Vital Signs

by Robin Cook

  “Maybe he was an acupuncturist,” Marissa suggested. “Or an herbalist.”

  “Possibly,” Tristan said. “But I can assure you that FCA did not start doing acupuncture as part of the in-vitro protocol. But Chan did lead me to believe that he had felt responsible for his companion since he was afraid he would be sent back to the PRC after the bloke died.”

  “Sounds like the companion was the more important of the two,” Marissa said. “Maybe he did provide some knowledge or skill.”

  “It would be tough to get me to believe that,” Tristan said. “They were all quite primitive fellows. What I started to think about was drugs.”

  “How so?” Marissa asked.

  “Heroin smuggling,” Tristan said. “I know that Hong Kong has become the heroin capital for moving heroin from the Golden Triangle to the rest of the world. I came to think that the explanation for all this weird activity was the movement of heroin, especially since TB is endemic in the Golden Triangle.”

  “So these Chinese duos were couriers?” Marissa asked.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Tristan said. “Maybe the one who didn’t know martial arts. But I wasn’t sure. Yet it was the only thing that seemed to justify the money that had to be involved.”

  “That means the FCA has to be in the drug business,” Marissa said. In her mind’s eye she remembered the surprising opulence of the clinic. That lent a certain credence to what Tristan was saying. But if that were the case, how did TB salpingitis fit in?

  “I was planning on investigating it,” Tristan said. “I intended to use my next vacation to go to Hong Kong and trace the trail back to Guangzhou if necessary.”

  “What made you change your mind?” Marissa asked.

  “Two things happened,” Tristan said. “First, the chief of pathology came back, and second, my paper came out in the Australian Journal of Infectious Diseases. I thought I was about to become professionally famous for describing a new clinical syndrome. Instead it turned out to be a king hit on me. As I said, I’d never cleared the paper with the administration. Well, they went crazy. They wanted me to recant the paper, but I wouldn’t. I got on my academic high horse and bucked the system.”

  “The cases in your paper were real patients?” Marissa finally asked. “You didn’t make them up?”

  “Of course I didn’t make them up,” Tristan said indignantly. “I’m not a complete alf. That’s the story they put out. But it wasn’t true.”

  “Charles Lester told us you’d made them up.”

  “That lying bastard!” Tristan hissed. “All twenty-three cases in that paper were real patients. I guarantee it. But I’m not surprised he told you differently. They tried to force me to say the same. But I refused. There were even threats. Unfortunately, I ignored the threats, even when they were extended to my wife and my two-year-old son.

  “Then Chan Ho disappeared and things got ugly. My pathology chief wrote to the journal and said I’d manufactured the data, so the paper was officially discredited. Then someone planted heroin in my car which the police found following an anonymous tip. My life became a living hell. I was indicted on drug charges. My family was intimidated and tormented. But like an idiot, I stood up to it all, challenging the clinic to deny the existence of the patients whose names I had saved. Drunk on idealism, I wasn’t going to give up. At least not until my wife died.”

  Marissa’s face went ashen. “What happened?” she asked, afraid to hear the rest.

  Tristan looked down at his beer for a moment, then took a swig. When he looked back at Marissa his eyes were filled with tears. “It was supposedly a mugging,” he said in a halting voice. “Something that doesn’t happen too often here in Australia. She was knocked down and her purse was taken. In the process, she broke her neck.”

  “Oh, no!” cried Marissa.

  “Officially she broke her neck hitting the pavement,” Tristan said. “But I thought the fracture resulted from a kung fu kick although I couldn’t prove it. But it made me terrified for my son’s safety. Since I had a trial to face, I stayed, but I sent Chauncey to live with my in-laws in California. I knew I couldn’t protect him.”

  “Your wife was American?” Marissa asked.

  Tristan nodded. “We met when I was doing a fellowship in San Francisco.”

  “What happened at the trial?” Marissa asked.

