by David Shobin
THE PRESIDENT’S DOCTOR
By David Shobin
A Gordian Knot Production
Gordian Knot is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Smashwords edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press
Crossroad Press digital edition 2021
Copyright © 2021 David Shobin
ISBN: ePub Digital Edition - 978-1-952979-70-5
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Meet the Author
David Shobin is an obstetrician/gynecologist who has been an Assistant Clinical Professor at the State University of New York at Stony Brook for over three decades. His first novel, THE UNBORN, was a New York Times bestseller. An author of medical thrillers, he has also written THE SEEDING, THE OBSESSION, THE CENTER, TERMINAL CONDITION, THE PROVIDER, and THE CURE. He is currently in the private practice of OB/GYN, specializing in reproductive health. He lives and works on Long Island.
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Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Baltimore, Maryland
October, 2005, 5:30 P.M.
The frigid late October rain sprayed sideways in torrential, wind driven sheets that flayed everything they struck. It was a hard, dirty rain that carried the city’s airborne filth in opaque gray droplets. Drumming fiercely on the car’s metal frame, the downpour caused a roaring din that made hearing difficult. The men inside had to shout, which emphasized their decidedly Southern accents.
“That him?” said one.
The man sitting beside him, wearing a dark ski jacket and a black baseball cap, held up binoculars that aimed through the rain-streaked windshield. “Sure looks like him.”
“Don’t look like shit to me. Yes or no.”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“Then let’s go.” He put the rental van into gear and slowly drove beside the curb.
The time change to from Daylight Savings to Eastern Standard Time had occurred two days before, and it was already dark. The van’s headlamps created twin cones of ivory light in which the driving raindrops were incandescent jewels. The vehicle had been parked on North Caroline Street, facing uptown. Thirty yards away, Dr. Jeremy Raskin turned on foot from McElderry onto North Caroline, heading for the parking garage. He’d just finished work at the Outpatient Center of what was now known as the Johns Hopkins Medical Institutions.
Forty-year-old Dr. Raskin, an obstetrician-gynecologist, was a specialist in the Institution’s Division of Reproductive Endocrinology and Infertility. A champion of women’s issues and reproductive rights, he was a maverick infertility expert who also performed abortions. His outspoken persona gained him national prominence. He was also a brilliant, if controversial, researcher, a pioneer in stem cell research who also supported human cloning. His viewpoints often differed from Hopkins’ stated policy. Recently, Dr. Raskin had improved on groundbreaking Israeli experiments by successfully growing mature cardiac tissue out of human fetal stem cells. This contentious research earned him both praise and infamy.
Head down, Raskin scurried toward the garage, protecting himself from the intense rain. No other passersby braved the storm. Hatless, he clutched the collar of his winter coat with one hand. Looking down at the pavement, he was so intent on his footwork that he didn’t spot the approaching vehicle. The van stopped just before him and both passengers jumped out. They moved swiftly, oblivious to the biting rain. While the driver jogged curbside and opened the van’s side cargo doors, the other man leapt in front of the physician. He was holding a sturdy leather sap crammed with BB-size lead shot.
“Dr. Raskin?” he called.
Already drenched, Raskin barely looked up. But the confirmatory glance was enough for the man to verify the doctor’s identity. Without uttering another word, the man ferociously swung the sap toward Raskin’s head. The heavy instrument made a sickening wet smack as it struck the doctor at the base of his forehead, just above the nose. Raskin’s legs gave way, and he collapsed in a heap.
“Get his legs,” said the attacker.
As the driver grabbed the legs, the other man pocketed the sap and lifted the unconscious researcher from under the armpits. The rain pelted them mercilessly. Together, grunting as they worked, the men dragged the doctor inside the van.
“This is one fuckin’ fat Jewboy,” the driver grumbled.
Tossing Raskin’s limp body onto the metal floor, they quickly slammed the van’s doors. Blood streamed down the physician’s face. The men were in a hurry now. Jumping into his seat, the driver gunned the engine and they sped away, up North Caroline to East Madison, then across town, past the Inner Harbor. Skirting Camden Yards, they took I-395 to I-95, following the signs for the Baltimore Washington International Airport. The rain turned to sleet. In the glowing swath of the van’s headlights, the beads of frozen rain resembled iridescent buttons.
Despite the rush hour, traffic was sparse and had been slowed by the inclement weather. Nevertheless, they moved at a steady pace, making desultory conversation as they drove. The van had a window between the passenger compartment and the cargo bay. From time to time the men would peer into the back, checking on their captive. Raskin remained unconscious. The sap had broken his nose, and clotted blood congealed around his nose and upper lip. At length, the van left the highway and entered the airport complex.
