The RX Factor (11 page)

"Jim, you don't have anyone following us, do you?"

"Afraid not buddy, why do you ask?"

"It's probably nothing. I guess I'm just paranoid after what happened on Exuma, but I could swear I've seen the same person several times since landing at O'Hare."

"You have a description for me?"

"Big burly-looking guy with a hook nose. Probably 6'2", two hundred thirty pounds give or take, black wavy hair, maybe forty years old. Not the type of guy who blends in easy with a crowd."

Crawford jotted down the description. "Any identifying marks? Scars, tattoos?"

"He never got close enough for me to see, so no way I could say for sure."

"Okay. I'll enter that description into our database and see if we get any hits."

An hour later, they were eating deep-dish Chicago-style pizza in another of Jordan's favor ite places when Ryan's cell phone rang. It was Jim Crawford. Jordan moved over closer to Ryan, and he held the phone so she could hear both sides of the conversation.

"I got Jordan here Jim, what did you find out?"

"Sure enough, we had a file on Loukas, and a thick one at that. He's a guy we keep tabs on. We know he has connections to organized crime but we've never dug up enough dirt to obtain an indictment," Crawford said. "Even so, I don't think he's your guy."

"Why not?" Ryan asked.

"He's been locked away in a drug rehab program for the past five weeks. Apparently he went off the deep end after the death of his wife and has been mired in painkillers and alcohol ever since."

"Damn, that doesn't sound promising."

"No, it doesn't. My sources tell me that drugs and alcohol have been his only focus for a good while and I couldn't find any info regarding his re -cent involvement in anything, legit or not. I think this angle is a dead end for you, buddy."

Ryan pulled the phone up to his ear and made a quarter turn away from Jordan.

"Sounds that way. Well, thanks for looking into this for us, Jim. Anything else?"

"I'm still waiting for the results on that other matter, but should have something before the end of the day."

Senator McNally entered his office and walked
straight to his secretary's desk.

Marge O'Neil, a heavy-set middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense attitude, lowered her reading glasses as she looked up from her work. She was not intimidated by the senator, or anyone else for that matter, and always spoke her mind freely. Some on the senator's staff found her demeanor a tad brusque, but McNally valued her exceptional work ethic, the speed with which she could accomplish any task, and the fact that she challenged him on a regular basis. He didn't need any more yes-men (or -women).

"Good morning, Senator. How was your trip to Africa?"

"Very successful," he replied. "But I'm glad to be back in civilization."

"Don't gripe, sir. These trips around the world are going to help get you elected president someday."

The senator smiled. She certainly had a way with people. "That's the plan, Marge." He grabbed a fistful of messages from her desk and continued on to his private office, shutting the door behind him.

He'd barely sat down when Marge rang him. "Yes?"

"Senator Dorn is on his way over," she said, "and Senator Nichols's office confirmed this morning."

"Thanks for seeing to that. Go ahead and set them up in the conference room, and let me know when they've arrived."

He hung up the phone and began preparing a few notes for the conference, the final in a series of six behind-closed-doors meetings over the past year that he'd arranged with the two senators to cobble together what would be his most important accomplishment to date: a comprehensive bill aimed at Social Security reform. He was deep in thought when his private line rang. Only a handful of people—a few top CEOs who happened to be big supporters, a couple of his special projects operatives, and the White House staff—had the number, so he knew it was serious business. He picked up on the second ring.

"Yes?"

He felt his heart beat harder in his chest and removed his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the beads of sweat that were beginning to form on his forehead as he listened to the caller's message.

As soon as the person on the other end of the line had finished, the senator replied with as much cool as he could muster. "I'm glad you called. I appreciate the update. Keep your head, and focus on the objective. I'll do what I can on my end to clear the path, okay?"

Marge knocked on his door just as he was hanging up.

"The senators are here and waiting for you in the conference room," she said.

"Great," Senator McNally said. "I'll be right out."

