The Fifth Vial

by Michael Palmer

  The minister, al-Thani, was standing just outside the doorway, only a few feet from Berenger’s blood-soaked body. His eyes were narrowed and grim, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Clearly, he knew that the fate of his prince had been sealed.

  Natalie, following al-Rabia’s orders to the best of her ability, was waiting for him to stop the resuscitation, but the man desperately kept at it. Suddenly, one of the helicopter pilots appeared by al-Thani, trying at first to speak in Portuguese, than resorting to badly broken English.

  “Lord. Two cars on road. Stopped. People on face on ground. Men, women with guns around them.”

  Ben!

  The impassive minister actually sighed. Then he rattled off an order in Arabic to the physician, turned, and left.

  Moments later the resuscitation on the prince was over.

  Al-Rabia, his eyes glistening, looked dismally over at Natalie and shook his head.

  “Allah will care for him,” he said, “but he was such a good man, and would have made a wonderful ruler for our people.”

  “I’m very sorry,” she replied. “For what it’s worth, I think you did an excellent job. He had a heart infection that could not be treated.”

  “Maybe someday there will be such a treatment.”

  “Maybe someday,” she echoed.

  “Natalie, that is your name?”

  “Natalie Reyes, yes.”

  “Well, Natalie Reyes, it means nothing now, but I want you to know that we were told the donor of the heart to our prince was brain-dead. Until we arrived here, that is what we believed. With Dr. Berenger in charge, matters simply got out of hand.”

  “I appreciate your telling me. Dr. Berenger and his organization were corrupted by their own egos and greed. They could not stand to be told by people they considered beneath them how to use their incredible skills.”

  “I understand. If the minister will allow me to leave the prince like this, perhaps with the anesthesiologist watching over him, I wish to come in and help you suture that poor woman’s chest.”

  “I would like that, Dr. al-Rabia,” Natalie said. “I would like that very much.”

  The two, Arab physician and American medical student, returned to the OR, where Sandy Macfarlane lay peacefully beneath the surgical drapes, being breathed for by a ventilator, and kept asleep by carefully metered anesthetic gas. The incision down her chest to the surface of her sternum was oozing blood, but certainly not enough to be a threat. Natalie electrically cauterized the largest of the bleeding vessels, then, with al-Rabia holding the skin edges together, she settled in and meticulously sewed the incision back together.

  As she worked, Natalie flashed back to the Metropolitan Hospital emergency room just hours before Berenger would arbitrarily remove her as a Guardian for being suspended from medical school. Standing nearby was the nurse, Beverly Richardson, and on the table before her was the boy, Darren Jones, the last person she had sutured…until now.

  Beneath her mask, Natalie smiled.

  Forty-One

  You are lazy and mean to cheat us out of a whole chapter, which is a very important part of the story.

  —PLATO, The Republic, Book V

  With the anesthesiologist left behind to bring Sandy Macfarlane back to consciousness, Natalie headed excitedly to the dining room. The minister, al-Thani, was there, but all of the soldiers, save one, were gone.

  “May I go out?” she anxiously asked al-Rabia. “There is someone out there—a friend. I need to make sure he doesn’t get hurt.”

  “Is he the one who held up the arrival of the surgeon and all the others?”

  “I believe so.”

  Al-Rabia shook his head in utter frustration and wordlessly checked with the minister, who clearly understood Natalie’s request.

  “Yes, yes, go ahead,” he said. “They will not be hurt.”

  Before Natalie could leave, Ben and Father Francisco, hands in the air, entered the dining room, followed by three Arab soldiers and the man Natalie felt certain was Berenger’s second surgeon.

  Al-Thani barked out a brief order, and the soldiers lowered their weapons, then backed away.

  “Where’s Berenger?” the surgeon asked.

  Al-Rabia pointed with his thumb.

  “In the hallway,” he said, not bothering to explain any further.

  Natalie raced across and threw her arms around Ben, knocking him backward a step.

