The RX Factor (30 page)

Ryan grimaced. He did not feel an ounce of guilt for what he had done, but the evidence told a different story. "I got a little forceful with him while I was interrogating him," he said. "But what I learned more than made up for—"

"Evidence gained through physical interrogation doesn't stand up in court," Crawford said, cutting him off.

"I wasn't planning on taking him to court."

"We know who's been trying to kill me!" Jordan interjected, her voice laced with urgency.

"And that's only half of it," Ryan said. "We've got proof—or at least we
had
proof—that Fisher Singer Worldwide, along with orchestrating the attempted hits on Jordan, paid our dead friend there"—he nodded to Dr. Huggins—"to fudge results from the Tricopatin tests. My drug worked, and now they're selling it abroad under the name Serapectin."

"You
had
the evidence?"

"We had the test results, both the original ones that never saw the light of day and the altered ones that FSW fed me and everybody else."

"Where are they now?"

Ryan pointed with his eyes to the charred remains in the trash can. "Burnt to a crisp."

"Uh huh."

Ryan studied the look in Crawford's eyes. He couldn't tell if he was skeptical, frustrated, angry, or all three. What was obvious was that he'd had enough.

"You have to stop these people," Jordan said, clearly not ready to cede an inch.

Ryan knew they were out on a limb, but it was obvious she harbored no such doubts.

"Look, this is what I know so far," Crawford said. "I've got two dead bodies. I've got destroyed evidence. And I've got two witnesses—both of whom are officially dead, both of whom I've gone to a great deal of trouble to shield, and both of whom seem determined to make my job a living hell. In case you two haven't noticed, I actually have to report to someone, who, I might add, is
this
close to sending me packing. There's this little thing called the law, and every time you two get a wild hair and go off half-cocked, I'm the one who has to do damage control."

Ryan opened his mouth to plead his case, but Crawford cut him short.

"Don't say another word," he said, holding up his hand. "You two are coming with me."

"Where?"

"FBI headquarters in D.C. We're going to debrief you. We're going to get statements. We're going to make damned sure your story holds up. And we're going to—"

"Give it a rest, Jim." This time it was Ryan doing the interrupting. "We know the drill."

Ryan sat slumped in his chair in an interrogation room at FBI headquarters as Crawford paced on the other side of the table.

"So let's recap one last time," Crawford said, stifling a yawn. "You're browbeating Dr. Huggins at the lab when this Craven character shows up. Craven torches the evidence. Huggins tries to make a break for it. Craven puts a couple of bullets in his back. A struggle ensues, and Craven nearly takes you out, but Jordan saves your ass when she knocks the thug cold with a fire extinguisher. From there, you tie him up, hurt your hand on his face as soon as he wakes up, and pry an unrepentant confession out of him. Then, just when you're about to call me, he busts loose and goes for his hidden pistol, which you, despite your FBI training, somehow missed. You kill him before he kills you. Do I have it all?"

"More or less." Crawford had gone from supportive friend to bristly FBI agent. Ryan couldn't say he blamed him. He had pushed their friendship to the limit, and he wasn't done yet. "I want to go after him."

"Who?"

"Stedman. Somebody needs to take him down, and we're just the ones to do it." "We. . . ?"

"We've come this far together. Why not finish the job?"

"Christ, you want all one hundred and fifty reasons?" Crawford shook his head, the corners of his mouth forming an exhausted frown. "I'll give you two for starters. One, I can't afford any more dead bodies on my watch. Two, neither of you are on the FBI payroll as far as I can tell."

"Let us help then," Ryan said.

Crawford ignored the request. "I'm still not clear on something."

"What?"

"I get why FSW is trying to off Jordan. They see her as a competitor, someone with scruples no less, who could seriously mess with their bot tom line. But why bury the cure for ovarian cancer? Why not make a shitload of money from it? If I were Jacob Stedman, I'd make a mint from the cure, retire early, and head for the driving range."

"You don't think like these people," Ryan said. "That used to be my problem, too. I underestimated them—or overestimated them, depending on your perspective. They're not like us. It's not enough that they have wealth and power and everything money can buy. Stedman and his ilk want to rig the system so they'll always be needed, no matter what discoveries are made in the future. They're not trying to make people healthy. They're trying to keep them sick so they can treat their symptoms forever."

