The Frankenstein Candidate Read online

  As Gary’s mind cleared, guilt and joy tore into him, each wanting the prime position. He didn’t mind either. He knew at once that she had always loved him true and always would. He of the doubting mind and infidelity deserved guilt.

  Olivia’s mild confusion quickly turned into a paroxysm of rage. Letting his hand go, she tore out of the house like a woman possessed. He didn’t try to stop her; Mother Guilt had to take her share before undiluted joy was allowed back into his mind.

  Victor, she found out, was having surgery at a local hospital. He would be able to see visitors in the evening, they said. She needed something to calm her down, to hold her together till evening came.

  She drove unannounced to George Mason University to find Dr. Rohan Joshy. Larry was screaming at her on the car phone to get security in the car to go with her.

  “I can’t, Larry. I can’t tell you where I am, but I won’t be long—”

  “You are near George Mason. Are you going to see Dr. Joshy?”

  She looked in the rearview mirror, dazed. She recognized her tail—a large, dark green SUV that belonged to one of the private security agents assigned to her.

  Instinctively, she accelerated and took a sharp right. Her Volvo X99 screamed another hard right…and another…soon, she hit a highway, exceeding permissible speed. She didn’t slow down even when she no longer saw her tail. She didn’t know where she was going or when she was going to stop. It wasn’t the way to George Mason, but all her mind was telling her was to get away…get away from them all. She kept accelerating—forty, fifty, sixty miles an hour—she was no longer even looking at her speedometer.

  It was only the rising siren that broke her trance. It felt like being snatched out of a nightmare by an alarm. She parked by the curb, gazing at the female in uniform approaching her. She lowered the driver’s side window.

  “License and registration papers, ma’am,” the female in the uniform said. Thank god the cop did not recognize her.

  “Did you realize you were speeding, ma’am?”

  “Uh…no. No, I didn’t.”

  The officer looked at her license and looked back at her.

  “Olivia Allen?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Oh my god, you are…are you…the…the…Olivia Allen?”

  Olivia nodded. Fame cuts both ways, doesn’t she?

  “I am such a fan of yours, Miss Allen. I think you are doing a wonderful job. Where are you going?”

  “George Mason, but I think I missed the exit.”

  “You sure did. Take the next right and follow the road for four miles and you will see the signs.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I am sorry. I’m afraid you still have to take the breathalyzer.”

  “I’m fine. I haven’t been drinking.”

  “I’m sure. How about I let you go if you pass the test? I am not issuing you a speeding ticket. I want you to win, Miss Allen. I am Charlene Montgomery, DC Highway Patrol.”

  Olivia passed the breath test.

  “Normally, I would have needed to put a ticket on my file. But people see it, ma’am. You know what it’s like. One minute it’s just a speeding ticket, the next minute it’s on the news, and we can exercise discretion you know.”

  “I appreciate that, officer. I really do. Thank you.”

  “Sometimes it’s the stress of the job, you know. Like I said, Charlene Montgomery, DC Highway Patrol. You are free to go now. Drive safely. That…is that your security car parked behind you now?”

  Instantly dismayed, she saw the dark green SUV parked right behind the police car.

  She drove quietly back to George Mason University. Rohan Joshy was not around. He asked her to sit on her emotions for a day. It wasn’t easy. You can ruminate on a difficult problem or a value choice for a day…but rage, that’s altogether different—she had to talk to someone, not just anyone, someone who could understand.

  Finally, she called the one person who she knew would listen, would care, and would understand: Thomas Beal, her father. They spoke for an hour, and she made her mind up.

  38

  Ambition Was Always a Horse You Could Tame

  There were twenty industry chieftains delivered at short notice into a large conference room on the top floor of a fifty-seven story building, a room that screamed money and power. A large oval-shaped eaglewood table was surrounded by comfortable leather chairs. Even a casual glance around the room revealed Rolexes, Valentino Newmans, Fioravanti, and Ralph Lauren suits. Chanel No. 5 fragrance collided with Michel Germain aftershave, expensive leather briefcases snapped and unsnapped, sparkling water was served by men dressed like English butlers. From the helipad on the rooftop, the whirr of helicopters landing announced their proximity.