  “Nice place you run here,” he said, gesturing about the room. His gaze stopped at Luis’s bullet-riddled corpse. “Oh, no.”

  “He was a warrior right to the end,” Natalie said. “He always seemed ready to die. Before he was killed he did what was needed to bring this place down.”

  “Maybe his sister will be able to rest in peace.”

  “I couldn’t believe it when the helicopter pilot said that someone had stopped the nurses and surgeon and had them lying on the ground. I just knew it was you. After Berenger told me that Father Francisco was on their payroll, I felt sick at having sent you to him for help. What happened?”

  “Believe it or not,” Francisco answered, “until Mr. Callahan, here, convinced me otherwise, I had no idea the donors who had come through the hospital had all been kidnapped. He told me the story of this professor from Chicago, and a farm boy from Idaho. He made the analogy between forcing the poor and downtrodden into prostitution and slavery, and forcing them to sell their body parts or, in this case, to give them away.”

  “Nat, Father Francisco, here, really came through when it counted. It took him just a few minutes to round up ten of the toughest men—and women—I have ever seen. We were fortunate to arrive at the hospital road just as the cars did. That man over there is a surgeon. He started bossing us around and telling us how important it was for them to get to the hospital. Next thing they knew, they were on the ground. Then, these soldiers came out of the trees, and all of a sudden we were on the ground, too.”

  Natalie turned to al-Rabia.

  “What’s going to happen to us and to these people?” she asked.

  The physician received a silent answer from his minister before he responded.

  “Contrary to what you might believe, senseless violence is not our way,” he said. “Minister al-Thani is sad and angry, but not at you. The prince’s body will be placed on one of the helicopters and flown back to the airport. After we return to our country, he will be buried as the hero he was.”

  They all waited somberly as the soldiers wheeled the prince out across the patio, followed by al-Rabia and the minister.

  Finally, Natalie turned to Father Francisco.

  “Once the flight crew is in working order, we’ll hitch a ride with them back to Rio and get Sandy into a hospital. Then I’ll get in touch with the American Embassy and set up a meeting with them and this Military Police detective I met in Botafogo. He didn’t treat me with any great interest, but I sensed he took pride in his work and his position. Plus Rodrigo Vargas disliked him, and that’s recommendation enough for me. His name is Perreira.”

  “I will check with some friends of mine to see if he is someone you can trust.”

  “Thank you, Father Francisco. Today you behaved like a true man of God.”

  The priest shook her hand, then embraced her and thanked her for helping to free their town.

  “You know,” he said, “this man has some way with words. He wore me away—absolutely wore me down like waves pounding at the shore. Hey, you know what I think, Mr. Callahan? I think maybe you should consider becoming a lawyer, or maybe even a priest.”

  “No chance, Father,” Ben said, putting his arm around Natalie’s shoulders to brace himself. “I’m going to be too busy writing my first detective novel.”

  Epilogue

  The soul of man is immortal and imperishable.

  —PLATO, The Republic, Book X

  “I can see why you love autumn in New England so much,” Ben said. “I’m really happy to be here again.”

  Natalie squeez
ed his hand and smiled up at him. Four weeks had passed since Dom Angelo, and this was Ben’s second trip to be with her. Their embryonic connection, forged initially in the rain forest, was growing stronger and more passionate, although neither of them was anxious to push things too hard too fast.

  “I have something to share with you,” Natalie said as they passed the Esplanade where just a few months before she had gone with friends to watch the Pops celebrate the Fourth of July, “but first tell me about Texas.”

  “It was kind of a surreal trip,” he said. “The cops knew who I was and didn’t charge me anything for towing and storing my car. Then I started out of town, but almost before I knew it, I was heading out John Hamman Highway to see the place one last time. The gate was chained and padlocked, and the Oasis inside looked totally deserted. I got out and hung for a time, just taking in the whole scene.”

  “That had to have been intense.”

