"I remember this young man," professor Griscom said looking at the framed picture of President Dalton. He was a lot younger there, it had been taken in Vietnam during the war. Bess came to stand by him.
"You remember him?" she asked. Griscom smiled and laughed gently.
"Yes. He went all Humphrey Bogart on a nurse there," he said.
"What?" Elizabeth asked looking puzzled. Griscom leaned on the low cabinet.
"Sabrina, 1954. The movie theatre at the base had just shown the Bogart, Hepburn movie a couple of nights before. We had no flutes, no champagne there but young Mr. Dalton found two bottles of beer and he shoved those in his back pockets, trying to pass as the ever-so-handsome Bogart. Unfortunately, the nurse had a very hot-blooded, jealous boyfriend there and Mr. Dalton ended up on his buttocks on a concrete landing pad for choppers. Even a beer bottle can't take that. I spent a good portion of the evening, digging brown pieces of glass from Mr. Dalton's rear end…" Griscom told Elizabeth.
"Doctor Bunny-ears!" they heard President Dalton's voice from the door. The man walked in looking at Griscom in amazement. The professor's expression was pained.
"Oh, please don't call me that, Mr. President," he pleaded.
"Everyone else, all the doctors, all the nurses always held up two fingers and asked how many fingers the patient could see but not Doctor Bunny-ears! He always asked: 'How many Bunny-ears you see?' He even asked that from a general once. The man's jeep had been hit and they brought him in for a quick check up. Doctor here walks in, raises two fingers and asks: 'How many bunny-ears you see?' The general was completely humorless and yelled 'Man, has the jungle turned you into a carnival performer? I see no bunny-ears! I see two of your fingers sticking up and I don't care what you want to call them. To me they are fingers and if you are smart, from now on you will call them that too!'," Dalton imitating a general from his memory.
"Did you call them fingers from that on?" Bess asked. Griscom made a little pffft-sound.
"I don't care what the general thought he saw. For me they are bunny-ears," the man said and smiled. Dalton walked to the professor and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"It is good to see you, Dr. Griscom. I am sorry I didn't remember you right away," he said. Griscom laughed a little.
"You didn't see me all that much. I saw a bit too much of you there, Mr. President," the man said. Dalton laughed sheepishly.
"I should order that story as a national secret," he said.
"Oh, please don't! It was very good. So, Sabrina?" Bess said. Her face was beaming with a mischievous smile.
"Yes. Sabrina from 1954. Humphrey Bogart and Audrey Hepburn. A wonderful movie really and believe me, or Mr. President is not the only one who has tried the flute trick," professor Griscom said. His hands had started to shake again. Bess lead him to the sofa.
"You need to get some rest. I am sorry for all this," Dalton said and sat on the other sofa.
"It is alright. If there is anything I can help you with, I am here for you," Griscom assured them.
"You said it could be as small as a golf ball?" Bess asked. Griscom nodded.
"Think of the physical aspects of the situation. This man… I'm sorry, I mean your friend who was captured…" the professor said.
"Jackson. Russell Jackson," Dalton said.
"Yes, Mr. Jackson… wait? Jackson? White House Chief of Staff?" Griscom looked at them in horror.
"Yes," Bess said. They could almost see Griscom's brain turn on higher gear.
"So, it's not a shopping mall they are targeting, it's the White House?" Griscom assumed.
"Yes, that is what we think," Dalton said. Griscom looked around him and then his eyes stopped at the ventilation system.
"That is probably pretty effective?" he said.
"Not as effective as I would sometimes hope but it's not bad either," Dalton said. Griscom's nod was grim.
"Even if he came into this room and the cartridge was popped inside him, the gas could be sucked into the ventilation system and effect the entire building in minutes," the professor said.
"I think that is part of their plan," Bess said.
"Is there any way to stop this? I mean save Russell? Get that damn thing out of him?" Dalton asked. Griscom got up, went to get the papers from the desk and sat back down.
"Run the time frame by me again. When was he shot?"
"Pretty close to 8 AM," Dalton said.
"When did you see him on the video call?"
"First around 1 PM, then close to 2:30 PM," Bess told Griscom. The man wrote the numbers down.
"Was there any change between how he looked at 1 PM and at 2:30 PM?" the professor asked.
"No, he was pretty much the same," Dalton said, and Bess nodded.
"I agree."
