Gone before goodbye, p.6
Gone Before Goodbye, page 6
“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.”
“But he’ll have to leave it to go in for surgery.”
Brovski shakes his head. “We’ve built an operating theater in his home. It’s state-of-the-art.”
That term again.
Maggie takes her time, tries to play it cool.
“What do you say, Doctor McCabe?”
“I’ll need to stay for two weeks post-op.”
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s a fair amount of time for me to be away.”
“Ah,” Brovski says with the hint of a smile, “very good.”
She says nothing.
“Let me guess, Doctor McCabe: You’re not sure our paying off the debts is adequate compensation.”
Maggie shrugs. “What you’re asking me to do is pretty risky.”
“It’s not, not in the least, but fair enough.” Brovski checks his watch and feigns boredom. “We are in a bit of a rush, so let me cut to it. If you come with me to the airport right now, on top of getting you and your sister out of debt and settling your malpractice case, how about we pay you…” He pauses and looks up purely for effect. Then he just drops the bomb.
“… ten million dollars?”
If Maggie ever had a poker face, it’s gone now. He almost laughs.
“Five million put into your account at Merrill Lynch right now. The other five million when you’re done.”
Maggie is not sure she can speak. Ivan Brovski grins.
“So we have a deal?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Maggie stares out the window of what could inadequately be described as a “private plane.” Not that she’s had a lot of experience with private planes, of course. When she boarded, the flight attendant introduced herself as Hannah and then proceeded to give Maggie an orientation tour of a full-size 180-seat Airbus A320 renovated for private use. The new interior more resembles an upscale Manhattan penthouse than anything in the aviation family. The décor is gold with leopard prints. Flight Attendant Hannah leads her through a curving open floor plan with two lounges, a dining room, a gourmet kitchen,
a theater room with a 65-inch contoured TV (“One of our four large-screen TVs,” Hannah had told her), and a primary suite with a king-size bed and a marble ensuite bathroom, including one of those oversize rain showerheads.
In the primary bedroom, there is a Matisse oil of a woman reclining on a couch.
“Is this a real Matisse?” Maggie asks.
Hannah’s reply is a simple smile.
Two hours earlier, she and Ivan Brovski finish their meeting at Barlow’s, and Ivan leads her back toward the elevator.
“Before we leave,” Maggie tells Ivan, “I’d like to speak to Doctor Barlow.”
“He’s in surgery.”
The elevator opens. Maggie gets inside.
Alou and the Mercedes await them in the basement garage. Alou opens the back door. She slides in. Her phone is there. Ivan gets in the other door and sits next to her. She picks up her phone. No service in the garage’s underbelly. When the Mercedes finally reaches street level, six notifications for unanswered calls pop up, all from Sharon.
Ivan sees the notifications over her shoulder and smiles.
“What?” Maggie says.
“Your sister,” he says. “Call her back.”
She does. Sharon answers immediately, before the first ring finishes, and asks in a harried voice, “What the hell’s going on, Mags?”
“Meaning?”
“The bank called. My debts have been paid. All of them.”
Sharon keeps babbling excitedly as Maggie looks up at Ivan and that no-teeth grin.
When Sharon stops to take a breath, Maggie explains. “I was just hired for a job.”
That silences Sharon for a moment. Then: “And this job paid off my debts?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of job?”
“A high-paying one.”
“Well, I knew that already.”
“I’ll be gone for a week, maybe two.”
“Doing what, Mags?”
“Don’t worry, okay?”
“Good thing you said, ‘Don’t worry,’ because no one ever worries after someone says that.”
“I can’t say more.”
“Why not?”
Maggie switches the phone from her right hand to her left. “It’s confidential. There are privacy clauses and HIPAA and all that.”
“So, wait, you’re working as a physician again?”
“What part of ‘it’s confidential’ is confusing to you?” Maggie half snaps. “Look, it’s all fine, trust me. Please just let me do this.”
Sharon has more questions, but Maggie dodges and weaves and gets her off the phone. When she hangs up, she tells Ivan, “I need to go back to the hotel to check out and pack—”
“Done.”
“That ‘done’ stuff,” Maggie says. “It’s getting annoying.”
Ivan Brovski sits back and smiles. The car turns north on the Henry Hudson Parkway.
“Suppose I change my mind,” Maggie says.
He tilts his head the smallest amount.
“Suppose I want out.”
“Your phone,” Ivan says, pointing at it with his chin.
“Yes.”
“You have your banking app, no? Check your balance.”
Maggie knows or at least suspects what’s coming when she uses facial recognition to open the app, but her eyes still bulge.
The five million dollars are already there.
“Call your financial advisor before we get to the airport,” Ivan says. “He may have to report such a large deposit.”
“She.”
“What?”
“She may have to report, not he,” Maggie says. “My financial advisor is a woman. I would have thought your research would have told you that.”
“The first name Leslie threw me off,” Ivan says.
Man, they really do know everything.
