"I underlined the first letter because it’s capitalized."
"I'll bring it back to you first thing tomorrow morning, I promise. Thanks."
Ron notices the half-eaten blueberry muffin and crumb trail on the napkin under the left corner of her monitor as he tucks the laptop under his arm and walks away.
At the desk in his apartment, Ron types out the instructions to his brother Andy. He explains who he is to contact, in person. Next, he composes a letter to Amanda. He protects each file with a password and saves them on separate flash drives, then deletes both documents from Randi’s laptop.
Ron closes his eyes and tilts back in his desk chair, thinking.
There had to be a swap at delivery, inside players at the hospital…orchestrated right under the nose of Solarez and the CIA. What about Odette, the surrogate? No, she couldn’t be involved…it must’ve taken a lot of cash to pull this off. Where is Justin, how can I possibly get him back? Can I somehow talk to Solarez…or will they know?
Chapter 31
Presser
Before Andy could even leave his Georgetown home, every media outlet was reporting on the lawsuit filed by Franklin and Grofelt. The ultimate publicity hound, Grofelt had arranged a news conference to notify the entire country about their allegations that the United States secretly paid as much as $200 million to Hemispheres just to cover up the truth about what happened to the jet before the crash. When Grofelt states document subpoenas have been issued to the government, and that the suit alleges Andy Michaels was a co-conspirator who agreed to keep quiet and cooperate with the government, Andy angrily stabs the power button on his remote, unable to tolerate another second.
Myra, his receptionist, has a changed look on her face when he walks into the office. Her eyes dart downward immediately as she barely whispers, "Good morning, Andy.” He strides by her to his office, drops his briefcase, tosses his jacket on a chair, and heads directly to see Hunter Ross, his senior partner. Peering around the doorframe, he sees the silver-haired man writing something on a yellow pad.
"Can we talk?" Andy asks.
"Sure, why don't you close the door."
He complies and sits in a client chair. They regard each other for a second or two before Ross breaks the silence. "I guess my first question is, did the U.S. really pay the money?"
"I know this sounds bad since we’re partners, but the government swore me to secrecy."
His partner’s face reddens. "Andy, we work for the same firm, and you’re saying you can't tell me? Who gives a goddamn what the government said you can or can’t talk about!"
"With the assumption this information will stay between us, and theoretically you’re my attorney, which makes this conversation privileged, yes, they paid the money."
“Holy hell. When did you find out? Please tell me it was after you settled all those cases for the families and your niece."
"Of course it was. I didn't know anything until after we settled them. But then Stein, your man at the DOJ, told me. I freaked out when he first told me, and I’m still freaking out. I keep thinking what if the clients find out? They'll think I did something illegal, but I didn't. He assured me I would be protected under the cloak of national security, but it hasn’t helped my conscience.”
"I don't get it. Why would the U.S. pay Hemispheres?”
"I'm not supposed to say."
"I don’t give a damn! I'm acting as your attorney, and representing our firm too. I have no idea if this is covered by our malpractice insurance, maybe it is.”
“You know we shouldn't represent ourselves."
"Yeah, we’ll need outside counsel." Ross concedes. "Let's go back to where you were going to tell me everything."
"Okay, they paid the money to suppress the fact China had sabotaged the Hemispheres flight. Chinese intelligence officials were desperately trying to prevent a scientist from sharing information about a biological breakthrough. They thought the technology might be sold to the Russians." At the last second, something tells Andy not to divulge what the research was about or that the target was his brother.
“That’s it? $200 million for that? Why didn’t they just tell the press the truth?”
“I wonder that myself, but you’d have to ask the CIA or FBI. Stein told me there were various high-level negotiations between us and China. We got some concessions, but he never told me what they were, other than China repaid all the losses.”
Ross moves some papers around on his desk for no reason, and without realizing it taps a pen in his hand against them.
"Okay, I feel a little better, but this firm is taking a big hit. Sounds to me like you did nothing wrong, but getting you dismissed entirely from this thing, who knows how long that’ll take."
“What about my reputation, and our firm's reputation? How do we fight back against all the negative press?” Andy wonders aloud.
Ross looks at Andy, but no reassuring words come out. He stands up and walks to the window.
"We'll figure out a way, I’ve survived big storms before and this will be no exception.”
“I’ll set a meeting with Stein, pronto.” Andy says, thinking back to the bad feeling he had when Stein first unloaded the truth on him, after he had settled all the cases.
Chapter 32
Shock Value
A few minutes after her husband, Paul, leaves for work, her 17-year-old senior pulls out of the driveway in the Jeep Ranger heading for school. Melanie Franklin changes into her exercise clothes and drives to the Emperor's Fitness Center. She works through her personalized training regimen, feeling like she’s sweating off five pounds. In reality it would be hard to shed even two pounds off her enviable hourglass figure. At 5’ 6” and 115 pounds, even 20-somethings drool over her rock-solid body. Choosing to bypass the gym's locker room after her workout, she decides to follow her almost daily routine of getting back into her Lexus, stopping at a drive-thru to pick up a Café Americano, and heading back home to get ready for the rest of her day.
