by Allen Wyler
Cunningham said, “You know what I’m referring to, don’t you?”
Meaning, of course you don’t.
Wyse sighed. “Yes, Clyde. I know all about it,” as if the subject bored him. The story, as he remembered it, was that because McCarthy’s interests meshed with a Tel Aviv researcher, he’d spent a year of his residency in his lab. So what? Big deal. “He worked in someone’s lab over there.”
“Since you’re so well informed, I assume you know he doubled as an intelligence operative at the time?”
An intelligence operative? No fucking way. Wyse was stunned.
CLYDE CUNNINGHAM LISTENED to the subtle noise echo over the phone and envisioned a slack jaw Wyse grappling for some smart-assed reply as a way to backpedal. Maybe Wyse would have the balls to claim he knew all about it, but he’d call him on it if he did. There was no way he could know unless McCarthy had told him. Which he seriously doubted.
Cunningham itched to blast the arrogant shit out of the water. Did Wyse really consider him an idiot? Lately, Wyse’s superior-than-thou attitude was pushing him to the brink of devastating retaliation. But that would entail suffering some serious losses that, at the present time, would be intolerable. For now he’d have to take comfort in knowing that one day Wyse would get his comeuppance. In spades! And the little Jewboy would never see it coming. The naive little shit had no idea the intelligence he had on him. Like the 1.6-million-dollar debt due that Wyse didn’t have a prayer of covering. Did Wyse actually believe he could hide embezzlement like that, even on a short-term basis, and get away with it? Intelligence was Cunningham’s business. Jesus!
“No, I didn’t think you did,” Cunningham said, with more than a hint of satisfaction. “And there’s no reason you should know. It’s not something widely advertised. The only reason I know is I have the clearance to know.”
Again, Wyse remained silent.
Cunningham suspected he was probably scrambling to get his head around the news. Probably never suspected McCarthy could do such a thing. Then again, why should he? Spying was not an activity you put on your Facebook page. But it was a key part of the plan, because with that on the record, if McCarthy were killed, it would explain his motivation: McCarthy wouldn’t be the first intelligence operative who turned traitor by selling classified material.
Cunningham said, “It’s not that uncommon, you know, paying students to keep an eye out when they’re abroad. State recruited him before he left San Diego. Apparently he produced a good deal of intel on the Israelis, Lebanese, Palestinians, or anyone else he thought might be of interest. He turned out to be very good at it too. Especially if you consider he was never detained for questioning. Not once. And believe me, Israeli intelligence is not an agency to trivialize or underestimate.”
“All right, already.” Wyse’s irritation increased. Of course Cunningham would know things he didn’t. He didn’t have to rub his nose in it. “Is there a point to all this?”
“My point is,” Cunningham said with an icy edge in his tone, “Before you get all uppity and super critical, consider this: Your friend McCarthy might have had training you don’t know about. Things like how to deal with unexpected, complicated situations. It might be he’s not your average physician when it comes to a situation like this.”
Wyse scoffed. “That may be. But you have to figure that until now we were never certain how much McCarthy knew. If what you say about his training is true—that he’s more of a threat than anticipated—you have all the more reason to put the bastard down before he hurts us.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, Bertram. There is no way McCarthy will survive the next hour. Like that guy in the Men’s Warehouse ads says, ‘I guarantee it.’”
Wyse stopped pacing and turned to the window to gaze north over the city, the Space Needle, and three massive TV towers atop Queen Anne Hill. For some reason the view took him back to the night before his admission interview at UCSF medical school. Too nervous to sleep, he had decided to drive aimlessly around the city for an hour or so to relax. Around 1:00 AM he had approached Moffitt Hospital and slowed to look at the building. Eight floors up, a solitary scrub-clad figure—a resident, maybe—leaned against a railing staring out over the sleeping city. Maybe catching a brief break in a night of never-ending scut work. Until that very moment Wyse had only seen medicine as a means to achieve his goal of glory. But at that moment, the sight of that solitary figure made him long to become that doctor, to experience that precious moment of respite from total immersion in work.
Ironically, the circle was now complete. Years later, here he was standing at this window staring at the Space Needle. He had become that solitary scrub-clad person using a city view as a momentary escape from an emotionally taxing day. This realization saddened him. Not because he stood there alone, but because he suddenly understood that each passing second robbed him of everything he’d ever taken for granted: his remaining years of life, his attractiveness, his intelligence, his physical stamina, and his one chance for fame. And fame was all he’d really wanted. The way he saw it, you could spend a career accumulating money, but two seconds after you retired or died, people forgot you. Adversity could rob you of material things or loved ones, but by making a significant discovery you’d advance from a commonplace existence into the annals of history. Do that and you will always be remembered. What could be more important?
But instead of seeing the Wyse Technique of Memory Transfer as a brilliant discovery, McCarthy saw it only as an ethical problem. How shortsighted. So what if he really hadn’t asked his patients for consent to experiment on them? Knowing they were a subject in a great experiment would contaminate the results. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t anticipated that some memories might be unpleasant, but they did help prove a concept by showing that the results were real. Besides, how could anyone expect him to predict that? Hell, that’s why it’s called research—because it uncovered information not previously known. How else can science move forward? McCarthy was now threatening to destroy everything he’d struggled so many years to accomplish. No way in hell would he let McCarthy succeed in accomplishing his goal.
