The Fifth Vial

by Michael Palmer

  “We are in Punjab State, Dr. Anson,” he said in his clipped, Indian-British speech. “Amritsar is my hometown. It is one of the most beautiful cities in our country, and is a spiritual center and pilgrimage destination of Sikhism. Do you know about that religion?”

  According to St. Pierre, Khanduri was one of the foremost lung transplant specialists in the world. Now, nearly two months after his remarkably successful operation, Anson had no reason whatsoever to dispute that claim.

  “I know something of it,” he said. “Very mystical, deeply spiritual. One God, no idols, equality of all, five symbols. Let me see if I remember them—no cutting of the hair, always wear four specific tokens: a comb, a steel bracelet, special underwear of some sort, and…and some kind of small dagger. Is that it?”

  “The dagger is symbolic of a sword, and the underclothes are those of soldiers, symbolizing the Sikhs’ constant readiness to fight for their beliefs. Excellent, Doctor. I am very impressed.”

  “But you are clean-shaven, so I am assuming you are not a Sikh.”

  “That is true, Doctor. Although I do share much of the philosophy of the Sikhs, I do not share all of it.”

  “Sanjay,” St. Pierre asked, “is it very far to Mrs. Narjot’s home?”

  “Not too far, Dr. Elizabeth, but as you can see, the traffic is bad. We are on Court Road, which is always congested. We must go to Sultan Road. Three miles, I would say. It would not take very long if we were actually moving.”

  Khanduri chuckled at his own humor. The mid-afternoon sky was an unbroken expanse of azure, and the sun was hot. With the surgeon’s Toyota virtually motionless, beggars, chattering incessantly, were drawn to the windows beside the Caucasian man and the stunning African woman.

  “I want to give something to each of them,” Anson said.

  “You are a very kind man, Doctor. Alas, there are many more beggars than you have money to give them.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And that is only in this section of the city. I am excited to see that you are breathing quite naturally. Now I get to appreciate firsthand that all of the positive reports Elizabeth has sent me are true.”

  “You did an amazing job.”

  “Thank you. I confess I was very nervous when the outbreak of Serratia marcescens pneumonia occurred throughout the hospital and we had to move you so soon after your surgery.”

  “To tell you the truth, I remember very little of those first few days after my operation. In fact, the hospital you transferred me to in Capetown is really the first memory I have.”

  “The Serratia outbreak was a dangerous one, Joseph,” Elizabeth said, “especially with you on antirejection medication, however minimal.”

  “I was worried about transferring you to one of the other Amritsar hospitals,” Khanduri added. “Serratia had already been showing up in some of their immunocompromised patients, and in addition they have been hit hard by staffing shortages.”

  “All’s well that ends well,” Anson said, sensing at that moment that he had never really analyzed the Shakespearean title very deeply, and now wasn’t at all sure he agreed with it.

  “All’s well that ends well,” Khanduri echoed.

  Traffic had begun moving again, and the beggars fell away. Anson sat quietly, marveling at the kaleidoscope that was Amritsar—architecturally sophisticated and opulent one block, tawdry and decrepit the next. It was a miracle that among this incredible mass of humanity, several million people in this city alone, at just the necessary moment, a lifesaving gift had appeared for him in the form of a brain-dead man who was a virtually perfect tissue match to him.

  “Whitestone has inquiries out quite literally all over the world,” Elizabeth had explained when they were discussing his deteriorating health. “We are determined to protect our investment at all costs.” She had punctuated the statement with a wink.

  Indeed, thanks to the charming, unassuming man now serving as their guide, Whitestone’s investment had been protected, and marvelously so. Now, as soon as he had finished making his peace with the widow and children of T. J. Narjot, Anson would complete the bargain and turn over the final secrets of the synthesis of Sarah-9.

  Khanduri made a slight detour to take them past the gilded walls, dome, and tall minarets of the Golden Temple.

  “The water in which the Golden Temple sits is called the Pool of Nectar,” he said. “The Sikhs have been continuously embellishing and improving the structure in various ways since the fifteenth century.”

