Implant

  "Yeah," Gin said slowly. "Foolproof." But was it Duncan proof?

  Stop! She shouldn't be thinking like that.

  "But with all the staff off, how can Duncan operate?"

  "They're importing an anesthesiologist from Bethesda Naval Hospital, and Dr. VanDuyne is going to assist."

  "And the Secret Service men will be guarding the hall, I suppose."

  "Right. Isn't it exciting?"

  "Yes. Exciting as hell." But Gin was feeling anxiety rather than excitement.

  She knew what Duncan thought of the president. How many tirades about him had she endured?

  Yet Duncan had agreed to do a cosmetic repair of his eyelids . . . agreed to perform a procedure designed to give the president a little edge toward reelection.

  It didn't add up. Why would Duncan do anything to help this man?

  Simply because he was the president and he had asked? Maybe. The office did have a mesmerizing effect on people.

  Look at Oliver, beaming like a starstruck Boy Scout. He can't tell a soul, yet he's totally gaga over the idea of his implants being used on the president of the United States.

  Was she borrowing trouble? Even if Duncan wanted to try something, how could he with the Secret Service watching his every move?

  But in the recovery room . . . would they be hovering over him there?

  Probably not.

  Why was she thinking this way? She had to stop. Yesterday she'd seen a side of Duncan she'd thought long gone. She'd promised herself to revamp her thinking. And she'd be succeeding, too, if not for that damn bottle of TPD. Was it still where she'd seen Duncan hide it?

  Only one way to find out.

  Now or never.

  Gin wished she could call Gerry and talk to him about this, but look what happened last time she'd gone to him with a suspicion. Their relationship was stretched to the breaking point. Or maybe he'd already broken it off without her knowing it. He hadn't contacted her since Friday.

  Duncan was out to lunch, Barbara was away from her desk. Gin slipped into Duncan's office and went directly to the bookshelves. She remembered it had been the far left section, top shelf. But the top shelf was too high to reach.

  She looked around for a chair to stand on and spotted a small step stool over by the sink. How convenient. She'd never noticed one here before. Maybe because she'd never been searching for something to stand on. She pulled it over and stepped up to where she was eye level with the top shelf.

  She thought back to Sunday night, standing outside in the cold and spying on Duncan. The book had been short and fat, with a green binding.

  And here it was, right in front of her. She wriggled it out and peered into the dark gap. Daylight from over her shoulder reflected off the glass of an all-too-familiar injection vial.

  There it was, just inches away. But now what?

  Why not just take it? a voice whispered. Take the damn bottle and rip off the stopper and pour the contents down a drain. Duncan might spend days, weeks wondering what happened to it, but so what? It'll be gone and you won't have to give it another thought.

  Unless there were other vials of the stuff around.

  But did that matter? This was the one she knew about. This was the one that had to go.

  Gin was just reaching into the space when a voice cried out behind her.

  "Jesus! " She started and nearly lost her balance as she turned.

  Barbara was standing in the center of the officer, her palm pressed between her breasts.

  "You almost gave me a heart attack!" Barbara said. "Dr. Panzella, you've got to warn me when you're coming in here."

  "Sorry," Gin said. She hoped she didn't look as shaken and embarrassed as she felt. "You weren't at your desk and I needed to look up something."

  "Just make sure he knows you've been in here."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He likes everything in its place. So if you're going to borrow anything, better check with him first, otherwise I'll hear about it."

  This isn't going to work, Gin thought. She held up the green text.

  "Okay, Barbara. Watch." With a small flourish, she slipped the book back into its space. "Voila. Right back where it belongs."

  "Great. He's such a stickler for detail, you know." Gin stepped down and slid the step stool back to its original position.

  "That's what makes him a great surgeon. He sweats the details." Barbara placed some papers on Duncan's desk and they left together.

  Gin gave one worried backward glance at the green book on the top shelf. She'd have another chance at it tomorrow.

  Unless Duncan moved it again.

  Oh, no.

  Duncan could feel all the warmth drain out of him as he watched the screen. He shuddered.

  The videotape showed Gin entering the office at 12:17 P.M., dragging the step stool to the bookshelves, and pulling out the book where the TPD was hidden. There had been not the slightest hesitation.

  She knew the shelf and the exact volume to remove.

  But how did she know?

  He felt an urge to step over to the shelf himself, it was only a few feet away, and check to see if she had taken the vial, but he could not move. He stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the screen.

  He watched her peer into the space, saw her hand rise toward it, and then Barbara came in.

  Thank God for Barbara.

  Their voices were muted but he could make out Gin's excuse and Barbara's comments about his tidiness. And then the book was back in its place and they were leaving. But he saw Gin's wistful parting glance at the bookshelf.

  She'd be back. Dammit, she'd be back.

  He fast-forwarded through the rest of the tape, but Gin did not return.

  That was a relief. He hit rewind and checked behind the book.

  Yes, the vial was still there. But how, how had Gin known that he'd moved it?

  She watched me.

  Of course. She'd followed him to D.C. General yesterday. She'd probably been following him since the fiasco on Friday.

