by Jaq Wright
Once again, Bill just gaped.
They walked down the hallway to the elevator. Bill could not help but notice that Dr. Overbridge’s lips were moving slightly, as if he were counting.
In the emergency room, the patient was awake, but was not saying anything intelligible. The ER doc came over. “Thanks for coming down. I don't know if he is loopy because of the head bonk or his blood alcohol level of 0.24. Apparently, he had had some sort of a disagreement with his local Korean grocer, who ended it by cracking him on the head with the butt of his gun. Jimmy went down, and the cops soon arrived, followed by the paramedics, and here we are.” He shrugged. “Happened down on the lower East Side, but, as usual, all of the up-scale hospitals between here and there were inexplicably 'on diversion', so Jimmy got a ride all the way up the island to annoy yours truly.”
Dr. Overbridge looked at the patient. The left side of his head was caked with blood, and there was also a large bruise on his cheek bone. He did not touch him or speak to him. He turned to Dr. Brentwood. “I will go and make sure all is in readiness upstairs in the OR. Make sure we have someone competent to give consent when I return.”
Today would be operating room A-7. Out of the elevator, six steps, turn right, twenty-eight more steps, and into the room. They were setting up. He saw his usual circulating nurse, Vicky, and some scrub assistant on whom he had never before laid eyes. The usual, at Our Lady of Salubrious Penitence. At any rate, the scrub tech was not the problem. The problem was Felix.
Felix was the anesthesiologist.
Felix was the Anti-Overbridge. Felix was ANNOYING.
“Mornin’, Augie!” Felix was always jovial.
Clearly, there must have been more to his name than Felix, but he had done his best to deny that fact. His name badge was carefully covered with black tape so that neither his title nor his last name was visible.
“I am Felix,” he would always say, “and Felix means lucky.”
“Whatcha got for me today? What happened to your aneurysm?”
“Unfortunately, there is an emergent depressed skull fracture in the Emergency Room.”
“Depressed? Why don't we just give him some Prozac?” He laughed.
No one responded.
“Ah, come on Vicky, laugh a little! You know I love how you jiggle when you laugh.” She glared and went to the far side of the room.
Felix was always inappropriate, and openly disdainful of anyone who was PC.
Felix had been written up for inappropriate behavior so many times that Administration had a special filing cabinet just for him. Yet, here he was, still working. He said it was because of his file of photos from the Board of Trustees’ summer retreat.
To him, Our Lady was always Owl’s Pee. Even when he had been interviewed on the nightly news about his role in saving a drowning victim from the East River.
Everything looked in order, so Dr. Overbridge made his way back to the emergency room. There he was treated to a piercing, keening noise, which appeared to be emanating from a creature at Jimmy's bedside.
Jimmy’s wife, Stella, had arrived.
Stella was trying very hard to be Barbie. Lower East Side Barbie, to be sure, but Barbie nonetheless. BIG bottle-blond hair, giant enhanced breasts overflowing a tube top, mini skirt, and spike-heeled sandals. The perfect ensemble for eight o'clock on a brisk fall morning, Overbridge thought. In Harlem. At the hospital.
“I should nevah ov sent him out for coah-fee! I knew he was too drunk to play nice. And that Mr. Ahn gets soooo cranky.”
“I am Dr. Overbridge, and I can assure you that your husband will be given the finest of care. I will have him taken to operating room A-7, where he will be placed under general anesthesia, following which the scalp will be prepped and draped in the usual sterile fashion. I will then extend the laceration as necessary, elevate the depressed skull fragments, fixate them as needed using micro titanium plates, irrigate the lacerations, and close. The risks are infection, brain injury, bleeding, and death.”
“DEATH!” Barbie’s sobs crescendo-ed. “It’s all my fault! I’ve killed my Jimmy!”
Felix poked his head around the corner. “Hang on there, gorgeous, we’re not gonna let anything bad happen to Jimmy- He’s got something to LIVE for with a hot number like you at home. This Doc here is an odd-ball, but he is the best. We’ll have Jimmy upstairs and fixed up in a jiffy, so just don’t you worry your sweet tushy about a thing. I am Felix, and Felix means lucky. But not as lucky as Jimmy, from the looks of you!”
Stella stopped crying, smiled, flipped her hair back, and winked at Felix.
He got her to sign the papers, and shooed her away with just the most friendly little pat on the hiney.
◆◆◆
The surgery went off without a hitch. Well, almost. When Dr. Brentwood scurried into the OR, he announced, “Hi everyone, I'm Bill Brentwood, The new surgery resident.”
Felix looked him over. “Are you sure that the “BB” doesn't actually stand for Bilbo Baggins?” he asked with a chortle.
Bill blushed and stammered, “N-not funny!”