BWI was a growing airport in the midst of an expansion. The shell of a ninth cargo terminal had been erected, though its interior remained unfinished. Owing to the day-long storm that had diverted most flights, ground traffic was light. The van wound its way along the surface roads toward the cargo compl
ex. Eventually it reached the uncompleted cargo building, where it backed up to a service ramp. Despite the rain, the air had the unmistakable kerosene smell of aircraft fuel. In the background, an occasional whine of jet engines rose and fell. The van’s driver honked the horn three quick times. In the new building, a retractable metal door began to rise.
A workman emerged, shielded by an overhang. With no letup in the storm, sleet and rain continued to hammer the van. Seeing what they wanted, the two passengers jumped out and ran up the ramp’s steps, where they were approached by the man in coveralls.
“What the hell took so long?” he asked.
“In case you ain’t noticed,” said the driver, “this weather’s for shit.”
“The hell with that. You got our boy?”
“We got him, all right,” said the second man, opening the van’s doors. “Give us a hand, huh? He’s a fat fuck.”
Working together, the trio entered the van, lifting Raskin by his soaked clothing and carrying him into the terminal. The vacant building was huge, smelling of fresh concrete and paint and damp timber. It was cold and largely unlit, save for one spotlight that shined down from above. In the center of its beam, roughly in the middle of the terminal, was a Hawker 700, an eight-passenger corporate aircraft. The men deposited Raskin beside the jet’s nose wheel, propping him up in a sitting position against the strut. Working with rehearsed smoothness, one of them readied a Polaroid camera while another placed a newspaper in the doctor’s lap. It was that day’s copy of The Sun, Baltimore’s leading newspaper.
The photographer snapped the picture. He wore latex surgical gloves to prevent fingerprints. Carefully removing the print, he showed it to the others.
“Pretty, huh? That could win me a Pulitzer Prize.”
“I don’t care about no prizes,” said the driver. “Long as they print it. Now let’s take care of this tub of shit.”
They dragged Raskin over to the port wing, where the photographer steadied him while the first two climbed atop the wing. Pushing from below and lifting from above, the trio hauled the physician up with the gentleness of butchers moving a beef carcass. It was an effort, but they finally laid him on his back, beside the fuselage. Although Raskin was still unconscious, they took the precaution of binding his legs and cuffing his hands behind him.
A wide piece of tubing lay on the aft portion of the wing. The transparent polypropylene conduit was eighteen inches in diameter. It extended back to the cowling of the port engine, which was situated just behind the wing. The words “Abortionist Special” were hand painted on the tubing in large block letters. The men on the wing swung Raskin’s bound feet into the tube’s opening. Meanwhile, at the wing tip, the man in coveralls looked through a video camera’s viewfinder, composing a shot.
“How’s it look?” called one of the men on the wing.
“Damn good, yes sir. Ready when you are. Make sure you stay outa the shot.”
The driver nodded and turned toward the second man. “Start ’er up.”
The Hawker’s open cabin door was just in front of the wing. The second man walked to the wing’s forward edge and, steadying himself, swung his left leg over into the aircraft entrance. Closing the door and entering the cockpit, he sat down and worked several switches. Seconds later, the Garrett TFE jet engine started up with a distinctive whine. Due to the jet’s increasing roar, hearing was now impossible. The two men outside donned ear protectors. Looking out of his window, the pilot gave a thumbs-up to the driver, who nodded back. Then the driver looked at the cameraman at the wing tip.
Arching his eyebrows, the driver mimed the word, “Okay?” Satisfied with his camera image, the man in coveralls gave a return thumbs-up. On the wing, the driver reached into his pocket and removed an ampoule of smelling salts. Crushing it between his fingertips, he held it to the unconscious man’s nose. The volatile spirits of ammonia wafted into the doctor’s nasal passages. With a forceful blink and a cough, Raskin jolted into wakefulness.
He had no idea where he was. Parts of his body were in intense pain. There was a steady, merciless ache inside his head, his upper nose was swollen and clogged, and his ears were filled with a shrieking whine that grew by the second. When he tried to move his hands, he found that they were wedged behind his back, painfully joined together. His head was being buffeted by howling wind that raced down his body. Craning his neck, looking toward his feet, he saw that his wet shoes had been placed inside a transparent tube that was slightly wider than his body.