16
“DOCTOR MCCARTHY? YOU in there?”
McCarthy snapped back from deep thought. He was … where? Oh, yeah, the locker room, someone from security on the way. He pushed off the stool, ready to yell a reply when a thought struck. Was this a trick? A sneaky quick way for Sikes’s men to check rooms? Call out to see if he was stupid enough to answer. But the voice sounded female. More specifically, African American female. Did Sikes have women working for him or was she really with security?
Cautiously, he moved to an aisle between two rows of gray metal lockers, hoping she’d call again now that he was paying full attention. If security were here to escort him they’d probably call again. If it was one of Sikes’s men, they’d probably move on.
“Hey, McCarthy, you in there?” The voice was louder, more insistent this time.
Definitely African American. Definitely female. But so what? Washington was African American. He yelled back, “Who you looking for?”
“Hospital security. I’m here to meet Doctor McCarthy. That you?”
His gut knotted. How long had he zoned out, leaving himself vulnerable? Anyone could have snuck up on him. Stupid, stupid, stupid to let his guard down so completely. He glanced around. No one else was in here at the moment, things having wound down for the holiday weekend.
There were only two exits from the dressing room: the door he had come through and the one to surgery. If this was a trap, Sikes would likely position men at both doors. But if that were the case why call his name? Why not just come barreling in like a SWAT team? Or, for that matter, why not send in the SWAT team? Besides, security had said they send an officer.
Still.
COMMANDING OFFICER DELEON Franklin instructed the SWAT team leader to take up positions on the floor above and below the surgery dressing room. The plan was to surround McCarthy as soon as the
security officer entered the stairwell when bringing him back to the Magnuson Pavilion. The hastily devised strategy included not advising the hospital security officer of the plan—if she knew, she might get anxious and inadvertently tip their hand, causing McCarthy to flee again. Worse yet, McCarthy could open fire and cause collateral damage to innocent bystanders. With only limited time, the plan had jelled too quickly for them to evacuate the surrounding area.
THE SECURITY OFFICER yelled to McCarthy, “You coming or not? See, I can’t be going in on account’a I’m female. You gots to come out here. They sent me up here to meet you.”
McCarthy called back, “Coming.”
Her voice came from the door, which he couldn’t see yet, so he started along the narrow corridor. Over the years, as staff grew, administration had crammed more and more lockers into the room by narrowing the aisles instead of enlarging the room or placing more lockers in another room. Probably because the area stood empty 90 percent of the time, since it was used only for changing clothes. But at certain times, like 7:00 AM, the room became a bottleneck from all the surgeons, anesthesiologists, and technicians suiting up for the first case of the day.
At the last row of lockers he bent over, as if suffering from severe back strain, and limped around the corner, but he held Washington’s gun behind him. One hand on the jamb, the other on the door handle, the officer’s broad shoulders and broader hips blocked any view of the hall. She looked vaguely familiar, like he’d seen her around the hospital before. He found that reassuring. Relieved, he slipped the gun back into place and knocked off the fake limp.
She squinted at him. “You McCarthy?”
“Yes.”
She stepped back into the hall to let him to pass, giving him a once-over in the process. Wagging her head slowly back and forth, she said, “Mmm mmm mmm!” and planted both fists firmly against her hips. “Ain’t you a sight. What happened?”
Just what he needed, a chatty one. What he did need was for her, or her office, to call the real police. “No disrespect, but let’s wait until the cops get here before we talk about it.”
“They here already. Be outside your building, right now, turning it into a circus, is what they doing. Follow me.” She started lumbering down the hall, arms swinging wide to clear her thick black belt weighted down with a two-way radio, handcuffs, and other leather containers.
“Don’t usually get this kind of action round here,” she continued. “Most the time, all we gets are calls to the ER. Some crackhead turning ugly mean, tearing up the place. Or some bro doing the funky chicken upside his girlfriend’s head. Nothing like this. No sir. Come on now, tell me what happened.”
He glanced around for Sikes or one of his men, thinking that although he had no idea what they looked like, they’d stand out. Two nurses in scrubs, hair tucked into powder blue bouffant caps, approached from the opposite direction, stopping to stare as he passed.
He decided to tell her about it, if for no other reason to practice a coherent story. “Two men from the Department of Defense came to my office—” He thought about that. Who was to say those IDs were real? Maybe it was all bullshit.
“Uh-huh.” She made each step with weighty resignation, as if moving her heavy body had become too difficult to bear. She stopped to open a stairwell door for him.
Tom stopped too, alarmed. “Where we headed? Security’s over in the annex, right? Shouldn’t we take the southwest stairs?”
She wrinkled her forehead in a confused expression, the dark skin glistening with perspiration. “Security? Ain’t nobody said nothing about security. My orders are to take you back to your office. Magnuson Pavilion, ninth floor.”
Shit, Sikes controlled security already.
What’d you expect? Probably had them in his hip pocket before he walked in the office.
