Point of Balance (29 page)

33

An operating theater where a craniotomy has just been performed has a particular smell to it. Quite apart from the disinfectant, the chemicals and your own sweat. It's the odor of sawn bones and blood. When you fill your nostrils, you realize you have breathed in part of the patient, who is now part of you. It's a bond that will be with you forever. It may sound sick, even horrific, which is why we surgeons shy away from talking about it. But that doesn't make it any less real.

The president was seated and fully conscious. Once the painful job of removing the skull flap was complete, we had woken him up. Dr. Wong had drilled four holes in his cranium and slotted into them a device known as a Mayfield skull clamp, which would stop the Patient's head from budging so much as a hairbreadth.

I stood in front of him, so he could see me. Although it was hard for him to recognize me, shrouded as I was in a surgical apron, with a mask and glasses fitted with surgical eye loupes. But he certainly recognized the tiger embroidered on my cap.

“Dr. Evans, what a surprise!”

Sedation brings out the comedian in some patients. That makes it much more fun. Normally there are peals of laughter all around, but today there was no such mirth. Everybody was tense, expectant.

“Sir, Dr. Wong has enabled access to the area where your tumor
lies. We will now place a monitor in front of you showing pictures and words. It is very important that you read those words aloud and describe the pictures as they appear. That way I can use a stimulator to distinguish between healthy tissue and the tumor.”

I had just gotten into position when the operating theater's phone rang. My heart leaped. For a moment, I dreamed it would be Kate, telling me she had found Julia already.

“It was the neuropathologist,” said the nurse who had answered. “We sent him tissue samples. He confirms the diagnosis: it's glioblastoma multiforme.”

“Right you are,” I said, masking my disappointment.

I peered into the president's brain, ready to do battle with my deadliest foe. There it was, half-hidden in the brain tissue. Nobody but an expert could tell the difference. GBM is invisible at first sight, and that's where its strength lies. It is identical to the tissue around it; it's just that it's immortal and the host organism can't stop it.

I prodded a finger into an area that I knew was clean. The brain has the same texture as toothpaste when you've left the cap off the tube for a while. Slightly rubbery, weak but hardy.

“Did you feel that, Mr. President?”

“I can feel nothing. But for some reason I can't stop thinking about a dog I once had,” he said in surprise.

“There are no nerve endings in the brain, sir. Nothing I do will hurt you. But manipulating it does lead to unexpected results. I have probably stimulated that memory by applying pressure.”

I kept on prodding my way around, using my hands to find out what was what. I wanted to get a feel for the healthy tissue. Then I moved to the problem area and prodded again, very slowly. I could feel the tumor under the rubber of my glove. It had a softer feel and was a slightly different color.

“Nimbus.”

The nurse handed me a long, black, two-pronged instrument. That gizmo was used to give tiny electric shocks, to stimulate the patient's brain.

“Start reading, Mr. President.”

“Dog. A boy throwing a ball.”

“Very good, keep going. Don't stop.”

When you locate the tumor, you have to use the right tool for the job.

“Cavitron.”

Now the nurse gave me an implement with a steel nozzle, linked by a pipe to a three-foot-high machine. That instrument, with a name that sounded like something straight out of
Transformers
, was my own private machine gun. A device which emits ultrasonic waves, fragments tissue and sucks it away. But the Cavitron can't tell the difference between healthy tissue and tumor. You need a steady hand—and totally accurate hand-eye coordination—in order not to probe one millimeter more than needed and fry the patient's brain in the process. And a blob must not look like a tumor to you when it is in fact brain, because then . . .

“Potato, potato, potato.”

. . . then the patient gets stuck with a word that will become the sum total of their vocabulary for the rest of their miserable life.

I drew back the aspirator tip just in time. It had been a close call. The operating lights were very bright, so I was getting hotter and hotter. Sweat began to cloud my vision.

“Well, it's not there. Thanks, sir,” I said offhandedly.

I turned to the nurse.

“Turn up the air-con.”

“Dave, the patient's temperature . . . ,” Sharon Kendall objected.

“Put a few thermal wraps on his chest and legs if need be. But I have to cool down right now.”

We carried on for quite a while, with no noise in the theater other than the sucking of the aspirator, the monitor's constant pinging and the president's voice, monotonously reciting the things he saw flitting across the screen.

