by David Shobin
Mireille beamed. She wore her ash blond hair up under her cap, and her hazel eyes, flecked with green, were warm and friendly. She had a wide, expressive smile and unusually white teeth. Between her eyes and her smile, she had an innately cheerful expression that put others at ease.
“You like it?” she said, her it like an “eet.”
“Very much. Marvelous.”
“Thank you. Enjoy your meal.” With a little bow, she left the study.
“We really have to find someone for her,” said Roxanne. “She’s such a doll.”
“How do you know she’s not already taken?” Forbes asked.
“Oh, I have my ways. We live in a very small world here. Didn’t Jon Townsend say something flattering about her, Bob?”
“Did he? When?”
“About a week ago. The three of us had cocktails.”
“Not that I can remember.”
But Rocky did remember. Dr. Townsend’s interest had been rather obvious, but he’d been rather obtuse where it came to her oblique attempts at matchmaking. What was currently more important, however, was the reemerging question of her husband’s memory, an issue never far from the surface. Rather than embarrass him, Rocky said nothing.
Once the appetizer plates were cleared, the main course was served. Like the two dishes preceding it, it was an eye-pleasing concoction. Chef Courtois excelled at food presentation, and the way she married sights with aroma, taste and texture was what set her apart from her predecessors. Until she came on the scene, White House fare had been traditionally American and traditionally unspectacular. Now White House guests came as much for the food as for the function.
Finally, when coffee was served, the president lit up his pipe. He smoked a Straight Grain Dunhill, having abandoned his trademark corncob pipe shortly after being elected. Soon the air was filled with aromatic smoke. There was a knock at the door, and the president’s secretary Marian poked her head into the room.
“Your one o’clock is here, Mr. President,” she said. “The Senegalese Ambassador.”
“How long?”
“It’s scheduled for twenty minutes. No photo op.”
“Thanks. I’ll be right there.”
Meredith lingered a few minutes, savoring his tobacco. Roxanne noticed that his hand had a slight tremor. She touched his wrist.
“Something tells me you won’t mind another four years of this food.”
“It’s not home cooking,” he replied, “but I think I can manage.”
“Bob, why did you change your mind about when you’d make the reelection announcement?”
He looked at her oddly. “What are you talking about?”
“Remember the other night, after the Israeli dinner, when…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked away. His annoyed expression told her he didn’t remember at all. Roxanne instantly felt guilty. Here she’d embarrassed him again, this time in front of someone else. She tried changing the subject. “Actually, I never asked you what you thought about the dress I was wearing. I was thinking of getting a different—”
“Tell Mitch about it,” the president snapped, inverting his Dunhill and knocking out the ash. He stood up. “Excuse me, I’ve got business to attend to.” With that, he left the room.
Forbes put down his napkin, looking from the closing door to the first lady. “What was that all about?”
Roxanne slowly shook her head. “God, I wish I knew. I really think there’s something wrong with him.”
“Careful, Roxanne. You don’t want to be saying that during an election year.”
“I’m serious, Mitch. Bob’s been, well, a little off for a few months. He hasn’t been himself.”
“What do you mean, off?”
“It’s little things,” she explained. “For instance, you saw how he stormed out of here.”
“He just didn’t want to have to pay for another dress.”
“You’re joking, but I’m not. It has nothing to do with the dress. It’s about his memory.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because he’s having trouble remembering what he said. I’ll give you a for-instance: he’s been very confused about the timing of the reelection announcement.”
“He’s not confused at all,” Forbes said. “He’s always known it would be Tuesday.”
“I wish that was true. But the fact is, one day he wants to make the announcement around Thanksgiving, and the next he’s doing it three weeks earlier.” She sighed. “I’m worried, Mitch.”
“Don’t be. Your husband’s Old Faithful, always there on schedule.”
“He certainly used to be. But that’s not the only thing,” Roxanne said, sipping her coffee. “He’s had a very short fuse lately. You saw it a little while ago. Bob’s always had a temper, but he never let it get out of control. When he gets his dander up, he’s like an ornery old man.”
Forbes leaned forward, on his elbows. “Madame First Lady, allow me to remind you what must be obvious. For all his strengths, the president is only human.”
“Christ, Mitch, don’t patronize me. What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that he’s been under a lot of stress these days—the Israeli thing, the reelection, and a bunch of other problems.”
“Come on, that goes with the territory. He’s a politician. Bob’s life has always been stressful, but he’s dealt with it.” She looked out the window. “No, this is different. I can feel it.”
“All right, let’s say you can. Exactly what are you afraid of? What’s the worst-case scenario?”
“I’m not a doctor, Mitch.”
“I know, but what do you think? Too much bourbon and tobacco? Hardening of the arteries?”
“I suppose what I’m really afraid of is Alzheimer’s. It’s a slow, Godawful process. I’ve already seen enough of it in my family.”
“Okay,” Forbes said, “stick with that. Let’s say, for the sake of discussion, that it is Alzheimer’s. You remember what happened with President Reagan?”
“Bob’s no Ronnie Reagan. Reagan was older. Also, he always delegated things, while Bob makes his own decisions.”