  He turned around and stared through the plate-glass outer wall. If she'd been tailing him Sunday night, she could have crouched out there in the darkness among the shrubs and observed his every move.

  With a start he realized that she could be out there right now, spying on him.

  But no. Since their encounter in D. C. General yesterday, he'd been on guard, keeping careful watch in his rearview mirror, so much so that he'd nearly caused several accidents. No one had followed him anywhere today.

  But why had she checked behind the book today and not yesterday? Had something happened today to rekindle her suspicions?

  He fast-forwarded to where Barbara and Gin were leaving and paused on Gin's final backward glance. He read anxiety in her expression. No question something was making her apprehensive.

  A thought jolted him, Could she know about the president?

  Good Lord, if she'd found out about that, she might do something rash, something catastrophic.

  He picked up the phone and jabbed in his brother's number. "Oliver, he said immediately, "did Gin mention anything to you about our special case on Friday?" He took care not to identify the president on the phone.

  "Wh-what do you mean?" The hesitation in Oliver's voice gave Duncan a terrible feeling.

  "Does she have any idea who it is?"

  "Um, she knows. She guessed."

  "How in the world,?"

  "She recognized Dr. VanDuyne, then deduced that the men with him were Secret Service. From there it was two plus two, I guess."

  "Did you confirm it?"

  "Well, what else could I do?"

  "Damn it, Oliver! Dammit to hell!"

  "Duncan, I swore her to secrecy. You know you can trust Gin. Wasn't it better to confirm her suspicions than to have her go on wondering and asking questions?"

  "Well, maybe." He reined in his anger at his brother. Oliver had no idea why it had been so important to keep Gin out of this. "When did this conversation take
place?"

  "This morning. Maybe eleven or so. Why?"

  "Nothing. I'll see you Thursday." He hung up and began to pace the room, pausing only to hit the REWIND button on the VCR.

  Damn! Gin confirmed it through Oliver at eleven and an hour later she was here meddling with the TPD.

  The chance of a lifetime. The president himself, the commander in chief of the kakistocracy, would be sleeping off his anesthesia right down the hall. The man who single-handedly had resurrected the Guidelines bill, who had insisted on including medical ethics in its purview, and who would keep pushing relentlessly for the committee to get its foul job done.

  So what? Duncan thought. He had nothing to do with it. Lisa's death.

  Why not let him go and be satisfied with what I've done so far?

  Because I can't. Not yet.

  He was out of control and he knew it. He felt like a runaway train careening downhill. McCready had started it, and Duncan would finish it.

  He could not let this opportunity pass. He'd never have another like it.

  He would impose a symmetry on this madness . . . he would close the circle with the president. But Gin Panzella was going to ruin it. He could see it in her face, feel it in his bones. She was going to meddle again. And he could not allow that. Not this time

  The VCR whirred and ejected the tape. Duncan pulled it out and stared at it.

  Why, Gin? Why do you have to keeping sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong?

  His fury rose, a pressure in his head, his chest, threatening to explode. She was leaving him only two choices, either back down or somehow neutralize her.

  He groaned. She had backed him into a corner, and the only option left was to strike out at her. He might have to harm her.

  And he loathe himself for it.

  With a cry he hurled the videocassette to the floor and smashed it under his heel.

  "Damn you, Gin!"

  31

  WEDNESDAY

  "WE BEEN KEEPING SOMETHING IMPORTANT FROM YOU, Gin," Duncan said. "But I decided this morning I'm going to confide in you."

  Gin sat across his desk from him, sipping a late-morning cup of one of his exotic coffees, Jamaican Blue Mountain, she thought he'd said, but she'd been feeling too tense and wary to pay much attention. She'd been up most of the night brooding about the president's surgery. Should she be as worried as she was? Should she do anything? Should she call Gerry about it?

  Again, she'd decided not to call Gerry. She had even less to go on this time than the last. He already thought she was distraught. Why add fuel to that particular fire?

  She'd still been debating her next step when Duncan had called her in, told Barbara he did not want to be disturbed, and shut the door. He'd handed her a cup and asked her to be seated.

  So now she sat, tense and rigid in her chair, the coffee warming her cold hands as she anxiously waited to see what was up.

  "Since you are a physician in this facility, what I'm about to say falls under physician-patient privilege. Is that understood?"

  "Of course."

  "Good." He leaned back and steepled his fingers. "You might be wondering why I gave the staff off this Friday. The reason is extraordinary, I'm operating on the president of the United States that day."

  Gin felt her jaw drop open. Duncan was actually telling her.

  He smiled. "I can see by your expression that this was the last thing you expected to hear. Good. That means our security measures are working." He went on to tell her most of what she had learned from Oliver yesterday, the nature of the procedure, the rationale behind it, the reasons for all the secrecy. Not wanting to get Oliver in hot water, she pretended it was all new to her.

  All the while her mind was racing, searching for a reason why, if he was planning to harm the president, he would tell her this.

  "You must be very proud," she said when he paused.

  "Well, much as I dislike the man's policies, I have to admit it's an honor to be selected as his surgeon."

