The Fifth Vial

by Michael Palmer

  Holy Mary, mother of God, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death….

  But in that minute, death did not come, nor in the next. Ben lay motionless, beyond feeling pain, tasting the coarse dirt of the rain forest floor, the surrounding greens and browns a blur. Finally, there was movement from behind him to the edge of his field of vision.

  “That was for Cincinnati,” Vincent said. “This one is for all the smart-asses in the world who think they’re putting something over on the rest of us.”

  In a final moment of absolute clarity, Ben’s vision sharpened, and he saw the camouflage-painted apparition, fifteen yards away, grinning as he raised his bow and drew back. Suddenly, Vincent jerked his head back and swatted at his cheek as if he had been bitten by a gigantic insect.

  “What the—?”

  They were the killer’s last words. From somewhere in the forest, a long, thin blade flashed from the trees, and pierced his neck through and through. Blood from a severed artery was spewing from the wound before he even began to fall. Widened eyes, a muffled cry, and a graceless pirouette, and the behemoth slumped to the ground, dead before he even hit.

  Ben, not being able to completely comprehend what had happened, felt blackness closing in. At the last moment, before total darkness, he felt a light touch on his shoulder, and heard a voice—a soft, reassuring woman’s voice.

  “It’s going to be all right,” she said.

  Thirty-Four

  Our guardians, as far as men can be, should be true worshipers of the Gods and like them.

  —PLATO, The Republic, Book II

  “Dr. Anson, please come quickly. It’s Rennie. I think this is the end for him. He’s still awake, but his blood pressure is gone.”

  Anson followed the young nurse to room 10—the quasi-isolation room at the far end of the hospital. Rennie Ono, a woodcarver in his early forties, was getting ready to die. He had battled his AIDS for a decade, but after years of quality living, he had lost out to a combination of infection and sarcoma. There was nothing else that could be done—at least nothing medically.

  Anson pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down, taking the man’s emaciated hand in his.

  “Rennie, are you able to hear me?”

  Faintly, Ono nodded, although he was beyond speech.

  “Rennie, you are a good and kind man. It will go well for you in the life after this one. You have fought your illness bravely. Are you afraid now?”

  Ono shook his head.

  “May I read to you, Rennie? May I read to you? May I read you through the passage? Good.”

  Anson opened a well-worn looseleaf notebook—his notebook. It was filled with drawings, short essays, diary entries, and poems, and he added to it in some way nearly every day. There was no title to what he was about to read, only the words, carefully printed on a sheet that was whiter than the others:

  The world can be hard, full of trickery,

  Full of deceit,

  Full of injustice,

  Full of pain.

  But there is an emptiness waiting, my friend—a great, glowing emptiness,

  Soft and fragrant with the essence of peace,

  The essence of serenity.

  You are almost there, my friend.

  The magnificent emptiness is the eternal harbor for your soul.

  Take my hand, friend.

  Take my hand and take a step, just one more step,

  And you are there.

  Anson felt Rennie Ono’s grip go slack. The faint rise and fall of the sheet over his chest vanished. For several minutes they remained silent and motionless—nurse, doctor, patient. Finally, Anson stood, bent low, and gently kissed the man’s forehead. Then, without a word, he left the room.

  It was nearing dawn, the most cherished time of Anson’s day. From the moment in Amritsar when he had realized the deception of the surgeon Khanduri and the woman claiming to be Narendra Narjot, along with the tacit participation of his dearest friend, Elizabeth, he had been sad and perplexed. Sleeping little, he had thrown himself as never before into his work and into caring for the patients in the clinic and hospital. All the while, he waited for understanding of what his response should be. Now, after several conversations with the nurse Claudine, who had been let go by Elizabeth, he was ready.

  When Anson reached the lab, his friend Francis Ngale was waiting just outside.

  “Dr. Joe, the laboratory is prepared,” the huge security guard said. “Dr. St. Pierre has just arrived at the hospital.”

  “Good.”

  “Did Rennie pass on?”

  “He did.”

  “Peacefully?”

  “Very peacefully, Francis.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Joe. He was quite a good man.”

  “Now we have business to attend to. Might I have the remote control?”

  Ngale handed over a small, rectangular box.

  “Tested and retested,” he said. “I hope you don’t have to use it.”

  “If I do, I do. The chair is in place?”

  “It is.”

  “You are a good friend, Francis. You have always been so.”

  The two men embraced briefly, and then Anson sent Ngale back to the hospital. A minute later, the man reappeared, leading Elizabeth into the room. She was wearing a loose, filmy white cotton skirt and matching blouse. Not even her expression of bewilderment and concern could mask her enduring beauty. Anson motioned her to the chair, and stood in front of her—sometimes pacing like a barrister, sometimes standing quite still and erect.

  “Well,” she said in English, “summoning me here at four o’clock in the morning is certainly a first.”

  “Yes,” Anson replied, “it is. As you know, prior to your arranging our trip to India to visit the widow of my benefactor, I made you a promise that I would share the final secrets of my research on Sarah-nine with the scientists from Whitestone.”

  “That is correct.”