Crawford nodded thoughtfully. "A cure for cancer eliminates customers. But drugs that help people manage their illnesses, those you can sell for decades."

"Exactly."

"So in Stedman's ideal world, he strings patients along for years at a stretch, keeping them out of the grave and on the hook for more medicine, while selling a real cure off of U.S. soil, only to the mega-rich who can afford the multi-million-dollar price tag. It's a win-win situation."

"The man's a monster," Ryan said. "Which is why we need to nail him."

"I agree, but we're going to do this legally and by the book, which means you and Jordan are going to keep a low profile and give us room to do our job."

"But—"

Crawford held up both hands. "If you really want to nail Stedman, you won't risk jeopardizing the case further. Besides, I've got a hunch this goes deeper than one crooked CEO."

"Deeper?"

"Jacob Stedman is a powerful man with powerful friends. Who knows who he has working for him, or who he's working for? You took out his chief of security. My guess is that he already knows you and Jordan are back from the grave, which makes you a threat to his existence. He's going to do whatever he has to to eliminate that threat."

"How could he possibly know we're alive?"

"As I said, he is a very powerful man with powerful connections. Your escapades today have made it unlikely that your status remains covert. And the more people who know, the greater risk of a leak. Moving forward, I think it is best to operate under the assumption that he knows you and Jordan are alive."

"Then he also knows we are on to him and may have evidence to put his ass away. Which is why I need to finish it."

"Ryan, we've been over this already. You need to lay low. I'm going to put you up in a safe house here in town, and I'm going to put a couple of agents outside your door. But just in case . . ."

He nodded to somebody through the oneway glass, and an agent entered and handed him a bulky black plastic case. Crawford swung the case up onto the table and opened the latches, revealing a standard-issue revolver, plus ammunition. "It's not as powerful as the gun you took off Craven— and used on him—but it'll get the job done."

"A little unorthodox, no?"

"If you weren't a former Company man, you'd be on your own. But the boss seems to have taken pity on you. Not much. But a little."

"It's no fun being a marked man."

"Yeah," Crawford said. "But you're still breathing."

Senator McNally entered the private club in New York City alone. No assistant. No chaperone. He spied Stedman seated at a table in the corner and took his time closing the distance between them.

The senator had known Jacob Stedman for the better part of two decades—nearly the length of his political career. Though Stedman was his elder by a good fifteen years, the two had risen through the ranks simultaneously, him through the political establishment and Stedman through its corporate counterpart. Throughout that time, McNally had considered Stedman a close associate. Not a friend, per se. But someone who could be trusted and someone whose opinion was worth seeking. Of course, since Fisher Singer World-wide's rise to the top of the pharmaceutical world, Stedman had come to occupy a more prominent perch. A valuable contributor to the campaign coffers, he possessed the ability to raise significant funds on short notice and without scrutiny.

But he wasn't simply a cash cow. He was, for lack of a better word, an ally. At times, McNally wasn't sure who had the upper hand, and there had been moments, especially recently, when the senator had regretted their association, if for no other reason than the hefty price tag that came along with it. Stedman's support meant taking risks and embracing unsavory solutions, and the senator knew that by running with Stedman he was running with a dangerous crowd. But it was too late for regrets. Too late to back out. He needed to take control of the situation. And there was no time like the present.

"Two emergency meetings in one week," the senator said as he took a seat across the table from Stedman. "This is unprecedented."

"As are the circumstances," Stedman said.

"What's up, Jake?" The informality was a deliberate ploy and one intended to knock his ally down a few notches.

Stedman replied without hesitation, either overlooking or refusing to humor the use of his shortened first name. "It's Matthews again."

"Yes, I heard." The senator had enough friends at the FBI, not to mention in Stedman's own company, to know what was going on most of the time, although he wasn't always privy to the details. "I'm sorry to hear about William Craven. He was a great asset."

"I suppose he was," Stedman said coolly.

McNally was surprised at the detachment in Stedman's voice. He knew if he'd just lost his chief of security he'd be feeling awfully vulnerable, whatever his feelings for the man. "Do you have someone in place to take over for him?"

