“Doctor, your earring is falling out.”
“What?” Her long thin fingers went to the diamond stud nearly ready to fall out of her ear. She smiled, reattached it. “Thank you. I’d hate to lose one of those babies—it was my twenty-fifth anniversary present from my husband.” She shook her head, patted the earring. “As I was saying, I was considering a bone marrow biopsy, but I don’t want to subject him to anything invasive since he’s recovering on his own, and so quickly.”
Savich said thoughtfully, “So it seems he’s working something toxic out of his system? Have you gotten any information back about any drugs he was given?”
She placed her hand on his arm, drew a deep breath. “That’s why I called you. The reference lab found a cocktail of drugs in his system. The first was a natural supplement called quercetin that is marketed as a sort of über vitamin pill. There are claims it reduces the risk of cancer, the risk of heart disease, signs of aging—most medical problems under the sun, really, a cure-all. The FDA has warned there’s no proof for any of the claims, but still, it’s widely available.”
Savich shrugged. “As long as people need hope, some drug will claim to provide it.”
She nodded. “That’s the sad truth. At least, as far as I know, this supplement can’t hurt you. The second drug they found is called epoetin alfa. That’s a sophisticated drug that has to be given intravenously. It’s produced using recombinant DNA technology, acts like a natural hormone to stimulate the bone marrow to make more red blood cells. Someone has been treating his anemia with it. It can cause some increased blood clotting, but nothing like what John Doe is suffering.”
She drew a deep breath. “Now, the third drug they found, they couldn’t identify. They do know it’s chemically related to a drug called sirolimus, used to treat organ rejection. But the drug they found in his blood is new; it’s different. I think the mystery drug is what’s been so toxic to him, especially to his nervous system and his bone marrow. That toxicity could be why they gave him the epoetin, to counteract the bone marrow suppression the third drug was causing.”
“Aren’t there a great many drugs currently being tested that your lab couldn’t identify yet? Drugs that haven’t been approved or marketed?”
Dr. Wordsworth nodded. “Yes, of course. There are millions of untested and poorly tested compounds out there, many of them owned by pharmaceutical companies and universities. They’re often kept jumbled together in what they call compound libraries, in the hope that some of them will be useful as drugs someday.” She shrugged. “Fact is, most of them turn out to be ineffective, or toxic, or both. It takes a great deal of money and time and a bit of luck to find one with a valid use and bring it to market.”
“And if someone were giving him an experimental drug, an unapproved drug, that might explain his medical condition and why he’s improving now he’s no longer taking it?”
“Yes, luckily for him.” Dr. Wordsworth picked up John Doe’s arm, traced her fingertips over the neat line of needle marks. “At first I thought he might have volunteered for some kind of a drug trial, but if he was being given the drug legitimately, for therapeutic reasons, why can’t we find anything wrong with him other than what seems to be the toxic effects of a drug?”
She touched a finger to her earring, then shook her head at herself. “That attempt on his life last night, someone with medical knowledge did that. The syringe the murderer was going to inject into John Doe’s IV—it was filled with potassium chloride. It would have stopped his heart and killed him, and the murderer knew we would never have found it, even at autopsy. It would have looked like sudden cardiac arrest, death from natural causes.”
“And if Kara hadn’t been here to frighten the killer off, John Doe could never wake up to tell us otherwise, or about anything that’s happened to him.”
She took John Doe’s hand. “Whatever is happening here, it’s way beyond unethical; it’s scary. Please find these people before they try again.”
32
1701 ARCTURUS ROAD
ON THE POTOMAC
SOUTH OF ALEXANDRIA
TUESDAY LATE AFTERNOON
Henley flew the helicopter in from the south, staying low over the Potomac. As he maneuvered to land on a barren patch near the shore, Liam saw a Hardy 50 motor yacht tied to a wooden dock, not twenty yards from the landing field. It was a boat he knew well, an English boat he’d seen often in the bad old days of his smuggling forays along the Irish coast. It was seaworthy and powerful, but small enough to guide upriver without attracting too much attention. Probably the boss’s boat, an easy getaway to wherever he wanted to go.