  Her bewildered expression intensified. Why would he be retelling something she knew so well?

  “All you are missing is the identification of which of the ten strains of yeast in our vats we are actually using, and also one step in the process of stimulating the yeast to actually produce the drug.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I have decided to renege on my part of the bargain.”

  “But—”

  “You have been deceitful, Elizabeth. You built our friendship, and then abused it.”

  Anson had always been an extremely peaceful man, but his temper, once triggered, could be intense. He cautioned himself against going off at this moment. Not with the remote in his pocket.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” St. Pierre tried.

  Anson rattled off a few sentences in Hindi.

  “I assume you recognize the language,” he said, “even if it is one of the few you do not speak. I am reasonably fluent in it—at least fluent enough to identify that ridiculous charade in Amritsar.”

  “I don’t understand,” she tried again.

  “Of course you do. Upon our return, hoping against hope that I had somehow misread the whole dreadful scenario, I contacted a journalist friend in New Delhi. There is no evidence that a T. J. Narjot ever existed, nor that there was ever an outbreak of Serratia in the hospitals of Amritsar.”

  “Wait,” St. Pierre pleaded, now clearly beginning to panic.

  “There’s more,” Anson said. “Ever since my operation and recovery, I’ve been mystified by the convenience of my respiratory arrest here in the hospital. I called the nurse, Claudine, who was here that day. At first she tried to protect you, or rather her future as a nurse, which you threatened. But ultimately her allegiance to me won out, and what do you suppose I learned? I learned that my dear friend Elizabeth, my dear old friend, nearly killed me out of her own self-interest.”

  “That was done for your own good, Joseph. You needed the transplant.”

  “You mean you needed me to have the tr
ansplant. My work wasn’t going fast enough for you. Or was it that you were fearful I would die before your damn scientists had picked my brain clean?”

  “Now, Joseph, that isn’t fair. Whitestone built this hospital. We built these labs.”

  Anson withdrew the remote from his pocket.

  “You know my friend Francis, yes?” he asked, motioning to Ngale.

  “Of course.”

  “Francis is something of an expert in demolition. At my request, he has wired this entire research wing with explosives. Elizabeth, you have exactly fifteen minutes to satisfy me you are telling the truth, or this lab is going up in smoke.”

  “Wait, no. You can’t do this!”

  “Fifteen minutes, and all this will be rubble, including those precious vats of yeast, and my notebooks, which are piled right over there in the corner.”

  “Joseph, you don’t understand. It is not my place to tell you anything. I-I need to make some calls. I need to get permission to share some things with you. My life is in danger if I don’t. I-I need more time.”

  Anson theatrically checked his watch.

  “Fourteen minutes.”

  St. Pierre looked frantically about as if searching for a rescuer.

  “I need to make a call.”

  “As long as it takes less than fourteen minutes.”

  St. Pierre raced off.

  “Shall I go with her?” Ngale asked.

  “Her only option is to tell us the truth. The people who employ her are smart—very smart. They will see that.”

  In just a few minutes St. Pierre was back.

  “All right, all right,” she said, breathless. “I’ve been authorized to tell you certain facts, but no names. Is that acceptable?”

  “You are the liar, Elizabeth. You are the deceiver. I will make no promises.”

  “All right, then, sit down and listen.”

  Anson nodded to Ngale, who brought over a chair, and then, with one final look at his friend, excused himself from the room.

  “Proceed,” Anson said. “Just remember, though, if I feel you are lying, I will not give you a second chance.”

  He held up the remote for emphasis.

  St. Pierre straightened herself and met his gaze defiantly.

  “A number of years ago,” she began, “maybe fifteen, a small group of transplant specialists—medical and surgical—began getting together at international transplant meetings to discuss the awesome pressures of our specialty, and our dissatisfaction and frustration with the system of organ donation and allocation.”

  “Go on.”

  “Around the globe, restrictive legislation was essentially removing us—the internal medicine specialists and surgeons responsible for organ transplants—from the loop of decision making. Surgeons began lying about the severity of their patients’ conditions to push them farther up certain lists. In addition, public apathy and a lack of involvement by organized religion have deprived societies of a reasonable supply of organs. And finally, perhaps most frustrating of all, again and again, people whose self-destructive behaviors—smoking, drinking, eating poorly—have caused them to need a transplant slide back into their self-destructive ways, and literally destroy the organ that could have saved the life of a more responsible, more deserving candidate.”

  “Were you part of this group?”

  “Not initially. I was invited to join the Guardians about eleven years ago.”

  “The Guardians?”

  “As you can imagine, the discussions the initial group of transplant doctors had were deeply philosophical. In this group were some of the greatest minds in medicine, facing some of the greatest ethical dilemmas.”

  “And also possessing some of the greatest egos, I’ve been told.”

  “These men and women—especially the transplant surgeons—are burdened with incalculable responsibility.”

  “The Guardians?”

  “Gradually, in search of a philosophical center, the group began focusing more and more on the writings of Plato, particularly The Republic. His philosophy and logic made sense to everyone. Meeting by meeting, through readings and discussion, the basis for a highly secret society was formed.”

