The Last Surgeon

CHAPTER 50

The white stretch limousine eased its way down Constitution Avenue toward the Hart Senate Office Building. It was the twelfth day of September, a sparkling clear Wednesday, and it would be no understatement to say that there was more interest in the hearing scheduled to resume in half an hour than in any Senate inquiry since Watergate.

“Answer me true,” Reggie said from the center of the backseat, “are we going to get us one of these limos or not?”

“I wouldn’t bet on you not getting one of your own someday,” Junie said, pausing to cough and take a breath, “but only if you do your homework.”

“Hey, Dr. Nick Fury here told me that when I move in with him and Nurse Jillian, I won’t have to do any homework.”

“You wish,” Jillian said. “You haven’t seen the nasty side of either of us yet. Junie, you okay?”

The older woman cleared her throat and nodded. She hadn’t done that well following the removal of the upper lobe of her left lung, and seemed to have aged considerably over her months of recovery. Still, it was no surprise to anyone who knew her that she had managed to parlay her growing celebrity into massive donations to Helping Hands, as well as the promise from Winnebago of a new, deluxe, fully equipped RV.

“Have you looked outside?” Don Reese asked. “We still have a ways to go and it’s already wall-to-wall photographers and reporters.”

“Let’s hop out,” Reggie said. “I want some more pictures of me in the papers. There’s this girl at school I want to impress and-”

“Enough!” Junie said. “I’ve spoken to your civics teacher, and she’s expecting at least a five-page paper on these hearings. That should be more than enough to impress any girl that’s worth impressing. Nick, honey, the humidity’s getting to me a little. Could we please have the driver take us right up to the door?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“There are a few stairs,” Reese said. “But there’s a ramp. Do you need a wheelchair?”

“I can handle it,” Junie said.

Reese had not only been a lifesaver during the drama in the CIA-owned barn, but afterward as well. It was he who first began to put the pressure on William Conklin, the director of the CIA, whom he knew personally, to do what he could to restore public trust in the agency. Given Ramsland’s stature and power, Conklin had for years turned a blind eye to the activities of the Jericho vigilantes. Now, Conklin’s job was on the line. The nasty publicity the agency was garnering around the globe was unlike anything since the Senator Frank Church hearings in the midseventies, which focused on CIA political assassinations and other excesses.

This afternoon, Reese’s work with the CIA chief was hopefully going to come to fruition.

Following a morning of testimony from Paresh Singh, officials and surgeons from Shelby Stone Memorial Hospital, and relatives of the seven victims from operating room ten, Lionel Ramsland had begun what to Nick and the others was an utterly frustrating denial of any direct wrongdoing.

Soon, after the man completed the remainder of his testimony, it would be Conklin’s turn. The final testimony, although it would be only hearsay, would be from Nick.

“Don’t expect to be called if they run out of time,” Nick’s attorney told him. “They may reconvene tomorrow or they may delete you because your story is unsubstantiated with objective evidence.”

The reporters crowding the curb and spilling over into the street seemed to have been tipped off about the occupants of the approaching limo. There had been lengthy articles on Nick, Jillian, and the others in the Times, the Washington papers, and People, as well as on all the networks and CNN. The Ten Little Indians OR Murders, People had headlined their cover story.

David Bagdasarian, the group’s attorney, and one of the legal team representing Nick and Jillian before the boards of medicine and nursing, had arranged for the transportation. Now, he met them at the curb, opened the door for them, and led the group into the modern Hart Senate Building. Nick’s and Jillian’s licenses to practice had been suspended, but then the suspensions were stayed pending further investigation.

“Ramsland’s real good,” Bagdasarian said as they passed through the nine-story atrium and by the massive Alexander Calder metal mobile, Mountains and Clouds, and ascended to Room 216. Today, the legendary hearing room was the home of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. “He admitted to being the tenth man in the operating room video the senators saw, but he denied doing anything illegal. And of course, even with the plastic surgeon’s testimony, no one can figure out definitively who was on the operating table that day three years ago, or what happened to the body. Supposedly, an autopsy was performed, but no one has produced the results. God bless ’em all.”

