Presidential Donor (14 page)

"Speaking of which, what's the status on that?" Lathbury asked.

The question felt like a boulder landing in Ritter's lap. "They're still looking for him."

"What about the other two?"

Instinctively Ritter tried sidestepping. He stared down at the blotter wondering what he was going to say to Gwen Lloyd. He hadn't seen her since she boarded Air Force One, and he'd hoped he wouldn't have to deal with her till later. He knew she would press him about the summit, and he wasn't ready to answer any of her questions. Now he looked back at Lathbury whose eyes were locked on him. "Them, too," he said.

Lathbury scowled. "How hard can they be to find?"

"Charlie, Zurich is a big place, and we don't have many people looking for them. We can't have too many involved. Don't worry, though, Cogswell will find them."

"Well I hope it's soon," Lathbury said. "I just talked to Dr. Gregg. He said the President is deteriorating rapidly."

"We are doing all we can, Charlie," Ritter said, tired of repeating the statement.

Lathbury stood up, the small metal chair caught on his considerable girth.

He pushed it back down to the floor. "I need to get over to Breckgarten. As far as I'm concerned, Chermonovik gets no more information than anyone else."

Ritter's face hardened. "He damn site better not."

He shot a glance toward Lathbury when he heard the knock at the door.

"That would be the former First Lady," Ritter said, with the emphasis on
former
.

"I'll see you, Warren," Lathbury said. He smiled at Gwen Lloyd on his way out.

Ritter met her at the door. "Come in, Gwen. How are you?"

"As well as can be expected," she said solemnly.

An awkward silence.

She took a seat across from Ritter, the quiet finally broken by a passing ambulance outside. She patted the wrinkles out of her skirt and looked up at Ritter. "Warren, I know we haven't always seen things the same way, but I feel it's important for me to tell you. The only thing that matters to me right now is my husband. I don't care about politics, I don't care about power, and frankly, I don't care about this oil summit. I only care about Thomas."

Ritter could see the tears running down her cheeks, and if he owned a conscious, he would have felt bad. As it was, he looked right through her as if he could have been talking about anything
--that meant nothing to him
. He felt good to be in this position, where he was the voice of authority instead of her. It was no secret there was no love lost between them. She resented the fact that he didn't support her husband's ideas. When they were in Washington she often criticized Ritter for his views, sometimes in public.

Now, here she was sitting across from him like some schoolgirl in the principal's office. Nothing could have pleased him more, well
--maybe one thing.

Ritter did his best emotional strip tease and tried to sound sincere. "Yes, Gwen, I understand. I want the same thing. I know we are at odds at times.

That's politics. My God, we're talking about Tom's life here. There is no politics in the world more important than that."

"Thank you, Warren, I needed to hear that."

"Don't worry, we'll get through this. How is Sara?"

"Devastated. She went to see him a little while ago, but she had to leave after few minutes. She couldn't handle it. You know how close they are."

For the first time, Ritter felt a tinge of guilt. It was one thing to disagree about politics. It was quite another when it came to one's children. He had children of his own, and all though he spent little time with them, he wondered how they would feel if something would happen to him. He pushed the thought out of his mind.
This is no time to start developing a conscious; there's too much at stake.
Ritter looked at Gwen Lloyd. "Well, I hope she gets through this all right. If there is anything I can do, let me know."

"Thank You. I will."

Ritter heaved a sigh as she walked out. He had convinced her that they both wanted the same thing for her husband. He smiled.
Nothing could be further from the truth.

The sun welcomed Jack as Eva opened the door leading up from her basement. "The phone is up here," she said.

He met her at the top step.

Jack looked down at Jonah standing over the unconscious guy. "You coming?"

"I'll be right there," he said. "I'm just making sure our friend here is still out."

Jack spotted the phone on the small pine table by the front window. He picked it up then paused. The number he wanted to call was committed to memory, which was lucky for him, since he didn't have his black book. The small phone book was his personal bible, filled with every important number or address he knew. He hoped it would turn up later, if and when this ordeal was over.

