The Frankenstein Candidate (33 page)

“You are near George Mason. Are you going to see Dr. Joshy?”

She looked in the rearview mirror, dazed. She recognized her tail—a large, dark green SUV that belonged to one of the private security agents assigned to her.

Instinctively, she accelerated and took a sharp right. Her Volvo X99 screamed another hard right…and another…soon, she hit a highway, exceeding permissible speed. She didn’t slow down even when she no longer saw her tail. She didn’t know where she was going or when she was going to stop. It wasn’t the way to George Mason, but all her mind was telling her was to get away…get away from them all. She kept accelerating—forty, fifty, sixty miles an hour—she was no longer even looking at her speedometer.

It was only the rising siren that broke her trance. It felt like being snatched out of a nightmare by an alarm. She parked by the curb, gazing at the female in uniform approaching her. She lowered the driver’s side window.

“License and registration papers, ma’am,” the female in the uniform said. Thank god the cop did not recognize her.

“Did you realize you were speeding, ma’am?”

“Uh…no. No, I didn’t.”

The officer looked at her license and looked back at her.

“Olivia Allen?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Oh my god, you are…are you…the…the…Olivia Allen?”

Olivia nodded. Fame cuts both ways, doesn’t she?

“I am such a fan of yours, Miss Allen. I think you are doing a wonderful job. Where are you going?”

“George Mason, but I think I missed the exit.”

“You sure did. Take the next right and follow the road for four miles and you will see the signs.”

“Thank you.”

“I am sorry. I’m afraid you still have to take the breathalyzer.”

“I’m fine. I haven’t been drinking.”

“I’m sure. How about I let you go if you pass the test? I am not issuing you a speeding ticket. I want you to win, Miss Allen. I am Charlene Montgomery, DC Highway Patrol.”

Olivia passed the breath test.

“Normally, I would have needed to put a ticket on my file. But people see it, ma’am. You know what it’s like. One minute it’s just a speeding ticket, the next minute it’s on the news, and we can exercise discretion you know.”

“I appreciate that, officer. I really do. Thank you.”

“Sometimes it’s the stress of the job, you know. Like I said, Charlene Montgomery, DC Highway Patrol. You are free to go now. Drive safely. That…is that your security car parked behind you now?”

Instantly dismayed, she saw the dark green SUV parked right behind the police car.

She drove quietly back to George Mason University. Rohan Joshy was not around. He asked her to sit on her emotions for a day. It wasn’t easy. You can ruminate on a difficult problem or a value choice for a day…but rage, that’s altogether different—she had to talk to someone, not just anyone, someone who could understand.

Finally, she called the one person who she knew would listen, would care, and would understand: Thomas Beal, her father. They spoke for an hour, and she made her mind up.

There were twenty industry chieftains delivered at short notice into a large conference room on the top floor of a fifty-seven story building, a room that screamed money and power. A large oval-shaped eaglewood table was surrounded by comfortable leather chairs. Even a casual glance around the room revealed Rolexes, Valentino Newmans, Fioravanti, and Ralph Lauren suits. Chanel No. 5 fragrance collided with Michel Germain aftershave, expensive leather briefcases snapped and unsnapped, sparkling water was served by men dressed like English butlers. From the helipad on the rooftop, the whirr of helicopters landing announced their proximity.

Larry had virtually secured everyone at a day’s notice. Some were chairmen instead of the company presidents, but no corporation was going to miss a chance at speaking directly with a possible American president; the chiefs simply rescheduled. Most polls had Olivia Allen leading John Logan 70-30, and Frank Stein had slid to less than 10 percent. But it was a time of extreme volatility and uncertainty. Polls were gyrating wildly from one week to the next.

Olivia was anxious to get the chiefs’ perspective on industry, including specific proposals on increasing employment in America, their views on why they were laying off people instead of hiring more, and their view of future prospects for both their companies and the economy generally. Larry had briefed them all in advance.

Larry smartly let each of them think it was only their industry that was being represented; they were even in separate waiting rooms. Each had come prepared to ask for government assistance for their industry. Banks and financial institutions were included. Olivia knew only too well what their state was like.

Then suddenly, they were all put together in one conference room, and Olivia made her entrance. Only a few were vocal enough to voice their grab for federal favors in the presence of so large a crowd. Most spoke in general platitudes about federal assistance and money printing to get the economy going.

“What’s the single biggest factor behind our decline?” Olivia asked at one stage.

“Carbon,” said Lydia Jeffries, the president of a large global manufacturing firm, AttesCo, a maker of electronic components, one of the very few U.S. manufacturers still left.

“Excuse me?”

“We play by the rules, Miss Allen. China doesn’t. Brazil doesn’t. India doesn’t. Russia doesn’t. I don’t think even Japan does.”

“I see. So you would rather expand capacity in…say, Brazil, for example?”