“Hey, don’t press that panic button just yet,” Reese said as they took their seats in the third row behind the witness table. “As Yogi Berra said, the opera ain’t over until the fat lady sings.”

Reese had admitted to Nick and Jillian that, for weeks, he had been working with William Conklin at the CIA, but he had shared few details until this morning.

The six of them were all seated except for Nick. Thanks to his flight from Franz Koller, his shoulders and knees still balked at being kept in one position for very long. Physical therapy had helped, but his joints continued to feel a decade or two older than the rest of him. His PTSD was another story altogether. His ultimate triumph over the killer, his continued EMDR therapy, and his new life with Jillian and Reggie were working wonders with his condition. His SUD score was now consistently between three (Mildly upset, worried, bothered to the point where you notice it) and two (A little bit upset, but not noticeable unless you take care to pay attention to your feelings and then realize, “Yes, there is something bothering me”) with an occasional one (No acute distress and feeling basically good) thrown in.

Nick was massaging the muscles at the base of his neck when Lionel Ramsland entered the packed hearing room. He had lost some weight, and almost certainly was wearing expertly applied makeup. But in general, he appeared as cocky and confident as ever. And as Bagdasarian said, he had strong reason to be.

Nick had taken great pleasure in the man’s announcement two months ago that in the interest of not being a distraction to his party, he was stepping down as a vice presidential candidate before being nominated.

Now, as Ramsland approached his seat, his eyes and Nick’s met. For a few frozen seconds, neither of them moved. Then, never releasing his gaze or altering his expression, Ramsland raised his right hand and saluted. Nick, swallowing a jet of bile, shook his head derisively and took his seat between Jillian and Reese, facing the panel, and behind them, the massive marble wall with the seal of the Senate.

Ramsland’s continued testimony was gaveled to order by the chairman, a wizened senator from Missouri named Blackstone. Over the next hour, under oath, the man who might have been a heartbeat from the presidency lied again and again about his relationship with Franz Koller, the electronic device under CIA contract that could stimulate portions of the brain or cause the electrical pathways of the brain to short-circuit and stop functioning altogether, his role as creator and mastermind of the black ops Jericho unit, and his relationship and dealings with Aleem Syed Mohammad. He also swore that he had never had a cell phone conversation with Nick, and that records of the calls made from his personal cell phone showed absolutely no calls made during the time period Nick had stated in his deposition.

Nick’s fists were clenched throughout the barrage of dishonesty. At one point Reese leaned over and whispered, “It’s all just rope, Nicky-boy. Every lie is just more rope.”

“Well, he’s almost finished,” Nick said, “and I don’t see any noose.”

At that moment, as the final senator was finishing his five minutes of largely redundant questions, Reese looked over his shoulder. His expression, which had been getting somewhat gloomy, brightened considerably. Again, he bent over close to Nick.

“Let the games begin,” Reese whispered. “The fat lady has arrived.”

Nick turned around to see CIA chief William Conklin standing by the rear doors between what appeared to be two lawyers. Minutes later, with Ramsland now seated to the side of the room, Conklin, in his midfifties with thick white hair, the body of an obsessive athlete, and heavy bags under his eyes, was called forward, sworn in, and asked by Blackstone to identify himself.

“I notice that you have not been present for the early portion of these hearings,” Blackstone said, clearly prepared for this witness.

“No, I just flew in. The flight was delayed.”

“You were traveling alone?”

“No, I traveled with deputy CIA chief Arthur Senstrom.”

“Lionel Ramsland’s successor to that post.”

“Yes, Senator.”

“And where did you fly in from, Mr. Conklin?”

“From South America, Senator. I cannot disclose the country.”

“The purpose of your trip?”

“We spent two days with the terrorist Aleem Syed Mohammad.”