  “I was acquitted of most of the criminal charges,” Tristan said. “But not all. I served a short time in jail and had to do some community service. I got fired from FCA, obviously. I lost my specialty certification but managed to hold on to my medical license. And I fled out here to the outback.”

  “Your son is still in the States?” Marissa asked.

  Tristan nodded. “I wasn’t about to bring him here until I was certain it was over.”

  “What an ordeal.”

  “I hope you will take it to heart,” Tristan said. “You are probably right about your friend’s death not being accidental. You’re probably also right about your own life being in danger. I think you’d better leave Australia.”

  “I don’t know if I can at this point,” Marissa said.

  “Please don’t be as foolish as I was,” Tristan said. “You’ve already lost a friend. Don’t persist. Forget your idealism. All this represents something very big and very sinister. It probably involves organized Chinese crime and heroin, a deadly combination. People always think of the Mafia when they think of organized crime, but the Mafia is a Girl-Scout operation compared to the Chinese syndicate. Whatever is at the bottom of it all, I realized I couldn’t investigate it on my own. Nor should you.”

  “How could organized Chinese crime be associated with TB salpingitis?” Marissa asked.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Tristan said. “I doubt there is a direct causal link. It has to be some unexpected side effect.”

  “Did you know that FCA is controlled by a holding company that also controls all the Women’s Clinics in the States?”

  “I do,” Tristan said. “That was part of the reason I went to work for FCA. I knew that they were planning to expand around the globe primarily because of their in-vitro fertilization technology.”

  Marissa touched Tristan’s arm. Even though her loss was different, she felt the kinship of shared tragedy. “Thank you for talking with me,” she said softly. “Thank you for being so open and trusting.”

  “I hope it has the desired effect of sending you home at once,” Tristan said. “You must give up this crusade you are on.”

  “I don’t think I can,” Marissa said. “Not after Wendy’s death, and not after all the suffering that the TB salpingitis has caused me and so many others. I’ve come this far and risked this much. I have to find out what’s going on.”

  “All I can tell you is that a similar compulsion ruined my life and killed my wife,” Tristan said. He sounded almost angry. He wanted to talk her out of her foolishness, but seeing the glint of determination in her eyes, he knew it would be in vain. He sighed. “I’m getting the idea that you are a hopeless cause.

  “If you have to proceed, then I suggest that you contact the Wing Sin Triad in Hong Kong. Maybe they will be willing to help—for a price. That was what I was planning to do. But I have to warn you that it will be dangerous since the Hong Kong triads are notorious for violence, especially when heroin is involved; the amounts of money are astronomical. The heroin alone coming from the Golden Triangle is worth over a hundred billion dollars a year.”

  “Why don’t you come with me?” Marissa said. “Your son is safe in America. Why not follow up on what you had planned to do years ago? We can do it together.”

  Tristan laughed aloud. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Don’t even try to tempt me. I ran out of idealism two years ago.”

  “Why would FCA and the Women’s Clinic be involved with drugs?” she asked. “Just for the money? Wouldn’t they be risking too much?”

  “That’s a good question,” Tristan said. “I’ve asked it mys
elf. My guess is that they might be part of a money-laundering scheme. The clinic needs lots of capital for continued global expansion.”

  “So the Chinese coming from the PRC are couriers for money or drugs or both,” Marissa said.

  “That’s my guess,” Tristan said.

  “But that brings me back to the tuberculosis,” Marissa said. “How does that fit in?”

  Tristan shrugged. “As I said, I don’t have all the answers. I suppose it has to be an inadvertent effect. I don’t have a clue as to how the women pick it up. TB is usually an airborne infection. How it gets to the fallopian tubes is beyond me.”

  “That’s not how you make a diagnosis in medicine,” Marissa said. “All the symptoms and signs have to be related directly to the main diagnosis. Almost always it is one disease. I think TB has to be considered central to the problem.”

  “Then you’re on your own,” Tristan said. “There’s no way I can explain what’s happened with that caveat.”

  “So come with me,” Marissa begged. “You certainly have as much at stake as I do in learning the truth.”

