The President's Doctor

by David Shobin

  The temperature dipped below freezing. Underfoot, the snow crunched wherever he stepped.

  In the dark, Jon could barely make out the footprints from the day before, when he’d fled the house in the snow. There were no other tracks around his. In front of him, the unlighted house looked like he’d left it. Staying in a crouch, Jon slowly made his way to the back door. He tested the knob and found it unlocked—again, as he’d left it.

  Turning the knob slowly, he eased the door open and listened for a minute. There was nothing but the stale silence of an abandoned dwelling. Satisfied, he pushed the door open and let himself in.

  He was already looking ahead toward that evening. The way Jon figured it, whoever was looking for him was searching for Admiral Jon Townsend. While this was probably not the most important consideration for getting into Camp David, it couldn’t hurt to dress down. In fact, he still had his enlisted man’s uniform from his days in Vietnam. In all those years he’d only gained ten pounds. He was sure he could still fit into the uniform.

  It felt odd sneaking into his own home. Yet sneak he did, creeping cautiously, slowly stealing through the halls and rooms. He sifted the silence for the slightest sound, straining to hear the unacceptable. The only noise was his own cautious footfalls and the occasional creak of a floorboard. Reaching the basement door, Jon opened it, turned on the light, and proceeded downstairs.

  He kept the old uniform in the basement cedar storage closet. The dry wooden staircase seemed to make a frightful groan with each passing step. When he reached the ground floor, he approached the closet and swung it open. The musty interior smelled of mothballs. Jon found the drawstring of the bare light fixture and yanked. The forty-watt bulb outlined the garments in its pale yellow glow.

  It had been more than a year since he’d last been down here. Most of the items should probably have been discarded, but he never had the desire to go through them. Most things not encased in clothing bags were covered with a visible layer of dust. Several of Victoria’s old coats hung limp and untouched, and their sight gave him pause. But soon Jon pushed them aside, locating his decades-old uniform in the back of the closet.

  The appearance of the green serge flooded him with memories. In a split-second Jon pictured himself back on a parade ground thirty years earlier, standing with his platoon buddies under a hot sun. The memories were unwanted cobwebs he brushed aside. He had things to do and little time in which to do them. Lifting the clothes hanger, he coughed at the swirl of dust that filled his nostrils. Then he turned off the lights and went upstairs.

  Once there, he left the lights off. There was no point in alerting anyone who might be out front, and besides, he knew his way around blindfolded. He went to his bedroom and slipped out of Jean Claude’s clothes. When he stepped into the uniform, the wool’s familiar feel and smell returned. It surprised and flattered him that the uniform still fit, albeit snugly. He unconsciously brushed at unseen wrinkles and walked out of the bedroom.

  In the hall, when he was abreast of the laundry room, the lights suddenly switched on. Jon froze. His heart pounded wildly, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

  “You look very convincing in that uniform, Dr. Townsend,” came a man’s voice from behind him. “No doubt they would have been impressed at Camp David. Turn around. Slowly, please.”

  Jon’s mind whirled, and his brain was on fire. He was completely unfamiliar with the voice behind him. The slight New England accent was deep and thoroughly threatening. Worse still, the stranger knew about Camp David! How was that possible? Jon was sure Saunders hadn’t told anyone. His only conclusion was that they must have listened to his cell phone transmissions—something he knew the techno-geeks were capable of doing, but only, he’d believed, with other people. Ever so slowly, he began turning around. As his gaze swept over the laundry room, he caught sight of the washing machine. And there, atop its lid, was Agent Johnson’s automatic.

  When he’d fled the house a day and a half ago, shotgun in hand, Jon had forgotten about the handgun. All he’d been concerned with was getting away. Now the pistol was within easy reach, but he resisted the impulse. Finishing his about-face, Jon found himself looking at a powerfully-built man, whose own gun was pointed at Jon’s midsection.

  “Who—?” Jon began.

  Sean’s gaze was icy. “To a dead man, that doesn’t matter.” With that, he fired.

