The President's Doctor

by David Shobin

  In detail, Jon related where Chris should look for the tobacco samples and what he wanted done with them. Jon knew it was a rush job, both for himself and the lab workers. But he didn’t know any other way to go about it. If he wanted the result, he needed Chris’ skill and savvy. Without them, there was no way he could save himself—or the president.

  The Bell 2063-B helicopter hovered in the cold gray skies above Georgetown, searching the ground below. The observer in the co-pilot’s seat trained his Steiner binoculars on the area behind Mireille’s apartment.

  “We have fresh footprints leading to the Chef’s apartment, lead,” the man said, using Mireille’s code name. “Looks like one set going in and out, copy?”

  “Copy that,” said Lewis, listening from his ground car. “Any sign of Doctor?”

  “The tracks look at least a couple hours old. I’d say he was here and gone.”

  “Copy. Hang for another ten minutes and then move off site.”

  Lewis radioed one of the ground surveillance teams and informed them of the discovery. If Townsend had visited Courtois, there had to be a reason for the rendezvous. The two were known to be romantically involved, but since the doctor was doubtless aware he was being sought, he’d be a fool to visit simply for sexual favors. And Townsend was certainly no fool. No, the doctor was up to something. And if they couldn’t locate him, perhaps the girl could lead them to him.

  Of the surveillance units in the area, one was assigned to Chef Courtois. Shortly after eight a.m., Chef left home and headed for the White House. This was her normal going-to-work time. The in-house team picked her up and reported business as usual. But at ten, she abruptly exited the kitchen and left The House. The mobile unit picked her up and followed her to the Naval Medical center, where she parked.

  Worried that Townsend had evaded them and was back at the outpatient building, two teams converged on it, hoping to catch him unawares. Taking no chances, they kept out of sight as they carefully tailed Courtois to the indoor eating area. But she was alone, and no one joined her. Mireille bought a cup of coffee and took a table by herself. After nursing her beverage for ten minutes, she slowly got up and left. Once outside the facility, the team trailed her back to the White House, where she resumed work. There was no sign of Townsend.

  The events left Lewis confused and annoyed. It rankled him that he didn’t know what Courtois was up to. He felt pressured. Time was not on their side, and those running the show wanted results.

  And they wanted them now.

  Like Agent Lewis, Chris Leadbetter was confused. He’d heard the same news as everyone else about Dr. Townsend, news that was the talk of the hospital. The story seemed preposterous. He’d known Dr. Townsend for years and found him to be a compassionate physician and loyal friend. Townsend was not only Chris’ own doctor but also the Leadbetter family physician. He’d been there throughout Chris’ mom’s long and arduous battle with colon cancer, often coming in on his nights and weekends during his off-time. Chris was deeply in his debt.

  Yet, once aware of the monumental crime of which Townsend had been accused, Chris also understood his role as a key government employee. Being paid by the government left him with certain obligations. Underlying his confusion was the struggle between allegiance and gratitude. And then there was the matter of the e-mail. At least Dr. Townsend hadn’t tried to deny that a problem existed. In matters like this, Chris thought, where there were two conflicting viewpoints, it often boiled down to a matter of conscience. For him, there was no question where his conscience led him.

  At precisely, eleven A.M., following Dr. Townsend’s instructions, Chris left the lab and went to the lunch area. The midday crown hadn’t yet arrived. Chris bought a Diet Coke and sat down at the table nearest the cashier. For the next five minutes, he was a study in casual break-taking. Then, as nonchalantly as possible, he slid his hand under the table. He located the letter-size envelope, stuck in place with a wad of chewing gum.

  Chris pried it free and carried it, along with what remained of his drink, back to the lab.

  It didn’t feel like New Year’s Eve.

  The fact that the holiday fell on a weekday put a crimp in plans for festivities. Then there was the emotional fallout from the first lady’s illness. The countrywide letdown persisted through Christmas and lessened customarily high spirits. The weather was also a factor. Although the snow had long since stopped, a stalled low-pressure front kept the clouds low and the skies uniformly gray. By three p.m., those still at work left their jobs for subdued holiday celebrations.