All of a sudden he stopped.

“I'm bushed.”

It always happens. Even though they cannot move, the process upsets the brain's chemical balance and spurs a feeling of terrible fatigue.

“Don't give up, sir. We must go on. Just think that each word you say means one more day to enjoy with your daughters.”

From then on, I lost all track of time. I do that whenever I think hard, and never in my life had I thought as hard as I was doing right then. I drew a door inside my head and went through it, leaving all my cares behind. Somewhere Kate was trying to save my daughter's life. When I had finished what I was doing, I would have to give in to White's blackmail, if she should have failed, or even if she hadn't, because I had no way of knowing and didn't want to run any risks. But in the meantime, this was the operation I'd spent my whole life preparing for. And for everything I held sacred, I was going to get it right.

I kept on prodding, questioning, sucking.

“That's it, then, we're done. I can't remove any more. What do you say, Mr. President? Will that do, or should I take some more off?”

The president laughed out loud. A short and tired but genuine laugh.

“There was a barber near the Wrigley Building who always used to say the same thing. What do your colleagues think?”

I took off my glasses with the eye loupes and stepped back. Dr. Wong inspected the work area and mumbled in approval.

“I agree. There's no more tumor tissue to be seen. A bang-up job, Dr. Evans. Do you agree, gentlemen?”

The observers' voices could be heard over the intercom.

“You've been outstanding, Dr. Evans,” Lowers said. “I feel honored to have seen the operation for myself. Dr. Hockstetter?”

There was an awkward silence, but in the end even Hockstetter had to concede.

“Good work, Evans,” he said grudgingly.

“Marvelous. I can't wait to see the final result,” White said.

Of course you can't
, I thought.

“Good. Just one more thing before we close up. Nurse, the Gliadel,” Wong said.

The nurse went to the second drawer down on the instrument trolley, took out the pouches and gave one to Dr. Wong. She pulled at the corner flap and tore the aluminum packet open. She grabbed some tweezers, picked out one of the patches and handed it to me.

“Here you are, David.”

I stared at the poisonous wafer. I had only to put it in place and White's demands would be met, my daughter would be safe. Nobody would ever be the wiser.

I took up the forceps and readied myself to kill the president of the United States of America.

Kate

There wasn't a second to lose. Heading toward the lower floor and the doors meant certain death. If the flames didn't do away with her, then either of the two henchmen loitering outside would. Waiting was agony, not only for her, but for the little girl. She had to get Julia out of that deathtrap before the vermin feasted on her.

She had only one shot left. She turned around, ran to the window and stepped into the void. She gained a foothold on the jib, which groaned under her weight. There was a fifteen-foot drop. If that wasn't enough to break her neck, then the Serbs would finish the job.

Come on. Don't look down.

She put her other foot on top of the jib. Now her whole weight bore down on it. She had to wave her arms about to keep her balance and was in danger of falling off.

I can't. I can't.

Then all of a sudden Rachel was down there, like that time thirty years earlier. They were both little girls again, and Rachel was bawling at the top of her lungs for Kate to get down from that branch before it snapped.

Move, you dork. Move!

She took one step. Another. Then a third.

She got to the end. Never mind her lingering fear of heights, never mind the smoke and flames that began to spill through the window she had just left behind. She could feel the jib wobbling perilously as she crouched, kneeled down, then reached out into the void. At the last second, her fingers got a good grip on the hook that hung from the pulley. Gravity did the rest and she descended at full speed.

She let go of the hook, flexed her knees and rolled over as she hit the ground, but even so that was not enough to absorb the shock from the fall. She heard a crack and felt a flash of pain run up her right leg.

Something's broken. Shit, that hurts.

But now wasn't the time for diagnoses. She struggled to her feet and limped to the barn's north corner. She seized the MP5, changed the magazine and took a peep around the edge. Ten feet away, smoking a cigarette with a smirk on his face and a gun aimed casually at the door, was one of the kidnappers. It was the bald guy who had passed by her on David's porch. Kate gave him no warning, didn't ask him to raise his hands, not this time. She aimed, fired and blew his head off in half a second.

She heard something behind her.

