The RX Factor (31 page)

"I can't believe his wife died of ovarian cancer," Jordan said as she peered over his shoulder.

"What are the odds?"

"Unfortunately, not as low as they should be," Ryan said. "Every year, thirteen or so women out of every one hundred thousand are diagnosed with ovarian cancer, and nearly nine of them die." Ryan suddenly felt sheepish. He didn't need to rattle off statistics to Jordan. She no doubt knew them well.

"Let's assume you get close enough to Mendel to ask a few questions," Jordan said. "What then?"

"I'll see how he reacts to my initial questions and play him on the fly."

"You won't torture him, will you?" Jordan asked with mock seriousness.

Ryan tried to laugh off the question. But it wasn't easy. He had behaved savagely toward Craven, whose thuggish demeanor had brought out the worst in him. Crawford had chided Ryan for his use of brute force, as well as for his newly acquired habit of working outside the law. And had he not reloaded Craven's backup weapon after he shot the man dead, Ryan would be facing criminal charges himself. Despite what Craven had done to his family, Ryan knew he was treading a fine line. But at the moment, he didn't give a damn.

"I have no plans of torturing an old man, but if he lies to me, I've got no problem letting him believe that the worst is yet to come. Mendel lives about ten miles away. Let's give him a visit."

"What about our friends?" Jordan asked, motioning toward the front door.

"Who says we're going out the front door?"

After getting ready, Ryan and Jordan exited through the rear door. The hopped the six-foot wood fence in the back yard, then jogged six blocks over to Powder Mill Road. Standing on the corner across from the Hillandale Shopping Center, Ryan spotted a cab driving on the opposite side of the road. He raised his arms and let out a loud whistle. The cabbie blew his horn once in acknowledgment and waited for an opportunity to make a U-turn.

Before the cab had circled around, a dark blue four-door sedan pulled up. The passenger-side front door opened and Jim Crawford jumped out. "What the hell are you up to now?"

"Listen Jim, I'm sorry, but we are not going to sit around for days on end at some safe house and hope that the FBI is going to solve our problems. I know you're trying to protect us, but we've both decided that we would prefer to take our chances."

Crawford looked at Jordan for confirmation.

"It was my idea as much as Ryan's, Jim," she said.

Crawford rubbed his temples and then ran his hand through his hair before opening the rear passenger door. "Get in, both of you."

They returned to FBI headquarters in D.C. where they spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon reviewing all of their previous official statements to the FBI. These statements were now typed up and ready for signatures.

Crawford entered the conference room where Ryan and Jordan had been stashed for the past four hours. "You guys won't accept my protection and I can't babysit you. Sign your statements along with our waiver form and you're free to go."

"What waiver?" Ryan asked.

Crawford tossed the document onto the table. "This waiver states that you have been made fully aware of the potential risks and dangers of declining federal protection, that you are of sound mind and body and yet are electing to decline such protection."

"Jim, you know how much I appreciate everything you have done for us."

"I know, Ryan. But I think you're a damn fool for risking your neck and I can't protect you if you decide to break any laws." Crawford tossed a pen on the table. "Still, if you get into any heat, you have my number."

With that, Ryan and Jordan signed their official statements along with the waiver form and were out the door. They caught a cab and took it to the Hilton on Connecticut Avenue, where they rented a car from Hertz. After a late lunch courtesy of McDonald's, they jumped on the 495 and headed towards Chevy Chase.

Alex Mendel lived in a stately brick Tudor, which was nestled on a large well-manicured corner lot on a quiet tree-lined street in Chevy Chase, Maryland. Ryan and Jordan followed a winding path, paved with earth-toned flagstones, to the front door.

"Ready?" Ryan asked.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

Ryan knocked and waited for the sound of footfalls inside. Nothing.

"Try the doorbell," Jordan said.

He did as she suggested.

Still, nothing.

He was about to give up when he heard the mechanical sound of landscaping equipment fire up from the back yard. "Follow me," he said, leading Jordan around the side of the house, through a tall wrought-iron gate, and into a lush back yard that could have easily passed as a secret garden in the English countryside.

