After the Fall (23 page)

Would it still be possible—one way or another—to get the $7.5 million? Stash it somewhere? Keep it in America? Open one of those offshore accounts? She knew that certain Iraqis had huge sums of money in foreign accounts all over the world. Saddam and his sons and sons-in-law were experts at exploiting the global financial system.

Dru was a banker, but when he'd mentioned the money to her father, he'd dismissed it as inconsequential. And Dru, who seemed so anxious for her to collect the Immunone money, now seemed disinterested. Dru was so scared that he'd put his wife and sons in hiding. Addie admitted that her years in the West had
made her a capitalist. Under capitalism, if you worked hard, you were rewarded. Well, she'd worked hard, was ready for her reward. Could she simply walk away?

There has to be a way
, Addie kept telling herself as she rose to make herself another cup of tea. What am I going to do? Then she thought of Jake. His proposal of marriage. Could that be her way out? What if they were secretly married before her flight on Friday? Could a husband collect for her? In Iraq, husbands controlled their wife's finances.

She knew that in America they'd need a state license, so she called the State of Maryland to ask about marriage licenses. She was transferred to a woman who grudgingly provided the requirements: picture IDs for both; for Jake, a death certificate for his wife—had to be certified; she'd need her green card; no blood tests; waiting period—two days, or to be exact, 48 hours; cash money up to $85. You had to go to the circuit court. She copied down the addresses of the ones she thought far enough away from Rockville but within an hour or so drive. If they got the license today—there was still enough time—they could be married on Thursday.

Next, she needed to call Jake at work, something she never did. She remembered the trouble she'd caused by calling him at his home the night his wife was killed right there in his house. Could he get in trouble with this call too?

As she picked up the phone, Addie's hands started to tremble. She set it back down. Did she have everything figured out? Her job: she needed to be employed by Replica when the approval milestone for Immunone was finalized. That she couldn't control. Maybe Jake could, but he had not been forthcoming. The thought had never occurred to her before, but could she take a leave of absence from Replica? Tomorrow, she'd go to Human Resources, tell them her father was critically ill—the truth, if Dru could be believed—request a medical condolence leave, or whatever they called it—maybe for a month. By then Immunone would certainly be approved, and Jake, as her husband, could get
the money and invest it for her. He might have to resign at the FDA because of their conflict of interest paranoia, but with that kind of money, so what?

Again, she reached for the phone. One more consideration shook her resolve. Jake—could Jake be trusted? Did he love her enough to protect her money even if she never returned to America? She started to dial. She thought he did. Hadn't he said he'd convert to the Islamic religion? She had to put her faith in him. He was her only hope for a future beyond complete subservience as a Muslim woman.

Jake answered on the third ring. For that, Addie thanked Allah. She didn't want the department secretary announcing this forbidden call for all ears to hear. “Drug Evaluation. Immunology. Jake Harter.”

“Jake, this is Addie,” she whispered.

“Not a good time,” Jake said, automatic, perturbed. Then in a more concerned tone, “Is something wrong? Are you okay? I mean, calling me here?”

“I need you to come here, Jake. Right away.” Still a whisper. She checked her watch. One fifteen. He could make it here in fifteen minutes. Another hour to get to the courthouse she'd chosen.

“Why are you whispering? I can't hear you. Is somebody there? Addie, are the police with you?”

Addie glanced at the note she'd made about marriage license requirements. Jake would have to stop home on his way to her place. He'd need his wife's death certificate. What about a birth certificate? No, the form said a driver's license is okay. He'll have that in his wallet. “No,” she spoke in her phone voice, a bit louder than her normal face-to-face voice. “But go home and get your wife's death certificate.” She glanced again at the specifications. “A certified copy,” she said. “That's very important.”

Should she tell him what she wanted now, on the phone? Or wait and do it in person?

“What? Addie, I'm in the middle of a major issue here. Can we discuss this later? I can't believe—”

“Jake, you have to do this for me. For us. If you love me.”

“There's no question I do, but I can't leave.” He hesitated. In a low voice he said, “It's about Immunone. Tell you about it when I see you. I'll try to get out early.”

All week she'd been begging him for information and now he offers to share. If they didn't get the license today, for her, there would be no Immunone.

“I no longer care. Jake, if you don't come to my house with what I asked you for, I will not be here tonight. I'll be out of your life forever.” There it was: the ultimatum. If he wouldn't do this for her, he certainly could not be trusted to protect her money. She held her breath. She'd either be leaving the United States single, or she'd be married with access to a fortune when she finished whatever task Saddam Hussein's sons wanted her to do.

Voices in the background, Jake calling, “I'll be right there.”

Addie breathed, then gulped as she realized he'd not been addressing her, but whomever was on his side of the line.

“Addie, I don't know what's going on, but you have to promise me no police are involved.”

“No police,” she said. “Hurry, please.”

T
UESDAY
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3

What did Addie's threat mean, she'd never see him again? Addie was a grounded woman, not a drama queen. She'd never pressured him before. He hoped he could trust her and that this wasn't some kind of trap to link him to Karolee's death. He was still a person of interest and he would be for some time. The spouse was always in the cops' crosshairs, even a disinherited spouse.

How could Karolee cut him out? Was it even legal? Could he risk a legal challenge without incriminating himself? He was facing enough complications. And suddenly, this Addie emergency. What could this possibly be about? He had to go to her. She was his life. All these problems traced back to his need to be with her. The old doctor's death. Karolee's fate. All so that he and Addie could have a life together. And they would.

