Michael Palmer - The Last Surgeon

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.