He reached the overseas operator who put him through to Kensaw, Michigan.

Inside a parked van at Brighton Heart Center, Denton Cogswell glared at George Wang. The Asian-American telecom expert sat in front of several laptop computers typing information into one of them. "Let me get this straight," Cogswell said. "You set the satellite dish up and you can screen any call that comes from the United States?"

"That's a simplified version of it," Wang said, adjusting his thick glasses.

"Of course it--"

Cogswell put his hand up in a stop gesture. "That's okay. I don't have time for details, just get it to work."

"You give me a pre selected set of numbers, and I feed them into the computer," the man said.

Cogswell reached into the breast pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a small black book. The outside of it appeared well worn and the edges frayed.

It was the small kind of address book one would find at a five and dime, had those stores still existed. The book belonged to Jack McDermott. It had come into Cogswell's possession, compliments of Bob Bradley, who had obtained McDermott's personal effects from the hospital safe. Cogswell handed the book to Wang who looked at it curiously, then turned back to Cogswell.

"Feed every number in this book into that thing," Cogswell said. "If any of them come up, call me ASAP."

"If any of them are called to or from Zurich, we'll know in a matter of minutes," Wang said.

Cogswell grinned. "Perfect."

Steve Charles began his career as a copy boy for a Michigan printing company. He never forgot where he started or that his friend Jack McDermott had got him the job. Steve and Jack had been friends since they were ten-years-old. They went to high school together, became college roommates, and always remained friends. They talked to each other at least once a week, if not face-to-face, then by phone. Anytime one of them had a problem, the other was there for him. Jack even resisted dating a girl in college he liked, so Steve could ask her out, knowing how much Steve liked her. They would do anything for each other.

When Jack went into journalism, Steve continued to work for the printing company. He climbed the corporate ladder along the way, until finally he was assistant chairman.

Then lightning struck. Steve developed a software program to make printing quicker and cheaper; suddenly he was a millionaire. The company went public a year later, and Steve Charles reached billionaire status. Now, he owned one of the largest printing companies in the world. All his wealth, though, never changed his friendship with Jack. He had offered to make Jack a partner, but Jack wasn't the corporate type. Steve respected Jack, even envied him. Interviewing all those interesting people, especially the controversial ones Jack specialized in.

Steve was about to walk out of his office on the twenty-first floor of the building he owned, when his phone rang. He slipped his briefcase under his arm and picked it up with his free hand.

"This is Steve Charles." He heard two deliberate clicks, then static. He almost hung up before he heard the familiar voice.

"Steve, this is Jack. Listen very carefully to me. I'm in a lot of trouble. I can't explain right now. I don't have a lot of time. I'm being followed by the CIA."

"Jack, have you been drinking or are yo--"

"Steve,
please
, this is no joke! I really need your help. They're trying to kill me."

"What are you talking about, Jack? Who is trying to kill you? Are you sure you're not drunk?"

"No, I assure you, I am not drunk!"

Steve could sense Jack's growing irritation, and began to take him seriously. What's happened?"

"I need you to do something for me."

"Sure, you name it."

"I need you to get your plane and get here to Zurich as soon as possible."

Steve took his briefcase, now burdening him, and set it on the floor. "Jack that's an eight hour flight. I--"

"Please, Steve, I need your help. I'll explain everything when you get here. I can meet you at Zurich International Airport. Please just get here as fast as you can."

"All right. I don't know what this is all about, but I'll be there. It'll take me an hour or so to get in the air after everything's arranged. Is there some place I can reach you?"

"Just let the flight controllers know what time you're going to arrive. I'll contact them," Jack said.

"Be careful, buddy. This sounds serious."

"It is serious."

"I'll see you soon."

Steve hung up the phone and sat in dumfounded silence.
What kind of trouble could Jack possibly be in?
Well, it didn't matter; he needed his help
whether it meant flying to Zurich or flying to Mars, he would do it.

