The RX Factor (7 page)

Ryan tried to intervene but Pritchard put his hand up to silence him. "Please, Ryan. It will not help Dr. Carver."

Bradshaw continued. "We have a report that you spoke to your uncle on da phone about an hour before da explosion. What was dat call about?"

Ryan interrupted. "It was her uncle wondering when she was coming on board."

Jordan nodded. "That's right."

Bradshaw jotted that down in his notebook. "We'll have to check dat out, of course." His voice was laced with skepticism. It was apparent to Ryan that Bradshaw had already drawn his own conclusions.

Not five minutes had passed before Pritchard rose to his feet. "That's all for now. But I'm going to have to ask you to remain on the island while I complete this part of the investigation. Now," he said, putting out his hand, "I need to ask for your passport."

Jordan stomped into the house for her purse. Returning, she thrust the passport at him.

"Can I expect you to be here if I need you?" Pritchard asked.

She glanced at Ryan.

Ryan stood up and drained his drink. "Jordan will be staying here, Everett. But you're barking up the wrong tree."

Pritchard gently grabbed Ryan by the elbow and led him out towards the ocean. When they were safely out of earshot, Pritchard spoke. "I never bark Ryan, you know that. This is protocol and right now I need you to respect what I have to do."

Ryan started to speak, but Pritchard cut him off. "For god's sake, man, get your head on straight and lay off the booze. I just informed you that one of America's most prominent citizens and his wife were murdered in a most sinister way on our little family island and the suspects are still at large. The world is watching and I will not be taking any shortcuts or leaving any stone unturned."

Pritchard released Ryan's elbow. "And if Dr. Carver is involved in any way, she may not be safe."

"They're ready for you, Senator."

Senator Edward McNally acknowledged his aide with a tip of his head and brushed the dust off his suit jacket. It was showtime. Even here, in some godforsaken village in the middle of Nigeria, a hundred miles from the nearest city and a world away from the game back in D.C., he could still feel a little extra jolt of adrenaline course through his veins as he assumed the role he'd been born to play. At forty-four, and midway through his third term, he wasn't the youngest member of the U.S. Senate anymore. But he was still the superstar of that legislative body, one of only a select few with legitimate presidential aspirations. Since joining the Senate at age thirty, the minimum age required for office, he had been riding a wave of popularity as media darling, brilliant young statesman, and budding political rock star all wrapped up in one. And in the last decade his reputation had only grown: he easily won reelection twice, authored a handful of important bills, cultivated crucial rela- tionships with influential members of Congress and Washington power brokers alike, and nailed down an important leadership post as chairman of the FDA's oversight committee.

How else to explain why a gaggle of journalists, whether belonging to the
New York Times, Washington Post,
Fox News, NPR, or some fledgling blog on the Internet, followed him wherever he went, even to Africa? Slipping away anonymously from his hotel back in Abuja had been no easy task, but the subterfuge had thrilled him to the core. Now here he was in some dusty village, nicknamed "Dung Hill" by his security detail due to the locals' habit of burning cow shit for fuel, to witness in private what one of his most influential contributors had been doing beyond the scrutiny of the nosy regulatory agencies back home.

The senator squinted into the midday sun as he emerged from the climate-controlled, window-tinted comfort of a stylish but conservative navy-blue Hummer. Trim, just over six feet tall, and boasting a full head of sandy blond hair, he had more than charisma going for him. He still sparkled with youth, the promise of better days ahead. So what if he had already peaked? If he was already bought and paid for? Politics was the art of illusion, and Senator McNally's true talent lay in his ability to wield the disparate elements— sunny optimism, cool-headed realism, magnanimous bipartisanship, unflinching ruthlessness— and turn them into political gold like some medieval alchemist.