Henley touched down on the dirt, and Liam watched the rotor blades slow as Henley went methodically through his shutdown checklist. When the blades finally stopped, it was quiet as a graveyard save for the light lapping of the Potomac against the wooden dock. Amazing for a place so close to Alexandria and the millions of people in the metro area. He’d seen no major roads, no close neighbors. It was private.
Henley stepped out and opened their door. He pointed. “Petrov’s house is through that mess of trees.”
Liam used a Swiss Army knife from the tool kit to cut Elena free from the helicopter seat arm and pulled her out. He winced from the weight he had to put on his heel as he set her down on the skids beside him. He started to cut the duct tape from around her legs to let her walk freely but he chanced to look at her, saw rage in her eyes, and knew in his gut she’d go for him, even with her arms and hands taped together. He was hobbled enough she might well take him down, even with the Walther. And Henley might help her.
“Sorry, love, I know you want to take a strip off me, so you’ll have to stay trussed up a while longer.” He patted her cheek, goading her, but she didn’t say anything.
He looked toward the Potomac. “Who’s there on Petrov’s boat?” She turned automatically and he hit her hard with the butt of the Walther. She didn’t make a sound, just sagged against him.
“Hey!” Henley took a step toward him. “Why’d you do that?”
Henley was becoming a nuisance. “She’s all right. I’m thinking it’d be easier if you carry her. You didn’t think you’d be staying with the helicopter, did you, mate?”
“I was told to drop you and take off again.”
“Change of plans. Not going to happen. Come and get Elena. “Where’s Petrov’s man? Abram?”
“He’ll be meeting us.”
Liam saw the moment Henley realized he’d unwittingly given away the farm, and smiled. “Don’t feel bad, old man. The only person I could never fool was my da, a right mean son of a bitch. Come on, take her.”
Henley lifted Elena in his arms rather than over his shoulder, and staggered. Liam grinned. Elena was well muscled, not a lightweight.
Liam waved the Walther. “Walk ahead of me. If you do anything stupid, I’ll blow your head apart.”
Henley looked at the Walther, swallowed, gave him a terrified smile. “Ah, you know you never want to kill the pilot.”
So Henley thought it would be hard to kill a man who was funny. It was a good point. He smiled. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?” He waved the Walther. Always careful, Liam limped three steps behind Henley across the scrubby plot of land to a well-worn winding path through a thick copse of trees, full-leafed in midsummer. At the far edge of the trees a green yard spread out in front of them, sloping up to a house facing the Potomac. It wasn’t a mansion like some of the houses he’d seen from the air, not pretentious at all, but it wasn’t a shack, either. It was elegant in its own simple way, all wood and glass, beautifully weathered, a getaway, designed for the owner and guests to come and go in privacy. And the boss’s boat was thirty yards from the front door.
As Liam limped along the flagstone path toward the house, he saw a wide, roofed porch, with two ancient rocking chairs with faded red cushions. Liam couldn’t imagine someone like Petrov hanging out there, rocking back and forth, enjoying an evening martini. Everything was
silent. He didn’t see the man Abram or any other sign of life in the house.
But then the wooden front door opened and an older man walked out onto the porch. He was deeply tanned and perfectly bald. He stood with his arms crossed, his head cocked to one side as he watched them come toward him. He was tall and fit, wearing a white suit, buttoned over a white shirt, white loafers on his bare feet. He wasn’t smiling.
“That’s Abram?”
Henley nodded.
“Say hello, you idiot.”
“Abram, how are you? Is Mr. Petrov here?”
“Yes, of course. Where else would he be?” Abram never looked away from the unconscious Elena in Henley’s arms. “He’s been waiting. You made good time. I see there’s a problem. Mr. Petrov will not be pleased. Bring Ms. Orlov inside. I assume she isn’t dead or dying?”
Liam stepped around Henley, aimed his Walther at Abram. “Hello, Abram. I’m Liam Hennessey. Don’t you worry about Elena, I gave her a small tap on the head to keep her quiet. Take us to Petrov.”