  Larry had virtually secured everyone at a day’s notice. Some were chairmen instead of the company presidents, but no corporation was going to miss a chance at speaking directly with a possible American president; the chiefs simply rescheduled. Most polls had Olivia Allen leading John Logan 70-30, and Frank Stein had slid to less than 10 percent. But it was a time of extreme volatility and uncertainty. Polls were gyrating wildly from one week to the next.

  Olivia was anxious to get the chiefs’ perspective on industry, including specific proposals on increasing employment in America, their views on why they were laying off people instead of hiring more, and their view of future prospects for both their companies and the economy generally. Larry had briefed them all in advance.

  Larry smartly let each of them think it was only their industry that was being represented; they were even in separate waiting rooms. Each had come prepared to ask for government assistance for their industry. Banks and financial institutions were included. Olivia knew only too well what their state was like.

  Then suddenly, they were all put together in one conference room, and Olivia made her entrance. Only a few were vocal enough to voice their grab for federal favors in the presence of so large a crowd. Most spoke in general platitudes about federal assistance and money printing to get the economy going.

  “What’s the single biggest factor behind our decline?” Olivia asked at one stage.

  “Carbon,” said Lydia Jeffries, the president of a large global manufacturing firm, AttesCo, a maker of electronic components, one of the very few U.S. manufacturers still left.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We play by the rules, Miss Allen. China doesn’t. Brazil doesn’t. India doesn’t. Russia doesn’t. I don’t think even Japan does.”

  “I see. So you would rather expand capacity in…say, Brazil, for example?”

  “We are doing precisely that.” It was the CEO of one of the largest retail brands in the world. “America is simply not an economic location anymore. Regulation costs are astronomical. Labor costs are higher than in Asia, and we are not allowed to get those down. Markets are growing overseas because their populations are growing and their currencies are getting stronger.”

  “Our capital stock is all in housing. We have empty houses all over the country, yet more are being built. We lend funds where the demand is,” an apologetic bank chief said.

  “We have stopped allocating funds to research. It takes us two billion to make the first tablet and two cents to make the second one. We can’t recoup all the development costs of a new drug if intellectual property is not respected. It isn’t anymore…plus we are perpetually demonized in Hollywood and the media as the greedy hogs who let kids die rather than pull a product off the shelves.” It was a cynical, aging chairman of a global pharmaceutical corporation.

  “We need to postpone the environment,” Lydia Jeffries said. “I mean, the guilt trip has gone too far. I am all for the environment, of course…like we all are…but the developing countries have to take their fair share of the challenge.”

  By noon, she had heard enough. Once the industry chiefs had left, she sat by the window, reflecting on everything. Going back to DC on their chartered jet, Larry noticed that a new calm had
descended upon her.

  She decided she needed to see Dr. Mardi Tedman as soon as possible. He was known to be eccentric but brilliant. He was the government’s chief scientific adviser, and he had devised the Rio method of carbon price allocation. If anyone could figure out how to find and fine the culprit nations that were not playing ball, it would be none other than Dr. Mardi Tedman.

  She learned that both his cell phone and his home phone had gone unanswered for several days. She heard that he had walked out of a scientific conference at which he was presenting as soon as his presentation was done, which was rather unusual for him. No one had heard from him since. He had not been seen at work, which he rarely missed.

  Olivia got his address. He lived in an apartment by himself in a nice part of town. She agreed with Larry that security could drive her there, but she insisted that they stay outside the door.

  She looked at the time. It was three p.m., still three hours before they would let anyone see Victor Howell.