Mendel, a tall frail-looking gentleman with a bushy white mustache and eyebrows to match, was applying a hedge trimmer to a short hedge of boxwood that lined the path to the back door. He still had a full head of unruly white hair, although Ryan thought he looked noticeably older than the last time he'd seen him, several years ago, after Dr. Mendel had delivered a speech at a pharmaceutical conference.

Mendel caught sight of them in his peripheral vision and whirled around. "Can I help you?" he asked curtly as soon as he'd turned off the hedge trimmer.

"Dr. Mendel," Ryan said, moving to greet him. "My name is Ryan Matthews. This is Dr. Jordan Carver." He offered a friendly smile and extended his hand.

Mendel managed a tepid handshake in return. "Do I know you?"

"We've met before," Ryan said, "although I doubt you remember. I used to work for Fisher Singer Worldwide."

The old man eyed him suspiciously. "What do you want?"

Jordan cut in. "Dr. Mendel, we need to talk to you about a serious matter. We—"

"Whatever it is can wait," Mendel said, cutting her off. "Moreover, I don't appreciate the intrusion. If you had a legitimate reason to meet with me, you would have contacted me through the proper channels." He turned on his heels and started for the back door.

Ryan didn't bother to stop him but instead followed him inside, with Jordan close behind. Such aggressive behavior would only make the old man more wary of them, but it was better they move inside—beyond earshot of the neighbors— before beginning what was inevitably going to be an uncomfortable confrontation.

When Mendel reached for a phone hanging on the wall in the kitchen, Ryan moved to intercept.

"I'm calling the police," Mendel said, his feeble voice overflowing with indignation.

"I can't let you do that," Ryan said and removed the phone from his hand.

The old man did not resist, but turned and began moving towards the front door. Ryan, anticipating the move, took hold of his collar, gripping it as gently as he could, and guided him into the living room, which, with its plush carpet, tasteful decorations, and handsome furniture, looked like it still bore the stamp of a woman's touch.

Ryan steered Mendel toward one of the overstuffed chairs and kindly pushed him down. "Your wife did a wonderful job with this room," he said. "I was sorry to hear of her passing."

Mendel looked back at Ryan fearfully, his eyes bulging behind a pair of wire-rim glasses. "What do you want?"

Jordan intervened with her soothing voice. "We just want you to hear us out."

Mendel frowned, his bushy eyebrows nearly touching. "This is highly unusual."

"I know it is," Ryan said and let go of Mendel's collar. He grabbed a nearby footstool and plopped down in front of him.

Jordan followed his cue and took a seat on the edge of a black leather couch.

"Listen, you and I have a lot in common. I lost my wife to ovarian cancer, too. The odds were stacked against her, but I had a chance to save her." He forced back a tidal wave of emotion that suddenly threatened to engulf him. "And so did you."

It was the perfect opening gambit, and Ryan, having gained Mendel's undivided attention, used it to launch into a thorough explanation of his work with Tricopatin, FSW's successful move to bury it, and the ensuing roller coaster he'd been riding ever since the night, now almost four weeks ago, when he met Jordan. He told Mendel about Dr. Huggins and Craven. Once he had laid out all the facts, he decided to play a hunch.

"Dr. Mendel, I know about your involvement with the Tricopatin clinical trial."

"I had nothing to do with any clinical trial," Mendel shouted. "I was the commissioner of the FDA for god's sake. I didn't get involved with individual clinical trials. Those were handled by members of my staff."

"Now we both know that's not entirely true. You were given a directive and that directive was to halt the Tricopatin clinical trial and you complied."

"That's not true," Mendel retorted, his vigor diminishing.

"Think about it," Ryan said. "Your wife would still be alive today if you hadn't quashed Tricopatin. We could have saved her life."

The use of
we
was particularly effective; it put Ryan, Jordan, and Mendel squarely on the same team.

Mendel stifled a tear. "I had no idea."

"So you admit you helped kill my drug?"

"Yes and no," the old man said. "I saw the trial results—the real ones and the altered version—and I signed off on the ruse. But I don't remember a Dr. Huggins or a William Craven, and I only vaguely know of Jacob Stedman. I've never met him."

Ryan felt his short fuse burning again. He hadn't pushed Mendel into a confession only to get the runaround on who was pulling the strings. He was relieved when Jordan stepped in.

