Читать книгу Fatal Prescription - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

4

Stevenson Dynamics

Fairfax County, Virginia

Stevenson watched the scene on the newly installed widescreen TV, the images almost life-size at the other end of the long table. A large Cuban cigar smoldered between his fingers and he tapped a quarter-inch of ash into the glass ashtray. Nelson, who held the remote, eyed the accessory nervously. Stevenson smirked.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t throw anything this time. I was just going through nicotine withdrawal yesterday.” He motioned for Nelson to turn up the volume.

The camera focused on two men seated behind a table, a crowd of onlookers standing behind them. A folded piece of card stock in front of the man on the left of the screen was adorned with his name: Simon P. Oakley. His hair was closely cropped on the sides and long on top. His slender fingers were tilted upward like a steeple and his rather thin face had an octagonal shape to it.

A voice from off-camera asked a question.

“Mr. Oakley, exactly how much of a percentile raise was ascribed to the cancer-fighting drugs distributed by Alocore Incorporated after you took over as CEO?”

Stevenson recognized the voice of the questioner. It was some congresswoman from California or somewhere out west.

Oakley covered the microphone with his hand and conferred with the heavyset man sitting next to him.

“I have been advised by my counsel to decline to answer any questions at this time,” Oakley said, “on the grounds that I might incriminate myself.”

“Surely you can confirm,” the woman continued, papers rattling in the background, “that the price of the drug known as CZF-269, otherwise marketed as New Horizons Three, went from a cost of three dollars a pill to seven-hundred-and-fifty dollars per pill.”

Oakley smiled as he leaned toward the microphone once again and repeated the same phrase. “On advice of my counsel...”

Stevenson’s fingers curled into a fist, crushing the cigar in the process. The hot ash fell onto the tabletop.

Stevenson stood, towering over Nelson. “I want that little prick taken care of,” he said. “Soon. I’m tired of him playing games on Capitol Hill. It’s only a matter of time before they offer him immunity and he starts spilling his guts.”

“Relax,” Nelson said. “I’ve got things covered. We’ve got his lawyer’s office and his apartment bugged, and we’ve got our patsy, Tom Chandler, housed at the motel in Alexandria.”

“Good. Keep him there until we’re ready to use him. What other precautions have you got going?”

“Well,” Nelson said, “I’ve made a few discreet phone calls asking a couple of senators who have influence on the investigating committee to keep things proceeding at a slow pace. We’ll know in advance if and when they’re getting ready to cut him a deal. As long as he’s taking the Fifth, we’re safe from anything he might say in the short term.” He paused and grinned. “And once our distraught husband, Tom, makes his move, it’ll all be a moot anyway. We’ll have our fallback saying that he was let go as CEO after Stevenson Dynamics acquired the company and found out he was doing the price gouging and the other stuff.”

“That’ll still leave us open to charges that we knew about the side-effects of CEZ-A2 when we acquired Alocore.”

“Which, we can then say, is why we felt compelled to continue our research on the drug,” Nelson said, throwing up his hands. “To pursue a cure.”

“What if somebody, like that goddamn blogger or reporter of whatever the hell he is, finds out the exact nature of that research?”

“We’re keeping tabs on him, too,” Nelson responded. His face was flushed.

“He’s got to be the one in cahoots with that asshole Oakley,” Stevenson said. “Somebody’s got to be feeding that little shit information.”

Nelson nodded, making small, placating gestures with his hands. “Bill, relax. We’ve got all the bases covered. I promise you.” He was breathing rapidly now, like an out-of-shape man in the middle of a 5K race.