Presidential Donor (13 page)

"You may be right, Jack, but that's easier said than done. It's hard enough just to get from the hospital to here. How do you plan to get out of the country?" Jonah asked.

"I need to get to a phone. Eva do you have one back at your place?"

"Just who do you plan to call?" Eva asked.

Jack looked surprised by the question. "I have a friend who has a plane.

I'm going to see if he can get me out of here."

"I don't know," Jonah said. "This place is crawling with government people looking for you. The airport is the first place they'll stake out."

Jack groaned. "I know, but I have to try. Besides, the airport is big enough I can probably go unnoticed. At least long enough to get on a plane."

"This friend, Jack, where is he?" Jonah asked.

Jack hesitated a moment, glanced at Eva, then back at Jonah. "He's in Michigan. He can get here quickly, though, if I ask him."

Jonah's mouth dropped. "That's at least an eight hour fl--"

"I know it's a long shot, but it's all I've got right now. I can't stick around here and become someone's anatomy project."

"I'm sorry, Jack, but at least let me go with you."

Jonah could hear it coming.

"We can all go," Eva said. "Besides, I know these woods around here better than either of you. It's easy to get lost if you don't know where you're going."

Jack sighed. "Fine, we'll all go. Let's just do it before those guys decide to come back."

Victor Chermonovik's temples throbbed. After ten vodkas, and a turbulent plane ride back to Moscow, he was ready to lie down.

Unfortunately, he had to address the Duma in ten minutes. A few of his key political allies, and some, who were not allies, had more questions than he had answers. They were eager to know the status of the summit--more
importantly--the status of the money he had promised
.

Drilling the Arctic oil fields was born out of an idea Lloyd had, when Chermonovik visited him at Camp David the year before. Lloyd had commented on a National Geographic special he'd watched. It spoke of millions of acres of untapped oil and gas owned by the Russian government.

With their economy near collapse, though, there was little chance of it ever being recovered. Chermonovik concurred with that conclusion, but Lloyd had a better idea. Why not join forces with the U.S., and form a joint oil venture. They would then both share in the rewards.

A month later, Lloyd gathered experts from National Geologic Survey, Russian Geologic Ministry, and Konoco Oil. They all concluded the same thing: there was enough oil to fuel both countries for the next 300 years, and still export millions of barrels a day.
And that was a conservative estimate.

Chermonovik, delighted of course, couldn't wait to sign the agreement.

When Lloyd presented the idea to Ritter, he resisted it immediately.

Chermonovik expected as much; Ritter made no secret of how he felt about post Cold War-politics with Russia. Lloyd found support, however, with the rest of his cabinet. The Oil Exploration pact sailed through Congress, and soon, plans were being made for the summit.

Chermonovik gulped down four aspirin and rubbed his temples in an attempt to help them find their target. He could hear the roar of conversation in the Duma hall just beyond his office, and it only made his head pound more. He considered more vodka, then decided against it--then took a drink anyway. He sank back in his chair, a big leather monstrosity that had been in the office for thirty-years, and grabbed his remote. He flipped to CNN with the hope of an update on Lloyd's condition. The news media was more reliable than their own intelligence sources
--and a whole lot cheaper.
After a few minutes of nothing new from the talking head on the screen, he turned it off. His skull now felt as though it were in a wine press.
Might he suffer Lloyd's fate?

Fifteen minutes later, headache and all, Chermonovik walked into the Duma hall amidst a standing applause. It was then that he decided for his political future to continue, he would have to
lie
to them. They obviously expected good news, so he would give them what they wanted--
then hope for the best
.

"Comrades, I have wonderful news. Despite what the media has reported, Thomas Lloyd is doing well. He is expected to fully recover. The temporary placement of Warren Ritter as Vice President will be short lived. President Lloyd should be back in charge in two weeks. The Secretary of State assured me that the summit would be rescheduled for one month. Meanwhile, the Central Bank will begin receiving payments immediately to procure equipment and contracts for the Ministry of Energy. That is all I have."

Chermonovik walked off the podium and out the side door to his office, sweating profusely and out of breath. Sergai Koslakof walked in behind him.