  After Jon left Mireille, he called Dave, hoping that the Secret Service agent could come up with an idea of how Jon could inform the president. Dave was still working on it but thought he might have something by later that afternoon. In the meantime, Jon had to kill time and keep out of sight. Wearing Mireille’s brother’s clothes, he took a cab to nearby Chevy Chase, Maryland. The area had a Cineplex that began showing movies at mid-morning. With his thoughts light years away, Jon spent the next few hours staring at the big screen.

  He knew it would take a while for Chris to perform the tests. Still, he’d lucked out in this regard because the Naval Medical Center’s lab had recently procured the atomic absorption equipment required for the testing. Previously, heavy metal requests had to be shipped to reference labs in Los Angeles or Philadelphia, a process that would require several days. Jon didn’t have several days. He thought he’d be lucky to elude detection for another twenty-four hours.

  At four p.m., he left the theater and called the lab, where he was immediately put through to Chris.

  “How’re the tests coming?” he asked.

  “Just finished, Dr. Townsend. Now, these are supposedly two separate samples, right?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because even though one’s rolled in cigarette paper and the other’s loose, the tobaccos are identical.”

  Bells started ringing in Jon’s head. “Identical, how?”

  “Microscopically, the tobacco cut and textures are the same. These are pipe tobaccos, and it looks to me like they’re from the same source. And then there are the test results.”

  “What’d they show?”

  “Unless I made an error, both samples are impregnated with toxically high levels of mercury,” said Chris. “And the levels are exactly the same.”

  Bingo, Jon thought. “That’s great, Chris. Do me one last favor. Write all this down and lock it up somewhere safe. Don’t show it to anybody, okay?”

  “All right,” Chris slowly agreed. “Dr. Townsend, could I ask—?”

  “Not now. But I’ll let you know everything soon. Just rest assured you haven’t done anything wrong. I owe you big time, my friend.”

  With that, Jon rang off. He silently thanked God there were still people he could trust. Without Chris’ information, he’d just be spinning his wheels; with it, he knew precisely what had happened. It was now clear that someone had placed poisonously high amounts of mercury in the president’s tobacco. Every time Bob Meredith lit his pipe, he was inhaling toxic mercury fumes. And as the months went by, those fumes were causing an organic brain syndrome whose features were indistinguishable from better-known neurological disorders.

  It was a remarkably clever way of incapacitating someone. For the victim, it would be business as usual. Although everyone knew smoking tobacco was unhealthy, never in his wildest dreams would President Meredith suspect that he was committing suicide by lighting his pipe. And then there was poor Mr. Phillips, who must have loved the tobacco’s aroma. Or perhaps the president had given him permission to borrow from the humidor. But by smoking the president’s tobacco, Mr. Phillips was killing himself just as surely as if he’d swallowed cyanide.

  Cyanide…the reason behind Jon’s own murder attempt was now clear. He must have been getting close, too close. Once Roxanne’s concerns had triggered her husband’s in-depth evaluation, Jon was doomed. The more he thought about it, the more everything was falling in
to place. Roxanne had been right, after all. She knew her husband, and she realized something dreadfully wrong was happening to him. Her major blunder was to get hysterical about it. Whoever was poisoning the president wanted it to look like a slow, inexorable, and rather benign neurological condition, one that wouldn’t interfere with the reelection. Once the first lady started making verbal waves, her fate was sealed.

  As for himself, Jon thought, he’d become expendable once he started digging.

  The president’s enemies must have reached that decision when Jon ordered test after additional test. They probably realized that he’d stumble across the answer at some point. Before he did, he’d be eliminated with a few whiffs of cyanide.