She didn't get to turn around, nor did she know what hit her or hear the shots. She was floored suddenly, and there was blood pumping out of an arm she couldn't move. A bullet had wounded her. She was vaguely aware several more had hit her in the back, but it seemed the vest had done its job and stopped them. Or at least they didn't hurt as much as that big hole in her forearm.

The MP5 was beneath her, rendered useless. All she had left was the pistol. Still in a crouch, she grabbed it with her left hand, drew it, spun around and fired, as she had in thousands of drills over the years.

Her aggressor stared at her in disbelief. The bullet had hit him in the stomach and tunneled its way right through. Kate didn't make the mistake he had and kept firing until she emptied the clip, without missing a shot. The Serb fell to his knees and wobbled before he keeled over to go the way of all flesh.

Maybe I haven't had a life. Perhaps this is what I was waiting for
, Kate thought.

She didn't stop. Howling in pain, she stood up, somehow took off her leather jacket, and pulled it over her head before going into the blazing barn. The hay bales were all aflame and had turned the
place into an inferno that had reached the rafters. In no time the whole thing would come crashing down on top of the rat hole with Julia in it.

Gasping for air, Kate crawled her way into the middle of the barn. She couldn't see, her eyes were streaming and her limbs were racked with pain. She groped along and probed the floor, now covered in glowing ash from the burning hay bales.

Her fingers stumbled across a metallic object. A round piece of iron, fastened to something belowground.

The ring.

She pulled at it, but it didn't budge. She had to stand up and heave with all her strength. Then the trampled dirt on top of the trapdoor swiftly gave way, throwing Kate onto her back. She got up in time to see a dozen dark shapes scuttling out of the pit.

She peered in and there was Julia. She was covered in blood and there were bite marks on her face and arms. Her hair was tangled, her pajamas in rags, her skin plastered in dirt and sweat. But she was alive.

Julia reached up and Kate lugged her out of the hole, barely noticing her weight. She ran to the door, cradling Julia in her arms, while behind them the flaming rafters began to split and fall. They escaped from the barn just in time, and their limbs intertwined as they rolled on the grass.

There they lay in each other's arms for several minutes, sobbing in silence until they got their breath back. Julia still clutched a long, narrow piece of wood.

“They came after me, Auntie Kate. This is all I had to protect me. I pulled it off the wall.”

“You did great, baby.”

“Take me to Mommy, Auntie Kate. She'll be worried.”

Kate burst into tears again. She kissed Julia's forehead tenderly and, without letting go of her, pulled out her phone and punched in a number.”

“It's okay, honeybunch. You'll be home soon.”

34

I raised my eyes to the balcony, forceps in hand, and looked for White.

You got what you wanted
, I thought.
So gloat, you pig.

But as I was on the verge of placing the wafer on the area where I'd operated, something made me halt. White was there, third person on the left in the row of seats, but unlike the others, he wasn't looking at me but at his lap. He was checking out his iPad. And when he raised his head again, surprise was writ large on his face. Rage. Fear. Defeat.

I could read it in his eyes as clearly as if I were monitoring his tablet.

Kate's there. Kate's done it.

I lifted my hand to my mask and lowered it. I wanted him to see me smile in defiance over what I was about to do.

Quite simply, I loosened the forceps and dropped the wafer on the floor.

“Dr. Evans?” the nurse said, confused.

On the balcony, White frantically tapped away on his iPad, then stood up. I heard him say something to McKenna and open the door. And then I was starkly aware he could still do a great deal of harm, in ways I couldn't begin to imagine. But I couldn't tell ­McKenna the truth. At that moment, like the naive idiot I was, I still thought I could worm my way out of trouble.

“Watch it, David. You've just trashed a thousand bucks,” Dr. Wong said.

“Well, here goes another three grand,” I said, snatching the Gliadel pouch from her hands and upending it.

“That is not funny, David.”

I went over to the nurse, grabbed the other pouch, ripped it open and emptied that, too. Everybody looked at me like I was crazy.

“Listen, Stephanie. I have reason to believe these two bags were not operative. Would you be so kind as to order two new ones from Pharmacy and close up the patient for me? I'm exhausted and am going to get some rest.”

And leaving everybody openmouthed, I ran out of the theater.

