Stolen Hearts

by Elise Noble

  But one that made sense and slotted so many of the puzzle pieces together. In fact, he was kicking himself for not having thought of it sooner. The sun had turned his brain soft while Emmy turned other parts of his body hard, neither of which was conducive to running an efficient investigation. He wouldn’t change his new life with her for the world, but sometimes, just sometimes, he missed the ease with which he used to be able to focus twenty-four-seven rather than a mere twenty-three-and-a-half.

  “Tell me already.”

  Rather than answer, Black got up, turned on the ceiling light, and studied his wall of notes. Yes, it did fit.

  “What are the three main motives for murder?”

  “Money, sex, and revenge. But don’t discount the occasional lunatic.”

  “I’m not discounting it, just saying that it’s statistically unlikely.” A money spinner. “What do kidneys, hearts, and livers have in common?”

  “Uh, they’re all vital for life? Although a stab wound to the liver is reasonably survivable, and a stab to a kidney needs a follow-up wound to be effective too.”

  “Go back to the first part. Vital for life. Kidneys, hearts, and livers are transplantable. They’ve got an aftermarket value, if you like.”

  “You think someone’s stealing organs for transplant?”

  “It’s more likely than a freak making offal pie. Think about it—all the victims were young and healthy, taken from an area with a transient population and a lax police force where their disappearance would be unlikely to cause a ripple. We know Duncan had organs missing, and the damage to Carmela’s abdomen was worse than to the rest of her body. Those knife marks weren’t from stab wounds; they were from organ removal.”

  “Hence the halothane. They couldn’t have risked stabbing a victim in case it damaged the goods.”

  “And we’ve got other medical connections—there’s the surgeon’s knot, and we know that Gosia and Carmela visited the same hospital. Want to make a bet that Duncan got treated there too?”

  “But where are they doing these transplants?” Emmy asked. “Surely if people were coming on holiday to Dahab and going home with new kidneys, there would’ve been rumours of a black market? And the Dahab International Medical Center might be okay for minor injuries, but we’ve snooped around it, remember? The security’s crap, and unless they’re hiding a world-class transplant team in the basement, they’re not equipped to switch out a heart.”

  “The transplants wouldn’t necessarily have to be carried out in Dahab. Sharm airport’s an hour away, and we already know the officials there’ll land private planes for a backhander, no searches, no questions asked. Or they could transport the organs by boat. Israel, Saudi Arabia, and Jordan border the Gulf of Aqaba, and they’ve all got money.”

  “Fuck. It does fit.”

  “We need to focus back on that hospital.”

  “They must be stealing to order. I mean, if they killed someone, harvested the organs, and then they weren’t a match for the recipient, it’d be a waste of time, wouldn’t it? And they wouldn’t get paid.”

  “No, they wouldn’t. We’ve got a rogue organ broker with access to inside information.”

  The question was, what information did they need to obtain? How did organs get matched to recipients? Black needed to do some research. What time was it? Just after eight p.m. in Virginia. He picked up the phone.

  “Dan, I need you to find me a transplant surgeon.”

  This was the worst part. That point in an investigation when you knew where you were going, but getting there was like crossing a minefield—slow, tedious, and liable to cause harm if you made the wrong move. The perpetrator had to be unsettled, and if they acted too quickly, they could scare him off. And Black considered it was more likely than not that the suspect was male. Few women could manhandle an uncooperative body into a vehicle, let alone drag one over a reef.

  Thanks to Emmy loading a backdoor into the network on her visit to the medical centre, Mack had got them a list of employees. Fifty-three names. Only one appeared on Gosia’s customer list, a man named Timo Bergeron, and he would take priority. Black had tasked Khaled with finding background on the rest, and the young cop was also primed to notify him when Duncan’s wife had been informed of his death, which was supposed to happen this morning thanks to Black passing on details of the man’s identity yesterday evening. Then they’d ask her whether he’d visited the medical centre.

