Presidential Donor (9 page)

Then the bullets stopped.

The toboggan reached the bottom of the hill and Jonah saw it--
the cabin
.

Behind a stand of white pine it looked like a winter oasis. They were in the clear.

The sled crashed to a stop, and Jonah wrenched himself out. Jack McDermott was still under his blanket; seemingly oblivious to the terrifying ordeal they'd just been through.
They're coming!
Jonah told himself.

He and Eva wrestled Jack out of the sled and up to the front door. No sooner had they got there, than the whining of snowmobile engines loomed in the distance. While Jonah supported Jack, Eva pulled off her glove and yanked a wooden key ring from her pocket. With the key in the lock, she pushed on the door.
It wouldn't budge.
"Sonofabitch!"

With the sound of the snowmobiles growing ever closer, Jonah felt a hopeless sensation encroaching on him. "Let me try, Eva."

Jonah stepped around Jack and Eva moved over next to him. Jonah lunged forward and drove his shoulder against the heavy door.
Holy shit!
He winced as a jolt of pain shot down his arm. "Dammit!" With new resolve, Jonah grabbed the handle and wrenched the door away from the frame. The door gave way with a resounding scrape against the swollen threshold. "Yes!"

Jonah yelled, helping Jack inside while Eva dragged the sled into the cabin.

As if to give voice to Jonah's fear, three snowmobiles buzzed past like giant bumblebees just as he slammed the door shut.

Jack was wide-awake now and wrapped up in two wool blankets. "Who are those guys?"

"I don't know," Jonah said. "I intend to find out, though." He looked out the corner of the window. "They want
you
for something."

Jack's eyes widened.
"They want me dead."

"No, I don't think so," Jonah said. "Those bullets were intended for Eva and me. They could have killed
you
back at the hospital if that was all they wanted. No... they're after something else."

On the third floor of Zurich Trauma, Helga Samulson had just started an IV on one of her patients when she remembered. Two and a half hours had passed since the two new CT technicians had picked Jack McDermott up.
She better check on him.

His room sat in a cul-de-sac of three other rooms close to the nurses' station, designed to cut down on the amount of walking they had to do. She peeked in his room and was surprised to find his bed still empty.
That's an awfully long CT scan
. She called radiology, and after five or six rings, someone picked up.

"Radiology," a voice said.

"This is third floor, is Mr. McDermott finished yet?"

An awkward silence.

"No, Mr. McDermott never came down. They called us and said he seized on the way down. They diverted him to the ER."

"What! No one told me anything. What time was this?"

"Couple of hours ago."

"I can't believe this," she said. "Okay thanks."

Red faced, Helga picked up the in-house directory and looked for Dr. Leah's phone number.
Here it is.

She snatched up the phone and dialed 7745. The usual automated reply told her to put in your number after the beep, which she did. She put the phone down and waited.

Seething because no one had told her patient had a major seizure; she threw herself down in the chair. The phone had barely elicited half a ring before she jerked it out of the cradle. "Third floor," she said, now half contained.

"Dr. Leah, someone page me?"

"Yes I sure did, Dr. Leah," she said, making no effort to hide her anger. "I just called radiology to check on Mr. McDermott, and they tell me he had a grand mal seizure on his way there. No one bothered to tell me and--"

"I'm sorry," Leah said. "Someone was supposed to let you know... but... I'm afraid it's much worse."

"What do you mean?"

"Jack McDermott died this morning, just after eleven o'clock. He had a grand mal seizure with subsequent cardiac arrest. ER tried to resuscitate him, but he didn't respond. I'm really sorry, I thought they told you."

"I'm shocked. He was fine when he left the floor."

"I know. I was just as shocked as you when they called me."

"You mean you weren't there at the code?"

"No, I only found out afterwards. Bradley paged me while I was on rounds."

"I didn't even hear a code called," she said.

"Maybe you were busy with a patient. I didn't hear it either. As I said, I was on rounds. Lots of students with questions. You know how they are."

"I'm just really surprised," she said, somewhat suspiciously.