“Oh, come on, we all just want to know what part of the Shire you hail from. And would you mind taking off your shoes so we can see those famous hairy feet? And are you in love with the fairies like all the other Hobbits?”
“You mean elves,” responded Bill. “Bilbo fancied elves, not fairies.”
Felix laughed so hard, he could barely breathe.
By now, Bill was so frustrated that his voice squeaked and he stomped his foot. When Felix caught his breath, he apologized. “I'm so sorry, I made a mistake. It is clear you are NOT a Hobbit. In fact, I can see now that you are actually that strange little man, Rumpelstiltskin, and I just want to warn you that if you keep stomping like that, you risk the floor opening up and swallowing you.”
Bill wisely shut up.
Once the surgery was finished, Dr. Overbridge went to the waiting room to talk to Jimmy's wife. There he was greeted by no less than twenty-five family members, including two brothers, three sisters, assorted cousins, and, most importantly, the matriarch of the family. It was loud. There was no doubt about the love that surrounded Jimmy.
“How is he?”
“Will he be okay?”
And the inevitable comic, “Will he be able to play the piano?”
Dr. Overbridge ignored all of the questions impassively, giving no sign that he actually heard a thing. When the cacophony ebbed, he gave his report.
“The patient is in satisfactory condition in the recovery room. He is unconscious, and will likely remain so for the next four to six hours. Although there is still a risk of infection, meningitis, or death, I feel his prognosis is good.” He turned and left. He had only progressed seven steps down the hall when Stella caught up to him, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him on the cheek. His only reaction was to blush a red reminiscent of Rudolph’s nose to the top of his bald head, giving him the look of a cherry Tootsie Roll Pop.
He then headed up to the pre-op area. He briefly considered changing back into his suit, so as to present himself to the family of the aneurysm properly, but decided that, as the operating room schedule was already far behind due to the emergency, he best hurry along.
The aneurysm was a twenty-three-year-old princess. Literally. She had been flown in from the Middle East, accompanied by a fat donation to the Our Lady of Salubrious Penitence Neurosurgical Foundation. More had been promised if the operation was successful. Dr. Overbridge was supremely confident.
“The risks of surgery,” he intoned, “include infection, bleeding, permanent brain injury, and death.”
◆◆◆
After his surgery was brought to a successful conclusion, Dr. Overbridge spent the remainder of the afternoon in the clinic, checking several patients who had already had surgery, dictating his detailed operative reports, and working on his latest journal article. He had already authored more than two hundred.
In a profession known for emergen
cies, unexpected complications, and irregular schedules, Dr. Overbridge was unique. He left at six p.m. This morning's case notwithstanding, he rarely took emergencies, and never after noon. They were simply too disruptive.
Although he walked through arguably the city’s most uninviting neighborhood for an older middle-aged white male, it never occurred to him to be afraid. When people asked him about his walk, he would simply blink at them, and state that he had always walked in New York, and always would.
Chapter 9
Wednesday, October 12
New York
By Wednesday, Cameron was exhausted. He had spent the last two days staring at satellite images of Isla Sofia. Although it was not any kind of a surveillance target, Cuba was nearby, and since the satellites transmitted 24/7, the island had been well photographed. Just not intentionally until the last week. On average, there were flyovers about twice a week, and the techs had been able to send the files to a high resolution monitor in his New York office at the Anti Terrorism Unit. All he had to do was to go through the footage, slowing down to enlarge and examine the pertinent frames in detail.
Three years earlier, the small island had been uninhabited, with an abandoned, unfinished hotel built in the Fifties near the natural harbor on the east. Then large ships had appeared, the dock was rebuilt, and over the course of about six months, the structures they had encountered were in place. Which had not really told him anything he didn't already know, other than the time line. Not once was a helicopter seen on the island.
He then focused his attention on the dock, and made a chart showing the number and types of boats. There were usually several vessels in the thirty to forty foot range, which looked like working boats, as for fishing. Larger container ships were frequently there at first, but then more and more rarely. One specific boat caught his eye. It was a big boat, about a hundred feet from stem to stern, and looked more luxury, less utilitarian, with a swimming pool on top. He called down to Langley, and was put in contact with Melrose, their yacht guy. He sent him the photo.
“Any chance you can identify this boat?” Cameron waited. About a half second.
“Closest guess would be a Baia Yacht. Looks a lot like the Astro.” Melrose was enthusiastic. “She's one hundred four feet long, triple turbines, speeds up to fifty knots. Almost eight thousand horsepower. Awesome.”
“Are there many of these?”
“Hardly. These are one of a kind. The Astro lives in the Mediterranean, rents for about a hundred grand a week.” Cameron could hear a keyboard clicking. “Looks like she's been up and down the French riviera most of the time for the past year. Where and when was this picture taken?”
“Two weeks ago in the Caribbean.”
