The Last Surgeon

“Recorded?”

“Yes. Did you know about the cameras hooked up in the operating rooms?”

“No, I didn’t. Do you record every operation?”

Lane shook her head. “We don’t have the resources to do that because each operation has to be edited down to a manageable length and then transferred to DVD for storage. But selected cases-the ones of teaching or legal or historical importance-are recorded now.”

“Where do we get the funding for that?”

“As part of a grant-federal, I think. Shelby Stone was one of the first metropolitan hospitals to install video equipment in all twenty-four of our operating rooms. We use the videos in our teaching curriculum, and so do the medical school and residency programs. In addition, I’ve heard of a couple of malpractice suits that have been squashed because of the recordings.”

“Do you think Mohammad’s operation was filmed?” Jillian asked.

“Well, I suppose if they’re going to record any case, they’d have done that one.”

“Then there should be a DVD of his operation archived somewhere,” Jillian said.

“I think you’re right,” Lane said. “We request them by the surgical procedure or even by the surgeon, and the record room transmits it to us or maybe sends a disc over. I could ask one of our instructors how it all works.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Jillian replied. “You’ve been an amazing help already.”

“But how will you find out?”

Jillian flashed on the Mole. “I have someone I can call,” she said.

CHAPTER 37

Phillip MacCandliss knew the Jericho people would come to their senses. Given the level of exposure and risk thrust upon him following the Manny Ferris breach, they had actually gotten off easy. In addition to Vasquez and Ferris, he had delivered three other worthless vets to them over the last four years. The three, like Vasquez and Ferris before them, were near duplicates for the photos Jericho had provided him-seven-out-of-ten-point matches for the facial characteristics they had insisted upon, one of them an eight.

Five hundred thousand for that kind of judgment, resourcefulness, and loyalty was a small price to pay, especially when he revealed the precautions he had taken to back up his demand for a bonus. Jericho was CIA, and it would have been foolish to make demands of them without some sort of protection. Despite Jericho’s reassurances, the hacking of the computer system at the VA had him edgy. If he needed to bolt suddenly, he would need a solid escape plan and the money to make it work.

True, he could not come up with that much incriminating evidence to put in the safe-deposit box he told them about. But they had no way of knowing. True, he had no idea who Jericho was, but he did have the photos and the names of the men he had turned over to them, as well as the reasons for his suspicions that Jericho was a unit within the CIA. A tape of the conversations with his contact would have been nice to have, but assuming it was the CIA, they had ways of telling when they were being recorded. The bottom line was that his Jericho contact seemed impressed enough with the steps he had taken to ensure they didn’t mess with him, and that was all that mattered.

Humming an off-key rendition of “God Bless America,” MacCandliss maneuvered his dented and rusting Subaru Impreza through D.C.’s downtown stop-and-go afternoon traffic, en route to the designated meeting place, a room at the Crescent Hotel. The car needed a new timing belt and the transmission fluid was leaking, but that didn’t matter now-at least it wouldn’t in a little while. His first move with the money would be to replace his junker with something sexier-much sexier.

Money was power and he was about to have a lot more of both. A half a million dollars, by his accounting, would net him many thousands more given how he planned to invest it. How he was going to hide this newfound wealth so his ex wouldn’t get her grubby paws on any of it was a detail he had yet to work out. But he would.

MacCandliss had been warned that the Crescent was a dump-rooms by the hour. But such a place meant no security cameras. Once inside the seedy hotel lobby, he proceeded to the front desk as per plan. He was carrying an empty duff el bag.

“May I help you?” the attendant asked.

The man behind the dimly lit counter had a cherubic face and a hapless, burnt-out smile.

“I’ve misplaced my room key.”

“Not a problem. Name and room number?”

“Phillip MacCandliss. Room seven-twenty-seven,” he replied, citing the room number provided him by his contact. MacCandliss then handed the desk attendant his driver’s license and, just like that, he had a key to the hotel room that supposedly he had already procured. MacCandliss chuckled to himself while waiting in the lobby for the elevator to take him up to seven. These guys just couldn’t get enough spy shit. It was all a game to them-a big game.

As he marched along the threadbare corridor carpet, he wondered why they bothered going through the missing key bit. Wouldn’t it have been just as easy if he made the reservation himself and then checked in to the room before the meeting? The ruse made him only a little curious. They had their reasons. His expertise was in selecting perfect candidates for Jericho. Theirs was in playing spy games.

There was a do NOT DISTURB sign around the handle of Room 727. MacCandliss removed it and slipped his electronic key into the slot. Payday, he thought. He entered the room, putting the sign back where it had been. The television was on. Probably something connected with the illusion Jericho was creating that he had checked in earlier. The door connecting with the adjoining room was locked. The bathroom door was ajar, and the light was on. Except for half of the stall shower, which was covered by a featureless plastic curtain, he could see no one was there.

“Hello?” he said, tentatively. “Anyone in there?”

Feeling suddenly ill at ease, he flipped on the light. The room was as he had expected-gloomy and tawdry, with frayed curtains and a faded bedspread. It was impossible not to wonder how many sexual engagements had been consummated on the queen-sized bed over the years. He lifted the hem of the spread. The mattress was up on a wooden platform.

With a sigh designed to slow his pounding heart, he rounded the bed and stepped into the bathroom. The toilet and rust-stained sink had to be at least fifty years old, and the tiny institutional hexagonal tiles were probably even older than that.

“Hello?” he said again.

A tidal wave of apprehension swept over him as he grasped the edge of the curtain and jerked it open. The stall was empty except for a black overnight bag sitting on the drain. The money, he thought excitedly. Goddamn game players!

MacCandliss felt his tension begin to abate, and actually managed a tight smile. Then, as he reached down for the bag, he realized that it was his-name tag and all. Not a replica-his, taken from the hall closet in his apartment.

Damn them! Give him the money he had asked for, but make sure he never took them for granted. Good move. He had to hand it to them. A really good move. He hefted the bag up, reentered the bedroom, and gasped.

His heart stopped completely, then decided to beat again.

A man was standing at the foot of the bed-tall and well built, with a narrow face and dark hair swept back. He was dressed completely in black, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and was carrying a black briefcase.

“God, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry for that,” the man said. “I knocked, but there was no answer.”

“You what? I didn’t h-”

The man tossed the briefcase onto the bed.

“Here’s your money.”

“Then what’s in here?”