"You know," Leah said, "it's hard to tell about head injuries, sometimes. Even though he appeared to have recovered, he obviously still had problems. Of course the CT scan would have told us, but... anyway, it's a shame."

She plucked a tissue from the box. "Yea, it is." This took her totally by surprise. She tried to remind herself it went with the territory. Still, it left an uneasy feeling in her gut.
It just didn't sound right.
"Well, Dr. Leah, I better let you get back to work. I know you're busy."

"That's okay. And again, I'm sorry you weren't informed earlier. I'll come up later and see my other patients. Bye now."

As she hung up the phone, her words drifted over the nurses' station. "I can't believe he's dead."

"Did you say something?"

She didn't know anyone was there. She looked up from the desk to see who had asked--it was Bradley.

Larry Spalding's secretary rushed into his office in a huff. Usually calm, collect, and neat as a pin, the perfect bun, usually sitting dead center of her head, was cocked to one side, and the chain to her glasses was twisted, so they hung crooked on her chest. "Mr. Spalding, turn on the news!"

Spalding sat up. "What is it?"

"It's the President, he's had a massive heart attack."

"My God, what a story!" Spalding exclaimed. He jumped out of his chair and lunged for his TV remote. "Did you get through to Jack, yet?"

"No sir, I've been on the phone all morning, lines are all jammed."

Spalding's eyes sparkled. "It's no wonder with a story like that. Jack is probably right in the middle of it. That's why he hasn't called. If I know Jack, he'll call and tell me he has a fantastic story, before he even has all the facts."

The secretary, now aware of the crooked bun, made a quick adjustment to it, and then turned to Spalding. "I'm going to call until I get through."

"Well good luck," Spalding said, amused at her attempts to fix her bun, which now looked even worse than before. "I'm going to make some calls of my own."

Spalding plopped down and fingered the remote to CNN.
The correspondent said Lloyd was still in critical condition due to a massive heart attack.
"There is no further information available."

Spalding sighed. It figures. A story like this and Jack is covering it. I hope he doesn't screw it up.

Spalding had hired Jack right out of college and liked him immediately.

What he didn't like was the attitude Jack carried about politicians. Jack neither liked nor trusted them. He thought they were all the same. Self-serving bureaucrats who only cared about their own careers. Very little of what Jack wrote was positive. It was always a controversial story.

"Jack Mac," as Spalding liked to call him, "You should become a reporter for a hack magazine," Spalding told him. Jack liked to bring skeletons out of the politician's closets, and then watch them squirm. Spalding found it distasteful at times, but it sold magazines. And after all, that
was
the point.

Jack had begged Spalding for the Zurich assignment. He knew Lloyd and Ritter didn't agree on the oil summit. He also knew neither would acknowledge it publicly. So he planned to interview Lloyd and ask him face to face about it. Spalding asked Jack why he thought he could get Lloyd to admit it after no one else could. Jack had simply replied, "Cause I can."

Spalding, impressed with Jack's confidence, gave him the assignment.

Now, though, with the President lying in a hospital bed in Switzerland, the story took on a whole new meaning. It wasn't Jack's usual story, and he hoped Jack could handle it.
Where the hell was he?

He pulled the phone over to him and punched the number for a friend over at Time magazine. The guy was chief editor of one of the biggest magazines in the country; maybe he could track down Jack. Spalding hated to admit it, but he was worried.

Viktor Chermonovik first met Vice President Warren Ritter when Ritter was station chief in Moscow during the previous administration.

Chermonovik was Minister of Finance at the time, but after Vladamir Cherliski died unexpectedly, Chermonovik came to power as the new President. Known as a shrewd negotiator, he persuaded the International Monetary Fund to lend Russia billions of dollars to pay off Cold War debts and rebuild its crumbling nuclear power plants.