  “Dr. Khanduri is a Guardian?”

  “I said no names.”

  “Damn it, is he?” Anson snapped.

  “Yes, of course. Of course he is. Why do you ask?”

  “Because he spoke about his disagreement with the Sikhs over their rejection of the caste system. Plato, as I recall, divided society into three castes.”

  “He didn’t use that word, but yes. The Producers—laborers, farmers, and the like—are the lowest of the three; the Auxiliaries—soldiers, managers, and secondary leaders—are next, and at the apex of the pyramid—”

  “The Guardians,” Anson filled in, “the elite.”

  St. Pierre nodded proudly.

  “Intellectually, athletically, artistically, creatively, altruistically, scientifically, and politically. Think of what would have happened if Einstein or Nelson Mandela, or Jonas Salk, or…or Mother Teresa, needed an organ to survive and they were mired down in some list or bureaucratic red tape or…or there were simply no suitable organs available. Think of yourself, Joseph, and all that you are about to bring to mankind because we were able to procure a lung for you—and not just any lung, a perfectly matched lung. As transplant specialists, it is the goal of the Guardians of the Republic to see to it that other Guardians around the world who need organs of any kind are supplied them.”

  St. Pierre’s zeal and intensity were chilling. Anson could barely breathe. The word “procure” cut through him like a knife. For the first time, he began considering the possibility that the source of his new life might not have been someone legally dead.

  “From where?” he managed hoarsely.

  “Pardon?”

  “Where? From where do these organs come?”

  “Why, from the Producers and the Auxiliaries, of course,” St. Pierre said. “Certainly not from other Guardians. That wouldn’t make any sense. It is against our policies.”

  Anson stared at the woman he thought he had known well for eight years. His utter disbelief was directed not merely at what St. Pierre was saying, but even more at her absolute comfort in saying it.

  “How many Guardians are there now?” he asked.

  “Not so many,” she replied. “Maybe twenty-five, maybe thirty now. We are very selective and as you might suspect, very careful as well. Only the best of the best.”

  “Of course,” he muttered. “Only the best of the best.” He held up the remote. “Elizabeth, I promise you that if you make one effort to move from that chair without answering my questions, I will press this button, and you will die, along with this lab.”

  “But you will die as well.”

  “My priorities are straight. Now, tell me about procuring this perfect match.”

  St. Pierre fidgeted uncomfortably and looked around as if expecting a knight-errant to ride in and save her.

  “Well,” she said finally, her composure now only marginal, “if a Guardian is to receive an organ, it must be a perfect or near-perfect match. Otherwise there would be emotional trauma, and medical issues around the high doses of toxic antirejection drugs they would have to take. Look at you, Joseph. You are barely on any medications at all. After your operation, you were back at your critical work in almost no time.”

  “I would imagine many of the Guardians who receive organs can pay for them.”

  “And they do. Such monies are used to forward the work of the society.”

  “Through the Whitestone Foundation.”

  “We are the Whitestone Foundation, yes. We perform philanthropic works all over the world on behalf of artists, healers, politicians, and scientists like yourself. We own Whitestone Laboratories, Whitestone Pharmaceuticals, and soon, if you are a man of your word, Sarah-nine as well.”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me about being a man of my word. That entire trip to India
was a fraud—a total charade.”

  “That was because you wouldn’t let up in your insistence to meet the family of your donor, and the council of the Guardians of the Republic felt that for the time being at least, that was neither practical nor desirable.”

  “My operation wasn’t performed in India?”

  “I’ve cooperated with you in every way, Joseph. Now, will you please put that thing down?”

  “Where was my surgery done?” He brandished the remote for emphasis. “No lies.”

  “Brazil. It was done at a Whitestone facility in Brazil. You were kept sedated and then transferred from there to a Guardian surgeon in Capetown as soon as it was safe.”

  Anson took a deep, cleansing breath.

  “Okay, now tell me, Elizabeth, who was he?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The donor. Who was he and where was he from?”

  Again, St. Pierre cast about fruitlessly for someone to intervene. Her jaws were clenched in frustration.

  “Actually,” she said finally, “it was a woman—a woman from Boston in the States.”

  “Her name?”

  “I told you, no—”

  “Goddamn it, Elizabeth,” Anson bellowed, “give me her name or be prepared to die on this spot! I mean it, and you know I mean it!”

  “It’s Reyes. Natalie Reyes.”

  “Okay. Now, step by step, you are going to tell me everything you know about this Natalie Reyes and how she came to be chosen to give me her lung.”

  Thirty-Five

  When a man thinks himself to be near death, fears and cares enter into his mind which he never had before.

  —PLATO, The Republic, Book I

  Ben reentered consciousness to a pungent, though not unpleasant, aroma, and a woman’s voice softly singing in a tongue he didn’t understand. The arrow was gone. The agonizing pain in his shoulder and the racking ache throughout his body were present, but strangely muted. It was not the first time he had awakened, he recognized, not the first time he had heard the woman singing. He was naked from the waist up, on his back, on a pile of blankets and rags in what seemed to be a cave. Sunlight was pouring in through the entrance, ten feet or so away.