  “Oh, it was. I stood there wondering about how many. How many unsuspecting clients were tissue-typed there? Millions, I guess. How many perfect matches had they chosen? How many had died as a result?”

  “Ben, you helped put an end to it all.”

  “I hope. So, how do you feel about taking a leave from school?”

  “It’s the right thing to do. I’m not mentally or physically in shape to go back yet, but I will if I can. Maybe next year. Meanwhile, I’m getting to spend some quality time with my niece, Jenny. With her CP and my sister’s death, she’s really had a raw deal of it and I want to be sure she gets as much as life owes her. Plus I really am enjoying the time we spend together.”

  “And your residency?”

  “First things first, Ben.”

  “I understand. I’m still angry and frustrated for you, that’s all.”

  “I don’t have a hell of a lot to look forward to in terms of my health, but at least I’m not walking around all day thinking about solving my problems with a bunch of pills and a plastic bag.”

  “I sure hope not.” Mindless of the runners and Rollerbladers passing by, Ben lifted her chin and kissed her gently. “Wanna sit down for a bit?” he asked.

  “Why, am I breathing weird again?”

  “Hey, hey, no touchiness, now. Remember our deal. You stay cool about your lung and I’ll stay cool about having no career, no interests aside from you and the illicit organ trade, and no immediate job prospects. Job or no job, good lung or bad, we still have what everyone else has—we have today. Now, what did you want to share with me?”

  Natalie didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she rested her head on his shoulder, trying to purge any unpleasant thoughts from her mind. Finally, she reached in her pocket and extracted a letter.

  “This came yesterday,” she said. “You watch the boats. I’ll read it to you.” She was unable to cull the melancholy from her voice. “Sorry for sounding down. I’m still lacking closure in this whole business, and from time to time notions about the future just hit me.”

  “Hey, read and don’t worry. My scars are almost gone. Yours is slightly more permanent.” He ran his fingertips along her right side. “Anything that brings closure a little nearer, do it.”

  Natalie pressed his hand to her lips.

  The letter was folded in quarters and already dog-eared.

  “It’s from Detective Perreira,” she said, opening it.

  Dear Senhorita Reyes,

  This letter, like my first one, is being translated by an American friend who teaches English and can be counted upon to be absolutely discreet. I first want to tell you that the attorney you have hired here has been most active and seems to us all to be extremely competent. I believe that ultimately there will be no formal charges pressed against you in connection with any of the matters related to Dom Angelo.

  I also wish to thank you and Mr. Callahan for referring your friend Alice Gustafson to me. I find her to be a charming, thoughtful woman, who only yesterday was a guest at our home for dinner. She and I have traveled together to Dom Angelo (my third trip) for picture-taking and for her to examine the hospital and the village. With the help of information from someone in the town, several bodies have been unearthed. It may be difficult if not impossible to identify them, but Professor Gustafson believes the answers to that mystery are in London, and she will be flying there when she leaves here. Scotland Yard has been investigating their end of this case and are eagerly awaiting her arrival. Although it will take some time to identify all of those involved, she believes that some arrests there are imminent. Professor Gustafson is, as I assume you know, a most determined woman.

  We here in Rio de Janeiro have great respect for your courage and for the service you and Mr. Callahan have done our country. I hope our aggressive pursuit of this matter, and the arrests we have made, including two of our own, have changed your opinion of the Brazilian Military Police.

  If and when you choose to return to our country, please accept my invitation to serve as one of your hosts.

  “Power corrupts,” Ben said.

  Natalie’s reply was cut short by her cell phone, which announced a call with its riff from Vivaldi. With no one around to disturb, she let the melody play through twice before answering.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Natalie Reyes?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Are you selling something? Because—”

  “Please indulge me for a moment and I’ll explain everything.”

  “All right, I’m Natalie. Now, what is this? Who are you?”

  “Natalie, I know you picked up Ben Callahan at the airport earlier today. Is he with you now?”