"Viktor, you lied. We don't know the time table an--"

Chermonovik's eyes flashed. "Sergai, I'm well aware of the time table, or should I say, lack of one. Should you have me tell them the truth, and say I don't know what is going to happen? So I'll be impeached, or worse--shot! Is that what you want?" Chermonovik felt his forehead veins bulge, ready to explode.

"Of course not," Sergai said.

Chermonovik's face softened. "Good. Then go along with this. No one knows anything except you and I... and of course, Nikita. By the way, have we--"

"Not yet, I'm sorry to say."

"He had better come back with something soon. I can only lie to these old men for so long before they demand proof of what I say."

"What about the payments you spoke of, Viktor?"

"Sergai, you know there are no payments, but we better get some, soon.

Now give me that bottle."

In a small office inside the Organ Procurement Network's headquarters in Munich, Jorge Sacov clutched a phone receiver to his ear and waited to talk to Zurich Trauma Center. He had called hours earlier and was told someone would get back to him. No one ever did. Sacov wanted to verify the information he'd been given by the liaison earlier that morning.
Take Jack McDermott off the list?
He'd never heard of it. Sacov could not imagine. He figured someone was playing a practical joke, albeit, not a very funny one. He had successfully reached one of the hospital operators and explained who he was. The operator seemed sympathetic, had placed him on hold, and was now supposed to be connecting him to the liaison on duty.

Five minutes!
Hurry up.

Sacov was getting impatient now.

In slow motion, he turned around and saw a figure moving toward him.

"Hey, you can't be in here," Sacov said.

The man gave him an angry look and stepped forward. He grabbed Sacov by the neck and lifted him off the chair. Sacov felt his eyes bulge out of their sockets. He tried to breathe but it was as if his neck was in a vise.
A human vice!

In a single motion, Sacov's head was internally decapitated and he fell lifeless to the floor.

* * *

Two hundred miles away, Hans Brinkman lay dead inside the Central European Donor Bank. A single gunshot wound to the center of his forehead.

His
assassin stood over him clutching a cell phone to his ear.

"This is Rye. Subject eliminated." He hung up.

On the other end of the line, Denton Cogswell smiled to himself.

Now, on to the next one.

Eva Smorzak felt a dreamlike mist swirling around her as she hiked up the hill, flanked by Jonah Bailey. Jack followed close behind.

"You okay?" Jonah asked, watching her.

Eva glanced over, giving a weak smile. "Thanks. It's just... unbelievable, too much."

Her mind reeled back to the infamous 1992 Interhealth scandal--a former doctor at Brighton, claimed Zurich Trauma had accelerated the deaths of several patients in order to ensure organs for three wealthy patients waiting on transplants.

That same week, Dr. Roy Gregg blasted the doctor as a "drunk" who was fired by Brighton for operating while under the influence. Brighton's credibility had taken a huge hit, but it was quickly forgotten, largely in part to Gregg's reputation.

Now, however, Eva realized Jonah had found irrefutable proof. How much prompting it took from the government was another matter.

Regardless,
no hospital should have let it go this far!

As the implications ran through Eva's mind, Jack hurried up behind her.

"Should we move deeper into the woods? They could have someone watching."

The dense pine woods were jacketed with fresh snow, and the ground was recently disturbed by tire tracks. Eva saw footprints leading right up to her chalet. She pointed to a small clearing on the far side of the house. "We can walk along the edge. Once we get there, we go into the basement."

Jack nodded.

When they arrived at the clearing, Eva gazed out from behind some thick branches, toward her chalet. "I'll go first, if it's clear, I'll wake you up."

"I don't know," whispered Jonah. "Suppose someone's in there?"

Eva started to move and Jack grabbed her arm. "I'll go."

* * *

Behind Eva's chalet, Jack's feet were sunk up to his ankles in the drifts from the night snow. He trudged over to the ambulance, ducking behind it.

Peering around the side of the vehicle, he spotted the basement door. Eva had said the door would be unlocked, so he raced for it. Halfway there, he slipped on a patch of ice on the covered walkway and crashed down on his back. Jack felt the impact shoot through him like a white-hot knife.
Damn, that hurt!