"Not at the moment," Stedman said. "That's why I called. I need your help."

"My help?"

"I want that SOB."

"I presume you're speaking of Matthews."

"Yes," Stedman replied, brandishing a menacing frown.

"My people aren't killers," the senator said. "You'll have to look elsewhere for that sort of help."

"I've been in touch with another team. But these guys will need time, up to forty-eight hours, to get here. And who knows how long it will take to track them down now that they're under federal protection."

"Them?
I hope you're not including Dr. Carver."

"She knows as much as Matthews. Maybe more. She's a liability." Stedman leveled a cold gaze at the senator. "And not just for me."

McNally did his best to look unfazed. "This is the last time I'm going to tell you to steer clear of the Carver girl."

"Is that a threat, Senator?"

"Of course not," he answered quickly. "People in our position don't need to make threats. What I will tell you is that this quest of yours—to make Matthews and his cure for cancer disappear from the U.S. market—barely factors into a much bigger picture. You're trifling with more than you know."

Stedman opened his mouth to protest but the senator waved him off and kept talking.

"I can help you track Matthews's movements while you wait for your people to get into place. But you must promise to leave Carver to me." He paused before making his final point. "I share your concerns, friend, and I assure you she'll be dealt with before she can expose either of us. But you have to leave this one to me. Your future depends on it."

As the sun broke through the bedroom window,
Ryan awoke at the safe house Crawford had sent them to the night before. The house was in Hillan-dale, Maryland, only ten miles from the FBI's D.C. headquarters, but it seemed like worlds away.

Lying in bed next to Ryan and staring at the ceiling, Jordan asked, "What do we do now?"

To Ryan's ears, Jordan's question sounded like a plea for help. It was clear she was running out of ideas. On her, hopelessness was a bad fit. She just wasn't the type to give up.

Maybe if she had more confidence in Crawford and the FBI to nail Stedman she'd be assuming a braver front. But she probably had, like him, the sneaking suspicion that they were largely on their own. Crawford and his men had saved Ryan's life back at Eno River State Park during his doomed meeting with Eric, but he couldn't help feeling like the suits were more often than not one step behind them. He glanced out the window. Knowing a pair of agents were posted somewhere outside didn't make him feel any safer—just trapped.

"Here's a question," Ryan said, answering Jordan's plea with a curveball. "Who's in Sted-man's back pocket?"

Jordan gave him a quizzical look but said nothing.

Ryan continued with his train of thought. "Jim told me yesterday that he thinks this thing goes deeper than just Stedman, that he has in his corner some pretty powerful people. But who? If you're Big Pharma, who do you want working for you?"

Jordan chewed on the question for a moment, pursing her lips as she thought it over. "Somebody in government, obviously," she said.

"That's right. Somebody who can help you steer clear of all the red tape. Somebody who can streamline the process for you. If you're in the drug industry, who's your biggest nightmare?"

"The FDA," Jordan said. "Stedman has someone working for him at the FDA!"

Ryan smiled. "And not just a pencil pusher. Someone with clout. Who's the commissioner at the FDA now? Is it still Alex Mendel?"

"No, he retired a few years ago. He was replaced by Dr. Carl Wiley."

"That complicates things," Ryan said. "We'll start with Mendel. If he's a dead end, we'll go after Wiley."

Jordan sat up, turning towards Ryan. "You can't just
go after
the FDA commissioner. He's well insulated. So is his predecessor. It'll take time."

"We don't have time," Ryan said, jumping out of bed and heading down the hallway.

"Where are you going?"

"I saw a computer in the study."

As Jordan delivered coffee, Ryan was busy fleshing out a short but illuminating sketch of Alex Mendel. The former head of the FDA maintained an address in a Maryland suburb just outside of D.C.; since stepping down from his position, he had managed to keep an awfully low profile. Much of that had to do with extenuating circumstances. A mere four months had passed since his wife had died from—of all things—ovarian cancer. Mendel had retreated from the public spotlight to tend to her, only to witness her slow death. Throughout their ordeal, Mendel had given no interviews, and news reporters had crafted their stories on her condition from interviews with his friends and associates.