Senator McNally entered the conference room, where he found Senators Jim Dorn and Allen Nichols waiting. Dorn and Nichols were older than McNally in chronological years, but only Dorn, enjoying his fourth term, had served longer in the Senate.

"Good morning, gentlemen," McNally said warmly. He held both men in high regard and rarely bothered to hide his affection for them. Dorn and Nichols returned his greeting, and McNally took a seat opposite them at the table.

"Let's get started," McNally said. "Gentlemen, we've been over this a half dozen times now, and it's time to finalize our bill. You know my position. I believe it's imperative that the bill we sponsor is actually capable of being passed, and this means we need to offer compromise so that both sides of the aisle can come to an agreement. You know my position is that the wage base on which Social Security is taxed must be increased and that the minimum age of eligibility must be raised. What we need to come to agreement on today is the amount of the wage base increase, the manner in which we will step up the minimum age requirement, and what we are going to offer up to the other side of the aisle to persuade them to pass the Social Security Reform Act."

Dorn, balding, perennially sour-faced, and twenty-three years McNally's senior, was the first to comment. "My thoughts haven't changed," he said dryly. He laced his wide fingers together and rested them on his sizeable belly. It was his trademark move, designed to put everyone on notice that he was about to lay down the law. He was plenty adept at making his case, if a bit predictable. "I don't believe there should be any wage cap on Social Security tax, and we should leave the current retirement age alone. And I have no reason to throw in a carrot to induce the other side to pass the damn bill. We all know that this needs to be done to protect Social Security, and we'll hang them out to dry if they don't support this bill."

Senator Nichols shook his head in disagreement. Lean and angular and sporting wire-rimmed glasses, he was in every way Dorn's opposite and strung together his sentences with quick precision. "My constituents will hang me out to dry if I co-sponsor a bill that has no cap on the Social Security wage base. I'm afraid that we are going to need to put a reasonable cap into the bill. I am open to a step-up raise in the minimum age requirements, and I agree with Senator Dorn that this bill is already bipartisan. There is no need to offer any carrots."

McNally was quick to counter. "Allen, ninety-five percent of the people who voted for you don't even earn enough to receive any relief from the current Social Security wage base cap. They'll applaud any initiative you make to protect their future Social Security that passes a larger proportion of the bill on to the wealthy. And Jim, if we don't begin to raise the minimum eligibility age, any gains made by raising the earnings cap will be offset—and then some—by an ever-growing population of people eligible for Social Security. You know this. I know this. Hell, anyone who has studied the problem to any degree knows this. So let's stop fucking around and put out a bill that makes at least a little bit of sense."

"Ed," Senator Dorn said, "you know I agree with you in principal, but even if we all get behind these initiatives, the other side is going to shoot it down."

Senator Nichols removed his glasses and searched them for dust and debris. "I agree. The other side is going to shoot it down if we go all the way on both of these provisions."

McNally scratched his head. "So you both agree with these provisions, yet it wasn't a minute ago you were both on your high horses saying the bill is what is needed to save Social Security, that it's already structured as a bipartisan bill, and that we'll hang the other side out to dry if they try to shoot it down. Now I agree that the other side will shoot it down as is. That's why we need to offer them a big carrot to accept the bill with these provisions."

Dorn rubbed his paunch. "And what are you suggesting that big carrot should be?"

"Gentlemen, as you know, the inheritance tax relief provision is set to expire soon. Their proposal to have it made permanent has been killed on the floor of Congress. Their big supporters are the ultra-wealthy, and this reinstatement of the inheritance tax will harm them the most; these constituents are pissing and moaning louder than anyone else to find a way to get inheritance relief reinstated. If we offer to include this in the bill, I assure you we can get our Social Security bill passed. And Allen, before you complain that your constituents will go berserk if you vote to extend inheritance tax relief, we know that this will never affect the majority of the people who voted for you. While they may not jump for joy about this provision, in the end they'll gladly accept the bill as progress."

"That may be, Ed," Senator Nichols said, "but providing tax relief to the wealthy is everything this party is against."

