Michael Palmer: The First Patient

"The Laramies. There's no place on earth quite like them. But stow the apologies, matie. From what I've heard, you've had a few other things on your plate-like saving the world."

Stoddard grinned wistfully.

"It's a little bigger a job than I once thought," he said, settling in at the round oak table in the kitchen, "but I still intend to make a dent in it."

"I remember you talking like that during our first or second night of bar-hopping together at the Academy. I kept trying to stay cynical and believe that you were an idealistic jerk, but this little voice inside me kept saying that this was a guy who might actually be able to do it. Then, when you drank me under the table, I really decided to give you the benefit of the doubt."

"That was beginner's luck, and you know it. You must have had a virus or something."

"Speaking of which, it should come as no surprise that I can't offer you a beer, but I can brew you some coffee, or-or some tea."

"Tea would be great," the president said, placing a manila folder in front of him. "While I'm in apology mode, sorry I couldn't make it in for your dad's funeral. I appreciated your letting me know he had passed."

"And I appreciated that you would take the time to call from South America."

"Your dad was a bit… quirky, but I always did like him."

"He was very proud of you, Drew, you being a fellow Annapolis grad and all."

The instant he spoke the words, Gabe wished he hadn't. Cinnie's pleas notwithstanding, he had done what he could to deal with Fairhaven and his father's reaction to it. He hadn't meant the statement to come out the way it did.

"I'm sure he was very proud of you, too, Gabe," Stoddard said, a bit uncomfortably, "what with your M.D. degree and all those medical missions you've been on, and that youth foundation you're running."

"Thanks. Hey, speaking of sires, how's yours doing?"

"Same old LeMar. Still trying to micromanage everything, including me. He tells me he's bought his way onto a Russian space shot. Fifteen million and he becomes the first seventy-five-year-old to soak his hemorrhoids in the international space station tub."

"Fifteen million. God bless him."

"Hey, come on. When we're talking about my father, it's like Monopoly money. Just do the math. The ten billion or so he's worth minus the fifteen million or so he spent is… um… take away three, carry the one-still ten billion or so. I wouldn't be surprised if he paid in cash with bills he pulled out of his sock drawer."

Gabe smiled. If, over the years, he had suffered from too little father, Drew Stoddard had suffered from too much. From his days in diapers, Stoddard had been molded by the charismatic, wildly successful industrialist. The heartache Buzz Singleton endured when Gabe was drummed out of the Naval Academy had to pale next to LeMar Stoddard's having to explain to his pals at the hunt club or the polo pitch or wherever that Drew had become a Democrat-and one of the shining stars of the party at that.

Did Drew's remarkable transformation from elitist Republican to populist Democrat have its roots in the accident at Fairhaven all those years ago? Gabe often wondered. In such an inestimable tragedy, not even the bystanders and innocents like Drew Stoddard escaped unchanged.

Gabe set a pot of Earl Grey tea and some shortbread on the table. There was a time before the last presidential election when the two of them got together once or twice a year to hike and fish in the Smokies or Laramies, and exchange news and stories, but now, despite their long-standing friendship, Gabe felt strangely edgy about taking up the time of the most powerful man in the solar system with small talk. Still, this last-minute trip to Tyler was Stoddard's doing, so it seemed right to let him set the agenda.

Gabe didn't have long to wait.

"Did you know that in addition to the comprehensive medical facility on the first floor of the Eisenhower Office Building we have our own medical clinic right in the White House?" Stoddard began.

"You said something about it in one of our conversations, yes."

"It's run by the White House Medical Unit. Which, for reasons lost in antiquity, is actually a division of the White House Military Office. Pretty nice setup, too-recently renovated, state-of-the-art equipment, top-notch nurses and paramedics, and the best doctors from all branches of the service. Twenty-five or thirty staff altogether. They take care of me and Carol and the boys when they're home from school, as well as Vice President Cooper and his family, and anyone else who happens to need medical care while they're at the White House."

"The boys-they doing well?"

"Terrific. Andrew's going into eleventh; Rick'll be in ninth. Both are at school in Connecticut. Right now they're at soccer camp. Andrew's an all-star goalie. Rick plays because he thinks he should. He wants to go to the Academy and be an astronaut."

"Think you can get him in?"

"I think he can get in on his own, but I may keep an eye on his application."

"Eleventh and ninth-that's amazing."

"They're happy and healthy. That's all that really matters."

"Speaking of healthy, you had your doc from North Carolina come up to D.C. to care for you, yes?"

"Jim Ferendelli. He's been a great doctor for me and the family. The best. Kind, knowledgeable, empathetic. Plays beautiful classical piano, too."

"I'm really glad to hear all that, Drew. Having a doctor one can trust is a huge weight off of anyone's shoulders."

"I agree, but I'm glad to hear you verbalize it just the same."

"Well, that's how I feel, although when it comes to caring for the President of the United States, I assume you know I'm just stating the obvious. Your well-being and good health have an effect, one way or another, on every person on the planet."

Stoddard laughed with no great glee. "I understand what you're saying, but I still get the willies thinking about things that way."

"It's a hell of a job you signed on for. I don't envy that responsibility in the least."

"But I still have your support?"

"Of course."

"In that case, it should come as no surprise that I didn't break away to fly here in the midst of a heated campaign just because I missed your smiling face. I need something from you, Gabe. Something important."

"Name it."

"I need you to come to Washington and be my doctor."

Gabe sank back in his chair and stared at his onetime roommate in utter disbelief.

"But… you said this Jim Ferendelli is a terrific doctor."

"He is… was."

Gabe felt as if a band were tightening around his chest.

"I don't understand," he finally managed.

"Gabe," Stoddard said. "Jim Ferendelli's gone… Vanished."

What about the FBI?"

"You don't think they're all over this? Hundreds of agents have been on the case for almost two weeks. Nothing."

Evening had settled in, and a steady breeze from the north had dispelled the last of the day's warmth. Gabe had listened in stunned silence to the description of a fifty-six-year-old widower, devoted father of a grown daughter, personable and diligent, churchgoing and humble, who one day simply failed to show up at work. A search of his apartment in Georgetown and his Chapel Hill home revealed nothing out of the ordinary, and a check of his phone and e-mails had also been of no help.

With the presidential campaign just heating up, Andrew Stoddard's advisors had managed to keep the potentially distracting disappearance out of the news until they were certain the search was not going to be successful. For more than a week, now, that was clearly the case, and what scant details there were had just been released to the press.

"They've all been told that for now the White House Medical Unit would handle any problems I might have, but as competent as the unit is, I really want my own physician."