Stone 588 (21 page)

Norman didn't have the answer.

The danger of ventricular fibrillation and sudden death was always greatest during the first few hours. Norman went about making sure that the defibrillator, the machine used to administer electrical countershock, was in ready order. He checked its electrodes and paddles. If the President's heart went racing out of control—or stopped—countershock would be vital. Norman preset the machine at 300 watt seconds (joules) and saw that there was an ample supply of electrode paste on hand. He uncapped one of the tubes of electrode paste to save even that much time. He saw to it that syringes containing digitalis, verapamil, and quinidine were in place on a nearby tray. Also a syringe containing epinephrine—Adrenalin—in case it got to that. He had to be ready for anything.

He stood at the foot of the bed with the President's eyes upon him. He watched the variations on the electrocardiograph monitor, had, from experience, a fairly accurate idea of what was happening within the President's body. He tried to picture it exactly, and the impossibility of that reminded him, as it had numerous times before, of his limitations.

Blood was drawn.

The laboratory rushed for results.

They told Norman that the serum enzymes in the President's blood were already above normal range. Serum creatine phosphokinase was up, as was the level of serum glutamic oxaloacetic transaminase. Already elevated and they wouldn't peak for at least another 12 to 35 hours. They indicated damage to the heart muscle tissues.

How much damage up to now?

How much more to come?

It looked bad, morbid.

The only way Norman could decide what steps were best to take, even if they were futile steps, was for him to know what he was up against. He reminded himself who this patient was, but immediately his better judgment warned him not to be overcautious. If he lost the President it wouldn't matter whether he'd done too much or too little. The mark would be on him either way. That went with the territory. Worse within himself, however, would be to have done too little.

When, after three hours, the President's pain increased, Norman decided on coronary angiography.

He himself performed the procedure.

The President was strapped to a rotating x-ray tilt table. Electrocardiogram and blood pressure monitoring was connected and a direct-current defibrillator stood nearby.

An incision was made just above the bend of the President's right arm, exposing the right brachial artery. The artery was opened and into it Norman inserted an 8-French woven catheter with a special top that tapered to 5-French diameter. Steadily but carefully, feeling for any resistance, Norman fed the catheter up the artery. He was able to view this progress through an image intensifier equipped with closed-circuit television. Pressure on the catheter tip from a narrowing or closing off anywhere along the arterial walls was measured and recorded by a Statham P-23 D-G strain gauge.

Norman extended the catheter into the orifice of each coronary artery and, in turn, injected through it a 70-percent solution of Hypaque, a substance that would make the arterial courses appear opaque, thus defining them. His foot pressed the activation pedal of the 35mm motion picture camera that was connected to the optical periscope system above the table. Eastman Double X negative film recorded every phase. Norman worked the table, tilting controls, automatically changing the President's position, rotating him as much as 60 degrees one way and then the other to get both right and left anterior oblique views. The Hypaque passed into all branches of the coronary tree.

Next, Norman manipulated the catheter so it traveled across the aortic valve and into the heart itself—the left ventricle. He opacified that cavity with 40 milliliters of a 9-percent solution of Hypaque. He exposed film to cover that, withdrew the catheter, and sutured up the brachial artery and arm.

None of these procedures were new to Norman, yet when he removed his surgeon's gloves and gown he felt as though his torso was too great a burden for his legs. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers to conceal the tremble of his hands. He drew in several deep breaths because he had been breathing shallowly for so long.

The President was returned to his bed and again hooked up to the monitors there, apparently no worse off for the risky measures he had just been put through.

There were two rooms off the one the President occupied: one for the President's wife and family, the other for the attending doctor, in this instance Norman. Norman was in his bathroom in the middle of taking a much-needed piss when McDermott walked in on him. McDermott gave no thought to the fact that Norman was cock in hand as he gave Norman chapter and verse regarding confidentiality. McDermott was the presidential Press Secretary, an appropriately agile-minded, assertive fellow in his mid-thirties. He told Norman that until there was an eventuality, as he put it, it had been decided that the President's condition be kept in strictest confidence. By no means should Norman respond to any questions put to him by the press. Surely, McDermott said, Norman could appreciate the sensitivity of the circumstances. The Soviets or who knew whatever bastards would very possibly take advantage during this time of weakness. Foreign policy and national security were involved. He could count on Norman, couldn't he?

A weary Norman zipped up his fly and nodded.