Abram’s big hands fisted, then relaxed. He turned on his heel and walked into the house, Henley and Liam following him.
Liam watched him lightly tap on a door, open it, and stick his head in. He heard Russian. Then another man’s voice, low and controlled, also speaking Russian.
Abram turned. “Come.”
Liam waved the Walther for Abram to precede them and limped behind Henley into a long narrow room with a full bank of wide windows facing the Potomac. He saw dark-stained wooden shelves on two walls, nearly empty, only a dozen or so hardcover books. At the far end of the room stood a big mahogany desk. He watched a man rise when he saw Elena unmoving in Henley’s arms and rush around the desk. His voice was sharp, with a clipped upper-class British accent. “What happened, Henley? Is she all right?” He turned quickly to Liam. “What did you do to her?”
“She’ll be fine, Mr. Petrov.”
“If you’ve harmed her, you’re a dead man.”
Liam smiled. “She’ll have a headache, but that should be all. You know as well as I do if I hadn’t knocked her out, she would have carved out my liver and trussed me up like a turkey for your pleasure. Why should I take a chance of your putting your foot on my neck or locking me up with no food or water until I tell you what you want to know?”
“I am not a barbarian, Manta Ray.”
“Call me Liam, Liam Hennessey. My old street name no longer fits me.”
Petrov ignored him, waved to Henley to put Elena down on the pale blue brocade sofa. So Elena really was Petrov’s Achilles’ heel. Liam felt the balance of power shift, and smiled.
Liam hated showing Petrov weakness, but Petrov already knew about his heel, Elena must have told him. He limped to a chair, sat down, and was glad the throbbing eased. He studied the boss. Petrov was in his midforties, not a big man, but he had presence, as if he understood power and how to wield it. Odd impression, that, but there it was. Petrov’s forehead was high, his dark hair spearing a thick widow’s peak in the middle of his forehead; his hair receding well back on each side. It reminded him of Nicolas Cage’s hair, the American actor Liam knew well, having watched his movies at the Old Goddard theatre in Belfast. He had Cage’s black eyes, too, but his nose was long and thin, his cheekbones high, and he had very white skin, like he’d never been in the sun. A vampire, the bloody Russian looked like a pretty vampire with Nicolas Cage hair.
Liam said, “I don’t speak Russian.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Petrov said, leaving Because you’re an ignorant Irish git unspoken but clear as day. Petrov turned to Abram. “Take Mr. Henley to the kitchen and give him a beer. And summon Dr. Michaelov. He will examine Elena. And Mr. Hennessey’s heel, of course. I will call if I need anything.”
Liam heard the two men’s voices recede into the distance. He realized he was unconsciously rubbing his heel, and stopped. Petrov was whispering to Elena, touching her face, obviously concerned she might be badly hurt.
“You said you weren’t a barbarian, Mr. Petrov. I agree. You are far beyond a barbarian. But for all I know you could promise me the moon for what you need from that safe-deposit box and then shoot me clean between the eyes. Abram could no doubt bury me in that dirt field where your helicopter lands. I took Elena’s gun and that means we both have a measure of control. Now we can negotiate.”
33
Petrov looked up from Elena’s face. He fanned his slender white hands. “You mistake me, Mr. Hennessey. Ours is nothing more than a straightforward business matter. I have held up my end of our bargain. I promised to free you from the federal marshals, and I’ve done so. I was required to take extraordinary measures to keep you out of the FBI’s hands, and I have done so. And now you are here, safe.” Petrov waved to Liam’s bound foot. “Your foot, the FBI, should I go on?” He paused, then: “And yet you are holding Elena’s favored Walther at my chest. I am making you a rich man. It seems to me you would wish to show me a measure of gratitude, Mr. Hennessey.”
Liam sat back in the chair, crossed his arms. He liked Petrov, but Liam knew he wasn’t a man he’d want to meet in a dark alley. “And what do you think this measure of gratitude should be?”
“Let us say, rather that it would be a simple courtesy for you to confirm for me the name of the person who hired you to rob my safe-deposit box.”
