Long Lost

by Harlan Coben

  "Well, hello!"

  A man stepped in wearing a white lab coat, tie, and the same dark-framed glasses actors use when they want to look smart. He shook both our hands and sat in the other plush chair.

  "So," he said, "how far along are you?"

  I looked at Esperanza.

  "Three months," she said with a frown.

  "Congratulations. Is this your first?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, I'm glad you're doing the mature thing by looking into storing your baby's umbilical cord blood."

  "Can you tell us the fee?" I asked.

  "One thousand dollars for processing and shipping. Then there are yearly storage fees. I know that may sound expensive, but this is a one-time opportunity. Cord blood contains stem cells that save lives. Simple as that. They can treat anemias and leukemias. They can fight infection and help with certain kinds of cancer. We are on the edge of research that may lead to treatments for heart disease, Parkinson's, diabetes. No, we can't cure them yet. But who knows what will happen in a few years' time? Are you familiar with bone marrow transplants?"

  "Somewhat," I said.

  "Cord blood transplants work better and are, of course, safer--no surgical procedure to harvest it. You need an eighty-three percent HLA match to work with bone marrow. You only need a sixty-seven percent match with cord blood. That's now--right now. We are saving lives today with those stem cell transplants. Are you following me?"

  We both nodded.

  "Because here's the key fact: The only opportunity to store cord blood is right after your baby is born. That's it. You can't decide to do it when the child is three years old, or maybe, God forbid, when a sibling gets sick down the line."

  "So how does it work exactly?" I asked.

  "It is painless and easy. When you have your baby, the blood is collected from the umbilical cord. We separate out the stem cells and deep-freeze them."

  "Where are the stem cells kept?"

  He spread his arms. "Right here, in a safe, secure environment. We have guards and backup generators and a safe room. Like you'd find in any bank. The option we work with mostly--and what I would highly recommend for you--is called family banking. In short, you store your baby's stem cells for your use. Your baby might need it. A sibling. Even one of you or maybe an uncle or aunt. Whatever."

  "How do you know the cord blood will be a match?"

  "There are no guarantees. You should know that. But of course the odds are greatly improved you'll find a match. Plus--well, it looks like you are a couple of mixed heritage. It's harder to find matches, so this issue may be particularly important for you. Oh, and let me point out that the stem cells we are talking about are from cord blood--they have nothing to do with the controversies you've read about involving embryonic stem cells."

  "You don't store embryos?"

  "Oh, we do, but that's something totally separate from what you're interested in. That's for infertility issues and the like. No embryos are harmed in cord-blood stem cell research or storage. I just wanted to make that clear."

  He had a wide smile.

  "Are you a doctor?" I asked.

  The smile faltered just a wee bit. "No, but we have five on staff."

  "What kinds of doctors?"

  "CryoHope has leaders in all the fields." He handed me a brochure and pointed to the list of five doctors. "We have a geneticist who works with inherited diseases. We have a hematologist who works on the transplant side of things. We have an obstetrician-gynecologist who is a pioneer in the area of infertility. We have a pediatric oncologist who is doing research with stem cells to find cancer treatments for children."

  "So," I said, "let me ask you a hypothetical."

  He leaned forward.

  "I store my baby's cord blood. Years pass. Now I get sick with something. Maybe you don't have a cure yet, but I want to try something experimental. Could I use the cord blood?"

  "It's yours, Mr. Kadison. You can do with it what you want."

  I had no idea where to go with this. I looked at Esperanza. She offered up nothing.

  "May I talk to one of your doctors?" I asked.

  "Are there any questions I haven't been able to answer?"

  I tried to think of another avenue. "Do you have a client named Rick Collins?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Rick Collins. He's a friend of mine, recommended you. I wanted to make sure he's a client."

  "That information would be confidential. I'm sure you understand. If someone were to ask about you, I would say the same thing."

  Nowhere.

  "Have you ever heard of a charity named Save the Angels?" I asked.

  His face shut down.

  "Have you?"

  "What is this?" he asked.

  "I just asked a question."

  "I explained to you the process," he said, rising. "I suggest you read the literature. We hope that you choose CryoHope. Best of luck to you both."

  OUT on the curb I said, "The bum's rush."

  "Yep."

  "Win had a theory early on that maybe the blood they found at the murder scene was cord blood."

  "It would explain a lot," Esperanza said.

  "Except I don't see how. Let's say Rick Collins did store his daughter Miriam's blood. So then what? He comes here, has it--what?--unfrozen, brings it to Paris, and it gets spilled on the floor when he's murdered?"

  "No," she said.

  "Then what?"

  "We're missing something obviously. A step or a few steps. Maybe he had the frozen sample sent to Paris. Maybe he was working with some doctors in an experimental program, human testing, that our government wouldn't approve of. I don't know, but again--does it make more sense that the girl survived this car accident and has been hiding for ten years?"

  "Did you see his face when we mentioned Save the Angels?"

  "Hardly surprising. They're a group that protests abortions and embryonic stem cell research. Did you notice how his rehearsed spiel stressed that cord blood has nothing to do with the stem cell controversy?"