  “Look, either you tell me what this is all about, or I’m going to—”

  “Okay. Okay. This has to do with Brazil.”

  Instantly, Natalie’s irritation vanished.

  “What about Brazil?”

  “Natalie, if you’re not already, you may want to sit down.”

  “We’re sitting.”

  “Great. Can you put the phone where you both can hear?”

  Natalie pulled Ben closer and did as she was asked.

  “Okay,” she said, “we can both hear.”

  “Natalie, my name is Beth Mann. I’m a private detective here in Boston. On behalf of a client, I have been investigating you since your return from Brazil. No Peeping Tom stuff, I promise you.”

  “An ethical detective,” Ben whispered, pulling back for a moment. “Must be a hoax.”

  “Go on,” Natalie said.

  “As part of my investigation, I have had a number of conversations with Dr. Rachel French—”

  “My pulmonologist,” Natalie whispered to Ben.

  “—and also with your friend Dr. Terry Millwood. He is at White Memorial Hospital right now, awaiting your call. Those two physicians have spoken with the head of the hospital, and all necessary arrangements have been made.”

  “Necessary arrangements for what?” Natalie asked, absolutely nonplussed.

  “Natalie, does the name Dr. Joseph Anson mean anything at all to you?”

  “No, should it?”

  “Not really. Dr. Anson is from West Africa—Cameroon to be more exact. He’s a dedicated physician and a brilliant researcher in the area of neovascularization.”

  “Making new blood vessels,” Natalie whispered to Ben. “Go on.”

  “At this moment, Dr. Anson is in or around Boston. I have no idea where. He has made a decision from which he has no intention of turning back. The decision was made after I told him about the fire at your mother’s house and the damage your lung incurred in saving her and your niece.”

  “But how did you—?”

  “Mr. Callahan, would you please take a moment and tell this woman what we detectives do?”

  “We detect,” Ben said.

  “Please go on,” Natalie said, sensing, but not yet believing, what was to follow.

  “At nine o’clock this evening, just seven hours from now, Dr. Anson is going to peacefully take his own life. I will ge
t a call from an attorney telling me the address where Dr. Anson’s body can be found. Then I will receive a call from Dr. Anson. I have an ambulance standing by and will wait exactly thirty-seven minutes before sending it out to the location. By the time they arrive, Dr. Anson’s heart will be beating, but he will be brain-dead. Believe me, Natalie, Dr. Anson is a genius, and is absolutely capable of making this happen. Once a neurologist has confirmed the brain death, Dr. Millwood and his team will be standing by to transplant Dr. Anson’s lung into your chest.”

  “But…but why? Why not just donate a lung to me and keep one for himself?”

  “Because, Natalie, Joseph Anson has only one functioning lung—yours.”

  Natalie felt her body go slack and wondered if, for the first time in her life, she was going to faint. Ben squeezed her hand so tightly that it hurt.

  “Oh, God,” she said. “There’s already been so much death. Is there any way I could talk to this man?”

  “Believe me, Natalie, I have spoken to him a number of times, and researched him thoroughly. Dr. Anson is at peace with what he is doing. All we need now is your cooperation.”

  Ben nodded vigorously at her.

  “Then…I guess you have it,” she heard herself say.

  “In that case, Dr. Millwood is awaiting your call. He’ll explain what happens next. I’m very happy for you. Be sure to stop by my office after your recovery.”

  “But what if—?”

  Beth Mann had rung off.

  Natalie, making no attempt to stem her tears, took both of Ben’s hands in hers.

  “Remember what I said about closure?” she asked.

  The time is right, Anson was thinking. The time is right.

  He was in a small, rented garage, just a mile from Natalie Reyes’s apartment, sitting in a compact car in pitch-darkness. The passenger side window was open an inch. The opening was sealed with rags. Protruding inward from the rags was one end of a length of garden hose. The other end was sealed in the exhaust pipe. The heavy sedation he had taken at a carefully predetermined moment was beginning to take effect.