“Yes, but my point is, Reagan’s disease was very gradual. By all accounts, he already had Alzheimer’s in his first term. But he seemed to do just fine for another four years, and he had a lot of people helping him.”
“I know it’s not always that gradual,” she said, shaking her head. “With all the new drugs out there, maybe he should already be taking medication. I won’t sit around and watch him deteriorate, Mitch.”
“None of us wants that, Roxanne.”
“You don’t understand. I’m saying I want him to get help.”
“So do I, if and when it comes to that.”
“What do you mean, if and when? He’s my husband, and I think he should get help now!”
“Are you talking about seeing a doctor?”
“What is this, some kind of a riddle?” she said annoyedly. “Of course I’m talking about a doctor, his doctor!”
Forbes stared at her without any obvious emotion. Then he slowly pushed away from the table. “I know where you’re coming from,” he said, getting up and pacing. “We all want what’s best for the president, and certainly no one wants it more than you. But there are other considerations.”
“The only consideration, Mr. Forbes, is his health.”
“Look, Roxanne, you may not want to hear this, but it’s my job. When your husband hired me, I insisted that he tell me what he expected of me. Our relationship depends on mutual frankness. Bob made it absolutely clear that my role was to advance his policy agenda. It’s his legacy, and I have to always keep my eye on that prize. So, in order to accomplish that, I have to look at both sides of an issue and tell it like it is.”
“What are you talking about? When his health’s paramount, what other side is there?”
“Well, there’s the physical reality, which I’ve begun to see even before you pointed it out. No one can deny that. But there’s also
the political reality. If I didn’t point that out, the president would have a fit.”
“Go on.”
“The president is about to announce his bid for reelection, right? No matter how popular he may be, he has to appear strong and decisive. The American people can tolerate a lot, but they will not tolerate a weak, indecisive, or frail leader. And if, at this point, Bob starts getting a whole battery of tests, that’s tantamount to admitting a serious medical problem. That would be the kiss of death, Roxanne.”
“I don’t believe that. What would be the big deal if he had, say, diabetes, or high blood pressure?”
“But we’re not talking about those conditions, are we? We’re talking about a possible problem up here,” he said, tapping his head. “People will forgive high blood sugar, but they won’t overlook forgetting what day of the week it is.” He paused. “And then there’s the whole question of his doctor.”
“Dr. Townsend? What’s wrong with Jon Townsend?”
“Medically, not a thing. He’s a top-notch internist, and he’s a friend of mine. But philosophically, ah—that’s a different story.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“How much do you know about him, Roxanne?”
“I know that he’s taken care of my husband for the past decade.”
“Yes, but did you know he was a medical whistle blower fifteen years ago? When he found out some doctors he worked with were defrauding the government, he turned them in.”
“So? That sounds pretty responsible to me.”
“Maybe. But were you aware that your husband saved him from getting court martialed for cowardice in Vietnam?”
She wasn’t, but she didn’t see the relevance. “What are you getting at?”
“My point is that for all of Dr. Townsend’s good personality and medical acumen, he’s not a team player. Like I said before, it’s my job to examine people, warts and all, for their political ramifications. However competent he is, in something as important as this, we need someone who’s on our side.”
“But I always thought he was.”
“He’s a Boy Scout, Roxanne. If you went up to him and said you thought the president’s memory might be slipping, he’d order a complete neurological workup, sure. But it’s not his nature to keep it to himself. He’d feel compelled to fill out some public-minded piece of paper, and before you know it, the press would find out. And that, as they say, would be that.”
She frowned, unconvinced. “I don’t know. I’ve always considered Jon more reliable than that.”
“In medical matters, yes. In politics, forget it. He’s not a real mensch, and as nice as he is, he’s got no guts.”
She sat there, brooding in silence.
“Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying,” he continued. “I’m not suggesting we overlook what might be happening to your husband. This isn’t the emperor’s new clothes. All I’m saying is, why not hold off any medical evaluation for a month or two? Let’s get him through the announcement and into the reelection campaign. At that point, or before then, if his symptoms progress, we’ll get him checked out.”
Roxanne had been a political spouse long enough to know he was right. Her husband’s strength lay in the fact that he was a consummate politician, and he would never forgive her for doing something reckless that might cost him his job. “All right. But how flexible are you where it comes to Dr. Townsend?”
“Roxanne, I’d trust the man implicitly with my life. I just don’t trust him with my vote. If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon keep him out of this.”
CHAPTER 11
Cherokee, North Carolina
Unlike other religious right-wing activist organizations, the Southern Cross had no official camp or meeting place. Its numbers were small. Its main rendezvous points, as organized by Sean O’Brien, were anywhere in the upper rural South, although they were most often in the vicinity of the Great Smoky Mountains. When it was necessary to meet in public, O’Brien preferred well-frequented tourist sites. The presence of crowds enhanced security and minimized the chance of electronic surveillance. Today O’Brien was meeting Walker at the Oconaluftee Indian Village on U.S. Highway 441 North. The Village had recently extended its season until mid-November.
As O’Brien stood outside the Visitors Center, ostensible reading a brochure, Walker sidled up to him. C.J. knew the drill. Avoid eye contact. Speak softly and casually. Pretend disinterest.
