Shadow of Eden (63 page)

As Mallis’s finger tightened on the trigger, Steve braced himself for the bullet that would penetrate his flesh before he would hear the shot. He would feel nothing as it tore through him, and maybe nothing ever again, if the bullet shattered his skull and ripped through his brain. He did not flinch or blink, but instead stared straight into Mallis’s one good eye. He had beaten Mallis and Mallis knew it.

Chapter 142

R
esnick leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, still worried that things might slip out of control. Who was to blame for this? Obviously General Yao, but the situation should never have gotten this far. Dixon, had he been normal, would not have recognized Taiwan’s independence bid in the first place, she felt certain.

Whose responsibility was it to recognize Dixon’s problem—or any president’s—and intervene before poor judgment risked lives and the security of the country? In the days of monarchs and emperors, with the divine right to rule, unrestrained bad judgment cost many their state and empire, but in a modern democracy, that should not happen—yet it almost just did.

Had the presidency too absolute an authority, which, like a king, the framers of the constitution had tried to avoid? Past examples of blind obedience of a president’s staff to his wishes had led to egregious errors of judgment and criminal behavior. Where was the check on the president’s power, the means to keep the actions and decisions within bounds? How could they prevent a repeat of the cascade of bad decisions from an incompetent president?

Sullivan hung up the phone after speaking with Admiral Havilland. “They’re still going home?”

Valenzuela nodded. “The advanced formations are all going back. Some of the ones farther back are just now starting to turn. I expect they took longer to get the orders. Damned efficient actually. And, if I might add, Sir, good job.”

Sullivan nodded. “But it is really our fault that you were here in the first place. We politicians failed you. Not to paint with too broad a brush, but our system did not perform responsibly. I should thank you for performing despite the flawed civilian rule.” He sighed. “Now, let’s get President Lai on the phone.”

“I don’t envy you that call,” Linda responded.

“Don’t forget,” Crusoe said, “we actually averted a bloody and potentially successful invasion of his island.” He wore a lopsided smile. “For all that’s worth.”

“Just keep in mind,” Linda replied, “that we also sided with a totalitarian regime against an autonomous, democratic ally in its quest for freedom and independence. This is not a bright day for American politics.”

Chapter 143

V
alenti slammed into Mallis the moment his gun flashed. They both tumbled to the floor.

A scalding pain tore through the side of Steve’s head, surprising him at its intensity. Penetrating wounds, unless they hit nerves or splintered bone, didn’t usually hurt immediately. Yet Steve felt a searing white-hot pain on the left side of his head. He landed hard on top of Dixon and heard him grunt with the impact.

Mallis sprang back up whereupon he was riddled with a volley of bullets from the secret service agents. Mallis fell against the balustrade and toppled backwards over the edge and fell to the floor below.

Rhodes pulled Steve up and then they helped President Dixon to the choir bench. He waved them off. “I’m fine.”

As Dr. Green hurried over to look at Dixon, Steve reached up his handcuffed hands to his throbbing head and touched wetness.

“Doc,” Valenti said, coming up behind him, “You’re bleeding.”

Steve looked at the blood on his fingers. “It seems every time I hang around you, I get shot. This makes the third time today.”

“Let me see.” Dr. Green came around to Steve’s side to inspect it with Valenti.

Steve suddenly thought to thank Valenti. Turning he said, “You saved my life.”

“Hold still,” Valenti growled, “Let Dr. Green look at you.”

Steve winced as Dr. Green’s fingers probed.

“As best I can tell,” Green concluded, “it looks like it tunneled through some skin and took off some ear cartilage,” Dr. Green said. “You’re bleeding pretty good. You’ll need stitches and eventually a plastic surgeon. Beyond that, I think you’re one lucky camper.”

He pulled Steve’s sleeved arms up and pushed one against the wound, made somewhat awkward from the handcuffs. “There,” he said to Steve, “Hold pressure on it to stop the bleeding until I can get some gauze or something.”

“We lost a witness, damn it,” Valenti groused.

Steve turned around. “Dead?”

Valenti cocked an eyebrow. “Come see.”

Steve, holding his forearm to his ear, stepped to the balcony edge and looked over. Mallis lay on his back, head twisted at a sharp angle with blood pooling around his torso. Two agents stood over his supine body and another sitting on the floor holding his leg that bent at an unnatural angle at the shin.

“He can’t talk now,” Valenti observed. “And we needed him as a witness.”

A flood of emotions rushed through Steve. That cold voice that had vowed to kill him now lay silent. Steve had no sympathy or regret that Mallis was dead, the bastard had nearly killed his family, but there was no joy, either; just relief—lots of relief, and now, a glimmer of a future.