He cursed the streak of shitty luck that know-it-all woman doctor was bringing down. What had she meant by “she had the data in Tampa?” Did it mean she simply had to hop on one of Keystone Pharma's jets, drop into her former office, pick up the files, fly back, dump them on Sid Casey's desk, completely discrediting Jake? No way she could accomplish this in time for the meeting Casey had called for tomorrow morning. And he'd put the fear of God into the woman about proper FDA protocol. All bluster, but she wouldn't know that.

Jake had been thinking about ways to deal with Dr. Nelson when Addie called, all frantic.

He pulled the Jeep into his driveway and started to get out, preoccupied with why Addie would want to see Karolee's death certificate when the details of his wife's murder had been in all the papers—

“Hey, Jake!” His neighbor bolted out of his door, pulling a knit cap on his balding head. “Cops were here again, man. Dogs this time. First time they brought the dogs, far as I can tell. Didn't go inside. Just had them sniff all around. Came on my property too. Didn't ask permission, but hell, I don't care. Anything to find the guy who killed Karolee. Right, Jake?”

Dogs? Two weeks after the attack? Shit, could they track all the way back to Mack's garage where I left the Jeep that night? No way, not with the snow. But why come with the dogs?

“Thanks for letting me know. I have no idea what they're looking for, but yes, whatever it takes to find the bastard that killed my wife.”

“You gonna keep living here?” his neighbor asked. “In the house? Alone?”

“Yeah,” Jake said. Not at all sure where he'd be living. “Hey, I've got to get moving. Just stopped to pick something up. Gotta go.” Without waiting for a reply, Jake let himself into the house, headed toward his study where he kept the important papers. There it was: Karolee's death certificate, a certified copy. Why would Addie insist he bring it with him? Without further thought, he jumped back into the Jeep and headed to her place.

Addie had given him a key to her apartment so he let himself inside. She wasn't in the living room, but as soon as he called her name, she came flying into his arms. He hardly recognized her. Her eyes were ablaze, puffy red circles surrounded them. Even the thought of her crying wrenched his heart. What could have happened?

“Please, Jake, we don't have much time. We have to make a decision. Today. Now.”

“What's wrong, Addie?”

She all but pushed him into the living room.

He nudged her briefcase aside so they could sit next to each other on the sofa.

“Let me explain, then we need to decide.”

“Okay.” He turned toward her, taking both her hands in his. “Tell me.”

“Orders from my father to return to Iraq. I leave on Friday. We have only two full days. Tomorrow and Thursday.”

“He can't just force you to go,” Jake blurted.

“Yes, he can. I must go. Do not waste our time discussing that. I will go. No questions.”

“I won't let you,” Jake stated.

“This is America. You can't stop me,” she said. “If this were my country…but here's the thing.”

Jake squeezed her hands tighter. “No!”

“Listen to me. What if we were to get married? Now. I mean, not today. But Thursday. Get our license today. I worked it all out, looked up courthouses. If we leave now, we can be in Ellicott City in an hour. There's a courthouse there—Howard County Orphans' Court—that specializes in marriage licenses. Nobody will know us. It's far enough away from Rockville and all the recent publicity about your wife.” She jerked her hands out from under Jake's, pulled a sheet of paper from her shirt pocket. “Here's the address.” She stuffed the paper into Jake's hands.

Jake glanced at it as she went on, “Important thing is that we have forty-eight hours. Say we can make it there by four o'clock, we get the license.” Addie took Jake's face in both of her hands. “We could be married on Thursday. When I go home, I'll be your wife.”

That's why she wanted Karolee's death certificate. Did what she was saying make any sense? Jake sat stunned, unable to process this. Yes, they'd be married, but she'd be in goddamned Iraq. A
marriage two weeks after Karolee's death would condemn him in the eyes of the public and perhaps the law—but without proof, so what?

“And here's what I was thinking,” Addie said, jumping up, grabbing her purse. “Make sure you have your driver's license.” She reached inside her wallet and pulled hers out. “Come on, I'll tell you in the car. About how I'll get a leave of absence, so I can still get the money when Immunone gets approved.”

So, she had a scheme that did involve $7.5 million. And as her husband—

“Come on, Jake. Do you think I picked the right courthouse?”

Jake nodded, stood, and extracted the keys to his Jeep.

“Addie,” he said, “I'll do anything for you.” And he would. And he had. And it had not been about the money, he reminded himself. But $7.5 million didn't hurt. His job? Who cared anymore? Immunone's approval schedule and all his manipulation, had that been all for nothing? It didn't pay to think about that right now. Concentrate on getting to the courthouse before those lazy county bureaucrats close up shop for the day.

T
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Tim's operating room team at CHOP was ready, the room set up, blood ready for transfusion, Gore-Tex patches on hand, the works. Two-month-old Malika Halabi had arrived yesterday from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. The pediatric cardiac surgeons there had refused to operate. The little girl was born with tetralogy of Fallot, a congenital heart disease involving four heart malformations: a ventricular septal defect, an overriding aorta, right ventricular hypertrophy, and pulmonary stenosis. The father, a member of the royal family, insisted Malika be transferred to CHOP—the trusted surgical site for children of Saudi royalty.

Tim had met the baby and her parents on the rooftop helipad at their arrival from Riyadh via New York City's JFK airport. Cyanotic, edematous, struggling for each breath, the cardiologists needed the night to stabilize her for what would be emergency surgery as the morning's first case, but the child literally died on her way to the OR. Tim knew the chances of the baby making it through the long and difficult surgery with such large defects at this late stage had been next to none, but when it came to children, he never gave up. Never.