However, a ticking time-bomb awaits her. As she passes the front desk on the way to the parking lot, Francine, the receptionist, calls out to her.
"Melanie, someone dropped this off for you, said he was your travel agent and you would know what it is.” She sets a large sealed envelope on the counter.
"Travel agent?"
Always efficient, Francine moves on to the next customer without answering, handing him a rolled towel, swiping his membership card, and giving it back to him.
Melanie doesn't recall talking to anyone about traveling, but she sees her handwritten name on the label and picks up the envelope. Once inside her car, she tears open the flap.
A series of black-and-white 8x10 glossy photographs pour into her lap. The first few are of her husband and a woman she doesn’t recognize intimately kissing in front of an apartment. The next several have been taken through a window and show the same woman in lingerie with him.
With trembling fingers, she then flips through pictures of her husband with a different woman, whom she recognizes immediately as a petite, young attorney at his law firm. Both of them are entering an apartment in one picture, and in another one they are kissing by his car. She rifles frantically through the photos looking for a note, but there is none. Heat and rage erupt in her body. She can feel the blood coursing through her head, her temples throbbing. The tightness in her chest is not a heart attack, but an attack on her heart by uncontrollable external forces.
Driving home is a blur. She realizes she forgot to get her coffee as she pulls into the driveway. Once home, she strips off her exercise clothes and gets into a steaming hot shower, her mind racing, wondering how she’ll confront Paul. When, how? All of her hard work to keep their world running. The surgery she got to enhance her breasts, the facelift that was so painful but worth it. Bastard. How could he? Later, she marches back out to the kitchen counter and grabs the envelope again, barely able to breathe. She studies the photos more closely and turns a couple of them over. Someone
has written "Angie Tipton, paralegal at Wilson, Hopper & Michaels" on one of the pictures of the woman she doesn’t know. How convenient, they captioned it. But who did this? Hmmm, who would bust Paul? If it was one of the bitches in the photos, why would she include pictures of herself? Too stupid. She double-checks, but none of the others have anything on the reverse side. Whoever did this knew I would recognize the woman from Paul’s firm in the pictures, so this person knows us, she concludes. Maybe a friend who wants me to know…
She jumps on the laptop at her small desk and within minutes locates the Wilson, Hopper & Michaels website and confirms Angie Tipton works as a paralegal there. One of Paul’s top rivals, the lawyer who sued Hemispheres for the largest group of passengers and represented Amanda Michaels and her family also.
How will I make Paul pay for this? In the most brutal way imaginable.
Hell hath no fury like…
Chapter 33
Going Viral
Perusing the latest biology and genetics journal articles is an evening ritual for Ron at Sherwood. Every night or two, to vary his routine, he goes to the Nobel Prize homepage, where speeches of the winners are recorded in each discipline. If the speaker had slides, they can be viewed too, and he has reviewed every speech on antibiotic breakthroughs. Tonight he finds the last award in the field of physiology or medicine relating to the study of viruses, which was given to three scientists: one who discovered the human papillary virus that causes cervical cancer and two others for their human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) research.
While watching the HIV presentation, Ron finds one particular aspect interesting: “Retroviruses are relatively uncommon among the viruses affecting humans, and rely on the host's cellular machinery to make their viral DNA.”
Rely on the host's cellular machinery to make their viral DNA…That’s it!
He instinctively leaves his chair and strides to the bathroom to pee, goes through the motions—flushing, stepping over to the sink, washing his hands—not seeing himself in the mirror, but rather the possibilities.
Viruses. Delivery system. Retroviruses. They don't hold energy, they don't metabolize, they don't evolve, they are beholden to the cells they infect to replicate. Without a host cell, viruses are an inert packet of materials. The hosts do the work for them. What if these packets can also carry telomerase and lengthen the telomeres of each hijacked cell? A delivery system requiring no transfusions, no injections, just a capsule containing the viral concoction along with the telomerase enzyme.
Forgoing the hand towel, he dries his hands on his pants and returns to his laptop where he rapidly taps in the methods, the tests he plans to do, which viruses to test, how he can piggyback the telomerase enzymes on various strains. He can hardly wait to get to the lab in the morning and begin experimenting. I’m not going to tell any of the others about this without some evidence it can work. No need to crow about any breakthrough without support.
As with many brilliant people, Ron gets caught up in his thoughts and his mind loses any situational awareness whatsoever. He forgets momentarily that his apartment might be bugged and any number of hackers could be recording every keystroke.
The next morning, Ron’s workspace holds at least a dozen petri dishes and a similar amount of small test tubes with different-colored caps on a Lucite rack.
"You seem very focused on your work, but that’s nothing new,” Walston says as he walks by Ron hunched over the counter.
"No different than you. Definitely staying busy. Are you getting ready for this Friday?"
"Yes sir, and I'm looking forward to going to Bethesda to see my folks this weekend too.”
"Good for you. I don't have that luxury, I mean, of leaving the compound."
Bethesda, Maryland is right outside D.C., Ron thinks. Maybe Walston will be my courier.
