glasses and laid them on the desk in front of him. “Come in, Jerry. What’s up?”
“Sir, I need to talk with you.”
Madison gestured Lang to a chair in front of his desk, but the agent said, “I’ll stand, thank you.”
“Okay. As I said before, what’s up?”
Lang stood uneasily before the ex-president. “Mr. Madison, it’s been my privilege to serve as chief of your protection detail since your retirement. There have been some close calls, but we’ve managed to keep you safe, and I’m proud of that record.”
Madison held up his hand, palm out. “Before you go on, let me say I appreciate the job you’ve done. I realize you had one episode while I was in office when an armed man almost slipped through, but I never thought that was your fault. And when I retired, I specifically asked for you to head the detail. So far as I’m concerned, you have a clean record.”
Lang felt relief of tension he was unaware was there. Yes, he’d thought this might have been a demotion, a move to get him away from the White House. Knowing that wasn’t the case was comforting. “Thank you. But in a way, that makes this even harder.” He swallowed twice. “I’ll be resigning from the Service as soon as things are back to normal around here. I’m going to suggest that Agent Gilmore be promoted to chief of the detail—I think he’ll do a good job.”
Madison screwed up his face. “Does this have to do with the secrecy I’ve asked you to maintain about my brush with death? I can see where you might think my unwillingness to share information indicated a lack of trust, but that’s not the case. And I can tell you the endgame is going on as we speak, so I’ll soon be able to let you in on what it’s about. Believe me, I didn’t keep the details from you because I didn’t think you could keep them in confidence. Only a very few people knew the real reason for all the secrecy.”
“I appreciate that,” Lang said. “But the fact remains that I need to resign. I’ve accepted a job with a private security firm here in Dallas.”
“Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”
At that moment, a brisk knock on the door to the study preceded Karen Marks’s entrance. “Is Jerry telling you he’ll be resigning?”
“Yes,” Madison said. “And I w
as asking if I might be able to change his mind.”
Marks stopped beside Lang and put her arm through his, at which point he seemed to relax. “Sir,” he said, “you’d have to change two minds.” He nodded at Karen.
“I’ll be resigning as your administrative aide,” she said. “Not because I don’t enjoy the work. Actually, it’s kind of a rush. But I have other plans for the future.”
“What plans? Whatever offer you have, I’ll increase it.”
“I don’t think you can top this one,” Karen said, smiling.
“Are you going to run for office?” Madison asked. “If you are, you know I’ll back you.”
“Tempting,” Marks said. “But I’d have to clear it with my husband. Jerry and I will be married soon. We wanted to wait until you were back at full speed before we broke the news.”
“And as for having a wife run for office,” Lang said, “I think we’re both going to enjoy being out of the limelight for a while.”
Then Karen added, “Will a run for office come later? Who knows?”
***
Raul Moreno was eating dinner with one of his several girlfriends when pounding at the door interrupted him in the middle of a sentence. He frowned. Although many people might say that their home was their castle, in Raul’s case it was not just figuratively, but literally true. He lived on a hill in the most exclusive section of Bogotá, in a home modeled on the castle of Miranda de Ebro in Spain. And everyone—from the people who worked for Moreno to the neighbors to tradespeople—knew not to come knocking without a specific invitation or reason.
Obviously the person at the double oak doors didn’t know they were disturbing Raul Moreno, El Rey. If this were an honest mistake, his butler would quickly send the person on their way. If more force was needed to persuade the interloper to leave . . . well, Raul’s bodyguards could manage that very well.
In a moment, the knocking ceased, and Moreno tried to recapture the thread of the story he was telling. His girlfriend leaned forward, evidently hanging on his every word, even though her attention might be due more to the lavish gifts she expected than to Moreno’s personality. The reason was of no consequence to him. Money could buy almost anything, including companionship, and Moreno had a lot of money.
He paused to sip wine from the crystal goblet at his elbow. Then the carved double doors flew open and a cadre of police marched two abreast into the dining room. A dozen or more members of the Policía Nacional, in camouflage uniforms complete with helmets, each carrying a semiautomatic rifle at port arms, took up stations around the room, ringing the table at which Moreno and his companion sat.
Last in was an officer. In contrast with the other police, he wore a Class A uniform topped by a dress hat, its visor decorated with gold braid. He stood across the table from Moreno and said rather formally, “Raul Moreno, sometimes known as El Rey, you are under arrest.”
Moreno drew himself up to his full height, a difficult feat when seated, and asked with as much dignity as he could muster, “On what charge?”
“Here in Colombia, there are many times you could have been charged with drug trafficking and numerous other crimes, but your influence with some of our politicians has protected you. But this arrest is made at the request of the authorities in the United States of America. You are to be extradited as quickly as possible to los Estados Unidos where you will stand trial for the attempted murder of former president David Madison.”
“I will never be extradited. My attorneys will see to that.”
“Oh, but you will. You see, the U.S. authorities have a witness willing to testify against you.” He shook his head. “You trusted the wrong man this time.” The officer nodded sharply to the police officers standing behind Moreno’s chair. “Take him into custody.”
Moreno knew better than to struggle. With one officer on each arm, he was quick-marched through the door, down the hallways, and out the door of his castle. He knew there would be legal battles. Well, such battles were nothing new to him. He employed a cadre of lawyers, and this would simply be another instance when they could earn their money.
