Error in Diagnosis (25 page)

Maxime Barbier's first order of business upon returning to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police headquarters in Toronto was to meet with his supervisor, Clive Minify, to discuss the status of the Alik Vosky investigation.

When he walked into the small conference room, Clive was seated at the table waiting for him. Over the years the two of them had met on countless occasions, but to the best of Maxime's recollection, he couldn't think of a single time that Clive had arrived first. He was a stocky man who had a flare for the unconventional. He never allowed his expectations to exceed his reach. It was a source of amazement to many in the Mounted Police how he had ascended to a level of such authority.

Maxime wasted no time hanging up his coat and sitting down. Before Clive spoke, he removed the meerschaum
pipe from his mouth. Maxime rarely saw him without it, although he'd never seen him raise a match to the bowl.

“We've expanded our staff to have a look at all the material you sent in from Vosky's house. In addition to our usual people, we brought in a couple of pharmacological and biochemical experts.” Maxime was already well aware of what Clive was telling him. He had more than one friend in the forensic lab who was providing him with regular updates on their progress. “They've come across a lot of complex pharmaceutical and obstetric information. Vosky seems to have created dozens of sophisticated laboratory procedures. The files are not only in Russian, but they're also in some complex encrypted code Vosky invented. I have some of the brightest minds in Canada working on this thing. The only thing they can agree upon so far is that Vosky's a scientific genius. What they're wrestling with is trying to figure out if he's a cold, calculating mastermind who's responsible for the GNS crisis in the U.S. or some raving madman who needs to be permanently confined to a locked ward. I realize they haven't had the material that long, but you'd think with the brain trust we've got working on this thing, they'd at least be able to tell us something.” Clive moved his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. “What are your plans for the next few days?”

“Well, it seems like a certainty that Vosky won't be returning to Anticosti Island for a while. I've got some ideas where he might be.”

“Any you feel like sharing?”

“Let me work on them a little first.”

“Fine. Are you still planning on flying out today?”

“Yeah.”

Clive stood up and started toward the door. Maxime escorted him the rest of the way. “I know you work alone and that you tend to be a little quirky when it comes to following the rules, but try to make an exception just this once and keep me informed. I'm getting a lot of pressure from the top on this one.”

“Of course, sir.”

Clive opened the door, but before walking out of the office, he put his hand on Maxime's shoulder. “I'll give you as many people as you need, but you have to bring this son of a bitch in, and I mean soon.”

“I understand, sir.”

Maxime released a lungful of air and then made his way down the corridor to his office. Instead of sitting down at his desk, he walked over to the window and stared out at the bottlenecked traffic below. He assumed within the next few minutes Clive Minify would soon be on the phone giving the prime minister the bad news that the RCMP still hadn't located Alik Vosky. Making matters worse, they couldn't give him the go-ahead to assure the president of the United States that GNS was not the act of an insane bioterrorist.

Instead of returning to his hotel after the drive home from his mother's house, Jack went to the hospital to check on Tess. He had just entered the lobby when he heard his name being paged overhead. With the melodious sound of a holiday instrumental playing in the background, he walked over to the information desk, reached for the physician phone and dialed the operator. While he waited, he noticed a stack of morning newspapers. He shuddered when he read the headline about the death of another woman suffering from GNS. He shook his head and closed his eyes. A few moments later, the operator connected the call.

“This is Dr. Wyatt.”

“I'm sorry, Dr. Wyatt. I know we've been asked not to page any of the doctors with outside calls during the crisis, but this gentleman was so persistent. He claims he's a
physician with information on GNS and that it's imperative he speaks with you, and only you.”

“That's fine. Put him through, please.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

After two rings, Jack heard the call connected. “Hello, this is Jack Wyatt.”

“Dr. Wyatt, my name is Konrad Bilka. I'm a neurologist on the faculty of the Charles University School of Medicine in the Czech Republic. I've been in Florida for the past four weeks lecturing at Florida Atlantic University as part of a faculty exchange program.”

“How can I help you, Dr. Bilka?”

“I've been following with great interest the GNS outbreak. I think I may have some information that would be of particular interest to you. Do you think we might be able to meet?”