  She got to Mardi’s residence within the hour. She rang the doorbell several times, persistently longer each time. There was no answer. Brendan Conway, her security man, suggested that they leave. But Olivia was going nowhere. She threw her weight against the door, pushing hard with her shoulder. It did not budge.

  “I will pay for the damage,” she said as she glanced at Brendan. Brendan was well over two hundred pounds of steel and tensile fiber. He read her thoughts. Wood splintered as one strong kick from his boot thrust the door open.

  They continued to stand just outside the open door.

  “Dr. Tedman? Doctor? Hello…hello? Anyone there?”

  Mardi Tedman appeared in a robe, his face wrought with anger. He looked at the two intruders with suspicion.

  “I am Senator Olivia Allen, Doctor. I must apologize for the door. I will send someone to fix the door urgently—”

  “I recognize you. The next president of the United States.”

  “Are you well?”

  “Yes, perfectly.”

  “Could you…is it…too much to ask…if you could join me later…at my office or yours if you prefer…tomorrow perhaps if this evening does not—”

  Mardi stared straight past her, his face empty, expressionless, as if his spirit had been drained out of his body. The lips worked, the legs worked—only barely—but emotion had gone with the life force.

  “Tomorrow could be too late. Whatever you need to ask me, ask it today,” he said.

  She didn’t know quite what to make of that.

  “Well, how about seven p.m., we can make reservations at…well, where shall we—”

  “That will be too late,” he said, his eyes vacant.

  “When is a good time then?”

  “Come into the kitchen please.” He led the way.

  She motioned for Brendan to wait outside. Mardi didn’t even bother to change. The bathrobe was soiled, like it had not been washed in months, a pungent odor of vomit hung faintly in the air; Olivia did not dare to go near the kitchen sink. The kitchen was sizeable, with teakwood cabinets and granite counters, but it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for months. Bits of food littered the floor.

  Mardi sat opposite Olivia and said nothing, seemingly waiting for her questions, his movements robotic, his eyes fixated and unblinking.

  “So the question is, in a nutshell, how are we to face the environmental challenge while preserving our competitiveness?”

  “The game is over, isn’t it?” His voice was flat.

  “What game is over, Dr. Tedman?”

  Mardi didn’t answer. He got up to open a drawer in his kitchen cabinet. One moment she was having a serious conversation with a scientist, albeit a drained one, and the next moment he had drawn a revolver and held it to his temple.

  Instinctively, she screamed. For four seconds precisely, time stood still as the shout continued while the hulk of Brendan Conway burst through the door and raced through the kitchen.

  “Dr. Tedman, stop,” she said.

  “Drop your weapon right now and raise your hands!” Brendan’s revolver was pointing at Mardi’s head; Brendan was no more than five feet from him.

  “Otherwise you will kill me and end up to jail…better I do it myself,” Mardi said, a sardonic smile crossing his face—oddly, it was more human than the automaton she had earlier seen.

  “No!” Olivia bridged half the gap between her and Mardi with very small, tentative steps. Instinctively, she knew that a lunge from her could cause his forefinger to push inwards an inch and a brilliant life would end.

  Mardi was left-handed. He made a motion to stop her, using his left hand, which also held the gun. Brendan’s strong grip swiftly encircled Mardi’s wrist; the revolver was wrenched free. The little black gun fell to the ground and rolled over once before Brendan kicked it hard, smashing it against the refrigerator and scraping the white paint. Mardi winced in pain as Brendan put him in an arm lock.

  “Why, Dr. Tedman? Why?” Olivia was shocked, bewildered, and indignant all at the same time.

  “That’s the question I have been asking myself for thirty-one years.” Slowly, the color began to come back into his face.

  They settled him into an armchair after Brendan put handcuffs on him. Civilian arrest, Mr. Conway called it. A glass of cool water was sipped slowly, Olivia easing the glass to his mouth, her other hand wiping his brow.

  Brendan stood, his gun cocked and pointed until Olivia motioned it down. Here was a little old man, seated and now in handcuffs. Brendan understood; the gun was put away.

