Endorphin Conspiracy, The (5 page)

After six years of almost constant conflict, Kapinsky knew precisely how to push Geoff’s buttons. What Geoff could never understand was what pleasure it gave him, except to compensate for Kapinsky’s feelings of inadequacy. To respond at this point would only escalate Kapinsky’s warped need for conflict, make rounds ever more counter-productive. “I’ll be more than happy to share my research data with you at another time, Kapinsky, but we have rounds to conduct.”

Beads of sweat dotted Kapinsky’s whitened upper lip. His jaw was clenched, his face gnarled in frustration.

Geoff turned his attention back to Mark Jackson. “Let’s talk about your treatment plan.”

“Sure. With her vital signs stable, I think we should concentrate our efforts at further resuscitation of her brain—”

Cathy Johannsen arrived from the nursing station and interrupted their discussion. “Geoff, Dr. Pederson’s secretary just called. She wanted to remind you about the three o’clock meeting in his office.”

“I thought it was four. Is she still on the phone?”

“No. She said she sent you an e-mail about it. She just wanted to remind you to be on time.”

“E-mail messages. God knows how many I have stacked up.” He looked up at the clock on the wall. “It’s two-thirty, and I haven’t even signed onto the system yet. Is the terminal in the staff room free?”

“I think so.”

Geoff looked over at Mark Jackson, waiting to discuss his treatment plan on the girl. “Mark, why don’t you and Kapinsky finish leading rounds. I’ve got to check my messages before the meeting with Pederson.”

“No problem.”

Geoff followed Cathy back to the nursing station and sat down at the vacant computer terminal. He enjoyed playing with computers, though he was hardly an expert. Nothing like his computer geek kid brother, Stefan. The extensive computerization at the Trauma Center dazzled Geoff. Even Stefan thought it impressive.

Geoff booted the computer, signed on, and entered his password.

Hello, Dr. Geoffrey Davis. Welcome to the Traumanet System.

You have three new e-mail messages. Would you like to view them?

Geoff manipulated the mouse and clicked on the e-mail icon.

MESSAGE #1 DATE: JULY 1, 2010 TIME: 0721

FROM: Alpha Micronet.org/syssad

Received: NYTC.org, 1 July 2010 0718.

MESSAGE: Hey bro. Good luck today. I know you’ll do a great job, as always! Stefan.

P.S.- How about dinner tonight?

Geoff smiled, appreciated the irony of Stefan’s message. His kid brother urging him on, the way Geoff had always been there for Stefan. He clicked on “Reply” and entered his response:

Thanks. I’ll call you later. Geoff.

Geoff clicked on message number two.

MESSAGE #2 DATE: JULY 1, 2010 TIME: 0900

FROM: L. EVERS; NYTC-A1/NSGLEE

MESSAGE: Dr. Pederson would like to see you today at three p.m. in his office for chief residency orientation meeting. Please be prompt. The doctor does not like to be kept waiting.

Thank you.

Geoff smiled, shook his head. It was probably going to be the same pep talk Pederson gave the last seventeen chief residents.

He clicked on the third message.

MESSAGE #3 DATE: JULY 1, 2010 TIME: 1037

FROM: Received by: Mercury, NYTC.org, 1 July 2010, 10:36; received: gopher/nih.gov, 1 July 2010, 10:33; received: relnet/info.umd.edu, 1 July 2010, 10:30; received: telnet/nasa.gov, 1 July 2010, 10:21; received: ber2759.USDA.gov, 1 July 2010, 10:17; received: cobalt, telnet/locis.loc.gov, 1

July 2010, 10:15.

MESSAGE:
Keep your eyes open. Nothing is as it appears. Proteus.

Geoff stared at the cryptic message. What the hell did that mean? He noted the time it was sent: 10:15 a.m. He had been in the OR. Proteus. Obviously a code name. Geoff examined the extensive path the message had taken. It was from somewhere outside the medical center. The message must have been an error or simply meant for someone else.

Geoff clicked on the “Help” option of the e-mail screen then entered the Traumanet address book just for the hell of it and clicked on “search for sender address.” The search came up empty. The Traumanet address book didn’t include Internet addresses.

“Everything okay?” Cathy Johannsen asked.

Geoff continued staring at the cryptic message on the screen. “Yeah, fine. Just got someone else’s e-mail. It’s not the first time.”

Geoff moved the mouse and deleted the first two messages.