She stopped, startled by something in his eyes, maybe sensing his fear. Her eyes flashed doubt, then suspicion. She pulled the radio from her belt, triggering an alarm in his head. She recognized the doubt in his eyes, held up her free hand, said, “Now don’t you be getting all upset. I just be checking with my boss, see if I got things right.” Slowly she raised the radio to her mouth, squeezed the transmit button, and blurted, “This here’s Charlene. I need backup right now.”
“Give me that.” Before she could react, he grabbed the radio and shouldered her against the wall.
Fighting for balance, she let go of the radio and screamed, “Help!”
Tom pushed past her bulk, threw open the door, bolted into the stairwell, then stopped. Which way to go? His first reaction was down, so he started up, blew past one floor, and stopped at the next. Suddenly he heard the clatter of boots on the stairs below.
He opened the door and, as calmly as possible, stepped into a hall and melded into a group of passing residents. From the PA system came, “Code Black, Code Black.”
Hospitals loved to color code emergencies. Pink for newborns disappearances. Red for fire. Orange for toxic spills. Black—as in police uniforms—for security. Surely he was the reason for the announcement. Great. As of now every computer in the hospital had an announcement and everyone from the CEO to the laundry detail would be keeping an eye out for him. Increasing his pace, he quickly covered the length of the hall to another exit door, ducked back into another stairwell, raised the radio to his mouth, and thumbed the transmit button. He asked, “Anybody read me?”
A woman answered. “Ten four. Who’s this?”
“Who am I speaking to?”
A pause, followed by, “This isn’t Doctor McCarthy, is it?”
The seconds were flashing by, time running out. “Yes, but before you say another word, listen: Send paramedics to my office right now.”
“That not necessary, Doctor. Captain Hansen, head of security, is already there.”
Well, that settled that. Maria was being looked after. On the other hand, it was definitely bad news for him because cops stick together. And Sikes, in a way, was law enforcement. He figured by now Sikes had sold his tale of how the evil McCarthy wrestled the gun from Washington and shot him.
“I need to talk with him. Tell him my side of what happened.”
“Isn’t Charlene supposed to be escorting you there?”
He detected suspicion in her word. “Change of plans. I’m not going anywhere until I can speak to someone with authority.”
There was a pause, followed by, “Uh, okay. See those little numbers on your rig, like a cell phone?”
Tom looked at the radio and saw them. “Got it.”
“Dial in 44.5 as the last three digits. That puts you on his frequency. Give me a few seconds to clear any calls and give him a heads-up.”
“Thanks.”
“Jeez, you don’t sound like some kind of whacked-out killer to me. Oh well, here goes.”
Killer? The word stabbed his gut. “What did you just say?” Had Sikes’s story traveled that fast? But she was gone, the radio silent.
“THE FUCK?” DELEON Franklin didn’t shout in front of Frank Hansen or Warren Sikes because that would imply lack of control. And if anything, he intended to impress them with absolute control of his SWAT team.
The officer said, “He slipped past us.”
Franklin thought about the deployment of officers. The only way McCarthy might have been able to avoid being caught was if he went up instead of down toward the first floor. “Start a floor by floor search from two on upward. You read me?”
“Affirmative.”
TOM SWITCHED THE radio’s frequency before slowly counting off ten seconds. Just to be sure, he allowed a few more seconds before pressing transmit. “This is Tom McCarthy, you read me?” He already forgot the guy’s name.
A man responded. “Loud and clear.”
“Who am I talking to?”
“Frank Hansen, head of security. McCarthy?”
“Yes.”
“What can I do for you?” Hansen sounded cool and professional. But McCarthy knew all too well that cool an
d professional didn’t necessarily mean objective.
McCarthy wondered if the radio in his hand, like some cell phones, had GPS capability, making its location easily identified. If so, what was its accuracy? Should he be moving? Where? Too damn many things to worry about.
“You in my office now?”
“Roger that.”
“Maria, my receptionist … is she, ah, dead?”
“Afraid so.”
Both legs turned rubbery. He slumped against a cinderblock wall and took a deep breath to ease his dizziness. Afraid of falling over, he slid down the wall and sat on the floor. Memories of Maria flashed by. Small, insignificant things like the suckling pig her family barbecued at her daughter’s wedding, the stupid Internet jokes she forwarded, the outrageous costume jewelry she could wear and get away with. Had he thanked her enough?
“You still there, McCarthy?”
With a throat so tight he could barely speak, he said, “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but you need to hear my side of the story.”
“I couldn’t agree more. That being said, why don’t you come back to your office so you can tell me in your own words?”
Just like that? Hansen sounded way too agreeable and easy. But did he have another choice? The sooner he sat down and explained his side of the story, the sooner he could stop running for his life. The obvious question was could he trust Hansen?
“Is Sikes there?”
“Why do you ask?”
Meaning Sikes was there. McCarthy wanted to drop the radio and start running for the exit, but knew doing so would make him look guilty. All his professional life he’d been able to rationally negotiate solutions to problems. Why should this be any different? Instead he said, “I don’t trust him. He tried to kill me. That’s why.”