“Also call your attorney,” he says. “The suit against you is being settled as we speak.”
Maggie sits back. The implications are overwhelming. No more malpractice suit. Wow. “You didn’t answer my question,” she says.
Ivan glances out the window, then back at Maggie. “The ‘suppose I change my mind’ question?”
“Yes.”
He shrugs. “You can give us the money back, I suppose. The debt relief and the malpractice settlement might make the rest of the recompensation unwieldy and arduous, but let’s not go there quite yet, shall we? I want to assure you that this is all on the up-and-up. My client is a very important man. Because he has the means and craves secrecy, he is hiring you as”—Ivan looks up as though again searching for the right words—“the ultimate concierge physician. Please don’t worry.”
“Good thing you said, ‘Don’t worry,’” Maggie mutters, echoing Sharon.
“Pardon?”
But there it is—that whole thing about recompensation being unwieldy and arduous. It’s too late. She is in it now. There is no way out. It is how they do it. Ivan Brovski might smile a lot, but that smile never reaches his eyes. You don’t cross these people. She should have learned that a long time ago.
Marc’s voice: “I have a bad feeling about this…”
She should have listened. Or maybe not. Nothing has changed. Ivan is right. It is a job, a good one, ridiculously well paid, and really, she had heard rumors about this kind of private surgery for years. Like he said: She is being hired as a concierge doctor. It’s not uncommon.
In the end, this patient, like any other patient, is hiring her to perform specific services, and—not to toot her own horn—he can afford the best.
It’s a win-win.
“Once you board the plane,” Ivan Brovski says, “we will insist on no communications with the outside world. This was explained to you before, but to reiterate: No calls, no emails, no FaceTime, no messaging apps like WhatsApp or Signal or Telegram or—”
“Yeah, I know what a messaging app is, thanks.”
“Wonderful. So if you have any more calls, you should make them now.”
Sure, she thinks. Make more calls now so Ivan can hear every word.
She hits the call button for Porkchop’s payphone and is surprised when the man himself answers.
“Talk to me,” Porkchop says.
“I have a job.”
She again vaguely explains that she will be traveling and will be well compensated for a work assignment she can’t disclose. She throws in the HIPAA and confidentiality talk. Porkchop says nothing. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t ask follow-up questions. He doesn’t argue.
That surprises her.
When Maggie finishes, Porkchop finally breaks his silence and says, “Put me on speakerphone.”
“Why?”
Silence.
That’s Porkchop. She bites back a sigh and hits the appropriate button and says, “Okay, you’re on speaker.”
“M47-235,” Porkchop says.
Ivan smiles.
“What’s that?” Maggie asks into the phone.
Ivan answers. “This car’s license plates.”
On cue, two motorcycles, one on either side of them, roar past the Mercedes. Pinky buzzes them from the driver’s side, Bowling Pin Guy—she never caught his name—from the passenger’s.
“I expect my daughter-in-law to remain safe and happy,” Porkchop says. “Are we clear?”
Ivan says, “Of course, Mr. Porkchop.”
“Don’t make me have to find you.”
“And vice versa,” Ivan says.
Porkchop disconnects the call.
Ivan Brovski is still smiling. “Your father-in-law has a flair for the dramatic.”
You don’t know the half of it, she thinks, but maybe he does. Still, it is comforting to know Porkchop is on this.
On the plane, Maggie takes a seat in an oversize leather-stitched recliner with a built-in massage function. She has learned something very fast and obvious in the past twenty-four hours:
It’s good to be rich.
Flight Attendant Hannah comes over and offers her “traveling sweats” from Brunello Cucinelli. Maggie accepts. Hannah asks whether she’d like a drink from the bar. Maggie is tempted, but for right now she wants to keep her wits about her, so she takes a water with a slice of lime.
She sits back and watches as the plane takes off from Teterboro Airport. Again she is met by the spectacular skyline of New York City. They don’t tell you this on tour websites, but if you want the best view of Manhattan, you have to go to New Jersey. The plane reaches its cruising altitude of, according to the pilot over the speaker system, thirty-seven thousand feet. The flight time, he tells them, will be eleven hours and twenty-three minutes.
“We have a large selection of films and television programming,” Hannah tells her.
“I just want to get on the Wi-Fi, thanks.”
“Oh, sorry, the Wi-Fi is currently unavailable.”
“Why’s that?”
Another nervous smile. “Here’s a menu of gourmet dishes we serve on board. Let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.”
There is only one other person on the plane—a large man with a scowl who speaks no English. He sits up front, near the pilots. Security, she assumes. Package delivery—and she’s the package.
Maggie heads back to the primary bedroom. The bed looks inviting. She decides—why not?—to lie in it and watch some television. There is no way, she figures, that she will actually sleep, but the blend of exhaustion and stress must be playing games with her. She falls asleep in minutes.
At some point, Hannah wakes her. “Are you hungry?”
She blinks her eyes open. “I am.”