  “You seem very proud of the Sikhs,” Anson said. “Why have you not embraced their religion?”

  “I am Hindu,” Khanduri replied simply. “I believe strongly in the caste system, and the Sikhs don’t outwardly espouse it.”

  Anson was still gazing at the temple, or he would have seen St. Pierre make eye contact with Khanduri in the rearview mirror and shake her head sternly and emphatically.

  After three-quarters of an hour of driving, the surgeon pulled up before a modest, two-story dwelling on a middle-class street that was not nearly as busy as most of those around it.

  “T. J. Narjot was the foreman of a crew that works doing repairs for the electric company,” he explained. “His wife, Narendra, as is often the case here in India, stayed home with the children. She speaks no English, so I will have to interpret for you. This state, Punjab, has its own language, but both she and I speak primarily Hindi. Elizabeth, do you wish to come in with us?”

  “Yes,” St. Pierre said after the briefest hesitation. “Yes, I think I would. Is that all right with you, Joseph?”

  “Absolutely. Dr. Khanduri, please tell Mrs. Narjot that we will not inconvenience her long.”

  They were greeted at the door by a slender, attractive woman in her thirties, unadorned, wearing a sari of subdued color. Her head was uncovered, and her ebony hair hung loose to her shoulders. She made no pretext at being demure, but instead shook hands with her three visitors, and maintained steady eye contact when speaking with them. The small living room was neatly furnished, with very little art on the walls or end tables. There were several photos of a lean, good-looking, mustachioed man with an engaging smile, whom Narendra later confirmed was her late husband. From somewhere in the back of the first floor came clatter and the sound of children’s laughter.

  After Anson extended his sympathy and thanked his hostess for receiving them, he asked about her husband.

  “T. J. and I were married for twelve years,” Narendra said through Khanduri. “Our children are nine and six, both boys. They miss their father terribly, and they still get very upset at even speaking about what happened.”

  “I won’t disturb them,” Anson said.

  “That is much appreciated. Until his hemorrhage, he was in excellent health. The stroke was very sudden and massive—bleeding, they told me, from tangled blood vessels that he had from birth.”

  “It was an arteriovenous malformation,” St. Pierre interjected.

  “I thought so,” Anson said.

  “My husband and I had spoken in general terms about what we would wish if something like this ever happened. Of course we never expected that—” Narendra began to weep. Khanduri motioned that it was okay to wait and allow her to continue “—that either of us would need to make such a decision.”

  “I understand,” Anson said.

  “In the end, T. J.’s lung, corneas, and both his kidneys were transplanted. He then had a wonderful shraddha”—a funeral, Khanduri explained—“and then his body was cremated.”

  “The Narjots are not Sikhs?” Anson asked, realizing as he asked the question that T. J. had neither the beard of a Sikh, nor the customary turban.

  “No,” Khanduri said. “Like me they are Hindu.”

  “But don’t Hindus believe that organ donation is mutilation of the body, and therefore to be avoided?” Anson asked.

  Khanduri did not turn to Narendra for the answer.

  “In older days that was certainly so,” he said, “but now there
are an increasing number of Hindus who understand that organ donation is useful to others, and therefore most honorable. Fortunately for you, and for the other recipients of his organs, that is the case with the Narjots.”

  In all, the interpreted conversation lasted a little more than an hour, during which Anson asked about T. J. Narjot—his personality, interests, and personal history.

  “He sounds like a very unusual man,” Anson said when Narendra was through.

  “Oh, he was,” came the interpreted reply. “He was very special, and we shall miss him forever.”

  Finally, Narendra took her guests on a brief tour of her house, which included a wave to her sons. In the hallway, Anson removed an envelope from his pocket. Narendra, immediately recognizing it for what it was, tried vehemently to refuse, but Khanduri intervened and, after a rather lengthy explanation, the woman accepted, then stood on her tiptoes and kissed Anson briefly on the cheek.