“Still, it was too damn close,” Valenti muttered. “By the way, we found Mallis’s associate outside. He gave us a little trouble, but he’s still alive. He just might talk.”

Rhodes joined them and looked down at Mallis. “We got lucky, damn lucky.” Turning to Valenti he said, “Thanks for bringing us here.”

Valenti shrugged. “Steve’s idea.”

“I just spoke with HQ,” Rhodes said, removing Steve’s handcuffs. “Apparently President Sullivan talked the Chinese into turning around. Your efforts paid off, Dr. James.”

Steve rubbed his raw wrists as he looked down at Mallis. “Good. That’s really good.” He put his left arm back up against his bleeding scalp and put pressure on it.

“Sure he’s not a hardened criminal?” Valenti nodded at the handcuffs. “One can’t be too careful these days.”

Rhodes chuckled. “We know where to find him and you, too, Fanelli.”

Steve looked around and saw Dixon sitting on a stone bench talking to Dr. Green. He walked over and sat beside him. “Mr. President,” he said, remembering the First Lady’s concern. “I think your wife is expecting you back at the White House. Let’s get you home.”

Robert Dixon nodded. “I think that’s a good idea.” He accepted Steve’s right hand and stood up looking around at the multicolored light dancing across the Cathedral. “So beautiful,” he breathed. “Wait, wait.” Dixon twitched. “Pray first. I need to pray.” He knelt down again, knees on the hard floor, still holding Steve’s hand in support. Steve knelt down next to him, his whole body throbbing, but he was in no hurry. He was content to wait.

Chapter 144

S
ecret Service Agent Rhodes escorted a sewn-up and bandaged, but achy Dr. James into the West Wing of the White House. Outside the Roosevelt Room, Rhodes introduced him to FBI Special Agent in Charge, H. Walter Fitzgerald, whose cynical eyes appraised Steve at some length. “Dr. James,” he said in a gravelly voice, “you have a great deal of information that we would like to know. If you please, we would like to interview you at some length.”

Steve, still operating on adrenaline, nodded his assent, not sure what was in store, but wanting to get it over with.

Rhodes grinned as he opened the door. “In the meantime, we’ll keep the reporters at bay.” He led Steve and Agent Fitzgerald into the room. “They’re rabid out there.”

Sitting down at the head of the long glossy table, Steve faced a conference table packed with official looking, but nameless men and women, each with a pad of paper. A court stenographer sat in the corner. Omnidirectional microphones had been placed at intervals on the table for recording the interview and a video camera sat on a tripod across the table facing him.

The interview took over three hours. Steve told his story about Eden, Captain Ralph Palmer, Shirley Rosenwell and Rhonda Fowler, and their symptoms, Dr. Walker and Dr. Sheridan’s research, and how he had come to the conclusion that Eden was responsible for the prion conversions that caused the brain destruction. He described his call to Trident’s Safety Officer and the subsequent attempts on his life, his engagement of Valenti, and how he came to suspect President Dixon had the disease, followed by his meeting with Castell and the chase through the streets of Washington and into the Smithsonian, and their nocturnal visit with Dr. Blumenthal.

He shared a bottomless pot of coffee with the others around the table until his nerves jangled and his heart pounded. He relayed his initial conversation with Dr. Green about President Dixon’s illness and his conversation with the First Lady that triggered his deduction of the President’s location at the National Cathedral and his subsequent fight with Mallis. Finally, he reported Mallis’s comments about killing him to keep the Eden problem hidden.

He watched their heads bob and their pens and pencils scribble as he talked. The court reporter looked like she was playing an organ, silently pressing keys singly and in combination. She occasionally asked him to spell a medical word or repeat something. Finally, Mr. Fitzgerald stood up.

“It’s apparent that we have a lot to do in a very short period of time, Dr. James. Thank you for your help. We will need your assistance here in Washington for the next several days and probably for some time after that, but I think now you can freshen up and get some rest.”

“One last thing, but it’s sheer speculation,” Steve offered. His jaw was exhausted and his words came more deliberately than at first. The adrenalin had worn off some time ago and the false energy from the caffeine bowed to the tiredness that had spread throughout his bones. “Morloch made some stock transfers to an offshore account shortly after Eden was approved. I wonder if Castell, who was head of the FDA at the time, may have helped get Eden fast-tracked. I’d check to see who owns that account.”

Valenti messily slurped a huge mouthful of spaghetti. Steve looked at him with some amusement. Valenti loved his food, no mistake about that and he was not shy about showing his appreciation for it either. He had tucked his napkin into his shirt at the neck and was hunched over his plate.