Shadow of Eden (64 page)

Straightening up, he glanced at Steve sitting across the blonde-wood table. “I’m hungry.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

“I like this place. Passable pasta, for sure.” He looked around the spotless White House kitchen, with painted eggshell white walls, black and white checkered linoleum floors, and immaculate stainless steel counters and appliances. They sat at a table in a nook off to the side that seemed designed for quick snacks for on-the-go White House staff.

After his interview with the FBI, Steve had expected to be taken back to his hotel room, but Rhodes said Mrs. Dixon had insisted he and Valenti be accommodated at the White House. He had been promptly ushered into the Lincoln bedroom where someone had laid out a fresh change of clothes. Did everybody know his size?

Ignoring Doctor Green’s instructions, Steve had promptly peeled off his new bandages and took a long hot shower. It felt wonderful to be clean again. Steve took his time shaving, while wrapped in a plush White House bathrobe. He suspected that many guests had accidentally packed them in their suitcases after a night’s stay at the White House. He finally dressed and upon emerging from the Lincoln bedroom, had been escorted to the kitchen where he joined Valenti, who had also showered and freshened after his interview with the FBI.

“Imagine, eating at the White House,” Valenti enthused. “The only reason I’d ever want to be President is having a full-time restaurant at your beck and call 24 hours a day.”

“You’d be the first president who died from a pasta overdose.”

Valenti’s head dipped down for another large mouthful. “Tut, tut. Keep the day job,” he muttered.

“I don’t have a day job.” Steve looked down at his tuna fish sandwich without an appetite. He should be hungry, but something was still bothering him—
Something undone
.

“Bad news,” Valenti said.

Steve, surprised, looked at his friend. “What now?” After all that had happened, this was as unwelcome as it was unexpected.

“Our buddy Blumenthal is no longer on this earth. Found in his burned house sometime after four this morning.”

“Oh, no.” Steve had decided he liked the doctor.

“I just hope he really did have something in writing like he said. We’ll need it. We still can’t link Morloch with this thing.”

A tall, distinguished man walked up to them, smiling. He looked tired and Steve guessed that he had been up all night. Suddenly Steve recognized him as Vice President Sullivan. No—he corrected himself—it was President Sullivan. Steve scrambled to his feet.

President Sullivan held out his hand. “Dr. James, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Steve took his hand, “It’s all mine, Mr. President.”

Sullivan turned to Valenti, who had by then wiped his face and hid his napkin before he stood. “Mr. Anthony Valenti, or should I say, Mr. Fanelli.”

Valenti smiled and took Sullivan’s outstretched hand. “Either will work just fine, Mr. President.”

“Please,” Sullivan said, motioning with his hand. “Sit down. I don’t want to disturb your meal.”

Steve and Valenti sat down. Sullivan sat in a chair next to Valenti. Steve hoped he didn’t look as nervous as Valenti, who sat rigidly, ignoring his spaghetti.

“I understand you two have done a tremendous service to your country,” Sullivan began.

“This hasn’t been an ordinary day for any of us,” Steve replied.

Sullivan smiled. “True. It was touch and go there for a while, with you as well as in the Straits. I don’t want to imagine what would have happened had you not found President Dixon.”

Steve shrugged, feeling self-conscious.

“Dr. James, you’ve paid a terrible price. Is there anything we can do for you?”

Steve started to say no, but stopped. He was still struggling with that uneasy feeling inside. He figured that with Mallis’s activities exposed, he would get his license back and he could begin to pull his life back together . . . but, no, there was something else. Then it hit him. Steve spoke even as the plan formed in his mind. “Mr. President, actually, there is.”

Chapter 145

A
nne’s mother, Joan Pritchard turned on the TV in her oak-paneled family room and sat down in her easy chair next to her husband, Jack. “Let’s see what’s going on with China.”

Retired, they enjoyed their morning routine together watching Good Morning America and reading the newspaper. They had been doing this for the last four years, ever since Jack sold his popular breakfast restaurant, the Morning Edition.

Jack, his attention focused on the Marketplace section of the Wall Street Journal, mumbled an unintelligible reply. Not taking his eyes off the paper, he sipped the hot coffee from his huge Trailblazers cup. Joan’s gasp made him look up. “What is it?” he asked.

“President Dixon, he’s resigned.”

Jack had read the front page with the stories about the impending Chinese conflict, but nothing about President Dixon resigning. He put down his paper and stared at Diane Sawyer’s tired face, startled to see a senior news anchor at this hour. It took a few minutes for him to catch up on the story.

There had been no massive Chinese battle; that much was clear. It took a little longer to figure out that Dixon had resigned and that Sullivan was now President and he had negotiated the halt to the Chinese invasion of Taiwan.

“Well, it doesn’t pay to go to sleep during a crisis, does it?” Jack observed. “You might just wake up to find a new president.”

“Shhh.” Joan leaned forward in her overstuffed easy chair. “I can’t believe Dixon resigned. I thought he was doing a pretty good job up until this China thing.” A clink of dishes came from the kitchen. “Is that you dear?”

Anne, wearing one of her mother’s bathrobes walked into the room. “I’m up, mom. I’m getting Johnnie some cereal.” She disappeared back into the kitchen. Anne had stayed up for hours after hearing about Steve on the radio, but with no new news forthcoming, she had eventually fallen into a fitful sleep.

The TV station announced the upcoming story before they cut to a commercial. It was to be a segment on former President Dixon’s illness and the doctor who diagnosed it. They showed a file clip of Steve, taken after he had saved the 747.

“Anne,” Jack yelled. “Steve’s on the news.”