What bothered Moreno was that it appeared that his final legal battles wouldn’t be fought here in Colombia, where he had many officials on his payroll and could buy more. Instead, he was being sent to the U.S. to stand trial. And for the first time in years, Raul Moreno was afraid.
***
Josh Pearson sat at the desk in his office—not the one he’d used at Prestonwood Hospital, but rather the room he thought of as truly his office—the one he’d occupied for the two-plus years he’d been on the staff of the Preston Medical Clinic.
Josh was fortunate that the gunshot wound to his shoulder had caused only soft tissue damage, without hitting bone or damaging the joint. Three weeks had passed since the injury. His left arm was no longer in a sling. Now his only limitation was on the amount of stress he could put on that shoulder, and those restrictions would be lifted soon.
Allison Neeves had taken a week off to recover from the ordeal of being held at gunpoint by Chavez, but now she, as well as Derek, was at work, so the Preston Medical Clinic had its full complement of internal medicine specialists once more.
Josh and Rachel were still working through their plans for the future. Last weekend they’d gone together to buy her engagement ring. When his first wife died, when Rachel’s fiancé left her, neither of them had felt they’d ever love again. But God had given them this second chance, and they were grateful.
When he heard his office door open, Josh looked up from the stack of forms he was signing. Allison Neeves and Derek Johnson walked in, looked around, and seemed surprised to find no one else but Josh in the room.
“Are we early? We were asked to meet David Madison in your office at noon,” Allison said.
“That’s news to me,” Josh said, “but come on in.” He motioned them to the two chairs across the desk from him.
“Is this where the meeting will be?” Rachel stood in the doorway, a puzzled look on her face.
“I guess so,” Josh said. “Although this is the first I’ve heard about it. Come on in. Let me get a couple more chairs from the office next door.”
“I’ll help,” Derek said. “You shouldn’t be lifting with that shoulder.”
The two men argued good-naturedly, and in a few minutes there were two more chairs in the office and everyone was seated, chatting while they waited for Madison to arrive.
“Sorry I’m late,” David Madison said from the doorway. He turned to the Secret Service agent who stood slightly behind him. “Gilmore, you can wait in the hall if you don’t mind. We shouldn’t be long.” With that, he closed the door and took the remaining vacant chair.
“Thanks for being here,” Madison said. “I wanted an opportunity to thank you for your efforts and give you some information I couldn’t reveal earlier.”
There were murmurs of “you’re welcome” and “it was nothing.”
Madison looked around the group gathered there. “You’ve probably heard that the efforts to kill me were meant to influence the decision of my foundation to locate a clinic in Bogotá.” He paused. “But that’s not true. It was simply a convenient reason we floated, hoping people would believe it.”
“So what was the real reason?” Josh asked.
“You may not recall this, but before I ran for president, I was a U.S. senator. While in the Senate, I was appointed to serve out the term of the U.S. Attorney General after he was killed in a plane crash. During that time, one of my priorities was strengthening border security and coming down on drug smuggling in the U.S. And I worked hard at it.
“As a result of those actions,” Madison continued, “I made a number of enemies, especially in some countries to the south of the U.S. Although attrition and the actions of rival gangs took care of some of those enemies, a man in Colombia named Raul Moreno not only remained in power, but as rivals fell, his position strengthened. He eventually became known as El Rey, or The King. By that
time, he was the head of the largest crime syndicate in Colombia. Unfortunately, during those years the grudge he held against me grew even stronger. After I left the White House, when he learned I was going to be in Colombia to evaluate clinic sites, he decided it was a perfect opportunity to get revenge.”
“So he was behind all this,” Josh said.
“Moreno himself, either directly or through an intermediary, arranged to bribe Ben Lambert to give me a fake diphtheria immunization.”
“Why would Dr. Lambert do such a thing?” Rachel asked.
“It seems that my old friend, in the midst of a full-fledged midlife crisis, gave in to the temptation of a bribe Moreno offered him,” Madison said. “He had to go with the group to Colombia in order not to arouse suspicion, but as soon as we returned, he planned to collect the rest of the money he was promised, then flee the country with a companion—but not his wife, Ruth.”
“Was Dr. Lambert responsible for infecting us?” Rachel asked.
“No, that was Moreno,” Madison said. “He used Dr. Chavez to obtain cultures of two kinds of bacteria—diphtheria and Bacillus decimus.”
“Why two different bacteria?” Allison asked.
“I figured that one out,” Josh said. “The diphtheria was supposed to mask the decimus infection until it was too late to do anything. Ben Lambert named me to replace him because he thought I’d be fooled by the diphtheria and never discover the other infection. But our head lab tech, Ethan Grant, figured out the identity of the second infecting organism.”
“Dr. Chavez, acting on orders from Moreno, arranged for a man, disguised as a woman, to douse me with the bacteria. It was unfortunate that Ms. Moore and Dr. Lambert were there at the same time. That same man injected Ben Lambert with aconite to kill him while simulating a heart attack,” Madison said.
“He wanted to make sure Dr. Lambert didn’t talk,” Rachel said.
Madison looked at the others to make sure they were following. “So you see, Chavez, acting on orders from Moreno, was behind everything.”
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