  “No!” Tristan said. “I’m not getting involved. Not again. Recently I’ve been thinking that enough time has passed and I’ve saved a lot of money, enough to take my son back and move someplace far away, maybe even the States.”

  “Okay,” Marissa said. “I guess I can understand.” Her tone said she didn’t understand at all. “Thank you again for talking with me.” The two stood up. Marissa stuck her hand out and Tristan shook it.

  “Good luck,” Tristan said.

  Marissa squinted as she stepped outside into the blazing hot sun. She walked to her car and looked in at the dust. She was not relishing her ride back to Windorah, nor the odyssey back to Charleville the next day.

  She got into the car as carefully as possible to avoid raising a dust cloud. After starting the engine, she drove out of the Wilmington Station, waving to a few of the stockmen working on a run of fence. She hung a left and started back toward Windorah.

  As she drove through the forbidding countryside, she reviewed everything Tristan had told her. Although she hadn’t found out anything new about the TB salpingitis, she’d learned much she’d never expected, all of it disturbing. Perhaps the most disturbing was the suggestion of foul play in Tristan’s wife’s death. If Tristan was right, Marissa felt that lent greater plausibility to the idea that the sharks had been deliberately attracted by the two men tossing the chum. And if that were the case, her own life was in jeopardy.

  Marissa drove the car by reflex as she wondered what she could do to protect herself. Unfortunately she didn’t have any particularly startling ideas. If people she didn’t know wanted to kill her, how would she know who they were? It was hard to protect herself from the unexpected. Danger could come at any moment.

  Just then, as if to prove her fears, she became aware of an odd vibration. At first she thought her car had been tampered with. She glanced at the gauges and dials on the dashboard. All registered normal. Yet the vibration soon crescendoed to a roar.

  In a panic, Marissa gripped the steering wheel. She knew she had to do something fast. In desperation she slammed on the brakes and threw the steering wheel hard to the left. The car skidded sideways. For an instant, Marissa felt it was about to roll over.

  The instant Marissa came to a jolting halt, a plane thundered overhead, missing the top of her car by barely ten feet.

  Marissa knew then that the people who had killed Wendy had somehow found her. Now they would concoct an accident to dispense with her.

  Her car had stalled. Frantically, she tried to restart it. Through the windshield she could see that the plane had looped up, banked, and was now coming back toward her. In the distance it looked no bigger than an insect, but already its sound was rattling the car.

  With the engine going at last, Marissa put the car in gear. The plane was almost on her. Ahead was a lone acacia tree. For some crazy reason, Marissa thought that if she could get to the tree, it would provide a modicum of protection. She threw the wheel to the right to straighten the car, then gunned the engine. The car shot forward.

  The plane was headed right for her. It had dropped to less than ten feet from the ground. It was roaring along the road directly at her. Behind the plane, the dust billowed hundreds of feet into the air.

  Realizing she wasn’t going to make it to the tree, Marissa slammed on the brakes again and raised her arms protectively in front of her eyes. With a thundering growl the plane came at her, then pulled up at the last second. The car shuddered as the plane screamed overhead.

  Opening her eyes, Marissa floored the gas pedal again. Within seconds she had the car off the road and under the tree. Behind her she could hear the plane returning.

  Twisting in her seat, she faced around, fully expecting to see the craft coming at her. But instead, it was paralleling the road. As it passed by her, its wheels touched down. The high-pitched drone of its twin engines dropped to a deeper roar. That was when Marissa recognized the plane. Inside was Tristan Williams.

  Relief quickly changed to irritation as Marissa watched the plane slow to a near stop, turn, then taxi back. When it was alongside her car, it turned again, facing down the road. The engine was cut and Tristan jumped from the cabin.

  He walked up to Marissa with his hat jauntily pushed back on his forehead. “Marissa Blumenthal!” he quipped. “Imagine meeting you out here!”

  “You scared me to death,” Marissa said hotly.