  “Take care of yourself, Dr. Anson,” she said. “My husband lives in you.”

  “My body will be a temple to his memory, Mrs. Narjot,” Anson replied.

  “So, Dr. Joseph,” Khanduri said as they were driving back to the airport, “was the meeting with your benefactor’s widow all that you expected it to be?”

  “I do my best to avoid expectations,” Anson said, “but it certainly was an enlightening experience. One that I shall never forget.”

  Anson’s fists, held at his sides where neither Khanduri nor St. Pierre could see, were so tightly clenched that his nails nearly cut into the flesh of his palms.

  It was three thirty in the morning when Anson slipped out the back window of his apartment. The jungle, cleansed by a light rain, was aromatic and mystical. Keeping low, and avoiding the security cameras, Anson took a long arc through the dense undergrowth, and then headed to his right, toward the access road to the hospital. The road was patrolled at night, but infrequently.

  The flight home, with two connections, had taken most of a day. Anson had used his trusted friend, Francis Ngale, to set things up for him. Then he had showered, rested, dressed in clean, dark clothing, and finally set out through the window. After twenty minutes, he arrived at the road, paved by the government in gratitude for the work of the clinic. It took a few seconds to orient himself and determine that Ngale would be waiting a short distance to the south.

  Anson was a brilliant man and loved solving puzzles of all kinds. The puzzle that was perplexing him now, however, was continuing to defy his logic. He did know that the journey he was taking to the village of Akonolimba would be a crucial step toward the solution. There were those, he knew, including Elizabeth, who considered him overly vigilant and suspicious. Now, it seemed possible that he hadn’t been paranoid enough.

  The rain clouds kept the unlit road quite dark, but there was some light reflected off them that sparkled on the wetness of the pavement.

  “Francis,” he called softly as he rounded a bend.

  “Right here, Doctor,” the security guard answered. “Just keep coming.”

  The massive man, as dark as the night, was waiting by the road, holding up the fourteen-speed bicycle that had once been Anson’s, but now more or less belonged to anyone at the clinic or lab who might want to take it out for a ride. For Anson this would be the first time in two years, although his surgery had been so successful that he had no worries about using it now.

  “You remember how to ride?” Ngale asked.

  “I expect it will be as easy as riding a bicycle.”

  “Very funny. I have oiled the chain and the axles, as well as the gearshift and brakes. If you fall off, you will have only yourself to blame.”

  Anson patted his friend on the shoulder, and started pedaling. Ngale trotted beside him for a few concerned paces, then veered to the side of the road.

  “I’ll say hello to the mayor for you,” Anson called over his shoulder.

  “I already did that myself. Platini is waiting up for you.”

  As usual, the fragrances and sounds of the jungle were hypnotic, and twice Anson had to force his attention back to the road. The five-mile ride to the village of Akonolimba, on the banks of the Nyong River, took just over half an hour. The dirt road that eventually bisected the town was too muddy to ride, so Anson walked the last quarter mile. Many of the huts were made of cinderblock and corrugated aluminum, but some were still reed and thatch. The village had running water and electricity as well as telephone service, but few of the inhabitants could afford to take advantage of them, and some of those who could simply didn’t want to.

  Platini Katjaoha, the mayor of the village, ran a general store, and lived in the most opulent house—stucco and cinderblock, two stories, with a carport, several rooms, and a cistern. There was also a satellite dish protruding off one of the outside walls. He answered Anson’s gentle knock barefooted, wearing red Bermuda shorts and a button-up Hawaiian shirt that stretched tightly over his royal girth. His smile showed perfectly white teeth that seemed almost phosphorescent against the ebony of his skin.

  “Mr. Mayor,” Anson whispered in French, “thank you so much for doing this for me.”

  “You are always welcome in my home, Doctor,” Katjaoha boomed, punctuating his greeting with a handshake and bear hug. “The door is closed upstairs, so you will awaken no one. My wife sleeps like a cow, anyhow, and the children are exhausted from getting underfoot all day. Can I get you some wine, tea, anything?”

