Robin Cook - Death Benefit

After Pia told George she’d see him later, she and Lou walked out of the intensive care unit.

“I’m glad to see you,” Lou said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Pia said, before disappearing into the women’s room near the elevators. After locking the door, she took out her smartphone. Quickly she tapped out an e-mail, forwarding a sizable message she’d already written. After making certain it had gone, she used the toilet. She then looked at herself in the mirror over the sink and said: “Now the shit hits the fan.” Taking a deep breath, she composed herself to go out and meet Detective Lou Soldano who represented her old nemesis, the City of New York.

EAST TENTH STREET NEW YORK CITY MARCH 26, 2011, 2:13 A.M.

The man was aware of the buzzing of a phone right next to his ear. He went immediately from deep sleep to partial consciousness but it took him a few beats to realize where he was. He picked up the phone, saw his device, didn’t recognize the number but accepted the call just to stop the noise.

“McGovern. This better be good, whoever you are.”

“Is this Chet McGovern?” a female voice said.

“I believe so, ask me tomorrow. What time is it anyway?”

“About two-fifteen, sorry about that.”

“Do I know you?”

“My name is Jemima Meads. I’m calling from the New York Post .”

“The Post ?”

The mention of the paper made McGovern sit up. He looked across at the redhead lying fast asleep on the other side of the bed. Her bed, he remembered, somewhere in the Village. What was her name?

“Dr. McGovern, we’re looking at a story that has two researchers at Columbia being killed by the radioactive agent polonium-210, just like the KGB colonel in London. Do you have a comment?”

“It’s two-fifteen in the morning,” McGovern said groggily.

“And I do apologize, but we want to be first and make sure we have the story right.”

“But I thought we weren’t releasing the cause of death,” said McGovern.

“So you can confirm it?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It kind of is.”

“Look, speak to my colleague, Jack, he did the autopsies. But I recommend it be tomorrow during normal business hours.”

“Jack Stapleton, the ME?”

“Yes, him.”

“Okay, thanks. And sorry for disturbing you.”

The woman ended the call, and Chet lay back in bed. What was that about?

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MARCH 26, 2011, 6:05 A.M

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Even though it was Saturday, Russell Lefevre had set his alarm for 5:45. He clamped down on the buzzer, before it woke his wife. Lefevre padded into the bathroom and then downstairs to make coffee and to check on events on the Internet. As the coffee was brewing, Lefevre scanned the online headlines of The New York Times , The Wall Street Journal , and The Washington Post . Russell had always been fastidious about keeping up with the news, but in the past few weeks he’d become obsessed, especially since Edmund had become less and less communicative.

Even though Russell had asked him numerous times, Edmund had never told him what he and Jerry Trotter had talked about at Edmund’s house a few weeks before, even though Edmund had looked thoroughly shaken afterward. A week or so later, Jerry Trotter disappeared. When Russell called Max Higgins, Max said Jerry had gone on a fact-finding trip to Asia, and he had no idea when he’d be back. Edmund had nothing to say about that. Then Russell read about Gloria Croft being attacked while out running one morning in Central Park, and Edmund told Russell he had no idea what had happened then, either.

Two days earlier, all the newspapers carried the story about Rothman and Yamamoto, first about their being sick. Then they reported that the pair had died in a tragic accident in the lab. Russell didn’t know what to feel or what to think. First Jerry disappeared, then Gloria was attacked, then Rothman and Yamamoto died. On its own, each of the latter two events was a piece of good fortune, but together, they were surely more than a coincidence. Did Edmund have anything to do with it? Could these events have been what he and Jerry talked about? It seemed impossible to comprehend that Edmund was involved, but Russell couldn’t bring himself to confront his partner.

Russell made coffee and looked for the New York Post . When he saw the newly updated headline on the home page he nearly choked:

COLUMBIA MEDS IN KGB COPYCAT SLAY?

Under Jemima Meads’s byline was an exclusive about Rothman and Yamamoto. Hedged with “allegedly” and “reportedly,” the story said that acting on an anonymous tip, the reporter had contacted members of the New York Office of the Chief Medical Examiner who were working on the theory that the exotic radioactive agent polonium-210 was involved in the deaths of the two prominent Columbia University researchers. The find was made by the husband-and-wife team of Drs. Jack Stapleton and Laurie Montgomery, who, having been reached by the reporter at their Upper West Side town house, refused to confirm or deny the story, referring the reporter to the OCME’s public relations department.

The discovery was immediately reported to the FBI, the CIA, Homeland Security, and the NYPD Joint Organized Crime Task Force because of its significant implications and similarities to the 2006 murder in London of a defected Russian FBS agent by the Russian FBS, the current incarnation of the Soviet KGB.

Polonium-210, the article said, is a remarkably poisonous compound millions of times more deadly than cyanide if swallowed or respired. It’s also extraordinarily difficult to come by because of its association with triggering nuclear weapons and is thought to be available only in Russia, Pakistan, and North Korea.

At this time it wasn’t known if the deaths were connected to a shooting reported outside the Columbia Medical Center that evening.

Russell dashed to the phone and fumbled to call Edmund. He knew he was waking him as the phone rang for the sixth time.

“Russell, what the hell?” His voice was thick with sleep.

“Edmund, go online, look at the Post . It says the researchers were murdered, with some nuclear poison. Oh my God, Edmund.”

“All right, Russell, calm down. You better get over here.” Edmund hung up. Russell wanted to throw up, but he composed himself, went back upstairs, and got dressed.

He started driving toward Edmund’s house, his mind racing, trying to make connections, thinking about the coincidences and how they now looked like something so much more. Like murder. As he drove, Russell failed to see that a beat-up old Toyota Corolla had pulled out and was following him through the twisty Greenwich back roads.

Edmund had opened his gates and Russell drove directly into the walled courtyard in front of the waterfront mansion. He leaped from the car and bounded up the front steps and impatiently leaned on the doorbell, whose muffled chords he could just make out coming through the massive door. Where was Edmund? He rang the bell again. The only other sound he could hear was the gentle cacophony of songbirds.

At last, Russell heard a bolt being drawn back on the heavy door, then another sound, of a car coming quickly up the drive. He turned and watched bemused as a tan sedan skidded to a halt inches from his own vehicle and two figures jumped out and ran toward him. They were wearing hoods and holding guns. The door opened and Russell twisted his head back and said one word. “Edmund.”

“They sold us out,” Edmund said.