Робин Кук - Charlatans

Noah stared back at the program director with his mind in a sudden turmoil. He wanted to say a lot, but how could he? He wanted to explain how difficult it was to be caught in a standoff with an industry he despised and a woman he thought he loved. The truth was that he was caught between the past and the future, between old-school ethics and the new reality of an ever-expanding technological and connected world where the real and the virtual were fusing.

“Well?” Dr. Cantor persisted.

“I don’t know,” Noah said, stumbling over his words.

“Dr. Rothauser!” Dr. Cantor said sharply. “That is hardly the answer we are looking for. What do you mean you don’t know?”

Noah audibly sighed, sounding like a balloon deflating. “Maybe I should sit down,” he said. Suddenly his legs felt weak. He pulled out the director’s chair directly in front of him and sat heavily. After a deep breath, he looked up, noticing that Dr. Mason was staring at him as intently as the others but with a slight smile of anticipation. Noah was painfully aware that time was passing, and each second was making the situation worse. He should have said “no” immediately and be done with it, but he couldn’t. The question had caught him completely unawares, upsetting the unsteady balance he’d been trying to maintain in his mind, sending it into tumult.

“Dr. Rothauser!” Dr. Cantor snapped. “Explain yourself!”

Noah cleared his throat as he struggled to regain control as an idea emerged from the fog of his addled brain. “This thesis situation surprised me as well,” he said haltingly but gaining confidence, “and it awakened an old fear that has dogged me since I was a teenager that something unexpected would happen to prevent me from becoming the best academic surgeon my abilities would allow. I had never thought about what I did with my thesis as an ethical issue, but now I can see that it could be considered as such, and I apologize for not having cleared the air on my own accord. But with that thought in mind, there is something else that is more clearly an ethical issue that I believe I should reveal to clear the air.”

“By all means,” Dr. Cantor said hesitantly with building concern and dismay. He’d never expected a positive answer to what he thought was a pro forma question.

“Once I bought a paper off the Internet, and after doctoring it, I presented it as my own work. I knew it wasn’t right, but it was in the very beginning of my freshman year of college, and I was under a lot of pressure to perform.”

Dr. Cantor’s face, which had hardened considerably from expecting the worst, suddenly softened. He was ostensibly relieved by Noah’s benign mea culpa. “That’s it?” he questioned with relief. “Early in your college career you bought a paper online?”

“That’s correct,” Noah admitted. “Others were doing it, too, but I know that is no excuse.”

After a quick reassuring glance at his colleagues, whom he judged were as relieved as he, Dr. Cantor assumed a knowing yet condescending smile. “Thank you for your forthrightness, Dr. Rothauser. Although we surely cannot condone plagiarism on any level, I believe we can all relate to the competitiveness we all had to experience early in our lengthy education.” He again glanced at his fellow board members to make sure he was speaking for them. Dr. Hiroshi nodded his head in obvious agreement.

“Any other issues besides this freshman-year paper, Dr. Rothauser?” Dr. Cantor asked, redirecting his attention at Noah.

“That’s the extent of it,” Noah said.

“Okay, fine!” Dr. Cantor said. With a satisfied expression, he sat back, extended his arms, and pressed his palms against the table. “It is good to clear the air. Thank you and welcome back! I know I can say with support of my colleagues, your services have been sorely missed.”

“Thank you, Dr. Cantor,” Noah said as he got unsteadily to his feet. For a split second, he allowed his eyes to dart in Dr. Mason’s direction. He could immediately tell that his erstwhile antagonist didn’t share Dr. Cantor’s contentment, yet under the circumstances he stayed thankfully silent.

Without another word or even a glance back at the residency program directors, Noah headed for the door on rubbery legs. He felt as if he had dodged a speeding train but needed to do something to control the anxiety that Dr. Cantor’s unexpected and open-ended ethical question had unleashed. Luckily, he had just the right antidote. He’d head up to the operating room as he planned and dive back into work.

3:10 P.M.

An eight-ton, intimidating, black Lenco BearCat armored truck with BOSTON POLICE stenciled on its rear panel lurched up onto the curb on School Street in downtown Boston and screeched to a halt. To the shock of several dozen tourists milling about the plaza in front of the refurbished, Old City Hall building, six heavily armed Boston Police SWAT officers, some carrying Colt CAR-15 submachine guns, leaped from the vehicle in a highly rehearsed and synchronized fashion and ran toward the entrance of the ornamental Victorian building. Despite the August heat, they were in long-sleeved black combat gear with military helmets and ballistic vests festooned with additional ammunition clips, flash bang grenades, and Tasers. All but one member of the team were wearing black balaclavas, making them even more sinister.

There was no hesitation or conversation among the group. There didn’t need to be. The operation had been planned to the T, with each knowing their position and exactly what was expected. The first officer to reach the building’s outer door pulled it open as the others dashed within. He followed immediately on their tail.

Since they had already remotely shut down the elevators, they ran toward the main staircase and entered it on the run. Once inside, they rapidly climbed the stairs in step like a precision dance troop. They exited the stairwell one after the other on the fourth floor and stacked up single-file at the entrance of the ABC Security office. Instantly, the second officer in the line removed a door-breaching Thor Hammer strapped to the back of the first officer who then moved out of the way. The officer with the Thor Hammer stepped to the side and without a second’s hesitation swung the heavy hammer so that it hit the door adjacent to the doorknob with as much force as he could muster. With a shockingly loud splintering noise, the door burst open, allowing the next two men in the stack to rush into the room, sighting along their Colt submachine guns with fingers curled about the triggers as they shouted “police arrest warrant.” The first man took the right side of the room as his area of concentration, the second man the left as they executed a classic SWAT dynamic entry. Two more officers followed immediately on the tail of the first two while holding Glock automatic pistols out in front of them in both hands.

There were three totally stunned people in the room. George Marlowe was sitting on a couch to the right of the entrance, using a PC laptop. Keyon Dexter was standing at the window, gazing out over the Kings Chapel Burying Ground with his hands in his pockets. Both had removed their suit jackets and had their sleeves rolled up. Charlene Washington, a temp, was at a desk to the left.

“Down!” yelled the first officer into the room, keeping his Colt trained on George. He knew the second man into the room was doing the same for Keyon. “On the floor, now! All of you! Hands extended!”

George and Keyon recovered quickly, their highly trained military minds rushing through the OODA loop of “observing, orienting, deciding, and acting.” But it was to no avail. In the split second it took to recover their senses, there was no time to act. Resignedly raising their hands, they obeyed the repeated shouts to lie on the floor. It was different for Charlene, who was frozen in place, paralyzed by fear as she stared into the barrel of a Glock pistol.