  “Just a phone.”

  “I heard that you had a successful operation. We are pleased.”

  “Thank you, my friend. I have a new lung.”

  “From someone in India, I heard.”

  “Actually, that’s what I am here to find out. Did Francis tell you I would be making a long-distance call?”

  “For all that you have done for the people in our village, you could call the moon if you wish.”

  “Thank you. Please write your number down. I will need my friend to call me back here.”

  “No problem.”

  “And I may have to wait for that call.”

  “Also no problem.”

  “You are a wonderful man, Platini Katjaoha.”

  “Then you are the idol of wonderful men. I will be upstairs. Call my name out if you need me.”

  Anson thanked him again, then settled into a frayed easy chair by the telephone and pulled a folded paper from his pocket. There was a five-hour difference between Cameroon and New Delhi, so he had some uncertainty as to whether Bipin Gupta would be at home or at his office. Knowing the head of the editorial page of the highly regarded Indian Express newspaper as well as he did, Anson dialed the work number first. Not surprisingly, Gupta answered on the initial ring.

  “Greetings from Cameroon, old friend,” Anson said in near-fluent Hindi.

  “Joseph, Joseph, what a pleasant surprise. You must call more often, though. Your South African accent is getting more pronounced.”

  The two of them had roomed together for two years during college in Capetown. Even though Gupta was quite fluent in English, Anson insisted from day one that they speak only Hindi to each other. He had always had a knack for learning languages and quickly added Gupta’s native tongue to his English, Afrikaans, Dutch, French, Spanish, and German.

  He was surprised during the trip to Amritsar to realize that he had never shared the fact of his fluency in Hindi with Elizabeth. At first he was a bit embarrassed sitting by while Sanjay Khanduri translated language that he understood perfectly, but he was also amused, and he fully intended not to allow his humorous little deception to get too far. However, that was before Narendra Narjot, or whoever she was, asked, “How do you like my performance so far?” and Khanduri shockingly replied, “Just keep your answers simple and straightforward, and I will do the rest.”

  “Bipin,” Anson said after some initial courtesies, “I need you to check on two things for me. If it is possible, I will wait here for your reply. The first is a man by the name of T. J. Narjot, Sultan Road, Amrit
sar. About forty. He reportedly died at Central Hospital sometime during the week of July eighteenth.”

  “And the second?”

  “Sometime around that date there was allegedly an in-hospital epidemic at Central Hospital and others in Amritsar with a germ named Serratia marcescens. I need to know if that epidemic actually took place.”

  The journalist had him spell the name of the bacterium, then said, “You know that it is more difficult to determine that a person doesn’t exist or an event didn’t happen, than if they did.”

  “What I know is that my friend Bipin Gupta can do anything.”

  “Give me a number to reach you,” Gupta said, “and an hour.”

  Twenty-Eight

  If they escape disaster, they will be the better for it.

  —PLATO, The Republic, Book V

  Rodrigo Vargas’s black Mercedes was a powerful four-door sedan that smelled of cigars. Battered and slowed by her breathing and the deep bruise in her hip, Natalie had driven nearly a quarter of a mile before finding a narrow dirt spur cutting off into the dense forest. After she assured herself that the car was invisible from the road, she made four trips back to the Jeep to haul supplies up the hill. By the time she had transferred her compact tent, backpack, water, and food supplies into the Mercedes, it was late afternoon. During that time, not one car passed in either direction.

  With no idea how far she was from Dom Angelo, she decided to drive, albeit slowly. In just thirty minutes, a road dropped off downhill into the forest to her right. A sign nailed to a tree at the fork had an arrow pointing to the left, along with the crudely painted directions, DA 2 KM. Less than a kilometer along that road, she found a pair of rough tracks cutting off into the dense growth to her left. She drove the Mercedes in until the tracks had all but disappeared at the base of a hill. This time she did her best to cover the rear of the car with tree branches, and then wedged the key tightly beneath the right front tire.