Chapter 5

R. Phillip Lancaster sat in the rear of his black limousine gazing out the window, his mind lost in thought. He hated Washington in the summertime—the oppressive heat and humidity—and this was the most blistering summer of the last decade.

Worse yet, it was next to impossible to accomplish anything of substance during the summer months. Key staffers as well as elected officials on the Hill often took their vacations in July, and when they weren’t physically away, their minds were elsewhere, wilting in the heat or wishing they were playing somewhere, anywhere but here. Even the President, a man he had known since their college days at Yale, with whom he shared a reasonably close, but necessarily guarded friendship, seemed less interested in what Lancaster felt were important matters of national security and more interested in going fishing. Might as well close down the shop and hang up a sign: “Sorry, closed ‘til after Labor Day.”

Frustrating indeed for Lancaster, paragon career intelligence officer, a role he had played for over thirty years, a role that had augmented his value throughout numerous administrations of both political parties but limited his ascendance as well.

With last year’s election of his long time associate William Cabot to the White House, Lancaster had made the erroneous and atypically naive assumption that friendship would transcend politics and he would be at the helm at Central Intelligence. He felt it, visualized it, tasted it. Political debts intervened, and he was passed over for an inexperienced dolt, Dick Bennington, the President’s former campaign chairman.

Cabot appointed Lancaster Deputy Director for Science and Technology, but Lancaster wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet. His years of training had taught him there was a solution for every seemingly no-win situation. He was resourceful and willing to adjust rules if need be.

Sixty- two years old, tall, but by no means willowy, his silver, perfectly coiffured hair and aquiline profile telegraphed his blue-blood Bostonian roots. Lips taut, cleft chin resting on his fist, Lancaster peered through the limousine window down the tree-lined street of Alexandria, Virginia. Today, while the rest of Washington was on vacation, R. Phillip Lancaster worked to solve his no-win scenario.

“Sir, you did say 761, didn’t you?” asked Frank Leber, Lancaster’s bodyguard and personal chauffeur.

“What’s that, Frank? Yes, 761. You remember which house that is, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Lancaster. The brick colonial with the white columns, second from the end on Pendleton Street. The same house where the Russian Federal Security Service officer—Solenko was his name, I believe—was debriefed last year.”

“Your memory constantly amazes me, Frank, though he was a member of military intelligence—not FSS. That defection was quite a coup for our CIA Special Op boys—” Lancaster caught himself mid-sentence, wondering whether Frank Leber really needed to know so much. One slip of the tongue could blow open the entire project. Lancaster was close to his rightful position, the one he was destined to fulfill. He would guard his bits of knowledge like precious gems.

The limousine turned the corner and paused briefly at the outer gate to the residence, a pause long enough for the young marine guard to recognize the occupant of the back seat and wave the car through. Already parked in the circular drive of the sterile house on Pendleton Street were two generic government vehicles, blue Ford Explorers, standard issue of the federal government that year. Background on the streets of Washington with thousands of similar vehicles on the road at any one time. Contrary to common belief, not all upper level bureaucrats were chauffeured in stretch limos, a trapping of office the patrician deputy director demanded at all times.

Lancaster stepped from the car and bounded up the red brick path, Leber carrying his briefcase, and as always one step ahead, to the rear entrance of the old colonial. Lancaster adjusted his striped tie, pulled down his heavily starched white sleeves from inside his suit jacket. He entered the vestibule of the elegant structure and greeted the guard posted at the doorway. Lancaster and Frank exchanged a glance and a nod, the silent command, wait here until I finish. Lancaster grabbed his briefcase and crossed the main hallway to the meeting room. Sunlight streamed through the large stained glass window at the end of the corridor, projecting an iridescent kaleidoscope on the dark parquet floor beneath his feet. Resolutely, he entered the study.

“Hell of a spy, Phil,” blurted Joe Franklin, Deputy Director for Operations at the CIA, still staring out the window at the parked limo resting like a beached whale on the circular drive. “Remind me never to offer you a job in Ops.”

Lancaster despised being called Phil, a salutation used only by Joe and the President. He indulged Cabot by nature of their longstanding friendship and, more importantly, his position, but with no one else did he comfortably allow such a breach of familiarity, particularly with Joe Franklin, whom he considered a somewhat vulgar, though deceptively brilliant, tactician. Unfortunately, Franklin was a necessary ally, and the plan was all that truly mattered. With pursed lips and great restraint, Lancaster let it go. “Glad you could make it on such short notice, Joe.” He extended his hand. Always the diplomat. “Did the boss question where you were going?”