“Our boy will be here soon, C.J. I’ll let you know just when and where. Be good to him. Treat him like a guest.”
“He’s a fuckin’ A-rab, Sean,” said C.J.
“Doesn’t matter. These people are very big on respect. We’ve all got a job to do, including him. So, don’t piss him off.”
“Shit,” C.J. softly protested, spitting a piece of tobacco from his teeth. “Can he shoot?”
“So I’ve been told. But that’s for you to find out, isn’t it? You’ll put him through his paces, and when you’re done, clean up the weapon, especially the serial number.”
“You got it, Sean. But what happens if he can’t shoot worth a damn?”
“You’ll let me know. Don’t do anything yourself. And one more thing, C.J. Don’t screw with the man’s religion. You think we’re serious about God’s will? You’re gonna hear the word Allah so much it’ll be comin’ out of your ass, but keep your mouth shut. Let him think what he wants. And for Christ sake, don’t let on what’s really happening, okay?”
C.J. spit disgustedly. “What you think I am, Sean? Stupid?”
O’Brien kept his thoughts to himself.
Bethesda
They met, as usual, in the shopping center’s parking lot, two blocks from the abortion clinic in Four Corners. It was noon. The clinic’s hours ended at eleven that day, and most of the staff left an hour later. Townsend got out of his car and entered the one that pulled up beside him.
“Hello, Ellen. How’re things?”
“Pretty good, Dr. Townsend. How’s Tommie doing?”
“About the same. Loves school. I’m not sure I can handle her becoming a teenager. What’s up with Michael?”
“I had to up his NPH three units,” she said, referring to the amount of insulin required by her son. “He’s such a brave kid. I don’t know where he gets the strength.”
“From you, obviously. What you’re doing takes guts.”
Ellen, the abortion clinic’s lab technician, met Dr. Townsend two years ago when he’d given a public lecture at the NIH about the future applications of human fetal stem cells. After the lecture, she’d pulled him aside and asked pointed questions about one of the uses he referred to, diabetes. Theoretically, the stem cells could differentiate into insulin-producing islet cells of the pancreas. Her son Michael, who was then six, seemed to be an ideal candidate for stem cell therapy, if and when it became available.
The problem, Dr. Townsend pointed out, was the scarcity of fetal tissue. Historically, the NIH had been limited in the types and amounts of tissue it approved for research. Then, in 1993, an absolute ban on fetal tissue research was softened. In 1998, biologists announced that they had discovered a way to isolate and preserve human stem cells. There were obvious ethical considerations, and the NIH initially deflected the controversy by using “cell lines” derived from fetal tissue rather than the tissue itself. Finally, in 2000, the ban was removed entirely.
This was an interim solution, he explained, and not quite as useful as fresh fetal tissue. There were three sources of fresh fetal cells: miscarriages; unwanted surplus embryos from in-vitro fertilizations; and induced abortions. Miscarriages, unfortunately, often contained degenerating tissue. The second category was good, but the number of in-vitro embryos was too small for broad future applications. The abortion source was nearly ideal, although the collection methodology hadn’t yet been worked out. It was here that Ellen’s ears perked up.
She revealed that she worked in an abortion clinic. The facility performed about seventy-five procedures p
er week, all first trimester. There was certainly no shortage of fetal tissue. In day-to-day practice, after she removed the products of conception from the aspiration bottle, she would add formaldehyde to the specimens, after which they were sent to the lab for pathological confirmation of pregnancy. If Jon wanted, she could offer him portions of the specimens.
Jon told her he’d let her know. It was an idea that deserved considerable thought. It could be a new, untapped, very promising area of research. It was also a proposition that could get him into considerable trouble. The NIH had recently published guidelines for stem cell research, and this method of obtaining the tissue was decidedly outside the guidelines. Also, all NIH research had to be approved. Approval depended not only on the study’s design and utility, but also on political considerations. Given the prevailing antiabortion sentiment in Congress, getting the approval he wanted was highly doubtful.
If he were going to do the research, he’d have to do it unofficially, and in secret. Fortunately, through his legitimate research, Jon already had access to space and equipment. He considered Ellen’s offer very thoroughly, but not very long. Whether or not he’d do it was never really in doubt. In the end, he knew he’d do almost anything that might help Tommie.
Ellen opened a briefcase and removed a shoebox-size container. It was a portable, battery-operated incubator that kept specimens at a steady thirty-eight degrees centigrade. “There are six here,” she said, handing him the container.
“All between six and seven weeks?”
“Of course. Rinsed, juiced, and ready to go.”
The part played by Ellen was essential. She not only delivered the tissue but also prepared it. First, she selected only those specimens at an early stage of gestation, before the organs had completed differentiation. In the privacy of her lab, she removed tiny bits of fetal tissue from the more voluminous placenta, which would be sent to the pathologist. Next, she thoroughly washed the tissue in saline to remove contamination by maternal blood. After placing the tissue in a test tube filled with transfer medium, she added several drops of “juice,” a new antibiotic Jon had given her. It had both antibacterial and virucidal activity, including HIV. Finally, the tubes went into the incubator.