The hearing room erupted. Everyone, it seemed, was speaking at once. In an instant, Blackstone’s gavel was pounding.

“Nice going,” Nick whispered to Reese.

“Conklin’s scrambling to keep the Agency together. I helped him to see that this was his only chance. I just didn’t know if the trip was going to accomplish what we hoped. Now it appears as if it did. Tell Jillian she can take out that photo of her sister she’s got in her bag.”

Nick did as Reese asked. Jillian set the photo on her lap. It was a five-by-seven black-and-white candid of Belle, in a spring dress, seated with her back against a tree. She was reading a book. Her shoulder-length hair framed a porcelain face that was at once beautiful and transcendently serene.

Nick had seen the photo a number of times before, and knew Jillian had taken it. He reached across and squeezed her right hand with his. A single tear broke free from the corner of her eye, and landed on his wrist.

Gradually, order was restored to the chambers.

“You have come back with evidence pertaining to this case, Mr. Conklin?” Blackstone asked.

“Yes, Senator.”

“Objection,” Ramsland’s lawyer shouted, leaping to his feet. “I demand the right to review this evidence before it is presented.”

“Mr. Dietz, this is a hearing to gain facts. Your client is not on trial here, just under oath. I am going to permit the presentation of any evidence that will help us expeditiously get to the truth. Please proceed, Mr. Conklin.”

The CIA chief set two tape recorders on the table before him and turned the first one on. A man’s deep voice filled the room. He spoke in Arabic.

“Rather than play the full recording, I’m going to read you the translation,” Conklin said, shutting off the tape as he began. “ ‘Voice prints will confirm that I am Aleem Syed Mohammad. You will also find my fingerprints on this and another tape. I am speaking to you from a concealed location in South America. In exchange for my cooperation here, as well as for any further information Mr. Conklin may require, I have been given permission to continue living my life in secrecy.

“ ‘Some years ago, after the death of my oldest son, I grew extremely weary of war and of the jihad. For reasons that will become clear to you, I sought out Mr. Lionel Ramsland of the CIA, and he agreed to meet with me.

“ ‘My capture by U.S. forces was arranged, and I was transferred from the American military to the CIA. Over the next year, my appearance was totally altered by a number of plastic surgical procedures performed by Dr. Paresh Singh. At the same time, two men with bone structures similar to my own were chosen to be made to look exactly as I did before my surgeries. In the meanwhile, medical evidence was created showing that I was dying from a rare cardiac tumor.

“ ‘It is my understanding that my doubles were brainwashed with very sophisticated methods, and taught to speak enough Arabic to converse with people, and in particular with the physicians who would be caring for me.’ ”

Nick glanced behind him to the second row from the back, where Bill Pearl, wearing his trademark black suit and dress shirt, was sitting next to Manny Ferris, who looked remarkably well in a tan sports coat and tie. Thanks to Jillian, Manny had begun a series of plastic surgery procedures designed to reverse the disfiguring that had resulted from his escape from the Singh Center. In addition, a team of therapists from Shelby Stone had been deprogramming him and treating his PTSD. According to Jillian, progress was slow, and there was some doubt among his treaters as to how far back Manny could make it. But no one was inclined to stop trying.

“ ‘After a year,’ ” Conklin continued, “ ‘my perfect double was sent to the operating room at Shelby Stone Memorial Hospital, where he died before the operation could be performed. By that time, I was safely ensconced in the country and the home where I am living now. In exchange for my life, I fed a great deal of legitimate information to Mr. Ramsland regarding various activities of the groups you refer to as terrorist.

“ ‘Mr. Ramsland came to see me every couple of months and pumped me with more questions. After three years, Mr. Ramsland resigned to pursue his political ambitions. His replacement, Mr. Arthur Senstrom, began visiting me. But on the second visit, he made the mistake of telling me that the operation in which I allegedly died had been recorded. I, of course, demanded to view the recording. As you will learn, I had the leverage with Lionel Ramsland to make such a demand.

