The RX Factor (21 page)

After delivering the package to the concierge and waiting to make sure it was picked up as promised, Ryan and Jordan headed to the beach. The sea was glorious, sending magnificent breakers crashing ashore in a continuous assault. Yet Ryan couldn't relax.

"I'm getting a little nervous about lingering so close to the NHCA clinic. The guard might be able to identify us, and this is such a small town. Why don't we check out and head back to Puerto Vallarta, get a new hotel, and hit the town tonight. We can get lost in the crowds. What do you say?"

Jordan grinned. "Sounds good. I know the perfect place for dinner."

Ryan and Jordan's late-morning jog along the
oceanside Puerto Vallarta Promenade rejuvenated their spent bodies. Despite the little sleep they'd had, both felt invigorated. On the way back to the hotel, Ryan stopped at a corner store for some bottled water.

As he passed his pesos to the cashier, he heard Jordan scream his name. Ryan grabbed the waters, left the change, and raced to Jordan's side. "What's wrong?"

Jordan pointed to a wanted poster tacked to the telephone pole. It featured a grainy photo of her and Ryan, with their names listed as Lawrence and Judith Calk. There was a two hundred and fifty thousand peso reward for any information leading to their arrest.

Tension immediately gripped him. "Shit, they must have had hidden cameras."

"I thought you said only casinos do that."

"We have to get out of here. The Vallarta airport is too small. They'll spot us in a minute. We need to get out of the area and to a bigger airport." "Mexico City?"

"Exactly."

"That's at least a full day's drive. We'd better get started."

Back at the hotel, two police cars were parked just past the valet station.

"Damn," Ryan said. "We can leave our luggage, but we need our passports."

Scanning the area, he noticed a flower-shop van parked at the curb. He told Jordan to grab the SUV and meet him in the rear of the hotel, then dashed over to the driver as he was removing a magnificent display of roses from the rear of the van.

"These flowers are for my friend," Ryan said. The driver glanced at the card. "Senorita Campbell?"

"Si, si, mi amiga. Listen," he said, "let me give her a real surprise. Let me deliver them for you."

The driver struggled with the translation, but seemed to get the gist of what Ryan was saying. "But, senor. Trouble for me. I . . ."

Ryan handed him a U.S. fifty-dollar bill. This was an impressive amount in a country where the daily wages of a delivery driver couldn't buy lunch for one at the resort hotel he was parked next to. The man handed him the flowers. Ryan pointed to the uniform shirt the driver was wearing. The delivery man looked at the fifty and decided to forfeit the shirt.

Ryan put on the uniform, handed his shirt to the driver, and grabbed a baseball cap sitting on the van's dashboard, tugging it down low over his head. "Wait here until I come back."

The driver nodded.

Five minutes later he opened the passenger door of the SUV, startling Jordan. "Let's roll."

The Mexican desert lay vast and desolate before them, a foreboding place. The towns and gas stations were few and far between. They hoped to make Cuernavaca before midnight, and after a short layover, Mexico City by late morning.

It was late afternoon when Ryan, who had taken over behind the wheel at the last gas station, noticed a blue pickup truck behind them. Jordan noticed his attention on the rearview mirror and turned around to see the lone vehicle on the barren stretch of highway about a hundred yards back. "You worried?"

"Not yet. But I'm keeping an eye on it. This part of Mexico is like the Wild West. Bandits have free reign here."

Ryan kept a heavy foot on the pedal, but the truck continued to gain on them.

"I'm beginning to get a bad feeling about this," Jordan said.

"If the truck was interested in passing us, it would have done so by now," Ryan admitted.

"Do you think it has anything to do with the people at the clinic?"

"I doubt it, but you never know. Right now our problem isn't who they are as much as what they plan to do."

"Any chance you can outrun them?"

"No. I've had the pedal to the floor for the past two minutes. Time for Plan B."

Barely slowing down, Ryan heaved his shoulders into a hard right turn off the hardtop and onto a dusty side road. The truck followed right behind them. Within seconds, the SUV was churning up a rooster tail of thick dust into the blue sky. The pickup disappeared from the rearview mirror, but Ryan knew it was still there.

