Miracle Man (46 page)

79

P
edaling vigorously on his exercise bike later that same day, McAlister had the sixty inch plasma television in his office gym tuned to the Financial News Network. It was 1 PM when the reporter announced that all television and radio broadcasts in the United States were being interrupted for a special announcement by the president. “More bull crap from that jerk,” muttered McAlister. The president spoke from the Oval Office, his voice somber:

“My fellow Americans, it saddens me beyond measure to report that approximately eight hours ago, the laboratory of Dr. Robert James Austin was attacked. The laboratory was completely destroyed while Dr. Austin was inside conducting research on AIDS. While he has survived over six hours of surgery to address multiple life-threatening injuries that he suffered during the attack, he remains in critical condition and continues to be in a coma. It is too early to formulate any prognosis as to his chances for survival or recovery. I have asked that he be brought to Washington D.C. so that I can personally oversee his care at a neighboring hospital. An attending team of our leading physicians from all relevant disciplines has been assembled. By presidential proclamation, I am declaring that this week be a week of prayer for his well being. Dr. Austin deserves no less. Nobody has worked harder or with more resolve and efficacy than he, or made greater personal sacrifices to further medical science. He has selflessly dedicated his unique genius to the betterment of the human condition. Dr. Austin’s discoveries have already saved tens of millions of lives and will continue to do so. I dare say that there isn’t a person on this planet who in some way has not been the beneficiary of his tireless efforts. Dr. Austin is not just a national treasure, he is a world treasure. His presence has been an extraordinary gift to us all, and to the future generations that follow us. We can only ponder what further contributions he would be capable of making if the good Lord graces him and us with that opportunity. I ask that you join my family and me in praying for Dr. Austin’s speedy and full recovery. Rest assured that the perpetrators of this heinous crime will be swiftly brought to justice. Thank you, and may God bless the United States of America.”

His jaw clenched, McAlister hurried from his office, still in his work-out suit. Rushing across Park Avenue, he found a phone booth in the Hyatt hotel and frantically dialed the number Ramirez had given him for emergencies. When it rang, all McAlister said was “212-549-8121,” the call back number of the pay phone. McAlister waited in the booth, rapidly tapping his fingers against the wall. Twelve minutes later, the phone rang. McAlister knew that Ramirez was calling from his scrambler.

“What the hell’s going on?” sputtered McAlister hoarsely, the veins in his forehead throbbing. “We agreed it wouldn’t be dramatic.”

“It wasn’t me. It must have been those freaks who hate him.”

“Bullshit. You got sloppy, Gunther. You wanted to make an easy buck.”

“If that were the case, I’d be asking for the rest of my money right now—which I’m not.”

There was silence as McAlister took that in.

“Well, you wouldn’t be getting it because the son of a bitch is still alive,” McAlister said.

“My plan was perfect. At the right time, by cellular activation, I was going to release toxic gas in his face from discs I planted in the cam portals of his monitors. It induces massive heart failure and leaves no residue. It’s undetectable. I’ve used it before. It’s so fucking good, insurance companies pay off on life coverage.”

“You waited too long, goddammit,” McAlister shouted.

“We agreed the time frame, Colum,” replied Ramirez.

“I want my money back,” said McAlister, his voice thick and sullen.

“That’s not going to happen. I was a migrant worker for two months setting it up. It’s not my fault that someone beat us to the punch.”

“They’ll find us now.”

“Impossible.”

“What about our little friend?”

“He doesn’t know me,” Ramirez said

“Well he fucking knows me and I don’t live in Panama.”

“No one can connect the dots.”

“I want it taken care of just to be sure.”

“I’ll deal with it. But get a grip. Nervous people make mistakes.”

The world media ignited with the news of the tragedy. Virtually every newspaper in every country bore a similar headline. Television, radio and the internet were awash in tributes and speculation as to who was behind the crime. The United Nations General Assembly unanimously passed a special resolution in tribute to Bobby, and most countries followed the lead of the United States in designating days or weeks, and in some countries, even months —as official periods devoted to prayer for his recovery.

When the helicopter carrying Bobby landed at Edwards Air Force Base, a caravan of military vehicles led the way to George Washington University Hospital, where he was to be installed in a private room at the end of a hallway reserved for VIPS who required special security. Waiting in the room for his arrival were the president, the attorney general and the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security.

Varneys stood outside Bobby’s room in front of a platoon of his agents and delivered his orders in unequivocal terms. “Whoever did this to him won’t be happy he’s still alive. They may try again and we have to assume that they’re very resourceful. I want a six agent rotation—24/7, two at the entrance to this corridor, two outside his room and two inside. I want two additional agents stationed at the elevator and two more at each stairwell. Nobody gets on this floor without being checked and no one comes down this corridor without our say so. Every doctor, nurse and orderly who goes into that room or who has anything to do with Austin must first pass top-priority security protocols. Every medication given to him has to be double-checked by a physician who has been cleared by us—and I want it administered by a physician. He is never to be alone—-do you understand that? Never. His food will come directly from our supplier.”

As it turned out, food would not be an issue, as Bobby would be incapable of receiving any nourishment other than that which was administered intravenously.

