Page 26 of Gone Before Goodbye
“Downfall?” she tries. “Destruction? Ruin?”
Barlow shakes his head. “Seems too harsh.”
“But apropos,” she says.
“I have a question for you.”
She waits.
“When the medical board crucified you, why didn’t you fight the charges?”
“Because,” Maggie says with no hesitation, “I’m guilty.”
Barlow isn’t sure what to say to that. “So you plan on never doing surgery again.”
He says it like that, a statement not a question, and the idea is so unfathomable. Never, ever again do the only thing she ever wanted to do? It breaks her heart anew.
“Looks like,” she says, slapping on the brave face. “I might still be able to do research for you, but I think having my name connected to Barlow—”
“I don’t want you to do research.”
“What then?”
He stares at the window. She joins him. “I work with a select few clients who will pay a premium for complete discretion. A very high premium.”
“Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear.”
“One particular client…” He stops, rubs his chin, considers his words. “I’m going to bring someone in in a moment. He demands complete confidentiality. There can be no record of this meeting. There had originally been a request to have you sign an NDA, but without a recording of this meeting, you’d have nothing to back up any claims.”
“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, andyour husband, Doctor Marc Adams, created a rather noble charitable entity—”