* * *

Five thousand miles away, a staff nurse stood on the walkway leading to Brighton Heart Center. It offered a breathtaking panorama of the snow-covered Alps rising in the background. She had walked this same path every day for the past five years, and always looked forward to the view.

Now, for the first time ever, something blocked her view
--
something new--
a satellite dish.

Now why on earth Brighton would put a satellite dish on the roof, when they already had a half dozen lined up behind the building?
Something to do with the media frenzy over Thomas Lloyd? She doubted the hospital would allow that. Besides, the parking lot was already filled with news' vans that had dishes perched on long poles, sending out the latest story to the press. Bad enough to junk up the hospital grounds.
Now someone has ruined the view.

* * *

Two floors below the satellite dish, Denton Cogswell answered a call on his cell phone. "Yea, what is it?"

"Mr. Cogswell, this is George Wang, the teleco--"

"Oh yea," Cogswell said, almost forgetting he told the man to call him back.

"I think there's something you might want to hear. We just tapped into an outgoing transmission. It's slightly scrambled, but it's audible. It went to Michigan, and the call was placed within ten miles of this hospital."

"I'll be right there," Cogswell said.

Cogswell turned to Ritter and grinned.

"What?" Ritter asked, throwing his hands in the air.

"I think we have our pigeon," Cogswell said, then hurried out the door.

President Thomas Lloyd was in a drug-induced sleep. Put there to save what little remained of his heart, from any additional strain. In this pharmaceutical slumber-land, dreams became vivid movies, played over and over in Technicolor REM patterns. The dreams alternated between pleasant, to what one would call weird. One dream in particular, though, of the pleasant variety, kept recurring.

He stood at a crossroads and wore only his hospital gown. In front of him was an old tunnel, circa: 1920. The kind of tunnel coal trains used to pass through the mountains. Only there were no trains in this tunnel, just an immensely bright light that seemed to beckon him. He was hesitant about going in. He wanted to investigate, but someone called him back. A girl of about sixteen with long red hair and green eyes that could have been his own child. Only hers were filled with tears. She pleaded with him not to go. The light was so bright it seemed magnetic; pulling him a little closer each time the dream played itself out. He saw people he knew, floating in the light, calling to him: his mother and father, a brother he'd lost in Viet Nam. The girl called to him, "daddy." Tears flooded her eyes. He didn't remember being anyone's daddy. The girl must be mistaken. Maybe it was the light, so bright it deluded her. Still, he felt a connection with her he couldn't understand.

The dream faded--replaced by one far more sinister.

A big white house, surrounded by guards, paid to protect him. He walks out the front entrance. Suddenly his guards are firing on him. He feels his skull fly apart, and then he's in the light again. The girl is behind him, she pleads, "Please don't go!" Another woman appears, older--a woman he recognizes--next to the girl. She too, calls him back.

The light beckons.

What to do? What to do?

The light is even brighter now, and so soothing. It envelops him with more comfort than he ever knew. Can't resist, can't resis
...

* * *

At that moment, Thomas Lloyd's heart stopped. The cardiac monitor above his bed blared out a piercing alarm that brought nurses scurrying from every direction. The first to arrive gasp when she saw Lloyd's ashen skin and a monitor screen that showed only a flatline. "Get in here, he's crashing!" she yelled out the door to anyone who could help.

Before the sentence was even completed, two more nurses arrived, as well as an army of doctors and ancillary personnel. One cardiologist grabbed the defibrillator and put it to Lloyd's chest. "Stand clear," he ordered, although everyone already was. Lloyd's body bounced on the bed as two hundred and thirty joules jolted him.

A second later, a rhythm appeared on the monitor screen. "We've got him back," someone said.

* * *

Thomas Lloyd stopped floating above his bed and walked out of the light. The young girl held his hand and smiled up at him. The light gradually faded until it was completely gone, along with the dream.