  I mulled that over. "Either way, we need to look into Save the Angels."

  "No one answers their phones," she said.

  "Do you have an address for them?"

  "They're in New Jersey," she said. "But."

  "But what?"

  "We're running in circles here. We've learned nothing. And reality check: Our clients deserve better than this. We gave them our word we would work hard for them. And we're not."

  I stood there.

  "You are the best agent ever," she said. "I'm good at what I do. I'm very good. I'm a better negotiator than you'll ever be, and I know how to find more money-making venues for our clients than you do. But we get clients because they trust you. Because what they really want is for their agent to care about them--and you're good at that."

  She shrugged, waited.

  "I get what you're saying," I said. "Most of the time I get us into these messes to protect a client. But this time it's bigger. Much bigger. You guys want me to stay focused on our personal interests. I get that. But I need to see this through."

  "You have a hero complex," she said.

  "Duh. That's hardly a news flash."

  "It makes you fly blind sometimes. You do the most good when you know where you're going."

  "Right now," I said, "I'm going to New Jersey. You go back to the office."

  "I can take a ride with you."

  "I don't need a babysitter."

  "Too bad, you got one. We go to Save the Angels. If that's a dead end, we go back to the office and work all night. Deal?"

  "Deal," I said.

  29

  A major dead end. Literally.

  We followed the car's GPS to the office building located in Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey, at the end of a dead-end street. There was Ed's Body Shop, a karate studio called Eagle's Talon, and a super-cheesy storefront photo studio called the Official Photography of Albin Laramie. I pointed at the stenciled-glass lettering as we walked past.<
br />
  "Official," I said. "Because, really, you wouldn't want Albin Laramie's unofficial photographs."

  There were wedding shots using a lens so blurry it was hard to tell where groom began and bride ended. There were provocative model poses, mostly of women in bikinis. There were the most garish baby photographs in brown sepia tones that were faux Victorian. The babies were dressed in flowing gowns and looked creepy. Whenever I see a real Victorian baby picture I can't help thinking, "Whoever is in this picture is now dead and buried." Maybe I am more morose than most, but who wants such overly affected pictures?

  We entered the ground floor and checked the directory. Save the Angels was supposed to be in suite 3B, but the door was locked. We could see the discoloration on the door where a nameplate had once been.

  The closest office was for a CPA named Bruno and Associates. We asked about the charity next door.

  "Oh, they've been gone for months," the receptionist told us. Her nameplate said "Minerva." I didn't know if that was her first name or last. "They moved out right after the break-in."

  I arched an eyebrow and leaned closer. "Break-in?" I said.

  I'm good with the probing interrogatories.

  "Yep. They got cleaned out. Must have been"--she scrunched up her face--"hey, Bob, when was that break-in next door?"

  "Three months ago."

  That was pretty much all Minerva and Bob could tell us. On TV, the detectives always ask if the inhabitant left a "forwarding address." I have never seen a person in real life do that. We went back and stared at the Save the Angels door another second. The door had nothing to say.

  "You ready to go back to work?" Esperanza asked.

  I nodded. We headed back outside. I blinked into the sunlight and heard Esperanza say, "Well, hello."

  "What?"

  She pointed at a car across the street. "Look at the decal on the back bumper."

  You've seen them. They are white ovals with black lettering in them to show where you've been. It started, I think, with European cities. A tourist would return from a trip to Italy and put ROM on the back of his car. Now every town seems to have their own, a way to show civic pride or something.

  This decal read: "HHK."

  "Ho-Ho-Kus," I said.

  "Yep."

  I thought back to that code. "Opal in Ho-Ho-Kus. Maybe the four-seven-one-two is a house number."

  "Opal could be a person's name."

  We turned toward where we had parked, and another surprise greeted us. A black Cadillac Escalade was parked behind ours, blocking us in. I saw a heavyset man in a brown vice principal's suit start toward us. He had a buzz cut and a big, angular face, and he looked like a Green Bay Packer offensive lineman from 1953.

  "Mr. Bolitar?"

  I recognized the voice. I had heard it twice before. Once on the phone when I called Berleand--and once in London, seconds before I passed out.

  Esperanza stepped in front of me, as if to offer protection. I put a gentle hand on her shoulder to let her know that I was fine.

  "Special Agent Jones," I said.

  Two men, other agents I figured, got out of the Escalade. They stood with the door open and leaned against the side. Both men wore sunglasses.

  "I'm going to need you to come with me," he said.

  "Am I under arrest?" I asked.

  "Not yet. But you really should come with me."

  "Let's wait for the arrest warrant," I said. "I'll bring my attorney too. Keep it all on the up and up."

  Jones moved a step closer. "I would rather not bring formal charges. But I know for a fact that you've committed crimes."

  "You're a witness, no?"

  Jones shrugged.

  "Where did you take me after I passed out?" I asked.

  He faked a sigh. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about. But neither of us have time for this. Let's go for a ride, okay?"

  As he reached out for my arm, Esperanza said, "Special Agent Jones?"

  He looked at her.

  "I have a call for you," she said.

  Esperanza handed him her cell phone. He frowned but took it from her. I frowned too and looked at her. Her face gave me nothing.