  In the narrow hallway, the gun’s explosive roar coincided with a hammering blow to Jon’s abdomen. The force of the bullet knocked him backward and spun him around, toward the laundry room. Off balance, Jon twisted into it, spinning as he fell. He spotted Agent Johnson’s automatic and reached for it as he went down.

  He hit the floor hard. The air was knocked out of him, and he gasped for breath. But curiously, there was none of the spreading paralysis or growing weakness he associated with a mortal wound. Before he could dwell on it, he saw the stranger close in for the coup de grace. Jon’s fingers tightened around the pistol’s butt. Without aiming, Jon pointed up and fired as the stranger loomed over him.

  The man had been pointing his gun at Jon’s head when Jon’s gun roared. The bullet tore into O’Brien’s shoulder, striking bone just as he himself fired. The impact made the big man’s body torque. This deflected Sean’s aim, and his return volley struck Jon’s automatic on the hard metal frame above the trigger guard. Jon’s gun spun away.

  He didn’t hesitate. Before the stranger could react, Jon lashed out hard with his foot, striking the man’s knee. The leg buckled, and O’Brien went down. Realizing the reprieve was temporary, Jon wasted no time. He rolled onto his knees and quickly leapt to his feet, running down the hall to the back door. Behind him, the big man grumbled and cursed as he righted himself. Jon had just grasped the doorknob when another bullet punched a hole in the glass beside his head.

  Desperate to escape, Jon yanked the door open and dashed toward freedom, out into the snow. But the soles of his dress black boots were still warm from the storage closet, and he immediately went down on all fours. From inside the house, he heard footsteps running toward him. There was another loud crack. A whining buzz whizzed past his ear, and a geyser of snow erupted upward. Driven by terror, Jon forced himself up as yet another shot tore through his sleeve. He frantically sprinted toward the trees.

  Behind him, Sean raced after his prey, through the back door. He couldn’t understand how Townsend had survived the first shot, which had clearly hit him mid torso. And where had the doctor gotten the gun? Making matters worse, the initial numbness in his own shoulder was starting to wear off, replaced by a searing pain. Up ahead, his quarry’s olive uniform was growing indistinct in the darkness. Sean had already fired wildly, something prohibited by the discipline of his craft. No, he had to catch up with Townsend first. And then he would kill him.

  Sean watched the doctor reach the thicket at the rear of the property. The big man’s legs pumped furiously, lessening the distance. All at once, Townsend slipped and fell flat. As the doctor struggled to right himself, O’Brien grinned, quickly closing the gap. His gun hand went up.

  Jon had tripped on something even more slippery than the snow itself. His falling body brushed away the ground snow—and there, to his astonishment, was the tarp he’d found yesterday morning, the same tarp on which he now lost his footing. In the darkness, he frantically clawed at what lay within it, expecting another bullet to find him at any second. Behind him, the stranger’s footfalls slowed.

  Although it was hard to see in the darkness, Sean kept his gun pointed at the doctor’s central mass. He would shoot the instant he got close enough. Curiously, the doctor seemed to stop struggling. They did that sometimes, toward the end. He could tell that Townsend was now sitting, turning his way.

  “I hope you were a better doctor than a runner,” Sean said.

  For some unreason, Jon suddenly felt as if he’d been raised with shotguns all his life. It was now a part of him, an extension of his arm. A strange calm came over him. As he rais
ed the weapon to waist level, he casually thumbed off the pushbutton safety. Without giving it another second’s thought, he pointed the shotgun at the stranger and fired.

  Even unconfined, the shotgun’s concussive roar was considerably louder than either handgun. A sheet of bright yellow flame reached out from the muzzle and momentarily lit up the darkness. Before the recoil knocked Jon backward, he could see the stranger topple. And the darkness returned; and with it, a heavy silence.

  Jon lay on his back, winded. His ears were ringing, and bright spots danced before his eyes. The shotgun slipped from his hands. His hand slid across his midsection, toward where he’d been shot. His abdomen ached. He expected to find the wetness, feel the wound. Yet, as his hand crossed his belt line, his fingers touched the heavy brass buckle of his uniform’s belt. To his surprise, the thick metal was deeply indented, turned almost inside out by the impacting bullet. But it had not been penetrated. Jon laughed aloud, letting his head fall back into the snow.