“He’s outta town at the moment. I’m covered, don’t worry about me. I drove myself here, let my driver have a couple of hours off to take care of paperwork, errands, all that. No one asked any questions.” Joe Franklin paused awaiting a response that never came. “This place brings back such warm memories. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“How’s that?” Lancaster asked with a hint of impatience.

“Remember 1962, the Company retreat for the Technical Services Staff? This was the place, wasn’t it?”

Lancaster shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We were young and inexperienced then. I’m the first to acknowledge my mistakes.”

“Damn costly one, Phil,” Joe Franklin said, his thin lips forming a sneering grin. “Almost got you canned.”

Lancaster’s spine stiffened. He turned to the third member of the camarilla. Lancaster flashed a smile and offered a firm handshake to General Robert “Bulldog” Townsend, Deputy Director for National Intelligence. “Good to see you, General.”

Fifty-eight and a decorated veteran of G2—Army Intelligence—the nickname could not have caricatured the closely shorn, heavily jowled general any more precisely.

“What’s going on, Phillip?” Townsend asked in his usual cut-through-the-bullshit style. “We weren’t supposed to meet until next month, then I get this coded message via courier to meet you here in broad daylight, no less risking the entire project and my ass!”

Lancaster set his stainless steel briefcase down on the mahogany and leather desk, and using his personal electronic code, unlocked it. He removed three identical folders, each sealed with red tape and stamped, “Top Secret: Eyes Only,” with a Greek upper case sigma underneath. He handed each man his copy, cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen, a certain urgency has forced me to call this meeting sooner than we had planned. We’re in a code yellow situation.” Lancaster paused, more for dramatic effect than from a loss of words. “There’s been a breach of security. I have reason to believe the project has been infiltrated by the Inspector General’s Office.”

The words fell like laser-guided bombs, the ramifications of the potentially devastating information clear to the conspirators.

“Do we know who the agent is?” asked Franklin. “I can take care of that.”

“We have our suspicions, but nothing concrete yet,” Lancaster said.

“How about the Boss? Does Bennington know about the Project?” asked General Townsend, his eyes fearful.

“If he does, so does the President, and if he knew, we’d be history, especially with the goddamn lawyers running the country these days.”

“I thought
the man
was a good friend of yours, Phil?” prodded Franklin.

“He was,” Lancaster said. His voice was bitter.

“Is Papa Bear safe?” asked Townsend.

“He is, for now.”

“How’s he taking it?” asked Townsend.

“Okay, but with him, you never know. We need to watch him very carefully.”

“So, what’s the containment plan?” Franklin asked, impatiently chewing on the stem of his pipe.

Lancaster stared at each of the two men in turn, his lips forming a steely smile. “Open your files and read, gentlemen. We’ve waited too long to allow this project to fail again.”

Franklin glanced at the first page of the document and flashed a grin back at Lancaster. “I hate to admit it, but you’ll make a great director, Phil.”

Chapter 6

“Doctor Pederson has been expecting you, Doctor Davis,” said Lynn Evers as she peered at Geoff over the top of her reading glasses. “You know how much Dr. Pederson dislikes waiting.”

Geoff glanced at his watch. Two fifty-nine p.m. Good thing he was early.

Every department chairman had his enforcer, his hit man, or woman—usually it was a woman. Of late middle age, moderately overweight, humorless, Lynn Evers epitomized the role. The Terminator, the residents called her. She either loved you, which was rare, or hated you, and while she couldn’t directly affect your career, she could make life over a seven-year period pretty damn miserable. Somehow, Geoff had managed to sneak up on her good side, which was to say she acted resoundingly neutral toward him. Good thing. The past several years had been miserable enough.

Geoff answered with a smile and a nod, quashing a stinging retort. Mrs. Evers reached over to the phone panel with her right hand, depressed the intercom. “Dr. Pederson, Dr. Davis has finally arrived,” she said in a tone loud enough to be heard through Pederson’s office door and probably down the hall as well. A forced smile. “You may go in now.”

Geoff thanked Evers politely, brushed quickly past her desk, and knocked softly on the dark-paneled door.

“Come in,” replied the familiar baritone voice, muffled by the door. Geoff entered the inner sanctum, treading lightly as he always did with “the Colonel” in the intimidating surroundings of what the residents referred to as “headquarters.”