Before him sat a prefab building, not much more than a trailer and as dingy as its earthen surroundings, serving as a medical clinic for local villagers as well as farmers from the surrounding countryside. Lean men, worn down by years of manual labor and a life of scarcity, stood alongside children and peasant women, some of them pregnant, all of them weighed down with newborns or toddlers barely old enough to walk, in a long line that snaked through the dust from the building's entrance to a sprawling acacia tree several hundred feet away. The children had distended bellies and saucer-like eyes, the hallmarks of malnourishment. No one was starving, but no one was living, either, at least not by Western standards. These people, ghosts hollowed out by the ravages of poverty, disease, and local violence, couldn't have formed a starker contrast to the soft, fleshy pharmaceutical workers who had come to "help" them.

An American man, balding and ample around the middle, emerged from the building just in time to greet the senator near the entrance. "Good to see you, Senator," he said, offering a firm handshake. "We're pleased you were able to make the trip out—without the usual entourage."

Senator McNally shook his head grimly. "It wasn't easy. My friends in the press take a keen interest in whatever I do."
Friends,
in this case, meant bloodsuckers.
Keen interest?
Unrelenting obsession.

"Yeah, well, I suppose it comes with the territory."

"It sure does. So what have you got to show me, Gus?"

Gus Witherspoon, an expert in his field, was part scientist, part public relations manager, a knowledgeable salesman who dealt discretely but forthrightly with a select clientele made up of industry bigwigs, politicians, and other well-connected insiders. He served on the front lines of a secret war, paving the way for research and experimental drug trials on foreign soil while keeping his company out of the spotlight and beyond the prying eyes of regulatory agencies, journalists, and would-be do-gooders.

"Just this," Gus said, handing the senator a crumpled spreadsheet.

Senator McNally stared at the figures, some of them stained by coffee. "What's this? I don't speak microbiology."

Gus, placing a hand on the senator's shoulder, ushered him away from the crowd at the front door, and back along the caked-mud drive to the Hummer, where no prying eyes or ears lurked. "That, dear Senator, is a one hundred percent success rate. As of this morning, we've given the full treatment to one hundred and thirty-six patients. And we're batting a thousand."

"Impressive." The senator glanced back and surveyed the long line, which was growing steadily. "Are all these people sick?"

"No. Shoot, half of them don't even know what we're doing here. But they know we're making people better, so they're coming by the droves. We had one old man walk fifty miles to get here."

"Barefoot, I suppose."

"Who needs shoes when the floors are made of dirt?"

Senator McNally gave a polite chuckle. "But aren't you worried about how fast the word is spreading?"

"Nope," Gus said nonchalantly. "Most of the people in line will receive a few free vaccines and a vitamin B shot—good PR for the company and a perfect cover for the program. Only a select few have been screened and given full treatment."

The senator nodded his approval and then spotted an angry villager trying to work his way past the minders at the entrance, shouting something to the people in line behind him. "What about him? Another happy FSW customer?"

Gus smiled wryly. "Oh, there's always some conspiracy nut out there who's certain we've come to castrate their men, impregnate their women, and poison their crops."

The senator gazed past Gus, toward the lonely hills that lay beyond the village. It was a move he had practiced countless times over the years, one meant to display seriousness, deep thought, gravitas. In this case, it wasn't a show. "If he only knew."

William Craven made sure the drapes were
closed before answering the door to his hotel room, which, like his accommodations back in Nassau, was tailored to the needs of a businessman who traveled first class. His new room had a better view, of course, and a more tranquil setting, but that was to be expected of any place worth the real estate it was sitting on here in the heart of tiny, picturesque George Town.

He opened the door and invited inside his Haitian contact and the man's two thugs. "You must be Rene," he said to the taller of the two assassins. "Rene Edmond."

Rene, bald-headed and wearing a clingy wife beater that accentuated his muscular frame, nodded menacingly.

Craven turned his attention to the other assassin, who was a few inches shorter than his partner, the sky-high afro atop his head notwithstanding. Dressed in a loose black T-shirt and a pair of cutoff jeans, he was smaller and leaner, but looked just as tough.

"You're Manno Sanon."

Manno shrugged indifferently, but his cool stare spoke volumes. He didn't appreciate the scrutiny and obviously felt he didn't need to impress a soul.