  Mack had gotten ahold of Bergeron’s schedule, and he’d been rostered onto the late shift today—four p.m. to midnight. She’d found his address too, and Google Earth showed a single-storey villa with a small garden not too far from the Black Diamond Hotel. Perhaps they should’ve brought that stray home after all? Walking a dog was a good way to surveil a property without attracting attention. In that neighbourhood, they’d get some strange looks if they sat outside in a vehicle.

  “How do you feel about jogging?” Black asked Emmy.

  “In general, or today specifically?”

  “I want to take a look at Timo Bergeron’s place.”

  “I’ll get my trainers.” Emmy paused a moment at the door to the bedroom. “Dr. Bergeron. Dr. B. The guy with no stamina in the filing room was called Dr. B. Reckon it’s the same person?”

  “The only other doctor who might fit is Dr. Badawy.”

  “That sounds Egyptian, and our Dr. B didn’t. If it is the same guy, it could explain how he’s been able to lure the female victims into his lair, wherever that is.”

  “Generous equipment?” Black recalled the nurse’s comment about the man’s size that he’d overheard. No, size wasn’t everything, but Emmy certainly seemed to appreciate it.

  Except his wife doubled over laughing. “No! I just meant that if he can charm a nurse into the filing room when they’re meant to be working, he wouldn’t have much trouble convincing a woman to go for a drive with him.”

  “Yes, of course. You’re right.”

  As Emmy got changed, Black mused about Gosia’s travels on her last day. One of the anomalous routes had her going from Timo Bergeron in Dahab City to see Carmela at Happy Fish, then back to Dahab City. At least, that’s what they’d assumed. Assumed. There was that dirty word again. Gunther said Gosia had spoken to Carmela, but he hadn’t said where. Nobody saw Gosia at the restaurant, and what was more, nobody had seen Carmela either. What if Carmela had run into Gosia in Dahab City and given her the order there?

  A possibility, and one he was annoyed at himself for not thinking of before. And if it was true, it raised the question of what Carmela was doing in Dahab City in the first place. Could she have known Bergeron?

  While Emmy hunted for her tennis shoes, he called Aurelie.

  “It’s Black. Do you recall Carmela mentioning a man named Timo Bergeron?” No preamble. He didn’t have time for that today.

  “Uh, no? Who is he?”

  “A doctor at the Dahab International Medical Center. Ring any bells?”

  “No. I mean, I’m thinking, but I honestly don’t recall her mentioning the name or a doctor.”

  “Did she spend much time in Dahab City?”

  “There’s a pottery shop over there she liked. Youssef used to complain about her buying too much of it, but he still kept it all after she died.” Aurelie choked softly. “I honestly can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “A pottery shop? That’s it?”

  “Does that help?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”

  His next call was to Gunther.

  “It’s Charles Black.”

  “Ah, Mr. Black. How are you and your wife?”

  “We’re fine.” Why did people bother with small talk? “When you asked Carmela about the final order she made for vegetables with Gosia, did she specify where she was when they spoke?”

  “Why? Is it important?”

  “I’d appreciate if you could just answer the question.”

  A moment of silence, and Black waited the man out. Sometimes, people
needed time to think.

  “No, I don’t believe she did say. I just assumed Gosia came to the restaurant as usual.”

  Assume. That nasty little word. “Thank you.”

  “Do you have any more questions?”

  “That’s it for now.”

  Dahab City was as far from being a city as you could get—comparing it to a city block was generous, and the place was a rabbit warren of unnamed streets and alleyways. Many of the homes there were surrounded by high walls, and Bergeron’s was no exception. Fragrant jasmine perfumed the air as Emmy and Black stopped outside, Emmy gasping for breath convincingly with her hands on her knees. There were advantages to being over six and a half feet tall—when Black stood on tiptoes, he could see into Bergeron’s yard.

  “Somebody’s home.”