Liam cocked an eyebrow, said in full Irish, “My heel hurts, Mr. Petrov, makes me querulous. Sorry, I’m not feeling very courteous at the moment.”
“Even though my own personal physician is coming to take care of your heel?”
“And her, of course.” Liam waved the Walther toward the sofa. He heard Elena moan. “She’ll be back with you soon, Mr. Petrov. That is my courtesy to you—I didn’t kill her.”
Petrov gently pulled Elena upright into his arms. He whispered against her ear, “No, don’t move, you probably have a concussion.”
Elena whispered something Liam couldn’t hear as Petrov lightly touched a long finger to the side of her head behind her left temple. “You’ve got only a lump there. The skin isn’t broken. Does it hurt? Can you see me clearly?”
Elena nodded, said something in French, of all things, and Petrov pulled her against him again and slowly rocked her, his face pressed against her hair.
Liam said, “No, I did not kill her, and I am about to bring you your heart’s greatest desire. It is you who owes me gratitude. I’ve decided I want to have enough money to make a difference in my life, but not enough to make you want to hunt me down and cut my throat in my sleep.”
“And what do you suppose that amount would be, Mr. Hennessey?”
“Four million dollars and all the jewelry in the safe-deposit boxes.”
Petrov never looked away from Elena. “I can get that amount here by morning. I presume you have other demands to assure your safety?”
“In the morning, that’s fine. Only one more demand. After you’ve given me the four million, you will have Henley fly me, my money, and Elena to wherever I choose. Elena is for my own safety. We’ll fly over to collect what you want—I presume it’s whatever is in that metal box from one of the safe-deposit boxes I stole?”
“It is. You did not attempt to open the box?”
Liam shook his head, remembered too clearly the awful pain in his side from the bullet whenever he moved.
Petrov whispered something against Elena’s ear, in Russian. “Don’t worry, I will let you kill the Irish bastard.”
She nodded, smiled up at him.
Liam didn’t like that smile, the sudden pleasure in her dark eyes. What had he told her? It didn’t matter, Liam had the Walther. He thought he might go to Morocco. He’d seen movies shot in those vast stretches of barren desert, tribesmen riding camels in their strange clothes. Fez, they called the big town, with its ancient streets and marketplaces. Who cared if the heat could seer off a man’s eyebrows? He’d turn up the air conditioning or hire some of those sloe-eyed girls to fan him with palm fronds.
Liam looked over at Petrov and Elena again. He was caressing the back of her hand, speaking quietly to her in Russian. Liam called out, “Elena will be staying in this room with me tonight. Anyone tries to come in and she’ll be the first to die. Is that understood?”
Petrov squeezed Elena’s hand, nodded. “Neither I nor Abram will give you any problems. But I will give you a warning. If you harm Elena, I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth and your death will be more unpleasant than Jacobson’s.”
Liam laughed. “A fine threat, but you know, Mr. Petrov, I doubt that’s possible.” He shrugged. “But it’s fair enough. All she has to do is be good, give me no trouble.”
Petrov turned back to her. “Don’t let him upset you, moy golub. You must rest and regain your strength.”
“What is moy golub?”
Petrov turned dispassionate eyes to him. “My dove.”
“Very sweet, mate, but this one a dove? She’s more like a viper. I thought for sure she was going to shoot Jacobson. He was a right proper muck-up, that one. I hope you didn’t pay him much.”
Petrov shrugged. “He was recommended by a contact in Metro, fresh out of jail, needed money. His death was punishment enough for his incompetence. Luckily, there is no way the FBI can trace him to me or to you.
“Tell me, Mr. Hennessey, why are you so distrusting of me? I respect your skills. You did an excellent job hiding the goods. I have done everything I promised to do for you. Yet you still treat me like an enemy rather than as your business partner.”
Elena spoke up, her voice sharp. “Sergei is a man of honor. His word is never questioned. There is no reason for you to distrust him.”
“Ah, yes, honor among thieves, is that it? I’m glad your boss didn’t tell you to pull out my fingernails in that forest, but I’m not going to let either of you give it a go now. What did Petrov call you? His dove? Moy golub.”