  How lucky he’d been! Sure, he’d been determined, but his father always told him it was better to be lucky than smart, and he’d been fortunate indeed. But he wouldn’t stay lucky forever. The same people who’d sent men to kill him were undoubtedly behind what happened to the first lady and the president. If they had the ability to control supposedly dedicated agents of the nation’s intelligence services, they had to be powerful men indeed. And the fact that they were trying to engineer events around the presidential election process suggested they were politically connected—and probably very high up.

  As for precisely who, that was not for him to say. His job as a physician was to be a medical diagnostician, something that now, through persistence and luck, he’d been successful at. Still, Jon had his suspicions. The one person who most clearly tried interfering with the medical workup was Mitch Forbes. The chief of staff was certainly powerful and politically connected, but he was also the president’s man. Bob Meredith liked and trusted Forbes, and if the president were out of the way, Forbes would be out of a job. No, Jon thought, he doubted it was Forbes. And there must be something else going on, something that eluded him.

  He dearly wanted to go over all this with people he trusted, like Dave and Mireille. But first he had more pressing matters. He had to let Dave know what the tests revealed, and he hoped Dave would come up with a way for him to get to the president. Soon after he finished speaking with Chris Leadbetter, Jon called Saunders outside of the movie complex.

  “Dave, my man,” he said when the agent picked up. “I hope you’re ready for this, because I just heard something that’s going to knock your socks off.”

  Over the next few minutes, Jon related what he’d learned about the plot to poison the president. Dave listened in stunned silence.

  “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

  “It’s a very accurate test, so I guess I am.”

  “Jesus. This is scary stuff, Jon. Are you certain you can trust Leadbetter not to say anything?”

  “I think so. What I’m wondering is, who put the mercury in? It’d have to be someone with access to the humidors, right?”

  “Not necessarily. The tobacco could have arrived already spiked. A lot depends on where it comes from.”

  “You don’t happen to know, do you?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Dave.

  “Then I guess I’ll have to ask Bob myself. How’re you doing on that front?”

  “I think I’ve got an idea.”

  The president’s original plans for the holiday, Dave explained, had been cancelled after Roxanne’s shooting. No one on the White House staff pestered the president about subsequent arrangements, and he didn’t volunteer any—until today. Several hours ago, the president said that, after a visit to Shock Trauma, he wanted to spend the rest of the holiday at Camp David. Saunders would be accompanying the presidential detail. Since it was a last-minute trip, Dave said, the normally light holiday security contingent would be further reduced. Dave thought he could safely get Jon in to see the president.

  Dave’s plan was simple. Camp David wasn’t far from Washington. Jon would rent a car under an alias and drive up to the state park so as to arrive at nine p.m. Rather than try to sneak into the facility, which would be virtually impossible, Jon would simply show up at the main gate. Dave would clear Jon’s entry with the Marine sentry on duty.

  Jon had no doubt he could rent a car and arrive on time, but the plan seemed almost too simple. Yet he was in no position to argue. He trusted Dave implicitly. Time was short, and his pursuers were doubtless closing in. This was his last, best shot, and he was determined to take it.

  Still, he didn’t want to go completely unprepared. It might be a good idea, he thought, if he wasn’t wearing civilian clothes. He’d been a guest at Camp David before, and he felt the security personnel would be more receptive to someone in uniform than in civilian clothes. He stored uniforms both at work and at home. Although he was certain they’d be looking for him at the medical center, he sincerely doubted that, after his arrest, anyone would think he’d dare return home. Yet this was precisely where he would go.

  Then there was the question of weapons. He still had Agent Johnson’s automatic, but if he was heading home, it might behoove him to pick up the shotgun, for more stopping power. He certainly couldn’t lug it through Camp David, but only a fool would overlook personal safety. And Jon had been a fool long enough not to have learned his lesson.

  “Agent Lewis, this is Specialist Nugent at the NSA, come in please.”

  “Go ahead, Nugent”

  “Sir, Lorsat recorded a cellular transmission from the suspect cell phone. Location is Chevy Chase, Maryland. I can give you coordinates, and I can send you the transmission. What’s your preference?”