  A shadow had just walked past the kitchen window. The figure carried on into the next room, and as the man passed a set of patio doors, Black got a better look at him. Middle-aged, balding with a slight paunch, Bergeron came across as unremarkable upon first glance. But so many monsters did.

  “Is it him?” Emmy asked.

  “It’s a male.”

  Did a woman live there? Any children? The washing line held lightweight men’s pants, collared shirts, and boxer shorts. No mess in the tiled yard that could indicate a dog. He scanned the roofline but didn’t see any security cameras or an alarm box. The locks looked like generic mass-produced shit, the type that could be opened in seconds by anyone proficient with a set of picks.

  “I’d say on first impressions that he lives alone, but we should talk to a neighbour to make sure. And when I say ‘we,’ I mean ‘you.’”

  This was another occasion when Black’s size and gender both worked against him. Men were intimidated, and while women ordinarily fell over themselves to flirt, especially if they found out the size of his wallet, they’d be understandably wary in this climate of fear.

  He didn’t need to explain that to Emmy. They’d been together for long enough that they followed each other’s thought processes even if they didn’t necessarily agree with them.

  “Sure. Now?”

  “Why not? We’re supposed to be leaving in two days.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Alleys bordered Bergeron’s villa on three sides in this maze of an enclave, but the fourth side backed onto another property, a smaller home that didn’t appear to be so well kept. Paint peeled off the metal gate, and it let out an ear-splitting screech as Emmy pushed it open.

  “Wish me luck.”

  Emmy didn’t need luck. She had training and experience on her side.

  Black listened from the sidewalk as she spun a story to the lady who answered the door about wanting to find a property to stay in long-term and taking a fancy to her neighbour’s place. Did the woman know whether it was a rental? Oh, it was? Any chance it would be available soon?

  A cat leapt onto the gatepost and mewled at Black just as the call of the muezzin rang out from a nearby mosque. Almost midday, and time for prayers. A group of Egyptians walked past, and Black pretended to pet the animal for a moment, but when another half-dozen men meandered in his direction, he decided to go for a jog around the block until Emmy was finished. No point in drawing attention to himself.

  On his second circuit, Emmy slipped out of the gate and joined him.

  “Fucking hell, she’s got seventeen cats. If I’d stayed any longer, she would’ve forced me into adopting one.”

  “No more pets. What did she say about Bergeron?”

  “He’s lived there alone for the last two years. No girlfriend or wife, but occasionally she sees women arriving.”

  “Does she see them leaving?”

  Emmy snorted out a laugh. “Not often. Apparently, they stay until late and she sleeps like the dead. Should I try talking to Bergeron?”

  “Not yet. I’d rather stay off his radar until we’ve got more information.”

  CHAPTER 32 - BLACK

  MORE INFORMATION CAME through right after lunch. Emmy and Black had raided the hotel buffet and carried plates of food to their terrace to discuss the latest developments when Black’s phone rang.

  Did Dan have good news?

  “It’s me. I’ve got a colleague of Dr. Beech’s here. Gavin Newby—he’s a transplant scientist.”

  Colin Beech was a doctor at Richmond General, their local hospital back home in Virginia. He’d do anything for a donation to the hospital’s charitable fund, and through the years, Emmy and Black had handed over so much cash that the new paediatric wing was named after them. Finding a tame transplant expert to answer their questions at seven a.m. was nothing for Colin.

  “Great. Can you put him through?”

  Once the introductions had been made, Black started with his questions. “Hypothetically speaking, if I wanted to provide body parts to order for transplant, what tests would need to be done in order to establish a donor was suitable?”

  “That’s an easy one. You’d need to ensure the blood types match. If they don’t, the organ’ll turn black and die within days no matter what you do.”

  “That’s it? Blood type?”

  “Careful tissue matching can help the organ to last longer, but the risk of rejection can be controlled with drugs. You’d want to ensure your donor was healthy, but basically, the answer is yes. As long as the blood types match, the transplant can go ahead.”

