by David Shobin
Moreover, such fanciful explanations were intensely personal. The more Jon mulled it over, the more he concluded there was nothing personal about what was going on. Everything had been professional and businesslike: sorry, sir, just doin’ my job. No, he was in the way of something—something that threatened others—and people trained in mayhem intended to get him out of the way. And if he wasn’t interfering with something personal, Jon’s only reasonable conclusion was that he was interfering with something involving his line of work.
Okay, he said to himself, let’s run with that.
Agents of the United States government are out to stop me from interfering with something. I don’t know what it is, but they’re dead serious. What could I be dabbling in that’s so important that people want me eliminated? I’m just a simple internist. Is there another aspect of my work, maybe something that involves the navy, or a project that—
He thought of Tommie and abruptly stopped walking. The fierce wind straightened him up, and the swirling snow danced around him in ghostly eddies. The stem cell research, he suddenly remembered. It was a controversial area that aroused strong passions because of its relationship to abortion. In that charged arena, some people had been killed because of their views. Perhaps Jon hadn’t covered his tracks as well as he thought.
Lowering his head, Jon proceeded into the wind. While his involvement with stem cell research was irrefutable, he thought it unlikely to involve the FBI. That was not within the Bureau’s purview. No matter how Jon looked at his research, he couldn’t see why the Bureau would be concerned. By the time he reached his street, Jon was left with only one conclusion: that an aspect of his day-to-day work threatened someone or some people unknown.
And it was something worth killing for.
Once he’d reach home, Jon knew he couldn’t afford to stay there. The main reason he was going was to get dry clothes. En route, the heavy snow provided good cover. As he trudged through the steadily increasing accumulation, he saw that traffic had slowed. No doubt many people had decided to take the day off or to go to work late. The few remaining motorists were too intent on their driving to notice a lone pedestrian in the storm.
Jon half expected more agents to be at the house. The ones who arrested him should have arrived at their destination by now, and when they didn’t show up, it wouldn’t be long before a search was begun. Once the agents couldn’t be located or contacted, others would come looking, and one of the first places they’d search would be the Townsend home. Yet so far, his home looked unvisited. As he approached the house, Jon saw no strange cars on the street or in the driveway.
It would be foolish to leave footprints in the snow leading to the front door. Sticking to the property’s edge, Jon made his way through the perimeter shrubs and trees to the back entrance, where he let himself in. Between the wind and the snow, he felt frozen. The snowflakes, melted by his body heat, had soaked through his clothes, and he was shivering violently. In the rear laundry room, he removed his wet garments and left them in a pile on the floor. He placed his cell phone, the gun, and his other belongings on the washing machine.
There was no time to waste. Turning on the shower, Jon needed several minutes of steaming spray before the chill left his body. As he bathed, he tried to figure out what to do next. Clearly, he couldn’t live life as usual. Until he found a solution to what was happening, he couldn’t go to work, he couldn’t remain at home, and he couldn’t go anywhere he might be seen. He needed to lay low somewhere. The question was where.
Once Jon dried off, he quickly changed into warm outdoor clothes: wool socks and long johns, wool pants, a heavy sweater, work boots, a parka, and a ski hat. He knew the wrecked Taurus might be discovered any minute. Once dressed, he tucked the cell phone into his jacket but debated taking the handgun. As he thought about it, he jogged to the front of the house and found the shotgun where he’d left it. He cautiously peered through the front window.
Outside, the wind still shrieked, but the snowfall was lessening. To Jon’s horror, a sedan with a flashing red dome light skidded to a halt at the curb. My God, he thought, they’re here already! Before anyone got out of the car, he grabbed the shotgun and ran back through the house. He was out of the back door in a flash, sprinting wildly through the snow, clutching the shotgun in one hand.
He expected shots at any second, but the only sound was the slap of his footfalls in the snow. He was quickly into the copse of fir trees at the back of his yard, where the heavy snow was already bending the evergreen boughs. Once completely concealed he stopped, gasping for breath. The men were probably still at the front of the house, about to break in.
Jon’s car was in his garage. When he’d come home to change clothes, he’d only planned on using it to leave the neighborhood. Now that was out of the question. But so was wearing a ski cap while carrying a shotgun in a residential district. At his feet lay a folded blue tarp that he’d used during the summer. Jon bent over, wrapped the shotgun inside it, and left the bundle beside the tree trunk. Then he was off again, winding his way through the trees that bordered the neighbor’s property.
Jon wasn’t sure if the cell phone would work in the storm. Taking refuge under a maple, he dialed a cab company he knew to be reliable. The call went through. Jon ordered a cab, requesting a pickup in ten minutes at a comer five blocks distant. Then he set off, chin against his chest, not really sure where he was going, or what he would do once he got there.
CHAPTER 22
“I don’t have to remind you that the Southern Cross thing was your idea, do I?” the man asked.
“No, sir,” said Sean. “I just thought it would be a lot more effective than it was.”