"We're going to wind up in the middle of the desert!" Jordan shouted.

"Hold on tight," he warned. "Real tight."

He slammed down on the brakes as hard as he could, almost standing on the pedal. The trailing truck's tires locked, but it was too late. It crashed violently into the rear of the SUV.

The silence of the desert was broken by the clash of metal and glass. Jordan and Ryan jolted forward from the collision, but their seat belts kept them relatively unscathed. Ryan drew a deep breath and stepped on the gas. He was relieved that the impact had only mangled the rear of the SUV and the vehicle was still mobile. The pickup, on the other hand, was immobilized, smoke pouring from under the hood. They didn't linger to investigate. Ryan did a U-turn and passed the cloud of smoke and steam that shrouded the mangled truck.

Back on the paved road, they sped away toward Mexico City, neither saying a word.

It was just past midnight when they reached Cuernavaca. They pulled up to the first decent-looking hotel and went straight to bed.

In the morning, they were off again and reached Mexico City by lunchtime. Ryan said, "I hope the Puerto Vallarta police didn't bother to send a description of us up here. I'm counting on Mexican bureaucratic inefficiency to carry the day."

Jordan frowned. "Let's just hope your stereotyping is accurate."

Ryan and Jordan held their breath as they approached the security checkpoint. Ryan got through without incident and waited for Jordan. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he saw her being asked to step aside. He watched in panic as a security guard asked her to empty her purse on a side table. This attracted two more security agents. Ryan's mind was whirling.

A female agent went through the contents of Jordan's bag before triumphantly holding up a nail file. As the security agent asked Jordan to sign a form and then allowed her to pass, Ryan felt his heart rate return to normal. Jordan had handled it all with a cool aplomb that betrayed no sign of guilt or anxiety. His admiration for her climbed yet again.

The next flight that would get them back to Raleigh was several hours off, so they laid low, their faces buried in books they had purchased after going through security, until their flight was announced.

After an evening flight to Dallas and a red-eye to Raleigh, they debarked the plane with the stiff, slow gait of zombies. But Ryan perked up as they drove out of the airport. "Let's go over to Kalliburton and get a firsthand report from Dave. It's in Mebane, thirty-five miles up the road."

They were approaching Mebane when they heard the news over the car radio: a bizarre, one-car accident on Saturday night on Orange Factory Road in Durham was now being investigated as a possible homicide; the intensity of the fire that charred the car and its driver was not consistent with a typical car fire. According to the city's fire marshal, additional accelerants had been used to spark the inferno.

Ryan and Jordan wore identical masks of horror as the radio announcer reported the victim's name: David Butters.

William Craven did not tolerate mistakes from
his subordinates. The former Green Beret had no patience for losing. Likewise, he hated apologizing, or begging for more time, or promising something he couldn't deliver. As the head of security for pharmaceutical giant Fisher Singer Worldwide, he knew he was ultimately responsible for these unfortunate recent developments. Thus, with a foul taste in his mouth, he approached his boss.

Jacob Stedman's emotionless eyes bore into Craven as the underling gave his report. Before he was able to finish, Stedman raised his hand. "I've heard enough. We need to call a meeting with the senator."

"I was going to suggest that, sir."

The hint of a sarcastic smile played around the edges of Stedman's mouth. "Sure you were. You don't know what the hot seat is until you've dealt with the senator. Go through the appropriate channels and ask him to bring his puppet along for the briefing. It's time to validate his commit- ment to our cause. We need to ensure that he is aware of this situation and assure him that we are doing everything in our power to rectify it. What we have here is not only the prospect of losing money but also the potential of a national scandal and serious legal ramifications. Believe me, the senator's not going to let that happen. The last thing in the world I want to do is to call a meeting with him over this. But we have no choice."