At dawn Norman viewed the angiographic films. They were clear, well-exposed pictures that showed beyond a doubt that the President was suffering myocardial ischemia. Portions of heart muscle were dying from a deficiency of blood caused by the narrowing of the arterial channels. Distal radicles of the President's coronary artery tree as small as 100 to 200 microns in lumen diameter were visible. Larger, major branches were easily distinguishable. Nearly all were being affected to some extent. At various points the buildup of plaque along the walls of the arteries was so severe the flow of blood was clogged. All those years of political campaign luncheons and dinners, all those occasions that were made special, calling for fancier, richer food because of the President's presence, were now being paid for.

Norman had hoped the angiography would tell him what helpful measures to take, perhaps indicate the feasibility of one or more surgical bypasses. However, the atherosclerotic problem was so widespread and segmented and had already caused so much damage that these prerogatives were not open.

Norman realized he was going to lose this patient. It could happen at any moment or a week from now. The most he could do was keep the President as comfortable as possible on his way to death.

Throughout the recounting of all this to Longmire, Norman stumbled drunkenly over words, slurred entire sentences together, digressed and often repeated himself. Longmire listened with moderate interest but heard nothing that would, as Norman had said, knock him on his State Department ass.

Norman changed verbal gears with a couple of gulps of Wild Turkey and went on.

He told Longmire about his father and his father's so-called reminder stone. Told of how yesterday his brother, Phillip, had come down from New York bringing along the stone and stories of its power to heal. Norman gave a secondhand account of what the stone had ostensibly done for Janet and Libby. He told Lx)ngmire how, merely patronizing his brother, he had intimated possible interest and kept the stone. Honest to God, he'd had no other motive.

As soon as Phillip left Norman's office, Norman had hurried back to Bethesda. The President's condition was the same. Inevitably the electrical system of his heart would go haywire and there wouldn't be any more beats. For the moment he was sedated, his pain masked. Nothing Norman could do but wait.

In the adjoining room he lay on the bed and thought about his medical impotence. When it came down to the mortal bedrock, he was as useless as this stone.

He took it from his shirt pocket, looked at it indifferently. He had no intention of trying it at that point, although it must have been then that his mind, or whatever, had made such a suggestion.

Chalk it up to fatigue, but it was almost as though another person went into the President's room and, making sure the President was sleeping and no one else was there, taped the stone to the President's left side, up near the armpit where it wouldn't be easily noticed. He then returned to his own room and bed.

Fell asleep.

Awoke four or so hours later and went in to the President.

The first thing he noticed was the President's heartbeat. A steady, strong 70 a minute. The EKG readout indicated a drastic change. For the better. Normal Q waves; the ST segment wasn't elevated, nor were the T waves inverted. He was looking at the EKG of a healthy heart. It wasn't possible.

He drew blood.

The laboratory results showed all serum enzyme levels within normal range. The muscle tissue of the President's heart was no longer being damaged.

Just like that.

Norman had to be certain. He performed another angiogram, repeated all the procedures, and exposed a lot of film to cover every angle. While going through the various steps, Norman felt his anxiety growing, his hope pulling him on. No time for skepticism or questioning.

The developed film showed a highly efficient functioning heart and arterial

system. The lumen diameter of the coronary arteries was more than sufficient for full force circulation of blood. Even more amazing, wherever the heart muscle had been damaged there was now no sign of that, not even any scarring. It was as though something had cleared out the arteries and made everything right within the heart.

That morning the President sat up on the side of his bed and had a large breakfast. He was lauded for his recuperative powers, was told the diagnosis had been evasive, extremely tricky, but had turned out to be not what was feared, not serious at all. He was most willing to believe that. He remarked that later in the day he thought he would walk around the wards and shake some hands, which was customary for him. He glanced at Norman for an objection.

Norman saw no reason why he shouldn't.

Longmire chuckled.

So did Norman.

Longmire asked if Norman had spoken of this to anyone, McDermott or anyone?

No.

Had Norman removed the stone from where it was taped on the President's side?

Of course.

Unseen?

Naturally.

So where now was this remarkable stone?

Norman told him.

Longmire, caring friend that he was, said Norman had had quite a time of it over the past several days, must be pooped. Why didn't he crawl up on the couch there and get some well-deserved sleep?

Norman took the suggestion.

