Brittany lifted the pill bottle and read the prescription label. It included Colonel Bolivar's name, the prescription number, the date "March 18," the medication "Dalmane," the name and address of the pharmacy and "Dr. Hailey." The label indicated the bottle contained thirty 30 milligram capsules. The instructions said "Take one at bedtime as needed." She took a small pad from her handbag and wrote down the information. The pharmacy, she noted, was at a drug store in Silver Spring, Maryland, a suburb near the northern point of the District. Bolivar had lived on the north side of Washington, though not all that close to Silver Spring.
Fortunately, the name Juan Bolivar had meant nothing to Stanley Dahlman and he showed no interest in the case. Brittany thanked him for lunch and the help and explained that she had to get back to the office. When the cab let her out, she went directly to the garage, retrieved her car and headed out Sixteenth Street toward Silver Spring.
The drug store was located in a strip center that included a supermarket and a variety of small specialty shops. Brittany approached one of the pharmacists, a thin man with black-rimmed glasses, white hair and a small white mustache. She put on her best girl-in-trouble manner.
"I hope you can help me," she began. "My brother-in-law asked me to check with his doctor about a prescription. He was on his way out of town and he's supposed to call tonight. I can't find my note with the doctor's name and address, but I have the prescription number."
She handed him a slip of paper with the number on it.
The pharmacist held his head up to look through his bifocals and punched the number into the computer. "Here it is. Is his name John Bolivar?"
"It's Juan."
He accepted the correction with a nod. "The doctor's name is Hailey."
"Would you have the prescription slip, so I could get his address and phone number?"
The man rumpled his forehead with a frown. "March eighteenth. Yeah, it would be filed in a box in the back. It may take me a couple of minutes."
"I hate to put you to all this trouble," she apologized with an appreciative smile.
He grinned with a shake of his head. "No trouble."
He came back with a slip that appeared torn from a prescription pad. It listed the physician as "Morton Hailey" with a Chevy Chase address. The western suburb was next door to Bethesda, location of the National Institutes of Health and the big naval hospital that treated Presidents and congressmen and the like. Brittany found a pay phone at the front of the store and dialed the number for Dr. Hailey. After a couple of rings, she heard:
"The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service."
60
Sergio Muños suffered from the Rodney Daingerfield syndrome. Most of the time he got no respect and cringed when someone used the offensive nickname Corto, Shorty. He usually wore a glued-on frown and carried a large chip on his small shoulder. But after a couple of days of sunning among the scantily-clad bodies that formed a sea of flesh across the sandy Veracruz beach, he was in an upbeat mood. He even smiled when his sons got into a playful shoving match.
It was late afternoon. While Sergio took turns napping and ogling the girls, his wife sat on the big red and yellow towel reading a newspaper. He'd always said when the Good Lord returned to earth, He would find her either gossiping or reading. After awhile, she turned to him with a curious voice. "On the way down here, you mentioned something about looking for a man wanted for murder."
He raised his head on one elbow. "A gringo. Rodman, I believe."
"Well, they're still looking. The paper has pictures of him and a man called Ivan Netto they say was with him."
"Netto?"
"That's the name he used. They just learned his real name was Shumakov. The Belarus government says he is wanted there for murder. Where is Belarus?"
Sergio bolted upright. Ivan Netto. Born in Russia. Tall, thin man with horn-rim glasses. He reached for the newspaper. "Let me see those pictures."
He stared at the photo of Netto/Shumakov. It was the same man. He was positive. And Colonel Warren Rodman. ¡Madre de Dios! It was one of the other two who had boarded the American jet.
Startled at his reaction, his wife frowned. "What is it, Sergio?"
"I processed those men out of the country early Wednesday morning. Get your things. Where are the boys? Let's go. I have to call my supervisor."
Burke Hill had just finished his preliminary work on the financial report late that afternoon when Evelyn Tilson called on the intercom.
"Mr. Highsmith is here to see you."
Burke walked to the door and met him.
"We have a problem in Seoul," Highsmith said tersely as he entered the office and took a chair. His face mirrored the gravity he felt.
"I thought we were in good shape there?" Burke said, feeling relief in the assumption that Nate's problem did not concern Adam Stern and the Foreign Affairs Roundtable.
"There have been some hints lately that things might not be as rosy as we thought. I got back from a Foundation meeting in Philadelphia this afternoon and found a fax from Jerry Chan. He is having real trouble with some key accounts. He wants me to send you over right away to try and straighten things out. I think it calls for a full blown audit. I've already checked and we can get you on the flight to Seoul that leaves around six in the morning."
Burke stared in disbelief. Leave for Seoul tomorrow? Then he recalled the comment Jerry had made yesterday morning, "Fortunately, I've got no problems at all at the moment. Things could hardly be going better. It's scary." That didn't sound anything like the conditions Nate had just described. Then he began to sense what was happening. Nate, or his Roundtable cronies, wanted him out of the way to prevent any interference with Nikolai Romashchuk.
"This is sort of sudden," he protested. "I may not be able to get ready by then."
Highsmith assumed an understanding air. "I know it's short notice, Burke, but I feel in the current business climate, it's something that simply can't wait. Look, if you don't have things ready to pack, just buy a new outfit when you get over there. Charge it to the company."
Burke knew he would be suspect if he protested too strongly. But he couldn't leave now with Major Romashchuk wandering around in a van full of terrorists, pulling a trailer loaded with chemical weapons. "I'm just getting into this monthly report, Nate. It should tell us exactly where we stand and where our problems lie."
"It can wait," Nate said flatly. Obviously it was a closed subject. "Your ticket will be waiting for you at the airline counter."
Burke was still staring at the door Nate had briskly departed through when Evelyn called on the intercom.
"Brittany Pickerel from Research wants you on Line 1."
He exhaled deeply, letting off a little steam, attempting to relieve the pressure that was building inside. "Yeah, Brittany. What is it?"
"I'll just give you this over the phone, if it's okay, Mr. Hill. I have a pressing project I simply must get finished this afternoon."
"Go ahead."
"I've done a lot of artful dodging today. I'll give you all the gory details later. The bottom line is, I have no proof it was Adam Stern, but it definitely looks like somebody has committed murder."
"You sound pretty certain."
She explained how she had placed Stern in Washington at the time of Colonel Bolivar's death. Then she told about tracking down the prescription.
"Did you find the doctor?" Burke asked.
"The address was an office building in Chevy Chase. I found there hasn't been a doctor's office in the building for at least a year. The telephone is no longer in service. I checked with the Montgomery County Medical Society in Rockville. They never heard of a Dr. Morton Hailey."