"This is Congress, Allen. Sometimes we have to compromise our principles for the greater good. Besides, the additional tax revenue we receive from reinstatement of the inheritance tax would just be squandered on some worthless social program or used to fund another war that doesn't need fighting. The economic fight is on our turf, and if Social Security reform is not passed now, it may be too late to fix it in a few years."

Senator Nichols laughed amicably. "You're a hard person to disagree with, Ed, especially when I agree with everything you say. Maybe with this additional provision, the bill could work."

"It has to work, or our country is going to be in big trouble. A trouble I'm afraid we will not be able to recover from."

Senator Dorn sighed. Like Nichols, he looked ready to give in. "I think we need to take a shot at this. Ed, if you'll fill in the fine points and send me a copy, I'll certainly review it with an open mind."

"I'll have a final draft of the bill to each of you by the end of the day. You can review it over the weekend, and if we're all in agreement, we'll move forward next week."

Marge stopped Senator McNally before he could sneak by her on the way back to his office. "How did the meeting go?"

"Good," he said. "I think I finally got them to sign on."

Although she relished keeping Senator McNally in line, at the moment his secretary was beaming with pride. "That's great news, sir. Congratulations."

"Thanks," the senator replied. "But even if we get the bill passed, it will only buy us another five years or so, unless . . ."

Marge cocked her head. "Unless what?"

It was tempting to fill her in, to unload on someone outside the bubble. But he could never share what he knew. "Never mind," he said, and retired to his office. Once inside, he locked the door. If Marge tried the door and found it locked, she'd know not to disturb him. She had always respected his boundaries, even during those moments when she no doubt felt he deserved another scolding.

He walked to his credenza and picked up a photo of two smiling elderly gentlemen, one of them wrapping his arm around the other's shoulder, standing on the deck of a beautiful luxury yacht. The gentleman on the right bore a striking resemblance to Senator McNally, albeit thirty years into the future. McNally set the photo down on his credenza and wiped away a tear that was trickling down his cheek.

William Craven answered his cell phone on the
second ring.

"Good afternoon," the man on the other end of the line said. "What do you have for me?"

Craven sighed as he gazed out the window of his taxi. He hated giving his boss anything but successful reports. "Good news and bad," he finally answered. "Bad news first. Our friend is on the move, so we're still awaiting resolution. Good news is, we've hired someone local to finish the job. He knows the territory and assures me success is imminent."

"Good. No more screw-ups. In the meantime, I've got something else I need you to take care of."

Craven loosened his tie. "Hit me."

"Witherspoon is reporting positive results in Nigeria—
one hundred percent
positive. I've instructed the investment bankers to put together a deal to acquire GenClone. I want you to start preparing background reports on all key personnel."

"Done," Craven said. "Anything else?"

"No. I think you have more than enough to keep you busy."

The news from Crawford was discouraging.
By the time their pizza arrived, Ryan and Jordan had lost their appetites. None of the fun and good cheer of the previous evening at Cafe Ba-Ba-Reeba lingered. Thoughts of the Loukas dead end weighed on both of them. Ryan couldn't think of anything to offer but more speculation.

"Isn't there a chance that the Haitians were after your aunt and uncle for their own reasons?"

Jordan didn't answer. Moving her fork back and forth across her pizza, she seemed lost in thought.

With little enthusiasm, Ryan said, "Maybe the Haitians only went after you because they had messed things up and wanted to tie up the loose end."

Jordan continued her listless motions with her fork. "I don't know. That doesn't make sense," she muttered under her breath.

Ryan reached over and patted the back of her hand. She gave him a weak smile.

"Will you be going back to Exuma?" Jordan asked.

"If you don't mind, I'll stick around for a few days. I'm still concerned about your safety. Hell, I could have called Crawford from Exuma and faxed him the Interpol report. Even though Loukas seems to be a dead end, there is someone with deep pockets and a lot of power who may want you out of the picture and I've got nothing better to do right now. You can rely on Jim Crawford, but he is not authorized to arrange protection unless they can pinpoint a viable threat."