Reeling, he got back to his feet, but his legs felt feeble.
He'd be dead for sure if they caught him out in the open.
With a rush of warm adrenaline, he broke for the door. Once there, he yanked it open and fell inside.

Jack felt a wave of relief.

He looked around. Several pairs of skies hung on the wall along with a rowboat and two oars. The air had a musty odor--a damp quality like a root cellar. He pulled himself to his feet and started to the door to signal Eva when he heard a metallic click.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" A voice that sounded familiar, said.

Jack was about to turn around when he felt something hard pushed against his back.

"Don't even think about it. Just walk to the door, nice and easy."

Jack was certain he was dead now.
The chase was over and soon they would cut his heart out and give it to President Lloyd.
That thought was cut short by a sickening thud behind him.

Jack wheeled around and saw a man in a dark trench coat falling to the floor. Blood spurted out the top of his skull like a clogged showerhead. When Jack looked back up, he saw Eva holding one of the boat oars in front of her, the paddle splattered with blood. "Eva, my God, are you all right?"

A blank stare occupied her face. Jack reached over and very gently took the oar, practically prying her fingers off of it. "It's all right, he's out."

"Is he dead?" Eva asked.

"I don't think so, but he won't bother us for a while."

Jonah rumbled down the wooden stairs and occupied a sizable chunk of the landing. "You two all right?"

"Fine," Jack said.

Jonah regarded the man lying on the floor. The blood had stopped and now formed a dark clot where his scalp was laid open. He stepped across the man's legs and turned him over on his back as if he were a rag doll. After checking his pulse, he turned to Eva. "Nice shot, Smorzak. You don't fool around, do you?"

"I was scared. I didn't know what else to do."

"You did the right thing," Jonah said. "His cronies will be back for him.

This is the same guy I saw outside the morgue. I'm sure of it."

Jack bent down and looked closer at the guy. "Wait a minute. This is one of the guys who came to my room to take me to my supposed, X-ray."

Jonah nodded. "Probably the one who gave you the drug, too? What are we going to do with him?" Eva asked.

"Nothing," Jonah said. "His buddies can take care of him. Besides, his head isn't as bad as it looks. He'll be out for a while, but the bleeding has stopped. He's going to have one horrific headache when he wakes up, though." Jonah smiled at Eva as he said it.

"Let's get him out of the doorway," Eva said.

Jonah and Jack drug the man inside where Jonah picked him up and laid him on an old cot Eva had stored there. He let out a couple of moans, then his eyes rolled back in his head as he fell back into his painful sleep.

"Now, Eva," Jack said. "Where's the phone?"

Charlie Lathbury strolled into Warren Ritter's makeshift operation center at Brighton, with his usual vigor, and without knocking. Ritter looked up, his thin lips tightening as he glared at Lathbury. "Don't you ever knock?"

Lathbury ignored the question. "The First Lady wants to talk to you as soon as possible." He pulled up a chair across form Ritter and sat down.

"Do I need to remind you that the First Lady is now a lady in waiting."

Ritter said. "I believe, I'm Commander in Chief, until further notice. That means my wife is First Lady, as long as I'm in charge. Now who wants to talk to me?"

"For chrisake, Warren, let's not pick nits here. The woman's husband, and may I remind you, your own political partner, is dying."

Ritter rolled his eyes. "What does she want? Haven't I got enough to deal with here?"

"We all do. She'll be down in a few minutes. I'm going over to Breckgarten to meet with the Russian envoy there. Chermonovik wants an update. Any thoughts?"

"Oh I've got thoughts, Charlie. Don't get me started on Chermonovik."

Lathbury sighed, sounding tired of Ritter's pet topic. "Look, I know this is a bad issue for you, but we have to deal with it."

"We are dealing with it, Charlie. Jesus Christ we're sticking our necks out as far as they go to save Lloyd. I'm not worried about this oil deal right now, regardless of my feelings about it. I'm more concerned about our number one priority."