Anne rushed in, still holding a spoon, an anxious expression on her face. “Is it about the break-in?”

Jack looked puzzled. “No, something about diagnosing President Dixon’s illness.”

“What?”

Johnnie ran into the room, his Sketchers’ untied and his double cowlicks sticking up. “Is daddy famous again?”

Anne hugged herself. “Is he okay?”

Joan came over and put her arm around her daughter. “Look’s like Steve’s done it again.”

Johnnie jumped up swinging his fist in a giant arc. “Yesss! Daddy’s a hero!”

Anne still felt anxious and unsettled with a million bad things that might have happened running through her head.
Steve, why haven’t you called? Is it still not safe?

Chapter 146

T
wo bodyguards ushered Steve into the Morloch’s office. He looked around taking in the ornate inlaid-wood furniture and leather-upholstered chairs. Steve identified a wall of Matisse sketches and an original W. A. Turner oil. He strode in to the middle of the room.

The corner suite commanded a breathtaking panoramic vista from its floor to ceiling windows. At the window, with his back to them, stood Morloch, dressed in a navy pinstripe suit. He stared out at the Delaware River, which could be seen past an adjacent modern, silver-tinted glass building on which hung a window cleaning crew.

The bodyguard to Steve’s right spoke. “He’s clean, Mr. Morloch. We just found a couple of photos and a home-made CD on him.” He placed the items on Morloch’s desk.

Without turning around, Morloch spoke. “Well, Dr. James, you’ve made headlines again. This time spouting all sorts of unfounded allegations about my drug and my company.” Morloch turned to face him, his face dark against the bright windows. “Drink, Dr. James?” he asked pleasantly.

“Water, please.”

Morloch walked over to a wet bar and opened the under-counter refrigerator. He poured the water from a clear bottle and then poured a glass of Diet Coke for himself. He handed the water to Steve.

“Castell was quite insistent on my seeing you, but he wouldn’t explain why. You are here only as a favor to my friend. Perhaps you can tell me why you came?”

“I think you know.”

“I do not play games!” Morloch slammed his glass onto his desk, splashing liquid, which fizzed on the polished wood surface.

Steve did not flinch. He had looked forward to this meeting ever since his request of President Sullivan. The President had endorsed Steve’s request to agent Fitzgerald, who had actually rubbed his hands gleefully at the plan. After a whirlwind of phone calls and preparations, he had flown with Valenti on a government jet to Philadelphia and was then escorted to Trident’s downtown office on Market Street. Castell, after a friendly suggestion from Agent Fitzgerald, had been instrumental in setting up the meeting.

“Oh, I think you are all about playing games,” Steve replied, “gambling with millions of peoples’ lives. Do you actually believe your own bullshit? You can speak freely, your hired goons here did a very thorough search job.”

Morloch glared at him and shifted his gaze to the two photos. One was a picture of Mallis’s dead face taken at the Cathedral. The other showed a much younger Mallis stamped “FBI Archive, Kirk Erich Mallis.”

“Who’s this?” he asked casually.

“You ought to know him well enough. It’s Kirk Mallis, hired by Trident Pharmaceuticals to destroy my reputation, my marriage, and then kill me.” As he said it, he realized how ridiculous it sounded. He wasn’t surprised when Morloch laughed.

“That’s rich, Dr. James. Been taking some of your own drugs?” He laughed again. “You have no proof.”

“I met with Dr. Samuel Blumenthal. You remember, your former Chief Scientist?”

“Of course. Recently retired. He was killed in a fire last night. Very tragic.”

“Oh yes, but not before he told me a story about your fraudulent dealings with the FDA.”

Morloch shrugged and dropped the photograph back on the desk. “You can’t prove anything and you know it.”

“Can’t I?”

“Unfounded allegations, Dr. James. His word against mine. And now that he’s dead, yours.”

“How sure are you? What if Blumenthal copied or scanned everything onto a CD and gave it to me?”

Morloch picked up the compact disk, eyed it carefully, and then tossed it back onto the desktop. “Blumenthal couldn’t figure out a computer to save his life.”

“Your game’s up, Morloch. Eden’s going to be yanked and all the people who get Eden’s disease will know that you’re the man responsible for their brains turning into Swiss cheese.”

“No such thing will happen,” Morloch said calmly. “You have no proof that Eden causes problems. It has a perfect safety record. The FDA said it was one of the cleanest submission packages they had ever seen.”

“Yeah, with forged data. Of course it was clean.”

Morloch laughed again. It was the laugh of a privileged man. “Let me tell you a fairy tale, Dr. James. I chose the name Eden for a reason. People who take my drug regain paradise: beauty, health, happiness, everything a man and woman could want.”

“I think, instead,” Steve said evenly, “that you are the serpent. You gave us an apple. People bite your apple and get tossed out of paradise into hell.”

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Let me finish. As a doctor, you know that two hundred thousand people die each year from smoking, over a million worldwide? Sounds criminal, doesn’t it, Dr. James? Yet it’s legal.”

“So?”

“So, Dr. James, my little fairy tale ending is this. Eden saves lives. It cures diabetes, virtually stops heart attacks and strokes. This medicine makes fat people history. Paradise regained, Dr. James. Surely that trumps the few people you allege get sick from Eden.”

Morloch walked around the desk to face Steve. “Eden is a miracle drug, the fountain of youth. It helps people.” Morloch almost purred. “In contrast, the legal drug, tobacco, doesn’t do a damn thing for anybody. What’s more, everybody knows the risk, but they smoke anyway. It should be outlawed, shouldn’t it?”