After the Fall (6 page)

When they got inside, Jake noticed a letter sitting on the table by the door. Addressed to Dr. Adawia Abdul; the return address, an indecipherable name and a street address in Dearborn, Michigan. When she went into the bedroom to change, he picked up the envelope, looked inside, finding a letter written in what he assumed was Arabic script.

He was still holding the letter when Addie emerged, dressed in a clingy, beige pants suit, a sheer blouse underneath that exposed the lacy bra he'd bought her at Victoria's Secret. Addie loved racy, if not outright sexy, clothes, a habit he was happy to indulge.

“Who's this from?” Jake asked.

“My father,” she said.

“From Dearborn? Michigan?”

“I have a contact there. My family sends mail through him. Father thinks it's safer that way. Paranoid, maybe, but with the US-Iraq situation, you can't be too careful.”

“Why should he worry? Your father's not a radical anti-American, is he?”

“Of course not, but he wants me home. I've tried to explain about the big payment I'll get if I stay until Immunone's approval, but he doesn't care. Leave now, he insists; he doesn't want me in an enemy country. My father has always supported Saddam
Hussein's regime. He's in the inner circle, privy to whatever happens with the UN inspections. America is the enemy now.”

Jake had never asked Addie about her father, what he did for a living, about his political loyalties. He knew she loved and respected both of her parents, missed them a lot, but he'd never probed for more. Now, her possessive old man was trying to take Addie out of his life. Well, that wouldn't happen.

“They didn't find any uranium, “Addie said. “Iraq is a sovereign nation. Why can't they leave us alone? Wasn't one invasion enough?”

“Aren't they, the Bush administration, worried about biological and chemical weapons?”

“My father says it's primarily about uranium, nuclear material and facilities. The latest team is going to focus on Mosul.”

“Sorry, Addie, my geography is lousy. Where's Mosul? Close to Baghdad?” In truth, Baghdad was the only Iraq city name Jake recognized. That would have to change. He'd pick up a guide book. Or were there any? Did people actually travel to Iraq for anything except military business or peacekeeping missions? Or war reporting?

“Mosul is in northern Iraq, close to where they produce Al Jazeera TV. Jake, do you realize that this will be the tenth International Atomic Energy inspection? My father says Dick Cheney's behind this IAEA bullshit. My people call him a monster.”

“Bullshit?
American slang becomes you.”

“I tell you, Jake, I live like a Western woman here. Nice clothes, makeup, drive a car. But in my heart, I'm Iraqi. And I must return. My father needs me back, and very soon. That's why you have to do something to get Immunone approved. I don't want to leave all the money behind. I worked hard for Immunone. I deserve that money. Someday, I might need it. So, please, do everything you can to get Immunone approved fast.”

Did she really think he'd facilitate sending her back to Baghdad? “What if you don't go back?” he asked. “How in the
hell—” Jake managed to stop.
How the hell could you want to go back to a shit hole like that?

Jake stood, still holding the letter; the Arabic script seemed to taunt him. Was she telling the truth? Or did she have a boyfriend back home? If she returned, would her parents commit her to an arranged marriage? He dropped the letter on the table where he'd found it. “Everything will work out. Let's go grab something to eat. How about Djaje Shawarma?” He knew he'd butchered the pronunciation. “That'll make you feel better. We can talk there about Immunone. Okay, Addie?”

“You don't like Arabic food,” she said. “But I will feel better after some sambousik, lamb this time.”

“I'm okay with their rotisserie chicken.” The one dish on the menu that Jake could stomach.

“Djaje Shawarma,” she said. “Okay, let's go.” She grabbed her coat and a bright magenta scarf. “I'm wearing what I have on. You'll want to get out of the suit. Wear a sweater and slacks. It's a casual place.”

“I'm okay,” Jake said. Dinner was the least of it; the main event would be their amorous evening.

As he and Addie settled into the booth in the small restaurant, Jake reminded himself to avoid the heavy-duty subject of Immunone's anticipated approval. The seeds of doubt he'd planted at the FDA after the team meeting today needed time to germinate. Before he left for the afternoon, he'd generated a memo questioning the adequacy of the data on the clinical trial deaths they'd received from Keystone Pharma. Before pushing the “Send” button, he'd eradicated several backup reports from his paper files and from the electronic files that he controlled as project manager.

That seemingly innocent memo would send the medical reviewers into a tailspin. No doubt, they'd “remember” seeing the extensive reports Keystone
did
submit, but they'd be unable to find them in their database. Jake had a key to the
departmental offices, and tomorrow he would get there very early and search the reviewers' paper files. The electronic files were his domain. All electronic records could eventually be retrieved, he knew, but he didn't think it would come to that. Most likely, requests would be made to Keystone to resend the reports. That would take time, especially with Dr. Minn gone. Once they were received and the data reconciled, they'd chalk it up to clerical error. Happens all the time. Expected to happen in any bureaucracy.

But tonight, as they waited for their food to arrive, Jake struggled without success to keep the conversation light. Addie sat opposite him, her black eyes simmering with anger. When he reached across the table for her hand, she pulled it away. “I don't want to chitchat. I want answers, Jake. First, when is your wife coming home? Is she suspicious about us? What if she finds out? She can ruin everything. For me, my job. Your job.”

“Karolee could care less. Too busy with her damn restaurant. Truth is, she surprised me, going to see our son and the baby. Mark moved to Miami to get away from her, but—ha! ha!—foiled by the evil mother.”

“You told me your son and your wife don't get along. Too bad. And what about that baby, your granddaughter, don't you want to see her?”

“Yes. When I see my granddaughter I want you to be with me, as my wife.” There, Jake had said it. Marriage.