"It is dangerous to make assumptions like this but whatever was done to him, must have happened pretty fast. I think that rules out a long, difficult surgery. I think, if this was done, it was done by simply placing a device inside his body, probably using the already-existing bullet hole. Human skin stretches pretty easily so the object may have been a lot larger than a bullet. Now, what is this Mr. Jackson like? Enthusiastic jogger? Does he play tennis? Physically active in other ways? Marathon runner? How old is he" Griscom asked.
"Almost 60. None of that. He works 16 hour days, eyes glued to his cellphone and the only jogging he does is running from meeting to meeting," Dalton said.
"He has been walking a lot more since the heart attack," Bess noted.
"Oh yes, the steps… the pace-thingy," Dalton remembered.
"How long ago he had that heart attack?" Griscom asked.
"Just before the house voted me for second term," the President said. Griscom scratched his stubble again.
"I can't really remember him. I mean I don't think we have ever met but I mean even from TV or anything. How tall is he?" the professor said. Dalton and McCord understood the man was getting at something.
"He is a short man. Thin, probably 140 lbs, perhaps a bit more," Dalton said.
"So, my size?" Griscom asked. Dalton looked at the man and laughed a little.
"Actually, yes. Very much so," he said. Bess nodded too.
"OK so man with heart condition, blood pressure issues too, I'm sure, thin, short… been shot almost 24 hours ago. They probably didn't do much to the inside so there is most likely an infection brewing there. Or they used a disinfectant which would slow that down. Then they popped in that device. If they had time and money, we can talk about a golf ball size item. They place it inside and glue the wound shut. That wouldn't take out the effects of the blood loss. By this time Mr. Jackson should be unable to move due to that," Griscom said.
"What would keep him going?" Dalton asked.
"Drugs. I don't mean over-the-counter painkillers or even prescription. I talk about high dose of meth, perhaps even cocaine or other illegal drugs that would give him the illusion of strength. How did he escape?" Griscom asked.
"He crawled through a storage space, went down through a hatch and walked out of a door," Bess said.
"What was he before this job? A secret agent?" Griscom asked.
"No, nothing like that," Dalton said.
"So, no real explanation to why he turned all 007 James Bond all of the sudden?" the professor inquired.
"None."
"Only explanation then is drugs. Something to give him such a good high that he can completely forget the pain, the blood loss and most likely his wildly racing heart which is painful too. Then I believe the idea was to have him come straight to the White House to kill… I'm sorry, but I think it's you Mr. President he was supposed to kill with this device," Griscom assumed.
"We figured as much," Dalton said.
"My question is: if he escaped, why didn't he come back?" McCord asked. Griscom sighed.
"Either the cartridge has been broken and he is already dead or the drugs ran off so he collapsed. Third option is he is actually still on his way here and the fourth option is that he vanished on his own accord," the professor said.
"What do you mean on his own accord?" Dalton asked.
"He works for you but is he also your friend?" Griscom asked. Dalton nodded.
"He is. A damn good friend too," the President said.
"Then if he, somehow, got wind of this plot and realized he was going to be used as a weapon to kill you, his choice would most likely be to go as far from you as possible," Griscom said.
"You are right," Bess said.
"He can live some time with a time bomb like that inside his belly, or he may just try to go far enough to make sure he won't poison anyone," the professor assumed.
"I know Russell. He would never come anywhere close to the White House if he thought it would put me or anyone else at risk," Dalton said.
"Or home. He wouldn't go to Carol," Bess said.
"True. But he might search for someone who could cut that thing out of him," Griscom suggested.
"Could he have realized there was something put inside him?" Dalton asked.
"If he is sane enough to realize that the wound should still be bleeding, he will notice the glue and start asking questions," Griscom said.
"Where would he go?" Bess asked.
"Where was he last seen?" the professor asked.
"At a house where we found the man who told us about this whole, science fiction -style plot," Dalton said. Griscom nodded.
"Take me there. I will need to stop at my house but it's best to start from there," he said.
"I don't understand," Bess said.
"The moment he is found, dead or alive, the device must be cut out of him and pray the cartridge isn't broken. I have performed many emergency surgeries in less than neat conditions. You will need me. Also, I have the best chances to make the device harmless," Griscom added. Dalton got up and took his phone.
"I need my motorcade, now," he barked to whoever answered and took his coat.
"So, we are going to the house?" Bess asked, baffled.
"Point last seen, Bess. It's the best place to start," Dalton confirmed.