“We are doing precisely that.” It was the CEO of one of the largest retail brands in the world. “America is simply not an economic location anymore. Regulation costs are astronomical. Labor costs are higher than in Asia, and we are not allowed to get those down. Markets are growing overseas because their populations are growing and their currencies are getting stronger.”

“Our capital stock is all in housing. We have empty houses all over the country, yet more are being built. We lend funds where the demand is,” an apologetic bank chief said.

“We have stopped allocating funds to research. It takes us two billion to make the first tablet and two cents to make the second one. We can’t recoup all the development costs of a new drug if intellectual property is not respected. It isn’t anymore…plus we are perpetually demonized in Hollywood and the media as the greedy hogs who let kids die rather than pull a product off the shelves.” It was a cynical, aging chairman of a global pharmaceutical corporation.

“We need to postpone the environment,” Lydia Jeffries said. “I mean, the guilt trip has gone too far. I am all for the environment, of course…like we all are…but the developing countries have to take their fair share of the challenge.”

By noon, she had heard enough. Once the industry chiefs had left, she sat by the window, reflecting on everything. Going back to DC on their chartered jet, Larry noticed that a new calm had descended upon her.

She decided she needed to see Dr. Mardi Tedman as soon as possible. He was known to be eccentric but brilliant. He was the government’s chief scientific adviser, and he had devised the Rio method of carbon price allocation. If anyone could figure out how to find and fine the culprit nations that were not playing ball, it would be none other than Dr. Mardi Tedman.

She learned that both his cell phone and his home phone had gone unanswered for several days. She heard that he had walked out of a scientific conference at which he was presenting as soon as his presentation was done, which was rather unusual for him. No one had heard from him since. He had not been seen at work, which he rarely missed.

Olivia got his address. He lived in an apartment by himself in a nice part of town. She agreed with Larry that security could drive her there, but she insisted that they stay outside the door.

She looked at the time. It was three p.m., still three hours before they would let anyone see Victor Howell.

She got to Mardi’s residence within the hour. She rang the doorbell several times, persistently longer each time. There was no answer. Brendan Conway, her security man, suggested that they leave. But Olivia was going nowhere. She threw her weight against the door, pushing hard with her shoulder. It did not budge.

“I will pay for the damage,” she said as she glanced at Brendan. Brendan was well over two hundred pounds of steel and tensile fiber. He read her thoughts. Wood splintered as one strong kick from his boot thrust the door open.

They continued to stand just outside the open door.

“Dr. Tedman? Doctor? Hello…hello? Anyone there?”

Mardi Tedman appeared in a robe, his face wrought with anger. He looked at the two intruders with suspicion.

“I am Senator Olivia Allen, Doctor. I must apologize for the door. I will send someone to fix the door urgently—”

“I recognize you. The next president of the United States.”

“Are you well?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“Could you…is it…too much to ask…if you could join me later…at my office or yours if you prefer…tomorrow perhaps if this evening does not—”

Mardi stared straight past her, his face empty, expressionless, as if his spirit had been drained out of his body. The lips worked, the legs worked—only barely—but emotion had gone with the life force.

“Tomorrow could be too late. Whatever you need to ask me, ask it today,” he said.

She didn’t know quite what to make of that.

“Well, how about seven p.m., we can make reservations at…well, where shall we—”

“That will be too late,” he said, his eyes vacant.

“When is a good time then?”

“Come into the kitchen please.” He led the way.

She motioned for Brendan to wait outside. Mardi didn’t even bother to change. The bathrobe was soiled, like it had not been washed in months, a pungent odor of vomit hung faintly in the air; Olivia did not dare to go near the kitchen sink. The kitchen was sizeable, with teakwood cabinets and granite counters, but it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for months. Bits of food littered the floor.

Mardi sat opposite Olivia and said nothing, seemingly waiting for her questions, his movements robotic, his eyes fixated and unblinking.

“So the question is, in a nutshell, how are we to face the environmental challenge while preserving our competitiveness?”

“The game is over, isn’t it?” His voice was flat.

“What game is over, Dr. Tedman?”

Mardi didn’t answer. He got up to open a drawer in his kitchen cabinet. One moment she was having a serious conversation with a scientist, albeit a drained one, and the next moment he had drawn a revolver and held it to his temple.

Instinctively, she screamed. For four seconds precisely, time stood still as the shout continued while the hulk of Brendan Conway burst through the door and raced through the kitchen.

“Dr. Tedman, stop,” she said.

“Drop your weapon right now and raise your hands!” Brendan’s revolver was pointing at Mardi’s head; Brendan was no more than five feet from him.

“Otherwise you will kill me and end up to jail…better I do it myself,” Mardi said, a sardonic smile crossing his face—oddly, it was more human than the automaton she had earlier seen.