"I'm confused," she said. "If you weren't working with Stedman, then who was giving you your orders? Was it someone else at FSW?"

"No, no," Mendel said. "You've got it all wrong. I was never in the back pocket of industry. I worked for you, for the consumers."

"Then who told you to kill Tricopatin?" Ryan asked as gingerly as he could.

"The senator."

"Which senator?"

"Ed McNally."

Ryan felt his jaw drop. "Senator McNally?" he repeated. "I always thought he was one of the good guys."

Jordan crossed her arms. "You're lying."

Ryan was surprised. She'd gone from good cop to bad cop in the blink of an eye.

"I'm afraid not, young lady," Mendel said. "I got the order to sign off on the altered tests directly from Senator McNally. It was obviously a sensitive situation. When I questioned the order, the senator told me that it was a matter of national security and that I was to tell no one of my actions. The senator has a long history of working with pharmaceutical giants like FSW. He must have been repaying an old favor."

"That's quite an accusation," Jordan said angrily.

"And one that makes sense," Ryan said, glaring at Jordan. Ryan could tell when someone was giving it to him straight, and Mendel's confession was the real deal. How Jordan couldn't see that was beyond him, but now was not the time for a debate. He returned his attention to the old man. "Can you prove it?"

Mendel nodded solemnly. "I was not comfortable signing off on something so obviously underhanded, and found nothing credible behind the senator's national security reasoning. So I protected myself, just in case. I kept the original trial data and I taped my conversations with the senator."

"Where is this evidence?" Jordan demanded.

"Locked away in a safety-deposit box."

"The perfect bargaining chip if your role in this was ever exposed," Ryan said as he shot Jordan a knowing look. "That was a smart move. Now you get to cash that chip in and avoid being exposed."

Mendel glanced at his watch. "My bank closed an hour ago."

"That's all right," Ryan said. "We can go first thing in the morning."

"So you'll return tomorrow morning?"

"No," Ryan said. "I'm not taking my eyes off you until we've got that evidence firmly in hand. We're staying for dinner—and then spending the night."

Senator Edward McNally stared at the drink in
his hand and smiled. It wasn't quite the equivalent of a Rorschach test, but what the senator saw in the glass of single malt whiskey was certainly open to interpretation. Was he on the way up? Or on the way down? Was he working toward a better future for all Americans? Or just bargaining away his soul?

Tastes better than an inkblot,
he thought as he downed the scotch.

With the television on and the late edition of the evening news soothing him to sleep, he realized it had been a long time since he'd simply crawled into bed with his wife, turned off the lamp on his nightstand in unison with her, and kissed the woman he loved goodnight. When he came home from work these days,
if
he came home at all, he needed distraction more than anything else.
Anesthesia.
Once he had sufficiently numbed himself, he required a quiet moment to reflect on the day's work. Had he succeeded in moving his agenda forward? The United States Senate had chewed up and spit out better men than him in the past—of that he was sure. But he liked to think he was special. Or at least luckier than most. He was going to make a difference regardless of the fallout. History would be the only judge that mattered.

"This country needs more team players," he said softly to himself. "People willing to—"

The ring tone on his private cell phone made him jump. He sat up straight in his easy chair and clumsily reached for his phone on the end table beside him.

"Sorry to disturb you at this late hour, Senator, but we have news."

McNally wondered if it was worth taking a stab at the nature of the news, but thought better of it. "Hit me."

"Matthews and your girl have had a busy day."

"Go on."

"They've found Mendel."

The senator inhaled deeply. "Christ." "There's more."

"There always is," the senator said, reclining in his chair. "Go on."

"Mendel has evidence, including taped conversations between the two of you, locked away in a safety-deposit box. He's planning on turning it over to Matthews tomorrow."

In moments of crisis, especially when his luck had gone south, McNally prided himself on taking a counterintuitive approach. Rather than trying to stiffen his grip on the situation, he let go. Rather than go into hyperdrive, he slowed down. When in free fall, he reasoned, it was best to relax, like a drunk driver at the moment of impact, or like a cat gracefully turning in midair while falling from a second-story window. It was precisely his ability to embrace the darkest moments that separated him from his peers. When others panicked, he stayed cool.