  “And you deserved it,” Tristan said with equal vehemence. Then he smiled. “Maybe I’m a little crazy, too. But I had to let you know that I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I owe it to my wife’s memory. Maybe I owe it to myself. Whatever. I’ve got some holiday time and a lot of cash, so I’ll go with you to Hongkers and we’ll see if we can figure this thing out.”

  “Really?” Marissa asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Don’t make me reexamine my decision,” Tristan warned. “But I couldn’t let you wing off to Hong Kong by yourself under these circumstances. I’d feel guilty, and I’ve already experienced enough guilt for a lifetime.”

  “I’m so pleased,” Marissa said. “You have no idea.”

  “Don’t be too pleased,” Tristan said. “Because it’s not going to be any proper holiday, I can assure you of that. It’s not going to be easy and it’ll definitely be dangerous. Are you sure you want to go through with it?”

  “No question,” Marissa said. “Especially now!”

  “Where are you headed at the moment?” Tristan asked.

  “I’m staying at the Western Star Hotel,” Marissa said. “I was planning on driving to Charleville in the morning.”

  “Here’s my suggestion,” he said. “Go back to the Western Star and wait for me. I’ll meet you there. I’ve got another station to visit. I can arrange to have this rental car driven back to Charleville if you have the fortitude to fly with me in my KingAir.”

  “I’d do anything to avoid that drive from Windorah to Charleville,” Marissa said.

  Tristan tipped his hat. “See you at the Western Star.” He turned and started back toward his plane.

  “Tris!” Marissa called.

  He turned.

  Marissa blushed. “Can I call you Tris?” she asked.

  “You can call me anything you want,” Tristan said. “Here in the land of Oz, even Bastard is a term of endearment.”

  “I just wanted to thank you for volunteering to go with me to Hong Kong,” Marissa said.

  “Like I said, better hold back on your thanks until you see what we’re getting ourselves into,” Tristan said. “Have you ever been to Hong Kong?”

  “No,” Marissa said.

  “Well, hang on to your kookaburra. The outback of Australia is the absolute opposite of Hongkers. It’s a city out of control, especially now that it’s scheduled to be handed over to the PRC in ’97. The place is a bit desperate, and it’s always operated on money and money alone. Everything is for sale in
Hong Kong, even life itself. And, in Hong Kong life is cheap. I mean it. There it’s not just a cliché.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t have been able to handle it on my own,” Marissa said.

  Tristan eyed her. “I’m not so sure of that,” he said. “You’ve given me the impression that you’ve got more than your share of pluck and determination.” With a final smile, Tristan turned back to his plane.

  Soon the engines were roaring again and the props were sending a torrent of dust into the air. With a final wave, Tristan released his brake and the KingAir leaped forward, soaring off into the searing sun.

  13

  April 10, 1990

  7:15 A.M.

  “Time to get up!” a voice called, stirring Marissa from what felt like a drugged sleep. “The Williams’ Oriental tour is about to begin and it starts with a stockman-style breakfast.”

  Marissa’s eyes blinked open. Tristan was at the window, pulling back the curtain. Weak early morning sunlight streamed into the room.

  “Let’s go!” Tristan said. He came over to the bed and gave the covers a tug. Marissa grabbed them in panic. Tristan laughed, then spun on his heels. “I’ll expect you in half an hour in the morning room,” he said before pulling the door closed behind him.

  Marissa glanced at the room. It was the guest room in Tristan’s small house on the outskirts of Charleville. The room was a dormered space, quaintly decorated with a flower print wallpaper. The bed was wrought-iron with an eyelet comforter.

  They’d moved swiftly once Tristan told Marissa he would accompany her to Hong Kong. They’d gotten back to Charleville before dark after an uneventful flight. From the air Marissa began to realize just how vast and arid a country she was in. She had once read that Australia was the oldest continent on earth. From above, it looked it.

  She had spent the night at Tristan’s house only after a mild argument. At first she’d been reluctant, but Tristan had been insistent.

  “If you can’t trust me to spend the night in my guest room, then how are you going to trust me in Hongkers?”