Jack noted that although his Eastern European accent was unmistakable, his command of English was good.

“I'd be pleased to hear your ideas. Would you like to meet me here at the medical school?”

“I have many notes, scientific articles and other information. If you can find the time, it might be easier to meet at my hotel.”

“Of course. Where are you staying?” Jack asked.

“At the Sealodge in Boca Raton. I'm in room 704.”

“When would be a good time for you?” Jack inquired, making a mental note of the hotel and room number.

“Would you be able to make it tomorrow morning at ten?”

“Ten tomorrow will be fine.”

“Thank you, Dr. Wyatt. I am sure you won't regret taking the time to have a look at my work.”

“I look forward to talking with you tomorrow.”

Four miles away in room 704 at the Sealodge Inn, Alik Vosky tossed his phone on the bed. He had entered the United States and checked into his hotel using a forged passport. With a self-satisfied grin, he crossed the room and sat down at the desk. In less than a day, he would have Dr. Jack Wyatt, the man who was far too close to undermining everything he had worked for, exactly where he wanted him—alone in his hotel room. He opened the center drawer of the desk and removed the serrated hunting knife he had purchased immediately after he'd arrived.

Vosky tested the knife's edge against his index finger, and then licked away the trickle of blood. He was calm, devoid of any anxiety or uncertainty. The risk involved was small and didn't concern him in the slightest. By the time Jack Wyatt's body was found, he'd be a thousand miles away using yet another name, and the police would be looking for a man who didn't exist.

It was six
P.M.
when Jack and Madison sat down across from each other in the crisis center. They had called a meeting of the entire group but none of the team had arrived as yet. When Jack heard the door open, he looked up expecting to see Marc. To his surprise it was Helen Morales. With hunched shoulders, she made her way over to the conference table and took the chair next to Madison.

“The hospital board met a couple of hours ago.” Madison slowly lowered the lid of her laptop while Jack absently rubbed his hands together. “Hollis Sinclair did an excellent job convincing the members they should endorse the Vitracide program. They listened to his plea and voted seven to one in favor.”

“I thought the board doesn't make medical recommendations,” Madison said.

“As a rule, they don't. Let's just say they see a difference between their seal of approval and an outright medical recommendation. In practical terms, I'm not sure there is one.”

“How does this ‘seal of approval,'” Madison asked, making air quotes with both hands, “affect the timetable?”

“We've just received our first shipment of Vitracide and Sinclair has submitted a completed protocol for its use. So, I'm guessing we should be ready in a day or two.”

“We are pursuing some promising leads,” Jack offered. “Is there anything we can do to buy a little more time?”

“I'm afraid not. The board expects the medical staff to be unified in the decision to endorse Vitracide. I'm sure you both realize what this means in terms of the work you and your team have been doing.” She stood up and started toward the door. “I'll keep you both advised.”

“I guess that's it, then,” Madison said.

Jack reluctantly agreed. He realized they weren't on the verge of finding a cure for GNS but he felt they were making some real progress. It wasn't for a lack of determination or effort on his team's part they had come up short. There was no blame to assign. Time had simply run out, which had been Jack's greatest fear right from the beginning.

After another fifteen minutes had passed the last members of the research group had taken their seats at the table.

“I'm afraid I have some bad news,” Madison began. “Just prior to this meeting, Dr. Wyatt and I were informed the hospital has decided to go ahead with the Vitracide
program. We anticipate treatment will begin within the next few days. So, for now the work we've been doing is on hold. We thank all of you for your participation. Everybody in the room went way beyond what was asked of them.”

“Does this mean we're totally shutting down?” Marc asked.

“The hospital feels, and Dr. Wyatt and I agree, that we should all be unified behind the Vitracide program. If the treatment plan doesn't . . . meet expectations . . . well, we can revisit the prospect of starting up our work again.”

One of the obstetric residents raised her hand. “My understanding is that the Vitracide protocol calls for ten days of treatment. Based on the increasing number of deaths were seeing, we may be too late to pick up where we left off in ten days.”