“ ‘The recording showed me sitting up before my surgery in great distress, screaming in Arabic and in Spanish for a man named Dr. Nick Fury, then collapsing and dying from a device that I am certain was triggered by Lionel Ramsland, who was in the room. Clearly, the others in the operating room that day heard the same thing I did. It was my feeling that so long as they were alive, my safety and security would be in jeopardy. I met with Mr. Ramsland, and he assured me he could and would take care of the matter in such a way that no one’s attention would be called to the operation. Further, he promised that all copies of the recording would be destroyed. As far as I know, Mr. Ramsland kept his promise in that regard.’ ”

William Conklin set the transcript aside and folded his hands. The packed hall was deathly silent. All eyes were fixed on Lionel Ramsland, who sat rigidly erect and looked to Nick as if he were going to launch into a tirade of self-justification and patriotism, similar to the one he had spewed at Nick in Noreen Siliski’s office.

This time, the silence held. There was no need for Blackstone to gavel for order. There was one unanswered question, and the room was waiting for the senator from Missouri to ask it.

“Assuming what we have heard is true, Mr. Conklin, this is a terrible, terrible revelation, and I am sure that all who have heard it are as stunned as I am.”

Ramsland could stand matters no more. He leaped to his feet and shouted, “There are two sides to every story! I saved lives, hundreds of lives! Thousands of lives. This is war, Senator! War! Young American soldiers are being killed every day!”

Blackstone’s gavel thundered down again and again. Bailiffs rushed over to silence Ramsland, who had lost all composure and was now an apoplectic crimson. His lawyer whispered harshly into his ear. Meekly, he sank back into his chair.

“Mr. Conklin,” Blackstone said finally. “Is that second tape going to further enlighten us as to just what this so-called leverage was?”

“It will, Senator, but it is more than an hour long.”

“Can you paraphrase it for us?”

“I can, sir.” Conklin adjusted his notes. “It is a conversation that occurred six years ago in Karachi, and was secretly recorded by Aleem Mohammad. The meeting was instigated by Lionel Ramsland. In it, Ramsland promises Mohammad the delivery of a large cache of untraceable weapons, mostly Russian in origin, as well as five million dollars in untraceable cash in exchange for the death of Mr. Ashai Bayoumi, the Egyptian foreign minister, who was openly anti-American. Ramsland then promises to inform Mohammad of the precise time and place when Mr. Bayoumi would be at prayer. Our intelligence shows that a month later, that small mosque was blown up, killing Bayoumi and a dozen others. Neither I nor anyone else at the Agency had any knowledge of such a deal being made.

“It was Mohammad’s possession of that tape that led him to contact Lionel Ramsland regarding his desire to pass on vital information to Jericho, and then to have his death staged. That tape, which we have here, has been the leverage-the dead man’s switch if you will-that Mohammad has used to insure his own survival.”

Again, Ramsland was on his feet, screaming. “Dispensing of Bayoumi kept Egypt from forming alliances with several terrorist groups! Thousands of lives were saved! Thousands.”

This time, the chambers were in chaos.

Helpless, Blackstone gaveled the session to a close. But few heard him. Everyone seemed to be running at once, wedging through the double doors.

Ramsland was surrounded and led away.

As Ramsland and the bailiffs neared the exit, Nick felt certain the man turned and glared at him.

At last.

For a time after the room was nearly empty, the six of them-Nick, Jillian, Reese, Junie, Reggie, and Bagdasarian-remained silent in their seats.

“I thought it would feel better than it does,” Nick said finally.

“How could it?” Jillian replied. “Dead is dead. Ramsland will go to his grave believing that what he did, the good, innocent people he had killed, was in the best interests of the country.”

Again, there was a pensive silence.

“Well, I think we’ve all heard enough for one day,” Reggie said suddenly. “Can we go home?”

“Not only can we,” Junie said, “we should.”

“In the limo?”

“In the limo, my friend,” Nick echoed.