  He lay there for a minute or so, collecting his thoughts, feeling incredibly lucky. All he’d get from being shot at close range would be a bad bruise. But he couldn’t afford to push his luck. Someone may have heard the shots, and besides, he had an appointment to keep. He pushed himself up and approached his pursuer, shotgun ready.

  He needn’t have worried. Beneath the big man’s neck and shoulders, a widening liquid stain crept darkly outward in an expanding circle. The shotgun pellets had struck the man in the chin, nearly decapitating him. The metallic smell of draining blood rose upward with a warm, heavy stench. Who was this man, Jon thought, and why did he want to take my life? He bent over and rummaged through the man’s jacket and pockets.

  Half a minute later, he reentered his house carrying the man’s gun, keys, and thick billfold. The first thing he did was check out front. Peering past the drawn curtains, he found the street empty. His own snow-covered car was still there, seemingly untouched. In addition, there was a gray sedan of the type used by the Interagency Motor Pool. It had U.S. Government plates. The stranger obviously had both political clout and connections.

  Keeping the shades drawn, he switched on one of the dimmer lamps. The stranger’s gun, he noted, was a thirty-two-caliber automatic, a pocket pistol. But the instant he saw the caliber stamped into the frame, Jon knew it was the same pistol used to kill Mahmoud Al-Abed. It was probably also the same gun whose spent shell casings were “found” in the house, no doubt planted by Agent Lewis when the man conveniently disappeared during his first visit. Jon stuffed the gun in his pocket and opened the billfold.

  According to his passport and North Carolina driver’s license, the stranger was a man named Sean O’Brien. The name meant nothing to Jon. Turning the passport pages, he checked the visa stamps and found that O’Brien’s most recent journeys abroad had been to Israel, Tunisia, and Jordan. He looked up, wondering. A man with an Irish name who lived in a Southern state and who spent time in Arabic-speaking countries. A man who probably also used the thirty-two-caliber automatic to kill a would-be Palestinian assassin. Jon began to see crosscurrents, political linkages. Bit by bit, the hazy Palestinian connection was slowly becoming clearer. A Palestinian had tried to assassinate the first lady, only to be murdered by someone else shooting a .32, someone Jon now thought was Sean O’Brien. And O’Brien—aided by Agents Lewis, Johnson, and Fitzpatrick—wanted Jon dead, presumably because he knew about the conspiracy to poison the president.

  Who, Jon wondered, stood to gain from such actions? For now, the answer wasn’t the least bit clear to him.

  Perhaps the one person who could best make sense of things was now at Camp David. Bob Meredith had the savvy, nose, and the smarts for political riddles. Presented with all pieces of the puzzle—if he were still mentally capable—the president, Jon thought, should be able to come up with the whys and wherefores. All of which made it even more essential that Jon tell the president what was going on as soon as possible.

  He glanced at O’Brien’s key chain. There were two obvious vehicle keys on a separate slender ring. Why not? Jon asked himself. They’d still be looking for his car, which he wouldn’t be taking. And the stranger’s body wouldn’t be discovered until daybreak. By then, one way or the other, Jon’s Camp David adventure would be over. It was highly doubtful that his watchers would be looking for a nondescript government vehicle.

  Shotgun in hand, he crept out the front door. O’Brien’s footprints were prominent on the snowy walk. Jon nervously followed the tracks to the curb. He half expected a caravan of vehicles to come screeching toward him with sirens blaring, but the only sound was the cold breeze that gently stirred the nearby boughs. He quickly got in the car and started the engine.

  Under ideal conditions, the sixty-mile trip to Camp David could be driven in slightly more than an hour. But owing to the storm, conditions were hardly ideal. Jon decided to drive cautiously and allow two hours for the trip. He proceeded slowly through local streets until he reached the interstate, following the on-ramp to I-270 North.

  The longest leg of the trip would be the straight northwest shot to Frederick, Maryland. Traffic was sparse. The highway was well ploughed, but Jon kept to the right-hand lane at a sedate fifty miles per hour. He constantly checked the rearview mirror, but no one seemed to be following. There was a briefcase on the passenger seat. As Jon settled in for the drive, he opened the briefcase. Keeping one eye on the road, he leafed through its contents.