Richard Pederson was an imposing man. In many ways, he reminded Geoff of his commanding officer in the navy. Tall and lanky, with thinning, reddish-brown hair strategically combed to camouflage his baldness, his large hands and long, thin fingers seemed made for gripping a basketball as much as a surgical instrument. Indeed, he had played college ball for a while, a fact he freely share with the residents when in a particularly chummy spirit, which occurred twice a year—at the departmental Christmas party and at the annual reception he hosted at his home for the new residents.

Pederson had a tremendous need to exercise control over himself and those around him. This was exemplified by his annoying habit of strategically dropping his voice so that he could barely be heard, forcing the listener to strain to hear exactly what he was saying.

Exceedingly formal, Pederson vented his perpetually bridled carnal desires by telling lewd jokes, though never in the presence of female residents. His equally stilted wife, Corinne, the only daughter of a Presbyterian Minister, played the role of officer’s wife as closely to the script as humanly possible, the only apparent paradox being her spirited interest in her husband’s base jokes. Two seeming Puritans in public, every resident that passed through over the years was convinced it was all leather, whips, and chains behind closed doors. Even if it wasn’t true, the notion made Pederson seem at least somewhat human.

At sixty-two, Pederson had been Chairman of the Department of Neurosurgery for eighteen years, having been named to the position at forty, then the youngest department chairman in the country in his field of specialty. A brilliant clinician, superb surgeon, and equally keen politician, he had honed his skills in the Army Medical Corps during the first Gulf War, attaining the rank of Colonel after only four years. He had come to NYTC—then the old City Hospital—from the Massachusetts General Hospital and immediately established himself as a force to be reckoned with at the medical center as well as on a national level.

Surgically, he had pioneered a new laser treatment for epilepsy, which complemented the powerful information provided by Balassi’s PET scanner. The two had begun collaboration on the epilepsy project while Balassi was at the NIH. They had revolutionized the surgical treatment of seizures.

Pederson’s political acumen was neatly documented on office walls replete with meticulously oak-framed certificates, diplomas and all the right photos with civilian and military VIP’s shaking hands and smiling.

Seated in a high-back, swivel chair, reading glasses resting half-way down his long nose, Pederson’s profile was silhouetted by hazy sunlight diffusing through the large window that overlooked the GW Bridge. He appeared thoroughly absorbed studying a PET scan on the light box above his side table when Geoff entered the room. Geoff approached the desk and stood for what seemed like minutes.

“Welcome, Geoff,” Pederson said. He stood reluctantly and turned his attention away from the scan. “Didn’t mean to ignore you there—just a fascinating and most significant scan.” Pederson extended his large hand. “I’m sure you’ve been dreaming about this day for seven years. I know I did when I was a resident. Come, sit down.” He gestured toward the wingback chair opposite the desk.

Geoff sat down, his posture held erect by the vertical incline of the chair’s back. The room smelled of polished leather. Geoff was reminded of the time in high school he’d been called to the principal’s office to receive a commendation but had assumed he was being summoned to answer for an offense he couldn’t remember.

“Thank you, Dr. Pederson, but I must admit I’m a bit anxious.” At that moment, the strange e-mail message played across Geoff’s mind. Obviously not to be so readily dismissed as he had thought.

“Well, I can certainly appreciate that, Geoff,” replied Pederson quite matter-of-factly. “But you have nothing to be anxious about. Your selection as chief resident was unanimous among department members. Your record at Harvard and during your residency here is beyond reproach, your surgical skills far beyond your years. Equally as important for this position—and I think you know this—you have a leadership quality, an innate gift few men have, fewer still in medicine. Whether or not you realize it, you are a future leader should you decide to stay in academic medicine. I hope you will.”

Pederson swiveled in his chair and gazed at the slightly yellowed, black and white photo of his own residency class, his full lips and hooded upper lids forming an ever-so-slight, nostalgic smile. “You remind me of myself at your age, Geoff. Top of my class, called upon by the great Dr. Bedrossian, then Chairman at the MGH, to do the same honor as yourself. I was terrified! It wasn’t until I was about halfway through my chief residency that I realized my worth. You will feel the same shift, though I don’t think it will take you as long.”

Geoff was taken aback by the flood of compliments. Pederson was a man who rarely let you know where you stood. When he did offer praise, it was usually gilded with sarcasm. Geoff was glimpsing an entirely different side of “the Colonel,” and he felt privileged.

Had Pederson forgiven the events of the last year so quickly, so easily? Geoff had to know, clear the air at the start. “I appreciate your confidence, sir, but my performance at the end of my last clinical year was far from stellar.”

