And why shouldn't she be disarmed? he thought. I do damn good work.
Good work . . . good works. Weren't good works supposed to be their own reward? Up to now they'd been just that. He'd found satisfaction in removing scars and correcting nature's mistakes in people who'd otherwise have no chance at proper repair.
But today they'd brought an unexpected lagniappe. His altruistic participation in the clinic had blunted, if not completely deflected, the suspicions of one very bright and very nosy young woman.
Perhaps the good men do was not necessarily interred with their bones.
But he couldn't let down his guard. Not yet. Not until after Friday.
And that reminded him of the video camera in his office.
. .
Duncan stood alone in his office. The building was empty except for him, which was just the way he wanted it. He pushed the videocassette into the VCR and hit the REWIND button. The machine hummed and stopped almost immediately. Good sign.
He hit PLAY, then FFWD. A high-angle shot of his office flickered into focus and he recognized his retreating back. Then Barbara fast-walked to and from his desk to drop off his dictation, then again with his mail, then once more with what appeared to be more dictation. And then he saw himself, strolling into the room, sifting through the mail and papers on his desk. Strange to watch himself in fast motion. He looked like a Keystone Kop. Then he approached the counter below the camera's field of vision, reached forward, and . . .
The screen blanked. That was when he had turned off the power.
Very good, he thought as he rewound the tape. No sign of Gin. No snooping around, no trying to get into the locked desk drawer again.
He prayed for similar results every time he reviewed this tape.
The last thing on earth he wanted was to hurt Gin.
TUESDAY ALL RIGHT, OLIVER, GINA SAID. ENOUGH WITH THE secrecy. You've got to tell me why those men were wandering around the building yesterday." It was early. Gloved and masked, they were down in Oliver's lab, filling implants under sterile conditions for the day's procedures. Gin had spent half the night cudgeling her brain for a way to learn the identity of Dr. V. and the mysterious suits.
"I can't, Gin, " Oliver said. "Duncan would kill me." Poor choice of words, Gin thought, annoyed at the chill they gave her. Duncan wouldn't kill anyone. She believed that now. She had to.
"Don't be silly, " Gin said. "You're his brother." She winked.
"And besides, he needs these implants." Oliver rolled his eyes behind his horn-rims. "Thanks. That does wonders for my self-esteem. " "Seriously, though. This is driving me crazy. I've caught this Dr. V.
ducking in and out of here at least three times now, and I know I've seen him before. Just tell me who he is.
C, Not what he's doing here, just his name. Just that one little thing, and I won't ask another question, I promise."
"I'm sorry, Gin, but, " "I'll sneeze all over your implants."
"No. You wouldn't do that." She sniffed. "Uh-oh. I feel one coming on now. It's building up.
It's gonna blow right through this mask." '"Gin, please don't kid around like, " "Here it comes. Ah . . . ah . . . " "All right, all right." Gin shook her head as if to clear it. "Well, what do you know. All better. For the moment. Now, who is Dr. V. ? " "I really shouldn't. I promised Duncan I wouldn't breathe a word." She sniffed again. "Oliver . . . " "All right. But just his name. If it doesn't ring a bell, too bad.
Agreed? " "Agreed." Oliver leaned forward and Gin could tell by the look in his eyes that he'd been dying to confide in someone. Now she'd given him an excuse.
'"His name is VanDuyne. Dr. VanDuyne." VanDuyne . . . Gin knew that name. It was scampering about the back corners of her mind, just out of reach. VanDuyne . . . VanDuyne .
. .
And then she had him. One of the guest lecturers at the public policy seminars back in lGulane. A physician, he'd come from Washington and he'd seemed uncomfortable lecturing, and in his role with the government. VanDuyne, one of the higher-ups in HHS . . . but he was something else too. She'd read an article or heard some other mention of him. Dr. VanDuyne . . .
"Ohmigod''- she cried. "Duncan's going to operate on the president! " Oliver tore off his mask and slumped back in his seat. He ran his fingers nervously through his thinning hair. "Oh, no! Now I've done it! " '"I'm right, aren't 1? He nodded resignedly, a look of astonishment on his face. "I don't believe you put it all together so fast. Just from a name. How did you do it? " When she remembered that VanDuyne was the president's personal physician, suddenly it was obvious that the men with him yesterday had been Secret Service. And the way they'd been looking around, studying entrances and exits, peering through wipdows . . .
why else unless they were reconnoitering before a presidential visit?
But she felt no triumph at her lightning deduction, instead, a cold sodden weight was growing in her stomach.
The president of the United States going under Duncan's knife. After yesterday, she should have felt proud that Duncan had been chosen for whatever it was the president wanted done. But she was terrified.
'"He's coming Friday? " Again Oliver nodded. His eyes looked wounded.
So that explained the day off with pay.
'"What procedure? " '"His eyes, " Oliver said. He slipped the tips of his index fingers under his glasses and touched his lower lids. "Wants to be rid of the bags. A lift on the upper lids, too, while Duncan's at it."
"But those baggy eyes have become his trademark. What will all the cartoonists do without them? " Oliver shrugged. "Apparently his media consultants and spin doctors have converged and decided that his baggy lids have become much baggier and people think the president looks tired and older."
"Being president of the United States tends to do that to people. ' "But they want the youth vote. That's what put him in the ' first time They don't want some younger-looking upstart to steal that constituency. They blame the eyelids for his tired, older look, so they have to go. ' "Ridiculous. The election's more than a year away." '"But not the primaries. He's expecting a strong challenge, so he wants to be looking his best in New Hampshire.
" "So why Duncan? " "Why not? He's the best." He pointed to the tray of implants.
"Especially with these." Gin had to admit he had a point there.
"But why all the secrecy? " "Isn't it obvious? The president doesn't want anyone, especially the press, to find out. He's going to arrive at the crack of dawn on Friday.
As soon as he's out of recovery he'll be whisked off to Camp David for a long weekend and some extra days of vacation. He'll wear dark glasses all weekend, and by the time he returns, there'll be minimal evidence of the surgery. Any slight discoloration that persists can be covered by makeup. Foolproof, huh? " "Yeah, " Gin said slowly.
"Foolproof." But was it Duncanproof?
Stop! She shouldn't be thinking like that.
"But with all the staff off, how can Duncan operate? " "They're importing an anesthesiologist from Bethesda Naval Hospital, and Dr. VanDuyne is going to assist."
"And the Secret Service men will be guarding the hall, I suppose."
"Right. Isn't it exciting? " "Yes.
Exciting as hell." But Gin was feeling anxiety rather than excitement.
She knew what Duncan thought of the president. How many tirades about him had she endured?
Yet Duncan had agreed to do a cosmetic repair of his eyelids . . .
agreed to perform a procedure designed to give the president a little edge toward reelection.
It didn't add up. Why would Duncan do anything to help this man?
Simply because he was the president and he had asked? Maybe. The office did have a mesmerizing effect on people.