She’d never dropped the habit of using abbreviations that were standard procedure in government. Lang would know she meant “situation report.” And he’d give it concisely, without added verbiage. Given her choice, she preferred to deal with people who had worked in the White House. Barring that, at least let them have government experience. Those people were familiar with the chain of command, and most of them knew when to keep their mouths shut. She missed that in post-
government life.
As she expected, the report Lang gave her was short and to the point. When he’d stopped speaking, she said, “So, who knows Madison’s sick and in the hospital?”
“I talked with Madison’s wife, of course, and she’ll be here later today. Other than that, not many people know. The doctors treating Madison and Rachel Moore, a few nurses, maybe one or two other medical personnel—all vetted by me and all sworn to secrecy.”
“So what can I do?”
“You can help with a problem with Dr. Lambert’s body,” Lang said.
Karen closed her eyes in order to concentrate as he told her about the cremated remains that had turned up. “Have you been able to keep this information quiet so far?”
“I’ve told the president about it, but so far no one else knows except the funeral director who called me. I haven’t even had time to notify the police. And I don’t know what we’re going to do about Mrs. Lambert.”
There was always something, wasn’t there? Then again, Karen knew that was what she did. Now she’d handle this problem the way she had done so many others. She sighed into the receiver, not caring if Jerry heard it. “You keep things buttoned up there at the hospital. I’ll take care of this. Give me the name and address.”
“Are you—”
“Jerry, have I ever let you or the president down? You’ll hear from me soon.”
Karen closed the phone and tapped on the glass partition. “I need to make a phone call. While I’m doing that, take me to this address.” She gave him one in the University Park area. Before the car was moving, she had her phone open again and was dialing.
***
When David Madison was admitted to Prestonwood Hospital, not only were a number of security measures necessary, but accommodations for his family and his medical staff were put into place. One of those measures was the designation of a small office for the exclusive use of his physician.
Now Josh sat in that office, the door closed. He’d given strict orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed. He had none of his material from his own office at the clinic at his disposal, but fortunately he had all he needed: a computer and a phone. He used the first to find a number, then the second to make the call to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention . . . the CDC.
This was his first direct contact with this agency, although he’d heard about it since medical school. Josh hoped he would be able to navigate the labyrinth of departments without too much difficulty. Then again, it was a government agency.
After his call was transferred several times, Josh was finally connected with the appropriate duty officer. He identified himself and said, “I need enough diphtheria antitoxin to treat two patients.”
“We don’t get much call for that,” the doctor on the other end said. “Let’s talk about the indications for DAT treatment of patients.”
Josh patiently provided information until at last he said, “Look! I’m a board-certified internal medicine specialist. I’ve examined the patient. I’ve looked at the slides. These people have airways that are at risk. Now, how soon can I get the DAT?”
“I’ll have to check the database to locate it,” the duty officer said. “Let me get back to you shortly.”
Josh was caught on the horns of a dilemma. If he hid the identity of his patient, it might take a day, even a couple of days to get the antitoxin. On the other hand, he was certain David Madison wasn’t anxious for the whole world to know the details of his illness. “Let me emphasize that this is a genuine medical emergency,” Josh finally said. “I need that antitoxin today. ASAP. Stat. If necessary, I’m prepared to send a private jet to pick up the antitoxin and fly it back here.”
“Sounds like either you or your patient have resources most of us don’t.”
Please don’t let this guy throw a monkey wrench into the works just because he’s envious. “I’m not at liberty to disclose the identity of the patients involved,” Josh said. He hardened his voice. “I’m going to say this once more. This is a medical emergency. Give me your name and your direct number. I’m going to call you back in thirty minutes, and I want you to get me sufficient diphtheria antitoxin for two patients. Do you understand?”
After Josh hung up, he wondered if he’d handled the situation the right way. Should he have used Madison’s name and invoked his influence? Maybe he should have checked with Jerry Lang before making the call. Josh reached for his cell phone, where he’d entered Lang’s number. If Ben Lambert weren’t dead . . . but he was, and Josh was on his own. I guess I have a lot to learn about caring for an ex-president.
***
Karen Marks exited the limousine as soon as the driver opened the door for her. “Wait here. I shouldn’t be long,” she said.
The neighborhood where they were wasn’t in the same league as the estate where David and Mildred Madison lived, but it certainly wasn’t a poor one, either.
The home was a rambling, one-story house in a nice neighborhood—not pretentious, not opulent. Probably bought it as soon as they could after Ben graduated from med school. If there were children, they were long since gone.
She squared her shoulders and rang the doorbell. Karen had done lots of difficult tasks for David Madison at all his stops in government service. It never got easier, but she’d learned that a direct approach was best. It was sort of like ripping off a bandage. Get it done and move on.
The woman who answered the door was probably in her mid-sixties. Her black hair was neatly combed and styled. She’d made no effort to hide the streaks of gray that ran randomly through it. The woman wore a simple black dress, and reading glasses with red horn-rimmed frames dangled from a chain around her neck.
“Yes?” the woman said.
“Mrs. Lambert?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Karen Marks. I’m David Madison’s administrative aide—sort of a chief of staff, I guess you’d say. May I come in? I need to give you some news about your husband.”
The woman stepped back and gestured Karen into the house. “I don’t know how much worse any news could be than that my husband is dead,” she said. There was neither rancor nor self-pity in her voice. This was a woman who’d already shed her tears in private. Perhaps her husband’s relationship with the ex-president had schooled her in facing the world in good times and bad.
“Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?” Karen asked.
Mrs. Lambert nodded and escorted Karen into a living room, where she took a side chair and Karen perched on the couch. “What have you come to tell me?” Mrs. Lambert asked.
“One of our party—a nurse who participated in the attempts to revive your husband—escorted his body home. After Mr. Lang, the head of the Secret Service detail, talked with you, he contacted Sparkman Hillcrest and arranged for a funeral director to meet the chartered aircraft and take charge of the body. But another hearse got there first.”
“What are you saying?”
“Someone took your husband’s body.”
Other than a sharp intake of breath, Mrs. Lambert showed no emotion. “I called Sparkman Hillcrest