Jack knew she was right. With Sinclair in the wheelhouse, no matter how bad things were going, he wouldn't admit defeat until the last second of the tenth day.

Jack stood up. “Your point is a valid one, but Dr. Shaw and I still feel the best thing for all of us to do is adopt an optimistic outlook and hope Vitracide turns out to be an effective treatment. If that's not the case, we're not closing the door on further investigation.”

For the next few minutes, the group remained, discussing their now futile efforts to find a cure for GNS. Finally, the last despondent team member made their way out of the room. Marc lingered.

“I guess it doesn't matter anymore but we finished the analysis of the chimera testing. As it turns out, their
distribution in GNS patients is different than the healthy chimera in the population.”

“In what way?” Madison asked.

“Usually, the chimera cells can be found in several areas of the body. The liver, lymph nodes and the thyroid gland, just to name a few. But it seems in our GNS patients almost all of them are in the thyroid gland.” He shrugged. “I'm not sure it means anything.”

“I guess if Vitracide fails and we ever get up and running again, we can look into it,” Jack said.

After Marc left, Jack and Madison stayed to gather up the volumes of computer printouts and notes strewn across the conference table.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Right now or in ten days?”

“I meant now, Jack.”

“I'm going to get some dinner.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“Really. You must be desperate for company.” Madison folded her arms and glared at him with narrowed eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “Bad joke. You name the place.”

“As long as it has a full bar, I couldn't care less.”

“Finally, something we can agree upon.”

Madison suggested a local sports bar, and they drove together. It took some effort, but Jack was able to empty his mind of all matters related to GNS, hospital politics and Dr. Hollis Sinclair. Their conversation was free flowing and easy and it was hard for Jack to deny he was becoming more captivated by her. But she was still a mystery to him. Even so, he had become more attracted to her than any
woman he'd met since his divorce. He never felt his instincts regarding matters of the heart were particularly astute, but in the matter of Madison Shaw, he suspected she felt the same way. Jack had just finished paying the check when his cell phone rang. It was Mike.

“Of course I understand,” Jack said nodding his head. “I told you, if I were in your position, I'd do the same thing.” Trying to cast the indelible image of Tess Ryan lying in the ICU from his mind, he continued to listen patiently. “I think that's a good idea; let's talk in the morning.” With despair painted on his face, Jack slid his cell phone back into its case.

“Mike?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“That didn't sound good. What's going on?”

“Tess is scheduled for a C-section tomorrow,” he said with a disconcerted sigh. “I guess Sinclair's moving faster than we thought.”

“What time?”

“Noon.”

Jack followed Madison past the bar and toward the exit. Two men, both dressed in dark sports coats, approached and stopped in front of them.

“Dr. Wyatt?” the taller one asked, reaching into his coat pocket and removing his identification.

“Yes.”

“My name is Craig Westenson. I'm a special agent with the FBI. This is Inspector Maxime Barbier with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I wonder if we might have a word with you. It won't take long, sir.”

Jack and Madison looked at each other briefly.

“I'll meet you outside,” she told him.

“It's been a long day. Go home and relax. I'll grab a cab.”

Jack walked Madison to the front of the restaurant.

“Watch your six,” she told him.

“I beg your pardon?” he said with a blank look.

“Obviously you don't come from a military family. My father was career Air Force. I'll speak to you in the morning.”

Jack returned to the bar. Westenson and Barbier were sitting at a booth. He slid in across from them.

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with us,” Westenson said. “What I'd like to discuss with you might strike you as a difficult to believe, but I assure you the United States government wouldn't be making these inquiries unless we felt there was substance to our concerns.”

Jack saw no uncertainty in either of their faces. He already had more than a clue in his mind of what they wanted to talk to him about. He clasped his hands, set them flush on the table and asked, “How can I help you, gentlemen?”

“We have a request, Doctor,” Westenson answered. He then took a few minutes to explain the details of why he and Barbier had sought him out. Jack listened carefully and asked no questions. When Westenson was finished, Jack emptied his lungs of a full breath, steepled his fingers and set his hands on the table.

“I think I have some information that may interest you,” he told them.