Addie set down the flatbread she'd been munching. Jake could see her features transform. Pretty became grim. She enunciated her words clearly through gritted teeth. “You keep saying you'll divorce her. When, Jake?”

Addie had no idea that divorcing a woman like Karolee would be like descending into hell. All those things that had attracted Jake to Karolee when they'd met at college now tormented him. She had family money she'd parlayed into a trendy Bethesda restaurant, a money machine. Aggressive,
demanding, loud, opinionated, domineering. That was the consensus. He would add paranoid and downright stingy. No limit on what Karolee could spend on her hair, her clothes,
her
house. But let him overspend his share of their income and all hell broke loose.

No, you don't divorce a woman like Karolee. Far too difficult navigating the legal system. He'd simply terminate her. Combining the skills of a Marine with his project management ability, he'd come up with a plan. And—happy thought—he would finally get his hands on her money. Even though Karolee was always threatening, he didn't think she'd made a will. She despised her daughter-in-law, so she wouldn't leave her wealth to Mark. Baby Amanda was far too young to be considered, so it would all default to him as her husband.

“Soon, Addie,” Jake said. “I'm getting the papers drawn up. She'll be away until Friday. I'll get it through court quickly. Then we can be together.” A pleasant thought slipped into Jake's mind: with Karolee's money
and
Addie's, he'd be a truly wealthy man.

“Addie, I want to marry you. I'll do anything for you.”

“I don't know, Jake.” He watched the anger dissipate, replaced by a spark of hope, but then frustration. “I'm really worried about my family. Do you think the government people you know could get my family to the United States? I mean, if things get really bad there?”

“I can work on it,” Jake said, as if he had contacts in the State Department. He'd now taken her hand, was squeezing it.

“I'm so confused,” she said. “I want to stay here. Maybe if we get married, I can. I won't be a disgrace to my family. But I would be a disappointment. They want to pick my husband, a Muslim, of course.”

“Addie, if you want me to—”

“But first,” she interrupted, “I have to get that money from Immunone. Tell me. Now. What is happening?”

Jake couldn't dance around her demand. As soon as the waiter laid out the spicy Middle Eastern food, he told her about the “problem.” FDA couldn't find key data. Now, with their
lead researcher dead, he didn't know how long it would take Keystone Pharma to respond to the missing data requests. He was making it up as he went. But, in reality, Jake Harter was in the perfect position to make data disappear to fit his needs. He needed to keep reminding himself of that.

Addie stopped eating as he explained. Her face was set in stone, but no tears. As Jake enjoyed his tender, slow-cooked, expertly seasoned chicken, she sat in silence, staring at him over the plate of lamb she'd barely touched.

T
UESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
18

Laura awoke to dusk settling on Philadelphia. She must have slept about five hours. Before she spoke—before they even knew she was awake—she counted all five adult kids. And Tim, of course. Tim, who had proposed to her. Had that been only two nights ago? Would he still want to marry her now that her career was over? Tampa City Hospital would let her stay on as chief, at least for a while, supervising, strategizing, administrating. But sooner rather than later, they'd replace her with a hotshot surgeon who had two good hands.

The pressure in Laura's head had scaled down to a dull thud like a severe tension headache. She'd had her share of these, a single mother with five kids and a brutal job. She could deal with the headache, but not the fiery pain raging from her right hand to her shoulder. Dr. Corey, the hand specialist from Colorado, told her that compounding the fractures, she had compartment syndrome. Translation: disastrous tissue damage. Pressure rapidly builds up in the small compartments, creating an inflammatory cocktail that eats away at tissue and destroys nerves. They'd done a fasciotomy to relieve the pressure, so her hand had been carved up and splayed out under the bandages, with the result being unbearable pain.

She couldn't hold off too long before asking for more pain meds, but Laura did need to release Tim and let the kids go back to where they belonged. She'd insist that hanging around made no sense.

“I'm okay, everybody.” She turned her head and opened her eyes as wide as she could. “But not for long. My hand is killing me, and I'm going to ask for pain meds.”

Kevin bolted up. “I'll get the nurse, Mom.” He headed for the door.

“Not yet, Kevin. Sit back down. I have something to tell you.”

“You okay, Mom?” Patrick asked.

No, I'm not okay
. “I'm going to be okay,” Laura said. “Look, guys, I know my hand is injured beyond repair. I have no illusions about what that means. I'm not going to be able to operate in the future. Okay? I get it. I'll be okay with that.”
Or will I?

“How can you be sure?” Natalie interrupted. “Dr. Corey said that—”

“I
am
sure. Let's just all accept this. I need a fresh start in my life. Once I get out from under this god-awful pain.”

Kevin was on his feet again, “Mom, I don't want you to suffer like this.” His eyes traveled to her bandaged, elevated arm. Of all her kids, he was the most squeamish. Took a lot of teasing from the medical siblings who enjoyed freaking him out with details of blood and gore.

“Not yet. I have a request—all of you.”

“Whatever you want, Mom,” Natalie inched closer to the bed, adjusted the sheet. Laura did not have the heart to tell her that any miniscule impact sent flames down her arm. The twins may be med students, but they still had a lot to learn about pain—as did she. Only with Laura, that education would be first person, real time.

“I want you all to go home. Patrick, back to your classes in Manhattan. Kevin, back to Princeton and your architect practice. Mike and Natalie and Nicole, back to work. You're local, so you can come visit tomorrow night. I think I'll be a lot better by then, less pain. You can keep Kevin and Patrick up to date.”

“No way!” Patrick and Kevin tried to keep their decibel levels reasonable. “We're staying.” Patrick spoke for both.