Craven chose his words with care. "But sir, with all due respect, you have more pull than some senator from—"

"Don't kid yourself. He will do whatever he has to in order to protect himself and his interests. If he feels he has been deceived, he won't hesitate to act. He has the power to make either one of us disappear, if it comes to it. At this stage, full disclosure is our best course of action."

Craven had been involved in the Phoenix program in Vietnam, and he knew something about making people disappear. He still thought of himself as a soldier, superior to the civilian types who surrounded him. No one would ever mistake him for a cheap hood; his bearing marked him as a warrior and a professional. The use of force when the going got tough had never let him down, and he believed it was the reason he had survived this long in his dangerous profession. Other more subtle methods meant little to him. His job was to get in and get out clean.

In Washington, FDA Commissioner Carl Wiley, collar turned up against the wind and rain, was pacing on the sidewalk when he spotted Senator McNally's stretch limo cruising toward him. It slid to a stop, and Wiley climbed into the backseat next to McNally. The limo was a warm refuge from the cold rain blanketing the Capitol.

McNally noted the commissioner's jitters. "Relax, Carl, the most they can do is kill you."

This did nothing to put Wiley at ease, even with the senator's accompanying grin. As the limo pulled away from the curb, he said, "I don't know these guys, Ed. They're your people."

"They're nobody's people. FSW is an equal-opportunity corporation that buys guys like us by the dozen. And they'll eliminate anyone who gets in their way. Something big is up. I don't have all the details, but I'm pretty sure the shit's about to hit the fan."

Wiley had never seen Senator McNally look anything but confident. The urgency in his voice sent shivers down Wiley's spine. "But what does this all have to do with me? Why do they want me there?"

McNally ignored the questions, poured himself a glass of Bulleit Bourbon from the limo bar, and offered one to Wiley. After a healthy belt, McNally said, "I know you thought this was the usual penny-ante shit you're used to. Grease a palm here, pick up an envelope there." Buoyed by the drink, he said, "No, pal. You're playing in the big leagues now, and the big boys play to win. Otherwise, someone pays, and pays dearly."

Wiley had started out as a director for the Philadelphia Department of Public Health. From there, he was nominated for a national job in public health before taking his current position as commissioner of the FDA. He was not accustomed to the hard-fought political wars. He was a scientist and felt above the fray. Of course, he learned the game when he came to Washington and was shocked by the callous disregard for humanity and the raw lust for power. In this club, power came before saving lives, whether in the public-health sector or the private sector. When he got the FDA job, an old veteran of the political wars told him, "You'll be lucky if you're not in the bag in your first year."

And he was right. Wiley hadn't been in Washington more than a couple of months before he learned that all good intentions fell by the wayside of expediency. It all came back to campaign financing. Nothing, he learned, was ever accomplished without money. The best-intentioned politician in the world couldn't achieve squat without getting reelected, and he couldn't do that unless he got in bed with money interests. It was unavoidable.

As they cruised down the JFK Expressway towards Baltimore, McNally continued. "This is no small-change shakedown. You've been getting big money. They probably want to make sure you're committed to the team. Let me give you some background since your head is on the chopping block, too."

Wiley winced and helped himself to a refill. The senator cleared his throat as if he were on the Senate floor, and Wiley knew he was in for a speech, something the dashing senator was adept at delivering.

"These days the pharmaceutical industry is a hell of a lot more cutthroat than any other industry, including big steel, big oil, or Detroit. Combined, these guys spend tens of billions of dollars per year on research and development. While they each come up with a blockbuster drug every now and again, oftentimes they come up empty as a result of the fine work of your organization." He gave Wiley a smirk. "And billions more go down the drain. Not to mention the hundreds of millions these companies have to hold in contingency each year to fight the countless lawsuits they have to defend. The big problem started in 1996 when the National Institutes of Health announced that they'd mapped out the human genome. This breakthrough meant that, for the first time, the cause of major diseases could be traced to specific genetic defects. And, as I'm sure you're aware, if you know the cause, you can theoretically develop a cure."

As the senator paused to refill his drink, Wiley took the opportunity to interject. "I don't understand how that could be a problem for the pharmaceutical industry."