I tore off my apron and gloves and flung them into the ­toxic-waste container in the theater annex. White had left the observation room before I quit the theater, so he wouldn't know I was after him. That was what I wanted.

He was a few yards ahead of me. I looked out into the corridor and saw him get into the elevator, nodding to the Secret Service men as he went. They had been briefed to stop people from getting in, not to prevent them from getting out, so they didn't move a muscle. I ducked back into the annex, where he couldn't see me, and when the elevator doors were shut, rather than running after him I went to my room, opened the door and reached for my white coat. Kate's cell phone and my car keys were in the pocket. At a brisk pace but acting as if all was well, I went to the elevator and pressed the
DOWN
button.

I was not going to let him get away. Not merely because of what he could do to us that minute, but because of what he might do in the future. And that was how I made the biggest blunder of my life. To set the record straight a little, I must say that I was unaware of the overall situation, nor did I know that at the time I was getting into the elevator, Kate was lurching along a crane boom, fifteen feet up in the air.

Then again, to be frank, I wanted White for myself, not in ­Mc­Kenna's hands. I wanted to make him pay for Svetlana, for Juanita, for my daughter.

I hit the button for the garage. White had said he'd driven over, so that was where he would head, not the entrance hall. I held off stamping my feet in impatience until the doors were closed and I was out of sight of the stone-faced agents watching the elevator. When they opened again, I ran to my car, I started the engine and with a screech of tires I hurtled toward the exit.

White was putting his ticket in the box that raises the barrier when my car turned the corner, right behind him. I saw him look up and see me in the rearview mirror. He took off and got under the barrier with inches to spare. I lost vital seconds stopping to dig out my employee pass. By the time I got out, he was a couple of blocks away. He was driving a black Lincoln, which were a dime a dozen in this goddamned city, and I nearly lost him when he took the Sixteenth Street turnoff. I headed south on a hunch and spotted him a few blocks later, fifty yards ahead of me. I almost crashed into a bus as I ran a red light to get close to him, but at the next light he pulled away again. He turned onto K Street and I gained some ground at the next light. I had him within a few car lengths of me. When he took the Key Bridge turnoff, I knew my chance had come. He would have no escape from me there. I fought my way past the three cars between us, then overtook him on the left side. I spun the wheel to swerve in front of him and slammed on the brakes at the same time. I could feel the rubber sticking to the surface as the car skidded across the freeway. The Lexus cut off White's Lincoln and nosed it toward the concrete barrier.

White had no option but to hit the brakes.

I reached under the seat, pulled out the Glock I had threatened Hockstetter with, and aimed it at him. The drivers who were now stuck behind him banged on their horns like crazy, until they saw the gun. The nearest got out of their cars and ran pell-mell the other way, scared senseless.

I walked up to White's window.

“Get out. Now.”

White opened the door and got out, with his hands in the air. One of them was holding his iPad.

And he was smiling.

“So much for the guy who never fought.”

“Don't move, asshole. Tell me where my daughter is.”

White ignored me and strode over to the walkway. He leaped over the barrier and approached the steel handrail, then drew back his hand back and hurled his iPad into the Potomac. I saw it arc through the air—with the Louis Vuitton cover flapping, like the world's most expensive bird—and disappear.

I went after him, feeling stupid. Why did everybody ignore me whenever I brandished a pistol?

“I hope whoever you've sent is better than my gang, Dave. I really do. They'll have to get a move on to save your daughter from the rats.”

I came closer still, aiming at him constantly. He was calm and collected, and looked over the handrail, toward the White House.

“I was so close. Oh well, I'll get there next time.”

“Who was it, White? Who hired you?”

He turned around and looked at me, as if seeing me for the first time. Then he looked at the gun and squinted.

“Well, I could kill you right now, Dave. If I don't, it's because I still have uses for you. I need you to take the rap for everything.”

“That won't happen, White. You're going down and they'll throw away the key.”

He smiled again.

“You've been a worthy opponent. Maybe someday I'll come back for you. Perhaps by then you'll have learned how to flip the safety catch.”

Feeling like an even bigger fool, I bent my arm to look for the safety catch on the side of the gun. A catch that Glocks totally lack, by the way. White had pulled one over on me, again.

When I looked back up, White had climbed onto the handrail. Before I could stop him, he joined his hands and dived into the Potomac.