  As he sat in his car, a smile slowly spread across Lewis’ face. Finally, he thought to himself. For a man labeled a gutless coward, Dr. Townsend was proving to be a far more resourceful adversary than they’d anticipated. But while their operation wasn’t large, their resources were abundant. Once they’d leaked the phony news story, their numbers were augmented by thousands of police and public-spirited citizens. It was only a question of time before they were on to him. “Are you ready to transmit?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Switching to secure frequency, channel eight.”

  Over the next several minutes, Lewis and the man beside him listened to a recording of the recent Townsend phone conversation. So, he finally figured out what was happening to the president, Lewis thought. He’d only been recently told all the details himself. His bosses knew that the doctor was an excellent diagnostician who’d eventually piece things together. Clearly now that Townsend had pieced things together, he had to be stopped before he revealed what was going on.

  Lewis thought that the other voice’s Camp David idea was ingenious. And as much as it presented an opportunity for the doctor, it also presented an idea for them. When the transmission ended, Lewis thanked Nugent and signed off.

  “There’s light at the end of the tunnel,” Lewis said.

  “So it would appear,” said the powerfully built man beside him. “It all comes down to this.”

  Lewis put the car into gear and cruised away from the curb. “Let’s get started. I’ll drop you at your hotel.”

  “That’d be fine,” said O’Brien.

  “Can I help you out with anything else?”

  “You’ve been more than enough help as it is, pal. I think I can handle things from here on out. Why don’t I call you when it’s over?”

  “When you are sure it’s over,” said Lewis. “I’m under orders not to report back until I’m convinced.”

  Lewis dropped Sean off at the Hotel Harrington, a modestly priced tourist hotel on Eleventh Street. One hundred dollars per night was all the leader of the now defunct Southern Cross was willing to spend. But in truth, Sean rarely needed luxurious lodgings. At heart, he had a beer drinker’s inexpensive tastes cultivated during his Beantown boyhood.

  The sum he was being paid for this job, although not insubstantial, was not the reason he was in town for this job. He wasn’t here for the money or to fulfill lofty personal goals. Rather, what impelled him was a profound sense of loyalty to the man who had saved his life. It was a loyalty t
hat went beyond issues, causes, and fundamentalist beliefs. To Sean’s way of thinking, such beliefs didn’t empower a man, but crippled him. When one became wedded to a cause, he lost his own identity. Not that there weren’t plenty of young men willing to martyr themselves in the name of one extremist belief or another. Indeed, there were more than enough Palestinians like Mahmoud Al-Abed, and right-wing religious fanatics like C.J. Walker, to fill several lifetimes. Sean saw little difference between them. In his scheme of things, such men had a place and served a purpose. They were the cannon fodder necessary to get the big jobs done. Sean wondered if Mahmoud had a better insight into that purpose the instant before his death, when their eyes met on that rooftop in Baltimore.

  When he left Boston, the man he now worked for had given Sean a calling: listen to what I say and follow my orders. We will ultimately become wealthy, comfortable, and fulfilled. And Sean had done just that. The transition from idealist to pragmatist proved rather easy. He became task- and goal-oriented, doing what was asked of him. And now, achieving his goals meant leaving no loose ends. Dr. Townsend was one such loose end who threatened everything his boss had accomplished. And while it was fine to let disenchanted agents of the FBI and Secret Service discover the good doctor’s whereabouts, Sean could not be certain they would take him out. O’Brien knew from long experience that when in doubt, it was best to enter the hunt oneself. So, as soon as Agent Lewis drove away from the hotel, Sean caught a cab and had it take him to the government car he’d left in Bethesda, Maryland.

  He had a hunch about the doctor, and his hunches were rarely wrong.

  CHAPTER 24

  Sunset officially arrived at four forty-six p.m., and by five, it was completely dark. Jon waited until nightfall before returning home. Still dressed in Jean Claude’s jeans and topcoat, he might have been any resident strolling through the neighborhood. Except that he wasn’t strolling. When the cab dropped him off, he moved stealthily from one area of concealment to the next, slowly working his way to the back of his house.