Varneys installed Christina in a safe house in Washington so that she could be close at hand. “I want a security detail on her at all times. We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet. No slip-ups, Perrone.”

80

M
artin Turnbull’s attempt to cut a witness protection deal was languishing. The Justice Department didn’t seem
interested and the SEC was annoyed that Turnbull was seeking to circumvent them. Finally, Agent McKenna arranged for an initial discussion between Turnbull and a representative of Justice. When Turnbull saw the twenty-something diminutive female assistant U.S. Attorney enter the room, his heart sank. “How long have you worked for the Department,” he asked.

“Nine months,” she replied in a chirpy voice.

Turnbull shook his head. “This won’t work. I don’t mean to be disparaging, but I’m only interested in speaking with someone who has the authority to deliver the deal I’m looking for. I made that clear to the SEC agents.”

The young attorney looked at Turnbull as if he were a petty criminal trying to bootstrap himself into getting privileges reserved for serious felons. Straightening herself to the full measure of her five feet, she smiled at him patronizingly. “Mr. Turnbull—before anyone at that level is going to even consider investing their time, you have to whet our appetite. We don’t get involved in garden variety insider trading violations like yours. They’re a dime a dozen. What do you got for us?”

Turnbull glared at her. “The information I have concerns Dr. Robert James Austin.”

In
an instant, her face turned burgundy and her bravado vaporized.

He continued, “You know—the one the president was talking about on TV the other day.”

“Excuse me for a moment,” she said as she left the room.

She called her boss, who had only been at the Justice Department for three years. He immediately called his, and so it went on up the chain of command until thirty minutes later, the chief U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, Jonathan Bick, called the attorney general of the U.S. in Washington D.C. He, in turn, called the president who referred him to Varneys. Varneys’ assistant reached him on the intercom in his office’s private bathroom, and transferred the attorney general’s call to him while he was seated there, attending to personal business.

“We have a situation, Orin. The CFO of Bushings Pharmaceuticals was caught by the SEC on insider trading. He’s been looking to cut a deal with witness protection, saying he has valuable information. We thought it wasn’t big enough. Earlier today, he said it involves Dr. Austin.”

The color drained from Varneys’ face. “I’ll leave for New York now.”

Turnbull had been kept waiting in a small room in New York’s Federal Building for four hours and he was in a foul mood by the time Varneys walked into the room with Bick. When the two men introduced themselves, Turnbull repeatedly flexed his fingers, alternating from one hand to the other. Bick said, “Mr. Turnbull—I’ve been apprised of the deal you want, and if you have information that’s as highly significant as you’ve indicated —then you have my word on behalf of the Justice Department that you’ll get your deal.”

Turnbull responded, “And how can I be sure you won’t play games with me as to the definition of what constitutes ‘highly significant information’?”

Bick shot back, “You just have to trust us on that. I’m not going to jerk you around. That’s not how we work.”

Varneys shook his head. “Look, Turnbull. The Justice Department has better things to do than screw you on your little deal, so shake hands with the man and let’s get going. We have work to do.”

Vigorously picking at a hang-nail on his index finger, Turnbull asked Bick, “Did you bring an agreement for us to sign? I understand there’s a standard form for this kind of thing.”

Bick opened his briefcase, took out a folder and tossed it on the table next to Turnbull. Turnbull put on his reading glasses and began to read the document carefully. He was sweating profusely and his deodorant had worn off. Varneys walked over to the thermostat and lowered the temperature.

“I’m ready,” said Turnbull. As he signed, his hand was trembling. He kept scratching the back of his head as he watched Bick counter-sign the document. Flakes of skin from his psoriasis plagued scalp landed on the shoulders of his frumpy dark blue suit. “I guess my new life begins now,” Turnbull said sadly. “I never thought this is how it would end up for me. They should have taken care of me. McAlister and those scumbags on the Board. They put me in this position.”

Sitting across from Turnbull with his list of questions in front of him, Bick’s face registered neither sympathy nor judgment. “Let’s get down to business,” he said, as he nodded to an agent to start the video camera and tape recorder.

“Tell us why you sold all your stock in Bushings six months before Dr. Austin’s breakthrough on arteriosclerosis became public knowledge?”

“I found out he was working on it and I assumed he’d find a cure so I sold everything.”

“How did you find out?”

“Our CEO, Colum McAlister, told me that his mole in Austin’s lab told him.”

“He had a mole?” Turnbull nodded.

“Is this the first time that happened with company shares?”

“No. Long before that, the mole told him about Austin’s TB research and that’s when Colum sold as many shares as he could until the Board stopped him from selling more.”

“Why didn’t you sell your stock then also?”

Turnbull’s face turned red and his voice rose. “I wanted to, but he wouldn’t let me.”

“Was the mole the only source of info?”

“Bushings was hacking Austin’s computers for years hoping to steal something. Trouble is –our scientists couldn’t understand what the heck he was doing.”

“What’s the mole’s name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you find out by checking financial records in your office?”

Turnbull’s breathing had become labored. He thrust his hand in his pants pocket and fished out crumpled tissues and ran them over his face and neck, mopping up some sweat. “I can try—but without knowing the amount or frequency of payments to him or the entity he uses to receive payments, it could be impossible. And he might be paid in cash altogether.”