  "Hello?" Jones said.

  The phone was set loud enough so that I could hear the voice on the other end clearly. The voice said: "Chrome, military style, with the Gucci logo engraved on the lower left-hand corner."

  It was Win.

  Jones said, "Huh?"

  "I can see your belt buckle through my rifle scope, though I'm aiming three inches lower," Win said. "Perhaps two inches would be more apropos in your case."

  My eyes dropped toward the guy's buckle. Sure enough. I had no idea what military-style chrome meant, but there was a Gucci logo engraved on the lower left-hand corner.

  Win said, "Gucci on a government salary? It has to be a knock-off."

  Jones kept the phone against his ear, started looking around. "I assume this is Mr. Windsor Horne Lockwood."

  "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "What do you want?"

  "Simple. Mr. Bolitar is not going with you."

  "You're threatening a federal officer. That's a capital offense."

  "I'm commenting on your fashion sense," Win said. "And since your belt is black and your shoes are brown, the only one committing a crime here is you."

  Jones's eyes lifted and met mine. There was a strange calm in them for a guy with a rifle aimed at his groin. I glanced at Esperanza. She didn't meet my gaze. I realized something rather obvious: Win was not in Bangkok. He had lied to me.

  "I don't want a scene," Jones said. He raised both hands. "So, okay, no one is forcing anything here. Have a good day."

  He turned and began to walk back to his car.

  "Jones?" I called out.

  He looked back at me, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  "Do you know what happened to Terese Collins?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell me."

  "If you come with me," he said.

  I looked at Esperanza. She handed the cell phone back to Jones.

  Win said, "Just so we're clear. You won't be able to hide. Your family won't be able to hide. If something happens to him, it is total destruction. Everything you love or care about. And, no, that's not a threat."

  The phone went dead.

  Jones looked at me. "Sweet guy."

  "You have no idea."

  "You ready to go?"

  I followed him to the Escalade and got in.

  30

  WE drove over the George Washington Bridge and back into Manhattan. Jones introduced me to the two agents in the front seat, but I didn't remember their names. The Escalade exited at West Seventy-ninth Street. A few minutes later it stopped by Central Park West. Jones opened the door, grabbed his briefcase, and said, "Let's take a walk."

  I slid out. The sun was still bright.

  "What happened to Terese?" I asked.

  "You need to know the rest first."

  I really didn't, but there was no point in pushing too much. He would tell me in his own time. Jones took off his brown suit jacket and laid it on the backseat. I waited for the other two agents to park and get out, but Jones slapped the top of the car and it took off.

  "Just us?" I said.

  "Just us."

  His briefcase was from another era, perfectly rectangular with number locks on both bolts. My dad used to have one like it, carrying his contracts and bills and pens and a tiny tape recorder to and from his office in that Newark factory.

  Jones started into the park on West Sixty-seventh Street. We passed Tavern on the Green, the lights on the trees dim. I caught up to him and said, "This seems a little cloak 'n' dagger."

  "It's a precaution. Probably unnecessary. But when you deal with what I do, you sometimes like to see why."

  I found this a tad melodramatic, but again I didn't want to push it. Jones was suddenly somber and reflective, and I didn't have a clue why. He watched the jogger
s, the Rollerbladers, the bike riders, the moms with designer-name strollers.

  "I know it's corny," he said, "but they skate and run and work and love and laugh and throw Frisbees and they don't have a clue as to how fragile it all is."

  I made a face. "But let me guess--you, Special Agent Jones, are the silent sentinel who protects them, the one who sacrifices his own humanity so the citizenry can sleep well at night. That about it?"

  He smiled. "Guess I deserved that."

  "What happened to Terese?"

  Jones kept walking.

  I said, "When we were in London, you took me into custody."

  "Yes."

  "And then?"

  He shrugged. "It's compartmentalized. I don't know. I hand you over to someone from another department. My part is over."

  "Morally convenient," I said.

  He winced but kept walking.

  "What do you know about Mohammad Matar?" he asked.

  "Just what I read in the paper," I said. "He was, I assume, a serious bad guy."

  "The baddest of the bad. A highly educated, radical extremist who made other radical terrorists wet their bed in fear. Matar loved torture. He believed that the only way to kill the infidels was to infiltrate and live among them. He started up a terrorist organization called Green Death. Their motto is: 'Al-sabr wal-sayf sawf yudammir al-kafirun.' "

  A spasm ripped through me:

  "Al-sabr wal-sayf."

  "What does that mean?" I asked.

  "'Patience and the sword will destroy the sinners.' "

  I shook my head, trying to clear it.

  "Mohammad Matar spent almost his entire life in the West. He grew up in Spain mostly, but spent some time in France and England as well. And Dr. Death is more than a nickname--he went to medical school at Georgetown and did his residency right here in New York City. Spent twelve years in the United States under various assumed names. Guess what day he left the United States?"

  "I'm not really in the mood for guessing."

  "September tenth, 2001."

  We both stopped talking for a moment, almost subconsciously turning south. No, we wouldn't be able to see those towers, even if they still stood. But respect had to be paid. Always and hopefully forever.