Suddenly identifying the origin of the roar, Raskin’s eyes went wide. There, not more than six feet away, was the intake of a jet engine. Its whirling blades were unmistakable. As the now-shrieking wind began pulling at his torso, he gaped in fearful disbelief. He tried to jackknife his legs out of the tube, but there was a rope around his ankles, and the suction was too great. Heart pounding wildly, Raskin thrashed madly from side to side, desperate to escape the force that was steadily pulling him into the tube. Looking frantically to his right, he spotted two men at the wing tip.
“Please!” he screamed, his voice indistinguishable over the roar. “Help me!”
One of the men was holding a camera. The other, who was grinning, waved a hand in sadistic goodbye. Then the smiling man looked toward the cockpit, raised his hand, and made circles in the air. The already deafening noise increased, along with the deadly pull. All at once, Dr. Raskin understood.
“No!” he pleaded. “You can’t do this!”
But they could. With the camera rolling, the man inside the cockpit advanced the throttle. As the monstrous suction strengthened its tug, Raskin’s body was drawn steadily, inexorably into the tube—slowly, at first, but then with mounting speed, until his terrified shrieks were obliterated by the machine that consumed him.
CHAPTER 1
Washington, D.C.
“Noted Researcher Presumed Murdered,” read the title of the page one article in The Washington Post.
“Shortly prior to our publication deadline,” the article began, “a videotape was anonymously delivered to this news organization. The tape reveals the apparent murder of Dr. Jeremy Raskin, a Baltimore-based physician, women’s’ rights advocate, and stem cell researcher at the Johns Hopkins Medical Institutions. Sources verify the tape as authentic. In a handwritten note that accompanied the videotape, the words ‘Abortionists Must Die’ were printed above the signature, ‘The Southern Cross.’ A Polaroid print allegedly showing the victim holding yesterday’s The Sun was also enclosed.
“As we went to press, the Baltimore City Police confirm that Dr. Raskin cannot be located and is presumed missing. Raskin, a forty-year-old obstetrician-gynecologist, came to prominence last March with the successful growth of adult cardiac cells from fetal stem cells. Locally, he has been a vocal abortion rights advocate.
“Neither The Washington Post nor the combined news media are familiar with an individual or group that calls itself The Southern Cross. The videotape and photograph have been turned over to the FBI for evaluation.”
The White House
“Jesus, turn that thing off,” insisted the chief of staff.
“Mr. President?” asked the Secret Service agent at the VCR’s controls.
“That’s enough,” said President Meredith. “I think we get the point.”
They met in the White House Situation Room, shortly after the president’s daily briefing. The Situation Room, the executive branch’s twenty-four-hour watch and alert center, was intended to provide intelligence and information that could assist in the implementation of national security policy. Occasionally, however, the underground room—also known as WHSR, or the “Sit Room”—was used for urgent domestic matters. That was the circumstance today, after the Post forwarded the videotape to the FBI early that morning. In addition to the chief of staff, who doubled as the president’s national security advisor, also in attendance were the Deputy Director of the FBI, the Attorney General, the chief of security of BWI, and the CIA’s Director
of Counterintelligence.
The president rubbed his chin. “This has been verified as authentic?”
“Yes, sir,” said the FBI man. “No question about it. Our lab is trying to get some evidence off the tape and the print, but they look clean. There are traces of talc, which suggests the photographer used latex gloves. Certainly not an amateur.”
“What about the doctor?”
“As of an hour ago, Dr. Raskin was still missing. There’s also a preliminary match on the victim’s blood remains with the Hopkins database. All employee health data is on file.”
“No DNA yet?” the president asked.
“Too early for that, sir. That’ll take days, maybe a week.”
The president looked across the table. “What happened at the airport, Chief?” he asked the security man.
“It was pretty ugly, Mr. President. We’re expanding our cargo facilities, and it happened in one of the new, unoccupied buildings.”
“I can deal with ugly, Chief. God knows I saw my share of it in Vietnam. I just want to know how something like this could occur in a busy major airport. When did it happen?”
“Early evening, probably. I don’t mean to make excuses, but the building’s still under construction. The workmen left at four. The building’s locked, or it’s supposed to be, until a security team comes by at midnight. When they got there, the lock was broken, and the aircraft was inside.”
“Whose plane is it?”
“It belongs to Mid-Atlantic Aviation, a charter company in Delaware. They reported it stolen two weeks ago. There’s no record of it flying into BWI. We figure it must have been trucked in today and put in the building after the workmen left.”
Meredith looked dubious. “And nobody saw it?”
“There’s a lot of unregulated ground traffic, sir. We also had a pretty strong storm.”
“So, this plane just shows up, gets put in an empty building, and is used to chop someone into hamburger?”