  “I really need to understand, Doctor…I really do.”

  “I should have listened to Frank…he was my only true friend,” he murmured.

  “Which Frank are we talking about?”

  “Frank Stein. He knows all the answers by now.”

  Minutes passed, and they seemed like hours. Olivia debated with Brendan, who wanted to call the cops. Somehow, she persuaded him to let her handle it. The shock of the week had turned her confusion into rage, and she had just witnessed the country’s best-known scientist become suicidal. Clarity alone could calm her down. Clarity, Dr. Joshy had told her, was the queen of the emotions. Somehow, her instincts suggested that the suicidal, brilliant man in front of her held the key to clarity. She was going to hold on to that thought—whether right or wrong, it offered her hope.

  Olivia rang her close friend at Kingsmead Psychiatric, Dr. Bruce Rohl. They made a deal with Mardi. If she didn’t tell the police or the media straightway, Mardi would go there with them. As a former Secret Service agent, Brendan Conway was sworn to secrecy; his only job was to protect Olivia, whatever the cost.

  Mardi was to be identified under a different name and kept under the direct and personal supervision of Dr. Rohl.

  Olivia didn’t know Frank Stein directly, although she knew her staff could easily get hold of him. She returned to the suicidal source of her sought-after clarity.

  “What specifically does Frank Stein know…about the cause of your pain?”

  “The carbon apology is a manufactured world, Miss Allen, but they got ahead of themselves…I warned them…doing too much too fast could burst the bubble.”

  He would say no more. They left him with Dr. Rohl. She organized for his apartment door to be fixed, and Brendan Conway left with Mardi’s gun in a plastic jacket. It had been loaded. There were no other guns in the apartment.

  Larry Fox was waiting in the hospital lobby for Olivia when she arrived to see Victor. Clarity was slowly oozing through, and the serenity made her think fast on her feet.

  “What did he say?” Larry asked.

  “Who?” she replied, unperturbed by his possible discovery of where she had been.

  “Dr. Mardi Tedman…didn’t you just go see him?”

  “Nothing much. He was rushing out for a weekend and a bit in Ocean City. He is all right…just needs a break for a couple of weeks.”

  “I see. He should have told his staff.”

  “Larry,
I really need to see Victor alone.”

  “All right, but I am coming in with you. I need to pay my respects too, but I will leave early.”

  Olivia’s glance told him she was becoming more and more of her own woman.

  “I’m no fly on the wall, Miss Allen…I won’t stay for longer than ten minutes. I just want to wish the grand old man well, that’s all.” It was the very first time since they met that Larry had addressed Olivia as Miss Allen, and his voice had an apologetic, submissive tone.

  When Larry and Olivia walked in to Victor’s room at the hospital, Olivia was holding the bouquet of flowers that Larry had brought with him.

  “Thank you, Olivia…you needn’t have.” Victor was seated upright on an inclined bed.

  “Larry organized it,” she acknowledged graciously.

  “I should be out soon, two, maybe three days. The doctors told me they got rid of all the cancer. I wouldn’t want to miss your acceptance speech next week for the world.” Victor seemed quite cheerful.

  Precisely ten minutes into the pleasantries, Olivia glanced sideways at Larry. He left within moments. It was good for her to get tough, he thought, the real campaign was going to get nasty and personal. Olivia’s tone changed after Larry left. For three insane seconds, she imagined she was carrying a loaded gun in her purse that she drew and shot Victor with. Her hand went inside her purse—there was no gun. Instead, she broke the silence with “Gary’s car was almost hit. It was way too close. You didn’t need a gunshot.”

  “What? Excuse me, what the hell are you talking about?”

  She ignored his remark. Feigning gratitude for his advice and his push to make her president, she baited him again after a few minutes; this time he fell for it.

  “You have scared the pants off him though. He won’t do it again. I should be grateful,” she said.

  “The important thing is no one got hurt. You should sort it out afterward.”