“And it would’ve been, if the shooter was a little more accurate. Without his wife needling him, the president would’ve backed off domestically. The damn Arabs would be right where we want them. But now, forget it. The first lady’s sympathy factor is off the charts. She’s more effective in a coma than she ever was alive and well. Jesus, what a mess.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking—”
“That’s the problem, Sean,” the man interrupted. “There are thinkers and then there are doers. Right now, you think too much. This is Boston all over.”
Though stung by the comment, O’Brien had to admit that the man was right. A decade ago, he had been a rising star in Irish organized crime, already on the radar screens of federal prosecutors. For reasons that weren’t clear even to him, he had tried to reach out to other criminal factions, working with them to avoid competition. But in doing so he had trashed the idea of established criminal neighborhoods. The ensuing turf battles cost lives and reputations. Sean was on the road to being killed himself when the politician with whom he was speaking managed to whisk him out of Boston at the last moment. Now, once more, it was time to stop thinking and start taking orders. “I hear you. What’ve you got in mind?”
“Right now, we’ve got to limit the threats to us. And there’s one annoying snooper who’s become a real pain in the ass. I have other assets working on him—but just to be sure, this is what I want you to do.”
The cabbie tried to engage him in conversation, but Jon wouldn’t bite. He peered out the window at the storm, huddling in the back of the cab, hiding his face. Face averted, speaking softly, he called Dave but only got voice mail. He left a message to contact him as soon as possible.
When Saunders wasn’t in the White House, he worked nearby in Secret Service offices in the Treasury Department Building on Fifteenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. Jon couldn’t risk going to either place. Although his arrest that morning was probably a ludicrous mistake, it also reeked of trumped-up paranoia, perhaps even conspiracy. If Johnson and Fitzpatrick were involved, other agents might be, too. Until Jon learned the answer to that, it was better to keep a low profile than to go charging into the lion’s den.
There was a coffee shop on the comer of I Street and Fifteenth. Jon tipped the driver well and had the cab drop him off
there. He took a rear table that had a view of the front door. Nursing a mug of black coffee, he halfheartedly sipped and watched, growing edgy. Feeling like a fugitive came with an uneasiness that made reflection difficult. It was a nervous, minute-to-minute state of finger tapping and darting gazes. For a long-range planner like Jon, it was a frustrating existence.
Jon knew that, while Secret Service Special Agents frequently used cell phones in their work, personal calls—especially when on presidential detail—were discouraged. It might be a while before he heard from Dave. Still, Saunders must check his messages. Besides, since what was happening to Jon might somehow be connected with the presidency, Dave’s call wouldn’t be strictly personal in nature. Finally, after an exasperating forty minutes, the agent called.
“Thank God, Dave! I was going nuts waiting for you to call.”
“What’s up, Jon? You sound pretty stressed.”
“That’s because I am in a shitload of trouble. I’m not going to work today, and I can’t go home. I need to talk to you, man. I’m not far. Any chance you could get away for a while?”
“Give me half an hour. Where are you?”
Jon told him. After ringing off, Jon refilled his mug for the third time, not really needing more caffeine but unable to sit still. Fidgeting, he squirmed in his seat. He took off his coat, felt cold, and put it on again. In his edgy impatience, nothing felt comfortable. He wanted to do something about his predicament, not simply to wait for the troops to arrive.
He had to force himself to concentrate. It required the kind of considerable effort a man under stress should avoid, but Jon finally distracted himself enough to think about other matters. The first thing that came to mind was the president. Jon had been so preoccupied with his own problems that he’d temporarily forgotten his professional obligations. Not wanting to overuse his new cell phone, he found a pay phone near the men’s room. He dialed the hospital lab and asked to be connected with the manager.
“Chris, it’s Jon Townsend.”
“Thanks for calling back, Doc. Guess you got my message.”
Jon gripped the phone tightly. “Actually, I didn’t. I’m not in the office yet. Is it about those additional tests on the president?”
“Sure is. We finished this morning, and you were right. It’s hard to believe.”
“Go on, I’m listening.”
“The president’s serum contains mercury, Dr. Townsend. Inorganic mercury. We got a level of thirty-seven micrograms per liter, which is over twice the toxic limit.”
Jon’s mouth went wide. He couldn’t believe it. “Is there any chance of a mistake?”
“Sure, but we ran it three times. Same results. We also cross-checked it against his urine, and it’s in there, too.” He paused. “You still there, Dr. Townsend?”
“Of course. I…I’m just a little stunned. I knew it was always a possibility, but I never really thought a heavy metal would turn up. It would be nice to know how long it’s actually been in his body.”
“Yeah, I thought about that, too. But we have all his serum frozen, going back three years. If you want, I could go back and check it. Just give me the order.”
“Do it, Chris. As soon as possible.”
“After I first called, Doc, I did a little reading on this. At this blood level mercury should definitely cause symptoms, right? All I can tell of President Meredith is what I see in the news. Do you mind if I ask—?”
“I’m sorry, Chris, I can’t talk about that. I’m sure you can glean a lot from the texts. And not only can’t I talk about it, but you can’t, either. Who else knows about these results?”
“Just the tech who actually did the tests,” Chris said. “She has a top clearance and knows she can’t discuss anything involving the president.”