I can work with him,
Craven thought. Craven knew men. Their posture, the way they returned his gaze—everything told a story. He could tell a poser from the real deal in a heartbeat. He shifted his attention to the man who until now had been his go-between, the flunky who had cowered in front of him at the bar back in Nassau.

"I gave you forty-eight hours," Craven said. "But you're just now introducing me to your boys, and the job's still unfinished."

"Who you calling
boy?"
Manno asked in a hard-to-decipher patois of African, French, and pidgin Creole. He took a step toward Craven.

But before Manno could move another inch, Craven was propping up the assassin's chin with his Glock. Craven motioned to Rene to take a seat on the bed behind him, and the man did so grudgingly. He then caught Manno's gaze, still unflinching, not an ounce of fear on his face.

"I like you," Craven said. "Go take a load off next to your pal there."

The look on Manno's face—somewhere between fury and amusement—slowly morphed into recognition. Perhaps he, too, could read men.

Perhaps he understood that Craven, far from being an empty suit, was no stranger to death. Manno slowly, cautiously, sat down beside his partner.

"Show me the goods," Craven said.

The two men on the bed exchanged glances with each other and then stared back at Craven.

"I want to see," Craven explained, "what you're going to use to finish the job."

A faint smile spread across Manno's lips, and he produced from beneath his black T-shirt an exquisitely carved bowie knife that gleamed in the hotel room's artificial light.

Rene followed suit, gingerly exposing the handle of what looked to be a semiautomatic pistol hidden in his baggy shorts.

"Less messy than explosives," Craven mused. "Definitely more efficient." With that settled, he picked up where he'd left off with the only man still standing. "Now Junior, where were we? Oh, yeah. Forty-eight hours. I'm still waiting for an explanation. I should have been on a plane two days ago. Instead I'm here. With you."

The Haitian unleashed his patented gap-toothed grin. "But," he stuttered, "the islands are crawling with authorities. We can hardly move about. Even this meeting places us all in grave danger."

"I gave you forty-eight hours," Craven said, "and you give me excuses." He pulled from his blazer a silencer and fit it snugly to the muzzle of his gun.

Junior's eyes widened. "But, sir . . . no . . . wait—"

Craven, raising the gun level with Junior's forehead, didn't waste any time pulling the trigger, and the man crumpled in a heap, dead before he hit the carpeted floor. Craven turned to the bruisers, neither of whom betrayed a hint of emotion.

"Men," he said, emphasizing the word for Manno's benefit, "clean up this mess. You work for me now."

Jacob Stedman, president and CEO of Fisher
Singer Worldwide, let his phone ring three times before picking it up. Making people wait was one way, among many, to remind those working for him that his time was precious, that he was always busy, and that no one, not even his secretary, had access to him 24/7.

"They're ready for you in the boardroom," said Ms. Moser, his dowdy but efficient secretary. "You're set to go live in seven minutes."

He reviewed his notes one last time. He'd been doing interviews for years, but they never got any easier. Reporters had a habit of leading their victims down a back alley and then knifing them in the back when they least expected it. His job, as always, was to keep the interview positive—and to steer clear of any ambushes.

For this morning's interview, a camera crew from the American Financial News Network had traveled to the sprawling FSW campus to interview Stedman about his corporation's fourth quarter and annual earnings, which had been released earlier that morning. He would be entertaining questions via remote from the popular anchor team of Allen Faber and Catherine Bailey, the former a pudgy middle-aged man with Ken hair, the latter an attractive brunette with an impressive resume to match her winsome looks.

Assuming his game face, Stedman left his office and strode purposefully down the corridor to the boardroom, where he greeted the camera crew and took his position at the head of the table. An assistant worked him over quickly, running a comb through his hair and applying a small amount of makeup before helping him with his clip-on microphone and earpiece. And just like that, he was ready to go.

The cameraman, who Stedman guessed to be in his late twenties, began counting down silently with the fingers on his right hand, and as soon as he reached his index finger, Stedman could hear the voice of Allen Faber in his earpiece.