Chapter 34
Jogger Down
Not even 15 seconds into his morning run through Rock Creek Park, Andy notices her when she passes unusually close to him. He picks up the scent of her perfume while scanning her pink running shorts, dry-fit pink-and-white T-shirt, and matching earbuds. He loses her, becoming immersed in the music pumping through his earbuds as people run by on the popular trail. A few minutes later he spies her again not far ahead, and admires her trim body and natural gait. Suddenly she glances off another runner, a relatively large gentleman jogging in the opposite direction. She spins and lands with one leg under her to the right of the paved path a few paces ahead of him. Instinctively, he rips one of the earbuds out of his ear when he reaches her and leans down as she grasps her right ankle.
"Wow, are you okay? What'd you hurt?"
"My ankle. That guy bumped into me and I fell."
She continues to gently hold and rub her ankle in apparent pain.
"I think I need to sit on one of those benches for a minute."
She starts to try to stand without putting pressure on her right leg. Andy reaches out to her.
"Let me help you."
She puts one of her arms over his shoulder and their sweaty bodies work as one, with him supporting her as they slowly make their way the few feet over to a bench. Andy hovers as she sits down and lightly touches her tender ankle.
"I can't believe he did that!" She’s irritated and shaken.
Andy takes a seat a reasonable distance away from her, figuring he will confirm she’s OK, then be on his way. The smell of her perfume wafts toward him again, noticeable but not overwhelming.
"Yeah, a lot of people use this trail, and you have to look out. Obviously he didn't." Andy’s thinking it’s time to continue on his way southbound. "Are you going to be okay?"
“Let me check…” She gets up and gingerly tries taking a few steps. "I’ll walk for a few minutes and see how it goes."
Andy walks beside her.
"You look familiar. Do I know you?"
"I don't think so, but I’m Andy Michaels, and I’m an attorney. I handled a bunch of the Hemispheres crash cases.”
"That’s it! I saw you on the news. I'm a court reporter, my name's Cathi."
"Nice to meet you." They exchange a cordial handshake.
“Do you live or work near here?" She asks.
"Yeah, my office is right down the street in Georgetown, and I live in Dumbarton Oaks.”
"I'm going to be at Gold Coast Tavern in the New Horizons Hotel having drinks with some friends tonight during the football game, assuming this isn’t anything more than a sprain of course. You should stop by, and have a drink with us."
"Could be fun. Put me down as a maybe. Hope your ankle’s not broken." Andy turns and jogs away.
One of the great things about living near Georgetown that Andy doesn’t take for granted is the ability to walk to the hotels, bars, and shops. Becca’s shop stays open until 9:00 p.m. and it’s only 7:30, so he decides to head by the Gold Coast to see if Cathi’s actually there. The scent of her perfume mixed with a touch of sweat lingers in his mind.
He surveys the long copper-covered bar and several of the tables but doesn’t spot her. Maneuvering past a crowd of people filling the narrow area between a divider and the barstools, he finally thinks he sees her seated further down, facing away from him.
"Cathi?"
Her head turns. "Oh, glad you could make it. How are you?"
He tries to concentrate, but he's mesmerized by her black, sheer long-sleeve blouse and burgundy-and-black brocade skirt.
"I should be asking how you’re doing. Your ankle, I mean."
"We’re both fine. I walked about 100 yards, and I was able to run slowly, although I did head back to my car. Took a couple ibuprofen right away. Glad you stopped by, it should be a good game tonight."
“Where are your friends?”
“Oh, Tina wandered off a minute ago and a couple others still may show up by kickoff.”
"So, you're a court reporter, huh? With the number of lawyers in Washington, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised we’ve never met. Do you do criminal or civil?"
>
"I used to do both. I don't work full-time anymore, just freelance a little. I was with Forrester-Horn Group. Have you heard of them?"
"We don't use them but yeah, I know the name." Andy studies her eyeliner. It has a hint of green that matches her beautiful eyes. He admires her high cheekbones and sees the small heart on her necklace on his way to a fairly wide-open view of her cleavage with the extra button on her blouse unbuttoned. And again, her same perfume. She gets the bartender’s attention and he orders vodka with a splash of soda. After they both finish a round of drinks, she becomes increasingly touchy, running her fingers softly along his forearm a number of times to emphasize points during their animated conversation.
“So, what was it like to fight that lawyer for the airline, what’s his name again?”
“You mean Paul Franklin?”
“Yeah, that sounds right. One night he’s on the news saying there’s no evidence Hemispheres did anything wrong, and a few weeks later they settled with like every family. A snake in the grass if you ask me. What do you think?”
“He’s a worthy adversary. Somebody has to do their bidding, if not him, it would be another suit like him,” Andy says before sipping his vodka. Always be careful when asked to comment on opponents, he thinks. You never know who it will get back to.
Leaning toward him, she whispers, "You said your office was nearby, didn't you?"
He simultaneously catches a whiff of her perfume and glimpses the upper portion of her breasts. An inquisitive look crosses his face. "Yeah, only a block and a half away. Why do you ask?"
Targeting the Telomeres, A Thriller Page 9