Barlow shakes his head. “Seems too harsh.”
“But apropos,” she says.
“I have a question for you.”
She waits.
“When the medical board crucified you, why didn’t you fight the charges?”
“Because,” Maggie says with no hesitation, “I’m guilty.”
Barlow isn’t sure what to say to that. “So you plan on never doing surgery again.”
He says it like that, a statement not a question, and the idea is so unfathomable. Never, ever again do the only thing she ever wanted to do? It breaks her heart anew.
“Looks like,” she says, slapping on the brave face. “I might still be able to do research for you, but I think having my name connected to Barlow—”
“I don’t want you to do research.”
“What then?”
He stares at the window. She joins him. “I work with a select few clients who will pay a premium for complete discretion. A very high premium.”
“Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear.”
“One particular client...” He stops, rubs his chin, considers his words. “I’m going to bring someone in in a moment. He demands complete confidentiality. There can be no record of this meeting. There had originally been a request to have you sign an NDA, but without a recording of this meeting, you’d have nothing to back up any claims.”
“What kind of claims?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Not like what? What exactly is this?”
“Look, I’ve said too much. You’re safe. I promise. I only have your best interest at heart. I think you know that. So let me bring him in. Listen to his offer with an open mind. If I didn’t believe this was something you should do, I would never have brought you up here.”
Barlow moves back to the side door and opens it. A large man fills the doorway. He almost seems to duck to get inside. When he’s fully inside the room, the man struggles to button the blazer on his suit.
“Maggie McCabe,” Barlow says, “this is Ivan Brovski.”
Brovski is bald and broad. He has no neck, his bullet-shaped head comes straight up from his shoulders. His suit looks expensive and tailored and yet it doesn’t fit, because this guy wasn’t built to wear a suit. Brovski manages a no-teeth smile and stretches out his hand for her to shake. She obliges. His hand swallows hers whole.
“Nice to meet you, Doctor McCabe,” Ivan Brovski says.
There is a hint of a Russian accent, but it is fainter than she would have imagined. He’s studied English for a long time. Judging by his accent, probably in London.
Barlow says, “I’ll be in the next room if I’m needed.” He can’t get through the door and close it behind him fast enough.
Maggie is standing. Brovski is standing.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Brovski?”
“I am a liaison for a very wealthy man,” Brovski says. “My client is in need of certain medical procedures.”
“What kind of medical procedures?” Maggie asks.
“You, Doctor McCabe, are a renowned reconstructive surgeon,” he begins, “a recognized expert in several surgical subfields, including cosmetic and facial reconstruction. You graduated summa cum laude from the University of Pennsylvania before attending Johns Hopkins medical school. You’ve done residencies and fellowships at some of the country’s most elite hospitals, and even under the tutelage of our mutual friend Doctor Evan Barlow at NewYork-Presbyterian. Both of your parents were physicians. Your father, Clark McCabe, spent his career as a military doctor, mostly serving gravely war-wounded soldiers at Walter Reed. You followed your father into the military, where you served two full tours in heavy combat, earning you the Medal of Honor, the Distinguished Service Cross, and a Silver Star. You’ve also been awarded, along with your surgical partner Doctor Trace Packer, the Jackson Foundation award and, perhaps most impressively, a Purple Heart when you both took shrapnel from an IED in the Wardak Province of Afghanistan. After you served, you, Doctor Packer, and your husband, Doctor Marc Adams, created a rather noble charitable entity—”
Maggie holds her hands up. “Yeah, okay, I get it. You googled me, I’m flattered. Why am I here?”
“My employer needs discreet cosmetic surgery done.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Brovski rubs the top of his head. “We need you to perform surgery on two people. Cosmetic procedures, as I said. My employer will tell you the specifics when you meet.”
Maggie looks left, then right. “Is he here?”
Brovski does the no-teeth grin again. “No.”
“So what’s the plan here, Ivan?”
“We fly you to a private location.”
“Where?”
“Someplace” — he takes his time — “out of the country.”
“I’m going to need more than that.”
“There is a place called Rublevka. It’s—”
“—a suburb outside of Moscow,” she finishes for him.
He arches an eyebrow. “You’ve been?”
“No, but I’ve heard of it.”
Rublevka is the epicenter of the Russian oligarchs, perhaps the wealthiest residential area in the world. Lenin and Stalin had dachas there. Khrushchev and Gorbachev had summer residences.
Brovski nods. “When you were in college, you took a course called Modern Russian History with Professor Taubman. I nearly forgot.”
“Do you know when I got my first hickey?”
“What?”
“I bet your researchers missed that. Seventh grade. A game of spin the bottle with Mitch Glassman. You can stop with the ‘I know all’ intimidation tactics, Ivan. I’m a military brat who grew up military trained, so I know the program. Get on with it.”
“Fair enough,” Brovski says, amused. “But I think you see what we are after. We are looking for an expert surgeon who is willing to travel to Russia and perform highly confidential cosmetic procedures. We think that expert surgeon should be you.”
“What’s your client’s name?”
“I can’t reveal that at this time.”
“Is it a name I’d know?”
“I don’t know what you know,” Brovski says, “but I can tell you that my client values his privacy.”
Maggie takes that in for a moment. “You must be aware that my medical license has been revoked.”
“Yes, of course,” Brovski says. “It’s why you’re perfect.”
“Foreign doctors typically need to meet MIMC licensing to operate in Russia—”
“Done.”
“What?”
“It’s done,” he says. “MIMC has already issued your permit. What else?”
“I’d need two surgically trained nurses and one anesthesiologist.”
“Done.”
“I’d need extensive operating equipment and a sterile environment.”
“Done.”
“A fully equipped operating room.”
“Done.”
“I need to be indemnified in writing if anything goes wrong.”
“Done. Done. It’s all done.” He waves his arms impatiently. “Do you think we thought about doing this an hour ago? Let me also make it clear that we know you’re in heavy debt. So is your sister.”
Maggie is no longer surprised at what he knows. He works for a top-level Russian oligarch. There is little doubt that whoever is behind this has made sure to check all the angles before making this request.
“So?”
“So the moment you agree to do this,” Brovski continues, “that debt will be gone. Yours. And your sister’s. The malpractice suit filed against you? It will be settled.”
“How?”
Ivan Brovski just shrugs.
Maggie swallows. No more crushing debt. No more trials and depositions. How much is that worth?
A lot.
“Why can’t your client just go to a discreet clinic like this one?” Maggie asks.
“He doesn’t like to leave the house.”