Sigma Division

Chapter 32

Dr. Michaels had bought his Georgetown brownstone because it was elegant. It was more of a status symbol than a house to him. It was great to entertain, to hold parties, and to show off his wife, but other than that it was just a place where he slept at night.

After the elections, he had figured he would spend even less time here. He surely would have spent most of his time at the White House working with the new President to harmonize national policy with Sigma’s real objective. It had been in the works for so long that it was a blow to the head that it hadn’t worked out this way.

It was the first time in years that he had crashed on the basement couch in his pajamas and bathrobe. His feet were on the table, ankles crossed, and his coffee was heavily spiked with bourbon. He surfed through the stations until he hit CNN. The pretty reporter on the screen was only one of a thousand covering the story.

“Having been elected an hour after having suffered a massive heart attack, the family confirmed that Regis Ford died today after spending more than a week in a coma. We spoke to…”

He changed the channel again. He didn’t need any more information about Regis Ford’s death. He had taken care of the whole damn thing himself, for Christ sakes.

After driving out of Miami, they had brought Ford to Georgia where a Learjet registered to a dummy corporation, a CIA front usually reserved for extraordinary renditions, flew him out of the country. The plane took him to Rabat, Morocco where he laid low for two days, and then another covert flight brought him to Indonesia.

Houseman promised him that he would prepare for his triumphant return, somehow, but Michaels knew that it was bullshit. They had wagered big on this, came close, but they’d eventually fallen short. They had to write off Ford. If he ever came out of hiding he would have to be eliminated.

In the meantime, they would have to work with the new President and pray that they could steer his views so they aligned with Sigma. At his age, Houseman would surely retire so it was up to Michaels to take over. He decided he would take another week’s vacation and then get back to work.

And speaking of the new President, everything was hazy. It was generally assumed that the Vice President-elect would take over but the media was putting more and more credibility in the outrageous revelations concerning Sigma Division and claims of election fraud. People were demanding an investigation and some pundits believed there would be a do-over election. The Supreme Court was currently juggling with these issues.

With a sigh, he landed on a show about some bearded guys trying to haul an alligator into their boat. He gave it a few scenes, realized he couldn’t understand half of what they were saying, and changed stations again.

His wife came down the stairs, her shoes resounding loudly on the hardwood.

“Honey, there are people from the FBI and FEC here to see you.”

As he turned around to face her, three dour men wearing dark suits followed her down. He didn’t have time to put his drink down that one of the guys, definitely FBI, went past his wife over to him.

“Dr. Michaels, can you explain why your signature was on money transfers to non- research related accounts?”

He looked at his perplexed wife. He suddenly realized he was staring at a long prison sentence.

In his candy striper uniform, Houseman pushed 95-year-old Mr. Lyman in his wheelchair along the corridors of the hospital.

“Mr. Lyman, can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, Viagra does work.” The old man laughed which led to a coughing fit. Once he’d recovered, he continued. “And at my age, it’s a pickup line that works too. You show them your prescription and you wake up in a strange lady’s bed.”

He laughed again and Houseman smiled. Volunteering at the hospital never failed to lift his spirits. And he definitely needed to be cheered up these days. His life’s work had dissolved right before his eyes. He had dreamed about this project for 50 years, had engineered the research for 30.

In a matter of weeks, some nosy bastard had destroyed everything.

Now he had to accept reality. He was too old to start again. There was public scrutiny. Michaels had called him to say that the FBI had paid him a visit. Half an hour’s worth of phone calls to his contacts was sufficient to verify that he would be arrested in a matter of days. The Select Committee on Intelligence was set to investigate. The blowback was simply awful. A clusterfuck.

“I was wondering about regret,” Houseman said. “Is there anything you regret not having done?”

Mr. Lyman half closed his eyes while he considered the question.

“I don’t think so. I’ve worked hard all my life, I married a nice woman, we had good children. I can’t complain. But I suppose that if I’d had only one goal in my entire life and I’d never reached it, I’d probably have trouble living with myself. Regret’s never a good thing.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re correct.”

He led the patient back to the common room where people were watching a John Wayne movie. He said goodbye to Mr. Lyman and walked out, going toward the nurses station. This hospital required candy stripers to fill out forms after every interaction with patients and although Houseman could have skipped this — he’d certainly done much worse offenses — he leaned against the counter and got to work.

Focusing on inane busywork was a good way to keep his mind off regret. He tried thinking about the good times he’d had with his wife before she passed away. He thought about the hopeful days 30 years ago when he’d set his plan in motion. Back then, everything was possible, the future had looked so bright.

Now it was over. There was no more future for him. It was only a matter of time before the FBI turned its attention on him. How could hope morph into regret in such a short time span?

He chased these thoughts from his mind and tried to ignore the nurse next to him who was preparing a tray of pills for her round. He was surrounded by the idle chatter of the hospital and he wondered how long it would be before he was on the other side of the counter, becoming a patient himself. Probably not long. What did he have to live for anyway?

Spontaneously, a machine pierced the relative silence with a loud alarm. A nearby patient was flatlining. A nurse rushed into the room down the hall.

“We got a code blue!” she shouted.

The woman who was standing next to Houseman abandoned her task and rushed to the patient in critical condition, as did a young doctor, his white smock billowing behind him like a cape. Houseman was alone at the desk.

He was somewhat glad for the excitement, a reminder of his youth in combat, but quickly he realized he wasn’t involved. He was useless, no one needed him. He straightened up and from the corner of his eye glimpsed a cabinet which had been left ajar, the keys still in the lock. It was the medicine cabinet.

His destiny was clear. He actually smirked at how easy the decision came to him. He went to the cabinet and opened the door wider. He still had his reading glasses on and he scanned the medications until he came across one that was labeled Dilaudid.

Without hesitation, he emptied the white container into his shirt pocket. Then he stole a bottle of water which he’d seen a nurse sipping and walked away.

He waited until he was behind the wheel of his car in the parking lot before swallowing all the pills. He didn’t want the medical staff to resuscitate him. And they didn’t.