months ago, a request for a copy of Russell’s medical records landed on his desk to be sent to McCarthy’s office. He blew that off too. Two weeks later another request arrived. Again he ignored it, figuring fuck McCarthy.
A request for Baker’s files followed.
Meaning McCarthy was working up both patients. Christ, both of them!
Any other doctor evaluating those two patients would’ve thrown up his hands and figured they were loony. But to stumble across two patients with the same bizarre symptoms would surely pique McCarthy’s interest. If you see one patient with strange symptoms, it’s an undiagnosed oddity. But then another patient comes along with similar symptoms, it’s a fucking syndrome. He knew McCarthy well enough to expect the self-righteous prick to dig until he put it together. Once he did that, he’d blow the whistle. So Wyse wasn’t going to let that happen.
Again, he started to dial but hesitated. Calm down. Don’t let Cunningham hear you like this.
At the wet bar, he flicked on the black Krups coffeemaker that his secretary readied each morning with his special Starbucks blend, then entered his private bathroom of ebony granite and brushed nickel fixtures.
After showering, he donned a clean set of scrubs. Considering there was no other surgery scheduled until Monday morning, wearing scrubs was unnecessary. But he believed they portrayed the right image to the residents, making him appear more like “one of them” instead of a white-shirts-andtie professor.
Armed with coffee and a PowerBar he settled into his desk and eyed the phone and the message beside it, rubbed his forehead, drummed his fingers. Had Cunningham sold the concept? Why wouldn’t they leap at the opportunity? Well, because … Jesus, he didn’t want to even think about it. He swiveled around to the magnificent view of Queen Anne Hill.
How in the hell had it come to this? A distinguished career now at the mercy of a handpicked group of CIA nerds and a two-bit army colonel. He hated Cunningham about as much as he hated the DARPA money. Initially, it seemed like pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, a mother lode to be mined without fear of tapping out. To realize how naive he’d been initially now doubly pissed him off. Even the village idiot knows there’s no such thing as a free lunch. So how had he been so stupid to not see the downside to the deal? Cunningham now controlled him the way heroin controls the junky. Shaking his head in disgust at himself, he dialed.
A moment later: “Cunningham.”
“It’s me. What happened?”
“Let me call you back on a secure line.”
Fuck! A secure line? That couldn’t be good news. He kept the phone in hand and connected before the first ring finished. “What happened?”
Cunningham said, “We ran into some snags.”
Wyse swallowed. “Snags? What kind of snags?” An ice cube crystallized in his gut.
“They love the idea, but they see a few problems.”
The ice cube grew. “What problems?”
“They’re not stupid, Bert. The same reason you want out is the same reason they don’t want in.”
The gut cube grew so cold it was now burning. “They’re the agency, for Christ’s sake. They can do the work anywhere they damn well please, Afghanistan or fucking Antarctica, doesn’t matter, anywhere where they can make the rules. I can’t.” He realized the last words had come out as whiney and blamed Cunningham for making him sound like that.
“There’s the ethics issue.”
They’d discussed this particular point multiple times during rehearsals. “Ethics? Are you fucking kidding me? What about the ethics of flying a plane of innocent people into the World Trade Center to kill three thousand more innocent people? Don’t talk to me about ethics. Can’t they see the good this will do?”
“Bert, get off your soapbox. It’s me you’re talking to. It all boils down to the potential for blowback. Nothing more.”
Cunningham’s tone verged on
A request for Baker’s files followed.
Meaning McCarthy was working up both patients. Christ, both of them!
Any other doctor evaluating those two patients would’ve thrown up his hands and figured they were loony. But to stumble across two patients with the same bizarre symptoms would surely pique McCarthy’s interest. If you see one patient with strange symptoms, it’s an undiagnosed oddity. But then another patient comes along with similar symptoms, it’s a fucking syndrome. He knew McCarthy well enough to expect the self-righteous prick to dig until he put it together. Once he did that, he’d blow the whistle. So Wyse wasn’t going to let that happen.
Again, he started to dial but hesitated. Calm down. Don’t let Cunningham hear you like this.
At the wet bar, he flicked on the black Krups coffeemaker that his secretary readied each morning with his special Starbucks blend, then entered his private bathroom of ebony granite and brushed nickel fixtures.
After showering, he donned a clean set of scrubs. Considering there was no other surgery scheduled until Monday morning, wearing scrubs was unnecessary. But he believed they portrayed the right image to the residents, making him appear more like “one of them” instead of a white-shirts-andtie professor.
Armed with coffee and a PowerBar he settled into his desk and eyed the phone and the message beside it, rubbed his forehead, drummed his fingers. Had Cunningham sold the concept? Why wouldn’t they leap at the opportunity? Well, because … Jesus, he didn’t want to even think about it. He swiveled around to the magnificent view of Queen Anne Hill.
How in the hell had it come to this? A distinguished career now at the mercy of a handpicked group of CIA nerds and a two-bit army colonel. He hated Cunningham about as much as he hated the DARPA money. Initially, it seemed like pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, a mother lode to be mined without fear of tapping out. To realize how naive he’d been initially now doubly pissed him off. Even the village idiot knows there’s no such thing as a free lunch. So how had he been so stupid to not see the downside to the deal? Cunningham now controlled him the way heroin controls the junky. Shaking his head in disgust at himself, he dialed.
A moment later: “Cunningham.”
“It’s me. What happened?”
“Let me call you back on a secure line.”
Fuck! A secure line? That couldn’t be good news. He kept the phone in hand and connected before the first ring finished. “What happened?”
Cunningham said, “We ran into some snags.”
Wyse swallowed. “Snags? What kind of snags?” An ice cube crystallized in his gut.
“They love the idea, but they see a few problems.”
The ice cube grew. “What problems?”
“They’re not stupid, Bert. The same reason you want out is the same reason they don’t want in.”
The gut cube grew so cold it was now burning. “They’re the agency, for Christ’s sake. They can do the work anywhere they damn well please, Afghanistan or fucking Antarctica, doesn’t matter, anywhere where they can make the rules. I can’t.” He realized the last words had come out as whiney and blamed Cunningham for making him sound like that.
“There’s the ethics issue.”
They’d discussed this particular point multiple times during rehearsals. “Ethics? Are you fucking kidding me? What about the ethics of flying a plane of innocent people into the World Trade Center to kill three thousand more innocent people? Don’t talk to me about ethics. Can’t they see the good this will do?”
“Bert, get off your soapbox. It’s me you’re talking to. It all boils down to the potential for blowback. Nothing more.”
Cunningham’s tone verged on
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