“Remind her anyway. And get back to me as soon as you test those old sera.” Feeling overwhelmed, Jon returned to his seat. Like most good doctors, he realized that one of the keys to being a good diagnostician lay in having a high index of suspicion. This he had. Something about the president’s prior diagnoses, be they Alzheimer’s Disease or a prion disorder, had never entirely fit for him. Out of neurotic compulsion as much as a sense of completeness, he always felt he needed a little more clinical information, one more test. Yet as much as he felt compelled to order the heavy metal analysis, he never suspected it would be positive.
Although he was no expert on metal intoxications, as a competent internist Jon understood that mercury could explain many of the president’s symptoms. High mercury levels could cause neurologic and psychiatric changes virtually identical to those exhibited by Bob Meredith. If the discovery was true, Jon’s line of reasoning about the prion disorder was way off base. His prior deductions were understandable but inaccurate. But he didn’t yet know that much about mercury to make such an abrupt about-face. First, he needed more facts.
Information on the effects of heavy metals could be found in any up-to-date medical library. Unfortunately, Jon couldn’t risk walking around in public. Besides, before he did anything further, he needed Dave’s advice. After libraries, the Internet should be able to get him what he wanted. Fortunately, his pricey new cell phone came with Web access. It was the last thing he thought he’d need when he bought it. Now, it seemed remarkable foresight.
While he waited to hear from Saunders, Jon went online and accesses a physician’s medical information source. The website had a wealth of facts and data of particular interest to doctors, including recent journal articles and texts. The textbooks were listed by medical specialty. Under the emergency medicine category, he selected a recent text on medical toxicology. Soon, he was engrossed in reading the details of the effects of inorganic mercury on the human body.
The details were sobering. Mercury poisoning could cause acute and chronic effects ranging from mild skin changes to death. Like syphilis, mercury intoxication was a great mimic, and unless there was a history of exposure, diagnosis could prove very difficult. The major affected organs were the kidneys and the brain, and the possible symptoms were legion. As Jon digested the text, he felt he could just as easily have been reading any standard reference in psychiatry, nephrology, or neurology. He was so engrossed in the information that he didn’t see Dave walk in.
“Am I interrupting your love affair with technology?”
Jon was startled by his sudden appearance. “Christ, am I glad you’re here!
There’s so much going on, I don’t know where to start!”
Saunders took a seat and signaled the waitress. “Start with the trouble you’re in.” Jon kept silent until the waitress took Dave’s order and walked away. “Your friends Johnson and Fitzpatrick came by this morning while I was getting ready for work. They arrested me.”
Dave eyed Jon obliquely but quickly saw that his friend wasn’t joking. “They charged you with faking your own attempted murder?”
Jon fixed him with a stare. “The charge is conspiracy to murder Roxanne Meredith.”
Saunders gaped, his expression the stunned look of someone who’d been slapped. “You’d better start from the beginning.”
Concisely yet completely, Jon related the morning’s events, from his sudden arrest to the snowy collision. Dave listened without comment. The expression on his face changed from minute to minute, alternately reflecting consternation, anger and confusion. By the time Jon finished, the agent was shaking his head.
“No one saw the crash?”
“I don’t think so. It’s not a main road, and it was snowing pretty hard.”
“So as far as you know, the Ford might still be lying there on its side?”
“I suppose,” Jon shrugged. “But when the storm lightened up, I think someone would’ve spotted it and called the police. Maybe that’s why the other guys showed up at my house.”
“You didn’t get a look at the second team?”
“Christ, at that point I was running for my life.”
Dave got up. “I’m going to use the pay phone.”
>
Jon’s coffee was cold, and he pushed it away. He was too nervous to drink it anyway. Through the coffee shop’s window, all the passersby looked suspicious to him. He sat hunched over, hat pulled down to his ears, chin folded into his parka. In a short while, Saunders returned.
“This is not looking good,” Dave said. “I think there’s some freelancing going on.”
“What do you mean?”
“This sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen in government service. Most federal security officers are pretty dedicated. But every once in a while, some hungry agent falls for the money. Usually, a lot of it.”
“I don’t get it. Are you saying those guys were paid to arrest me?”
“I’m saying that no one at FBI headquarters is aware of an order for your arrest. That means that Johnson and Fitzpatrick were working on their own, outside of their normal duties. On the rare occasions that happens, it’s usually because someone’s paying them big bucks.”
“What’s to say it’s not a behind-the-scenes operation that no one knows about?”
“A lot of things. Mainly, it’s hard to keep things like that really quiet. I’m high enough in the hierarchy that I would have heard, and I didn’t, okay?”
“Okay so far.”
“Second,” Dave continued, “normal arrests follow rules and procedures. No federal agent is going to pop a prisoner in the mouth. Well, maybe for a cop killer, but not for an admiral.”
“What about for someone they claim tried to kill the first lady?”
“Especially for him. In a high-profile case, no one wants to hand the defense attorney any ammunition. Finally, nobody I spoke with is aware of a backup team sent to your house or anyplace else.”