Read Online The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller by Allan Topol - Free Book Online
Authors: Allan Topol
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can’t possibly wait a year to be tested. You know that. He could be dead before then if he doesn’t get evaluated and treated.”
Bryce nodded grimly. “Yeah, you’re right. Let me work on it. It may take a while.”
“You can’t take too long or he’ll have a heart attack.”
“I understand. I’ll come up with a way to get it done. I’ll tell him that you’ll keep the results quiet. I assume that’s acceptable to you.”
“I never disclose any patient’s medical information.”
“Even the president of the United States?”
“For me, the rules are the same.”
Dr. Lee extracted a card from her pocket and handed it to Bryce. “My cell phone number. At the very least, please tell him to take an aspirin a day if he isn’t already doing that.”
“Okay, I will.”
“And tell him to ease up on the physical activity.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“One other thing. I’d appreciate it if you kept our conversation to yourself. Though my field is cardiology, Dr. Andrews is in charge of the president’s health. He would think I’m overstepping my bounds.”
Bryce smiled. “Which you are.”
As the Washington lawyer left the White House, the skies were gloomy and gray. Bryce rejected the waiting White House limousine in favor of walking back to his office at Eighth and Pennsylvania, confident that the rain would hold off for a man as important as he was.
When Bryce had entered the White House a couple of hours previously to meet the president for their tennis match, it had been a gorgeous fall day and this seemed quite appropriate for Bryce—a man in the beautiful autumn of his life. But like the weather, life was in flux and surprises kept flying at him from left field. “Zingers” was what his Uncle Charlie called those unanticipated events that suddenly appear and turn one’s life in a different direction. Plot points, they call them in Hollywood.
Bryce exited the White House grounds and turned eastward, walking at a slow, contemplative pace—not his usual long, purposeful strides. A year ago when Treadwell had been elected president, Bryce felt like he was on top of the world.
After Yale their professional paths had diverged, with Bryce going to Harvard Law, then coming to Washington for a clerkship on the Supreme Court before joining a prestigious Washington law firm; and Treadwell getting an MBA at Harvard before making a bundle on Wall Street, which he used to catapult himself into the national political sphere. They had remained close friends with Bryce playing the role of consigliore as well as tennis partner to the rising Treadwell. Bryce could have had any position he wanted in the Treadwell administration, but he declined an official post, preferring to stay at his law firm and cash in on his relationship with Treadwell, who had built the court in the White House basement so he could play with Bryce.
It was well known that Bryce was the closest advisor to the most powerful man in the world. Treadwell needed him. Bryce, always top of the class, was much smarter and quicker than Treadwell, who had been a mediocre student.
Bryce was benefitting enormously from his relationship with the president. So many clients flocked to Bryce’s law firm that he had to hire fifty additional lawyers. He was working sixteen-hour days shuttling between the White House and the law firm, loving every minute of it, particularly his personal profiles in the New York Times and Washington Post describing how much Treadwell relied on him.
About six months ago, zinger number one hit. Claire, his wife of thirty-five years and mother of his two children, announced on her sixtieth birthday that this wasn’t what she had bargained for at this point in her life—a husband who was never home. It was late in the game, but not too late to do something she wanted to do. So she had set off to Florence to study art and to paint. “And there’s nothing you can say to stop me,” she snapped at him in a tone he
Bryce nodded grimly. “Yeah, you’re right. Let me work on it. It may take a while.”
“You can’t take too long or he’ll have a heart attack.”
“I understand. I’ll come up with a way to get it done. I’ll tell him that you’ll keep the results quiet. I assume that’s acceptable to you.”
“I never disclose any patient’s medical information.”
“Even the president of the United States?”
“For me, the rules are the same.”
Dr. Lee extracted a card from her pocket and handed it to Bryce. “My cell phone number. At the very least, please tell him to take an aspirin a day if he isn’t already doing that.”
“Okay, I will.”
“And tell him to ease up on the physical activity.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“One other thing. I’d appreciate it if you kept our conversation to yourself. Though my field is cardiology, Dr. Andrews is in charge of the president’s health. He would think I’m overstepping my bounds.”
Bryce smiled. “Which you are.”
As the Washington lawyer left the White House, the skies were gloomy and gray. Bryce rejected the waiting White House limousine in favor of walking back to his office at Eighth and Pennsylvania, confident that the rain would hold off for a man as important as he was.
When Bryce had entered the White House a couple of hours previously to meet the president for their tennis match, it had been a gorgeous fall day and this seemed quite appropriate for Bryce—a man in the beautiful autumn of his life. But like the weather, life was in flux and surprises kept flying at him from left field. “Zingers” was what his Uncle Charlie called those unanticipated events that suddenly appear and turn one’s life in a different direction. Plot points, they call them in Hollywood.
Bryce exited the White House grounds and turned eastward, walking at a slow, contemplative pace—not his usual long, purposeful strides. A year ago when Treadwell had been elected president, Bryce felt like he was on top of the world.
After Yale their professional paths had diverged, with Bryce going to Harvard Law, then coming to Washington for a clerkship on the Supreme Court before joining a prestigious Washington law firm; and Treadwell getting an MBA at Harvard before making a bundle on Wall Street, which he used to catapult himself into the national political sphere. They had remained close friends with Bryce playing the role of consigliore as well as tennis partner to the rising Treadwell. Bryce could have had any position he wanted in the Treadwell administration, but he declined an official post, preferring to stay at his law firm and cash in on his relationship with Treadwell, who had built the court in the White House basement so he could play with Bryce.
It was well known that Bryce was the closest advisor to the most powerful man in the world. Treadwell needed him. Bryce, always top of the class, was much smarter and quicker than Treadwell, who had been a mediocre student.
Bryce was benefitting enormously from his relationship with the president. So many clients flocked to Bryce’s law firm that he had to hire fifty additional lawyers. He was working sixteen-hour days shuttling between the White House and the law firm, loving every minute of it, particularly his personal profiles in the New York Times and Washington Post describing how much Treadwell relied on him.
About six months ago, zinger number one hit. Claire, his wife of thirty-five years and mother of his two children, announced on her sixtieth birthday that this wasn’t what she had bargained for at this point in her life—a husband who was never home. It was late in the game, but not too late to do something she wanted to do. So she had set off to Florence to study art and to paint. “And there’s nothing you can say to stop me,” she snapped at him in a tone he
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