“Your hand is shaking,” Josh said. “Is something wrong?”
“I . . . I need to tell you about something that happened on the trip.” Rachel coughed, then took a sip of water. “And it may fit in with what President Madison told you earlier this evening.”
Josh felt as though things were coming at him faster than he could process them, but he composed his features as best he could and said, “Sure, let’s hear it.”
Rachel picked up her water glass but put it down without drinking. “It was quite a thrill accompanying Mr. Madison on a trip like this. More than that, he actually seemed to value my opinion and that of the other medical people in the group. We talked about the location for the clinic he wanted to build—about the size of facilities, staffing, all the things you’d expect.”
“Was this in a primitive area?” Josh asked.
“Yes and no,” Rachel said. “It was a small town with perhaps seven hundred people in it and another two hundred or so living in the countryside around it, but the nearest medical facility was about fifty kilometers away.”
Josh automatically translated the distance: approximately thirty miles. “I’m assuming the Madison Foundation was going to fund this. Was there opposition?”
“No overt signs of any. But President Madison told us he’d heard rumblings. I asked him about details, but he didn’t want to go into them.”
“But the trip was going along okay—”
“I’ll give you an example. We were quartered in the homes of members of a local church. The women cooked our meals, and we ate them together at the church. One day Mr. Madison complained of stomach pains after a couple of bites. He left the table, and Dr. Lambert gave him some medication for his symptoms. At the time I figured it was just a bug, although no one else had any trouble.”
“That doesn’t mean much,” Josh said.
“One of the women serving us scraped the remains off all our plates into a bowl she left outside the kitchen door to feed some of the dogs that hung around the church.” She stifled a cough. “The next morning, someone in our group found one of the dogs about sixty yards away from the church . . . dead.”
“Okay, that’s troubling. What did Lang do?”
“Lang was concerned, but Mr. Madison dismissed it as coincidence, and I guess it could have been. The dogs were wild, and I take it they had a sketchy existence. Anyway, Madison didn’t want to make a fuss. But two days later, Dr. Lambert, Mr. Madison, and I were looking at a proposed site for the new clinic when a woman in a long dress with a scarf over her head and a cloth covering the lower half of her face ran into the room where we were. Mr. Madison asked her in Spanish if he could help her. Without a word, she drew what looked like a flask full of yellow liquid from the folds of her dress and showered us with the contents. Then, still without a word, she ran out.”
“Strange, but—”
“No, it doesn’t end there,” Rachel said. “The next day each of us had a raw throat and mild cough. At first, we attributed that to irritation from the environment we were in.”
“When was this?”
“The exposure—and I think that’s what it was—took place five days ago. Two days ago Ben Lambert died of what we thought was a heart attack. That’s pretty well occupied our thoughts and actions since. Did Mr. Madison say anything to you tonight about coming back with respiratory symptoms?”
“He asked me to see him in my office tomorrow, but he led me to believe it would only be a routine, get-acquainted visit.”
Rachel held her napkin to her mouth to smother a violent cough. When she stopped, she said to Josh, “I think you’d better check him over pretty carefully.” She coughed again. “And maybe someone should have a look at me as well.”
Chapter 3
3
Jerry Lang spoke softly, but the state-of-the-art two-way radio picked up his voice loud and clear. “Cowboy is leaving his house now. ETA to Preston Medical Clinic is 0930.”
“Roger that.”
“Do we always have to go through that Dick Tracy wrist radio stuff?” David Madison asked from the backseat of the town car. The question was the same one he always asked, and his grin took any possible sting out of the words.
Lang turned from his position in the front seat. “Sir, you’re at liberty to cancel your Secret Service protection at any time, but if I were you, I’d speak with Mrs. Madison before doing anything that rash.”
“I know, I know,” Madison said. He coughed and cleared his throat. “But you’d think, after a couple of years out of office, I wouldn’t be worth much to any terrorist who’s out to kidnap me.”
Lang didn’t answer. He kept his eyes moving, quartering the area as the car rolled through the streets of Dallas. This assignment to guard the former President might not be as glamorous as his former post at the White House, but he was determined to carry it out to the best of his ability.
His wife—actually, his ex-wife—had told him repeatedly he had to stop making the Secret Service his life, but it was hard to do, especially after that incident at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Shortly after that, he got this assignment to follow Madison into retirement. Say what you will, despite his boss’s calling it a lateral transfer, in Lang’s mind it had been a demotion. Now he was determined to prove to everyone he was still at the top of his game.
The car pulled to a stop in the circular drive of the four-story white stone building that housed the cadre of doctors—both generalists and specialists—that made up the Preston Medical Clinic. An agent hurried from the area of the front door and assisted Madison from the car.
“I think I’ll be safe in here, fellows,” Madison said as he strode through the sliding glass doors.
Lang fell in beside him. “Agent Gilmore there has already done the sweep of the clinic building. I spent the morning checking out Dr. Pearson. I’ll hang out in the waiting room while you’re in there with him. Give me a heads-up when you’re ready to leave, and I’ll have the car pulled around.”
***
Dr. Josh Pearson shrugged into a crisply starched white coat. He wasn’t sure why he’d changed before seeing this patient. After all, David Madison put on his pants one leg at a time. Maybe the difference was that the pants were part of a suit worn by a man who was the immediate past president of the United States.
Josh tapped on the exam room door before opening it. “Good morning, Mr. President.”
Madison was perched on the edge of the examining table, a faint smile on his face. He’d shed his suit coat, which hung on the back of the exam room door, a tie peeking out of one pocket. The collar of his dress shirt was open.
“I’ve reviewed your chart, so let’s get right to your present status. Last night you said some things were bothering you. I’d like to hear more about them.” Josh pulled out a rolling stool and sat. “While you’re telling me, would you please slip out of your shirt?”
Madison unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it. “Let’s drop that ‘Mr. President’ stuff at the door if we can. In here, I’m David . . . or, if you prefer, Mr. Madison. Treat me like any other patient. Okay?”
Josh knew that, despite Madison’s attempts to put him at ease, he’d always be aware of this man’s status, of what he’d been, and what he’d done. But he appreciated the gesture. “I’m flattered, Mr. . . . Madison. Now, how can I help you?”
Madison coughed. “This has to stay between us.”
“Everything you tell me is in confidence. Your records are doubly encrypted, and I’m the only one with access to them.”
Madison went on to relate