  "Honor aside," she said carefully, "I'm a little surprised you'd do anything to help him get reelected. I mean, knowing how you feel about him."

  Duncan waved his hand dismissively, as if physically brushing aside her words. "It's all media-consultant nonsense." His smile was laconic. "As if his eyelids could in any way make or break an election."

  "You know what they said about Nixon's five-o'clock shadow in that television debate back in 1960."

  "I saw that debate. Nixon's five-o'clock shadow was the least of his problems."

  "So you are going to help him look younger."

  "No. Actually, I'm going to remove his eyelids completely so he'll have this ghastly bug-eyed look."

  Her heart jumped. He wasn't serious . . . was he? "Duncan, don't even,"

  "Only kidding. Look, the president himself wants me to do it, so I'm doing it. As a rule I don't correct a single-feature defect like this, but the rest of his face is fairly young looking, so I'm making an exception." He grinned. "And trust me, this is not a freebie."

  "Who's assisting?" Oliver had already told her it would be Dr. VanDuyne, but she thought she should cover for him by asking.

  Duncan leaned forward. "That's why I called you in here. I'd like you to assist."

  Gin blinked. The words rocked her. What in heaven was going on?

  "Me?"

  "Yes, you. VanDuyne, the president's personal physician, has offered to assist. He'd probably be okay, but the more I think about it, the more I want someone who's worked with me. You've done dozens of these lid lifts with me. So, if you haven't already made plans for Friday . . . "

  "No . . . no plans."

  "Good. I'd also like you to handle recovery. VanDuyne was going to, but again you're more experienced. I'd feel better if you were on hand to watch over things."

  "Sure," Gin said, still off balance. She struggled to get her bearings, fought not to be awed. "I'll be glad to."

  "Excellent. I intend to add a fat surgical assistant's fee to the bill which will go directly to you." Gin was going to be assisting on the president of the United States, and be well paid for it. Talk about having your cake and . . .

  But even more disorienting was that Duncan had asked her to assist him.

  How could he be planning any harm if he wanted her right there in OR and in recovery?

  Had all her suspicions been for nothing?

  No, not all. That vial of TPD still loomed in the background, but Gin began to feel the tension uncoil within her, felt her neck and shoulder muscles relax as if the weight of the world had been lifted from them.

  She half listened as he went on about the anesthesiologist from Bethesda, the security measures, and the need for absolute discretion.

  "You can't tell anyone, not your best friend, not your parents, not even your boyfriend in the FBI."

  "We're just friends," she said.

  Although even that might be pushing things at this point.

  "Whatever. Only the Secret Service and the four doctors in OR-1 on Friday morning will know about this. We're scheduled for seven-thirty. The president and VanDuyne will arrive at six-thirty. You, Oliver, and the anesthesiologist will be here at six. I'll come at five to open up for the Secret Service so they can secure the premises, I believe that's the expression they used. Any problem with that?"

  "None at all."

  "Wonderful. Oliver, by the way, is nearly delirious about this. Wants to celebrate in advance. I think it's rather silly but if we don't do something to mark the occasion he just might explode. Since we all have to be up early on Friday, and since Oliver loves Italian food, I've reserved us a table at Galileo tonight. Oliver and I would both very much like for you to join us." Galileo. God, the four-star restaurant where the president took his Hollywood friends when they were in town. Gin was beginning to get excited herself.

  "How could I say no to Galileo?"

  "I'll pick up Oliver and we'll be by at half past seven to pick you up." He rose. "And now,
unless you have any questions, I suggest we both get back to work." Feeling slightly dazed, Gin nodded, rose, and made her way to the hall.

  Life was certainly full of surprises.

  Duncan watched Gin go, then poured himself another cup of coffee.

  That went rather well, he thought grimly. Too well.

  Under different circumstances he might find this sort of cat-and-mouse game stimulating. But not with this particular mouse. Plus, everything was rigged in his favor, he knew what she knew, but she hadn't the slightest notion that he was on to her.

  Gin was beginning to trust him again. And he was going to use that to cut her off at the knees.

  He didn't much like himself today.

  He spotted a sliver of black plastic and plucked it from the carpet. A remnant of the videocassette he'd smashed last night. After that little tantrum, he'd picked up the pieces, discarded them, and slipped a new cassette into the camera. Then, with his emotions locked away where they could not interfere, he'd sat down, assessed the cards he'd been dealt, and worked out the best way to play his hand.

  First, he'd lock up the TPD in his desk drawer again and see that Gin did not get another chance to pick the lock.

  Then he'd take the offensive. She'd learned about the president, something he'd been desperate to keep secret. The worst thing to do then would be to retreat. That would confirm that he had something to hide. So do the opposite, the unexpected. Don't lock her out. Welcome her in. Show his hand, but only those cards that have already been exposed Which was exactly what he had done. He'd sounded so open this morning, he'd almost scared himself.

  The result, Gin was not only thoroughly off balance, but literally starstruck at the opportunity to assist on the president's surgery.

  She was honored, for God's sake.

  Maybe he'd overestimated Gin.