  That was more straightforward than Black had imagined. And what had been on Carmela’s invoice from the hospital? That’s right—a fee for a blood test. Black glanced at the glass beside him and wished he hadn’t poured karkade to have with his lunch. The dark red colour was a ghoulish reminder of the case.

  “Okay, so let’s say a match has been made—what happens next?”

  “A surgeon would need to remove the appropriate organs under sterile conditions, and if the donor and recipients weren’t in the same hospital, which is the most common scenario because organs travel easier than sick people do, those organs would need to be packaged for transport.”

  “How would you package them? Do you need a specialised container?”

  “Not at all. You store the organ in a thick plastic bag, then place that inside another bag filled with melting ice. Anything colder damages the organ. Then you just need to secure the whole lot in an insulated container. When I worked in London, I’d ride across the city on the Tube carrying organs in a picnic cooler. Nobody batted an eyelid. Of course, the bureaucrats have put more rules in place now, but that’s how we used to do it.”

  “How long will an organ survive outside the body?”

  “You’re talking six to eight hours for a heart or liver, but kidneys can go seventy-two hours. We fly a bunch of our leftover kidneys to the UK.”

  “How about the Middle East? Do you ever send any there?”

  “No, they play by their own rules. The Egyptians provide a lot of living kidney donors.”

  And most likely dead ones, judging by what they were currently dealing with.

  “Who do they provide them to?”

  “It used to be the Israelis. They had a thriving market for organ tourism until the government banned it. Of course, it hasn’t disappeared completely, just gone underground. And the Saudis have problems with renal failure due to poor immune systems, so it wouldn’t surprise me to find some of the Israeli outfits have moved across the Gulf. The Arabs have plenty of money.”

  They sure did. Blackwood had run a training program for a contingent of Saudi troops two years ago, and their men were less competent than the Egyptians. They turned up late, did the bare minimum, and then fucked off again. Plus they couldn’t shoot for shit. When Blackwood declined to extend the contract, they offered to double the fee, then triple it. The answer was still no.

  “Do you have any specific information on brokers or surgeons who might be involved in the black market?”

  “Oh, no, we’re strictly above board here.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting for a moment
that you weren’t. But sometimes people hear rumours.”

  “The Israeli government’s crackdown was well-documented. Other than that, it’s just talk at conferences. Friend of a friend, that sort of thing. I could ask around if it would help?”

  “We’d be grateful. And please give my regards to Colin.”

  “I’ll do that. He asked whether you’d be willing to consider a donation to the charity raffle at the staff Christmas party?”

  “No problem—just get him to call my assistant, and she’ll arrange it.”

  Emmy shoved a forkful of salad into her mouth. “After that conversation, I’m glad I picked the vegetarian option for lunch.”

  “It’s me, Khaled.”

  Black knew that from his phone screen.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “There is a problem.”

  “What kind of a problem? Did you speak to Duncan’s wife?”

  “Captain al-Busari has found out you’re working on the investigation. I think Dr. Ibrahim accidentally told him you were at the water farm yesterday. He is not happy.”

  It wouldn’t be the first time Black and Emmy had upset local law enforcement, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  “We’ll keep out of his way.”

  “He said he’s coming to your hotel, and he’s banned any of us from speaking to you. Gamal heard him say he would make you leave town.”

  They’d be leaving soon anyway, but Black didn’t appreciate being told what to do by a jumped-up asshole with the investigative abilities of a cheeseburger. Which left them two main options—stay and argue it out, or give al-Busari the slip for the next couple of days. In light of the guy’s incompetence, option two shouldn’t be too difficult, and it was easier than having a row in the middle of the Black Diamond Hotel. There was also the possibility of phoning a friend—Black had accumulated plenty of favours with the Egyptian government over the years—but that would take time they didn’t have.

  “Emmy, we need to get out of here.”

  Now Emmy’s phone rang too. “Hey, Bob … He’s where? … Okay, we’re leaving.” She hung up. “Captain Couch Potato’s in the lobby, and Bob says he’s pissed.”