Ritter was determined to undermine any attempt by Chermonovik to build an alliance with the West. Chermonovik's sources had even uncovered an assassination plot hatched by Ritter. Before the plan could be put into action, though, Ritter was transferred back to Washington, and Chermonovik had already made friends with future President Thomas Lloyd. A year later when he found out Ritter had been selected as Lloyd's running mate he attempted to court Ritter. That turned out to be a mistake. Ritter assured him that if he had anything to do with it, Russia would never see another penny of U.S. money. Now, it appeared he
did
have something to do with it, and what Chermonovik dreaded, had come to fruition. With no reason to stay in Zurich under the present circumstances, he had packed up his party and was now headed back to Moscow to calm the generals, who had expected him to come back with a check.

Chermonovik leaned back in the seat of his plane and bolted down his fourth vodka in fifteen minutes. He looked at his Prime Minister, still nursing his first drink and fighting motion sickness. He slammed his empty glass down. "This leaves us in a very bad way, Sergai."

"Yes, Viktor, it does."

"Without our friend, Thomas Lloyd, we have no chance to get the money we need. Who knows how long before he'll recover, if at all. If Warren Ritter gets in office, there's no chance of an oil deal, or any other kind of deal for that matter."

Sergai leaned forward. "His Press Secretary released a statement saying his condition was not as bad as first reported."

"Sergai, my naive friend. You know as well as I, they are not going to admit how bad he is. He could be dead already for all we know. American politics, ha! Everything is smoke and mirrors, to quote a KGB friend of mine." Chermonovik made a sweeping motion with his hand to emphasize his point.

"I suppose you're right."

"Have we heard from Nikita yet?" Chermonovik asked.

"Not yet. I expect to hear something very soon."

"It can't be soon enough. I need to tell the Duma something today. And I would like it to be good news."

The plane took an unexpected dip and Sergai went pale. Chermonovik looked at the young man, amused by his apparent motion sickness.
A sign of weakness.
He liked Sergai Koslakof's efficiency as Prime Minister, but he wasn't a tough politician like himself. Chermonovik sank back in his seat and sighed.
How things have changed from the old days.

"I understand Nikita is doing everything he can." Sergai said.

"I know," Chermonovik said. "Forgive my impatience, but my... and for that matter,
your
future, rides on the outcome of this crisis."

Sergai nodded. "Yes, comrade, I suppose you're right. Without that money, we have no future."

Chermonovik leaned forward in his seat. "Well as they say in America.

It's not over till the big lady sings. Let's just hope Thomas Lloyd pulls through this, soon. If not--we better start making some new friends in Washington."

Inside Zurich Trauma Center, Dave Leah had just finished his exam on a young girl in a Stryker frame, as several students looked on. The girl had sustained a fracture to her cervical spine on her first day of skiing the Alps.

Leah made some adjustments to the frame then stood up. He was about to explain how the frame worked to the students when a nurse stuck her head in the door. He cupped his hand behind his left ear as she spoke.

"You have a phone call on line three," she said.

The ear cup was something he did since he nearly lost his hearing, compliments of a college fraternity prank. A firecracker tossed into a bathroom stall he was using, cost him 85 percent of his hearing in his left ear, and 15 percent in his right. Not to mention that it left his ears ringing for six months. Hence, the ear cup and head turn were Leah's legacy. Most people that knew him, just talked loud, which spared him the embarrassment of the ear cup. This nurse was new, though, and soft spoken at that. So Leah just used the cup and thanked her. He excused himself and picked up the phone at the nurses' station.

"This is Dr. Leah."

"Dave, it's Jonah. Can you talk?"

"Sure, Jonah, where are you?"

"I can't explain now. I'm in a bit of a jam."

"I know. Everyone is trying to figure out where you are."

"Listen, Dave, I need you to do something for me."

"Sure, Jonah, anything, but do you want to tell me what's going on?" Leah turned his back to the nurse behind him.

"As soon as I can I will. That's a promise. I'm not sure I know yet."

Leah lowered his voice. "Fair enough. Now what do you need?"

"You have a patient, Jack McDermott, the one we saw this morn--"

"Had a patient. He's dead." Leah said.

"No, believe me, he's not dead."

"What do you mean? Bradley called me this morning while I was making rounds. He said McDermott had a grand mal, then went into cardiac arrest on his way to his CT scan. He said the guy died in the ER. Now you're tell--"