  The dashboard lamp made for dim but ample illumination. Jon pulled out a handful of paper pads, individual single page documents, and manila folders, spreading them out on the seat. One of the folders, labeled with “The Doc” in handwritten script, contained a number of seemingly unrelated documents. There was a Baltimore Washington International Airport concourse map, a Baltimore street atlas, brochures from the Johns Hopkins Medical Institutions, a Washington Post article, and a grainy photo. When Jon peered closer, he saw that it was a picture of the murdered researcher, Dr. Jeremy Raskin. All of a sudden, the documents didn’t seem unrelated at all. Good God, Jon thought, stunned.

  Another folder contained photos. They were glossy, black and white, eight-by-tens, professionally done. Some were telephoto shots. In the car’s dim ivory light, Jon could see himself in the pictures—entering the house, or at the Naval Medical Center.

  But what made him frown were the two-week-old pictures of him and Mireille leaving her apartment building. Obviously, the watchers had been interested in him for quite some time. He quickly pulled out the remaining photos, curious to see where the photographic trail led. What met his eyes nearly made him drive off the road.

  Stunned, he had to tightly grip the wheel. His pulse was racing, and he momentarily had to focus on the road ahead to soothe his shrieking brain. This can’t be happening, he thought. Regaining his composure, he glanced back at the telltale photos. He knew the pictures didn’t lie. They were evidence, key pieces of the puzzle that was starting to come together in his mind, but that was as yet incomplete. He lifted the nearest picture and held it closer to the light for inspection.

  She looked remarkably good for someone her age, he conceded. Then again, it was the same age as he. She had the full breasts and lithe figure of a woman two decades younger. Then again, she had always looked good in her designer jeans and form-fitting tops, but until he saw her naked, Jon hadn’t appreciated precisely how great. And it was abundantly clear, from the way her lover seemed fixated with her breasts, that Mitchell Forbes was also bedazzled with Amanda Doria.

  Jon looked at another picture, similarly taken from above. A hidden surveillance camera had obviously taken the photos, which bore a digital date of approximately three weeks ago. From their grainy texture, Jon deduced that they were stills made from video camera footage. In the second photo, a deliriously aroused chief of staff, lay on his back with his eyes closed, Amanda straddling him from above, back arched and head thrown back toward the camera. They both looked ecstatic.

  He was sure the
Secret Service logs could tell him when the pair had access to one another. What am I supposed to make of this? Jon asked himself. The chief of staff, the president’s most trusted adviser, is secretly photographed having carnal knowledge of the vice president’s buxom wife. All of which occurred at a time the entire nation was concerned about its beloved first lady. Yet Jon Townsend was a realist who understood that deep grieving never stood in the way of serious fucking.

  From the expressions on their faces, the two lovers seemed deeply committed to one another, at least physically. Jon briefly wondered how long the affair had been going on, and who knew. Such affaires du coeur could not be concealed indefinitely. For a moment, Jon felt sorry for Vice president Doria. He didn’t know Tony Doria that well, but the man always struck him as a decent guy. More to the point, what were the pictures doing in a trained killer’s briefcase? On this point, he hadn’t a clue.

  The one thing of which he was certain was that it was all part of a larger conspiracy. It was a plot that, until just now, seemed to involve rogue government agents, Roxanne’s shooting, a Palestinian hit man, a bizarre and ongoing attempt to kill the president, and efforts on Jon’s own life. Add to that the murder of a noted researcher and an explosive love affair, and one had the kind of mind-boggling political intrigue that hadn’t been seen since the days of the Kennedy administration.

  Reaching Frederick, he took U.S. 15 North to Thurmont, then turned onto Maryland Route 77, toward Hagerstown. Following the banks of Hunting Creek, Jon eventually reached Catoctin Mountain Park and turned right at the visitor’s center. The park contained the presidential retreat. Continuing, he turned onto a road that was the start of the security fence that encompassed the camp’s one hundred twenty-five acres of rocky, wooded terrain.