Longmire waited until Norman was sleeping deeply before he went to the stereo and removed the cassette. When Norman had gotten to the truly interesting part of his monologue, Longmire had casually gone over and pressed the proper switches. All of what Norman had said about the stone and its effect on the President was recorded over Liszt's Piano Concerto No. 1.

Longmire went downstairs to the kitchen. Put on some fresh coffee and sat at the kitchen table. He imagined the impact of such a stone as Norman had described, the influence it would have over certain instrumental people, people in power whom we wanted to have see things our way. What a persuasive side benefit it would be to any agreement. And you will have access to our stone would be the offer. Our entire approach to international diplomacy

STONE 588 B3

would be changed. Hell, our entire foreign policy. A stone with such power would be the most prized thing in the world.

Later, Longmire would set up an off-the-record meeting with George Gurney, head of State Department Intelligence. Gurney was a former CIA man, but in his present position with State he resented having to answer to the CIA. Like the heads of the other intelligence branches, the DIA, National Security Agency, and others, Gurney was caught up in the intramural competitiveness of the U.S. intelligence community.

He'd go to any extreme to gain an edge such as this.

o

"Is it Madame or Mademoiselle?"

"Neither," Audrey replied, just to be perverse.

That stopped the stall owner, a short, narrow-shouldered man with a florid face. He lowered his chin and, over his glasses, studied what sort of person this customer was. He knew for a fact that at least half the more beautiful prostitutes who worked the boulevards around the fitoile were depilated young men in dresses, believably chic down to their enameled toenails. And adept at doing what they did, too. But this, he decided, was not one of those. "I assure you"—he went on selling—"this painting is seventeenth-century Flemish, early seventeenth century. Regardez." He exhibited the painting's back side. Its canvas did indeed appear to be old enough, and the wood of its stretchers was shot with worm holes.

"Who do you say was the artist?" Audrey asked neutrally.

"Jan van Ravenstyn."

"Never heard of him."

"A contemporary of Rembrandt. They drank together. It is said that Rembrandt learned much from van Ravenstyn. The similarity of technique is quite obvious, n'est-ce pas?"

The painting was medium in size, a dark-grounded portrait of a plump woman up to her neck in an overly wide starched white collar edged with

lace. It was an exceptionally fine copy. The stall owner had sold two like it each year for the past eight years.

"How much are you asking for it?"

"Asking?" the stall owner said with average French condescension. "The price is an inflexible eighty thousand francs."

Audrey reached into her sling carryall.

The stall owner's palms itched. Again his philosophy, chose qui plait c'est demi vendu, a thing that pleases is half sold, had proved to be true.

Audrey brought out her pendulum. Unraveled the twine that had the large emerald bead on one end, the chunk of ivory on the other. She instructed the stall owner to place the painting face up on the floor. He complied reluctantly and watched with dismay as Audrey held the pendulum above the painting. The emerald bead went from a standstill to a rather energetic left-to-right swinging motion.

A madwoman, the stall owner thought. But she appeared to be a well-off madwoman. He would not yet ask her to leave.

Audrey gathered up her pendulum and dismissed the painting on the floor by stepping over it.

"May I hang this back in place?" the stall owner asked.

"By all means."

The stall was on allee number 1 in the Vemaison section of the Marche aux Puces. Audrey and Springer had eye-shopped nearly all the allees and cross-connecting passageways that were lined with stalls offering for sale everything from odd pieces of chipped faience to chateau-quality chandeliers, potholder scraps of seventeenth-century needlepoint to massive architectural remnants.

Neither Audrey nor Springer had bought anything, hadn't even touched. They'd noticed and commented on how the tourists, numerous on this pleasant summery day, compulsively fingered whatever object their eyes caught upon, as though in that there was a gratuitous satisfaction. Audrey had seen a few things that sparked ideas for future Bergdorf windows. Springer saw nothing he wanted.

His mind was too involved with stall 39 there on allee number 1. Both times they'd passed by, that stall had been closed. Springer hoped there hadn't been a mix-up. Drumgold had said stall 39 Tuesday afternoon. Springer was certain of that. Drumgold's contact in Antwerp might have gotten signals crossed. No special time in the afternoon had been mentioned. If he had to. Springer would wait it out until the flea market closed, then call Drumgold in London to find out what went viTong. Drumgold had gone to a lot of trouble to line up the deal. During the week, he'd made quick trips to Antwerp and Moscow, picked up a couple of his longtime personal due bills,