“Geoffrey, Geoffrey,” Pederson said, his towering frame leaning forward over the desk. “I haven’t forgotten. We all go through major crises in our lives, emotional traumas so great we feel as if we can’t go on. The death of a loved one is the most traumatic of human experiences. Believe me, I know.”

Another glimpse beneath the armor. Pederson was human after all.

“The bottom line is, it’s over. Your life is back on track. Balassi tells me you did a superb job in the lab, and now you’re back in the saddle. Let’s forget the past and look to the future, which seems bright indeed.”

Geoff’s anxiety melted away, leaving him with a peace he had not felt in a long time. He began to feel excited about work, something he had not experienced since his early days as a resident. “Thank you, Dr. Pederson.”

Pederson stood up and removed a large three-ring binder from the top shelf of his mahogany bookcase. On the side was printed, “Manual of the Chief Resident of the Department of Neurosurgery,” and on the front the seal of the NYTC, a melding of both the new and the old: the ancient caduceus—serpents intertwined around a staff—a picture of the new medical center, and an inscription from the old one: “For of the Most High Cometh Healing.”

He handed the notebook to Geoff, the baton passed from mentor to apprentice, the same ritual repeated each of the last eighteen years. “Everything you need to know as chief is in this manual. Read it completely. I know you will do a fine job. Any questions?”

Geoff’s mind was clear, his attention focused. He felt relieved of the burden of the past, encouraged by his prospects. He felt he might as well start clean right now, get it all off his chest. “Not a question, but something you need to know from me before you hear it from someone else.”

“Oh?” said Pederson, his right brow elevated, his curiosity aroused. Obviously, he hadn’t heard yet.

“It’s Howard Kapinsky, sir. I’m not sure how it’s going to work out. We’ve had trouble working together in the past, and my year off doesn’t seem to have changed anything. Now I’m his boss, and I’m sure that bothers him even more.”

Pederson chuckled. “I wouldn’t lose any sleep over the situation, though I must admit you’re going to have your hands full reigning in Howard Kapinsky over the next year. He’s a smart boy, but he’s different.”

Different? Geoff couldn’t understand why Pederson had let the fool into the residency, nor why he didn’t have the guts to let him go. “That’s for sure. I’ll do my best to keep him out of trouble.”

“If anyone can do it, you can. Kapinsky respects you a great deal.”

Geoff did his best to contain his incredulity, but knew his facial expression betrayed him. “Your confidence is appreciated.” Pederson failed to detect his reaction. Something else was occupying his thoughts.

“Enough on that subject,” Pederson said. He gazed through his large window into the distance, his weighty hands in the pockets of his heavily starched white coat. “There is another, more important, matter you need to be made aware of—your first official duty as Chief Resident.”

Pederson returned to his desk chair, sat down, and removed his reading glasses. His voice dropped, barely a whisper, forcing Geoff to strain forward. “Next Monday we will be hosting an international delegation of scientists from PETronics Corporation’s headquarters in Copenhagen lead by Dr. Yuri Zelenkov. Dr. Zelenkov and his party will be spending the week here as our guests, learning firsthand the intricacies of our PET scanning program and observing in the operating room.”

“Do you know Dr. Zelenkov personally?”

“Yes, quite well, but I’d like him to get to know you, and you, him. I think you’ll find it a rather rewarding experience. There might even be a free trip to PETronics Headquarters in Copenhagen if you play your cards right.”

Geoff was perplexed. He hadn’t ever heard of Zelenkov before.

“Next to Balassi and his technician,” Pederson continued, “you know as much or more about the clinical applications of PET scanning than anyone else in this medical center. I want you to share freely whatever knowledge you have with Dr. Zelenkov and his group. By the time he leaves, he needs to feel completely comfortable with our program, particularly its applications in the diagnosis and surgical treatment of seizures. That’s his area of special interest.”

Pederson paused, as if sensing Geoff’s hesitance. He leaned forward in his chair, his voice rising just enough for Geoff to hear without straining. “Geoff, I know you feel your clinical duties are far more important, that you might view this as simply an administrative pain in the rear, but this is a potentially monumental visit for our Medical Center. I needn’t remind you of the important role PETronics has played at the NYTC. If it weren’t for their generosity, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Yes, sir,” Geoff replied. Pederson never offered choices.

“Good,” Pederson said. He stood abruptly, a broad, deep grin on his face. He patted Geoff’s still-sore shoulder. “Then get back to work. Keep your nose to the grindstone this year, and your future will be golden.”