“So, clearly not the Astro. I'd still check with Baia. It sure looks like the Astro. You may have some trouble getting them to say much, though. When a client gives you ten million dollars for a pleasure boat, some discretion is expected.”
“Any idea on the cruising range?” Cameron heard more clicking.
“Looks like about five hundred nautical miles at forty-five knots. Remember, though, these are custom-made, and you could outfit a ship this big with tanks to go three times that far at speed, or farther if you were willing to go slower. Best guess is Baia has built about a half dozen in this range, and total of all builders worldwide about fifty or fewer in the past twenty years. That hull shape would put it somewhere in that age range.”
“Thanks, Melrose.” Cameron hung up. He stared at the opposite wall for a few minutes, then called Baia Yacht's main number. He got a machine, which informed him in Italian, English and probably Chinese that the office would be open in the morning at eight. He glanced at the clock. Five o'clock made it eleven p.m. in Italy.
He opened the Intelligence directory and got the name of the chief agent at the Naples consulate. Howard Jenkins. Didn't ring a bell. He picked up the phone, tossed it back and forth for a minute, then hung up. Better to wait until morning. Nothing to do for the moment.
He then called down to the satellite surveillance office, and got the chief tech.
“Can you get me all the links to images of the Caribbean ports surrounding Isla Sofia for the past few months.”
“Sure, but can I ask what you are looking for?”
“I found a particular boat, and I want to see if I can tell where it has been going.”
“What kind of boat?”
“Pleasure yacht about a hundred feet long.”
The tech laughed. “Email me a photo. I'll just run it through recognition software. Should be able to get all we have. It could take you months to do it yourself.”
“How big an area can you look at?”
“The whole world if you want, but that would take a couple of weeks.”
“How long for the Caribbean and the eastern seaboard for, say, the past six months?”
There was a long pause, then the tech replied, “Umm, I would say maybe four to six hours.”
“Perfect. I'm sending the photo now.” He hung up and shot an email.
He pulled out his mobile and called Mitzi.
She answered with her usual grace. “WHAT?” she snapped.
“There is a luxury yacht that has been coming and going from Isla Sofia for the past while, I've been checking satellite images. If I can trace the boat to Perez, it would be direct evidence of his involvement. I'm also getting info on the boat's movements for the past few months.”
“Sounds interesting. I'm still stuck on the 'Why.' Why does he need mesh over the entire cortex? That is a really big deal, and from what we saw, the system would not be anything you would voluntarily have done.”
“I haven't even thought about it,” Cameron admitted. “I need the proof of Perez's tie-in or I can't do anything else, anyway. I'm gonna take a nap and then check the satellite data and call over to Italy once it's a decent hour over there.” He hung up and stretched out on the couch in the analysts' break room.
◆◆◆
Cameron woke around midnight. There was a large file in his inbox. Seventy-two photos of the boat, stamped with the dates and coordinates. He pulled up a map and started plotting. Over the past six months, it had been everywhere from Miami to Veracruz to Caracas to Havana. In the past month, however, it had only been seen in two harbors. Most of the time, it was at Basseterre, St. Kitts, and the rest at Isla Sofia. Looked like they were about a hundred and fifty miles apart, a quick three-hour cruise.
He pulled up his main file on Perez, and searched for Basseterre. St Kitts and Nevus was, like Antigua and Barbuda, a Commonwealth former British colony, and had been independent since the early Eighties. Perez openly held property there, including a villa where he was suspected to spend time each year. In point of fact, Perez's last definitely known location was in Mexico City six months previously, where he had been present for a stockholder meeting. Since then, he had been lost to view, and with several private jets at his beck and call, he could easily be anywhere on earth.
The satellite data was not continuous, and the most recent photo was from last Monday at Basseterre. He called down to the duty officer in satellites.
“Can you tell me when the next pass over the Basseterre, St. Kitts' port will happen?”
“You the guy that had Jeff run the trace on that boat?”
“Yes, Agent Cameron Hansen.”
He could hear keyboard tapping. “Looks like tomorrow about 1300, so two p.m. local. Weather looks clear, should have a good view.”
“Great. Can you email me with a yes or no on the boat's presence in port?”
“Sure thing.”
He looked at the clock. Just after one a.m. Close enough, he thought, and called Jenkins.
“I need you to run over to the Baia shipyard and see what you can find out about a boat. I just sent a satellite photo to your inbox.”
“Where is the shipyard?”
“About a half-hour drive from you, according to Google. I need to know if it actually is one o
f their boats, and who bought it and where it was delivered.”
“What are you hoping to find?”
“I'm trying to establish a link between this boat and Juan Carlos Perez.”
“MexiVox Perez?”
“Yes, that's the guy. Can you go over this morning?”
“I suppose. Nice day for a drive.”
“Call me the moment you get something.”
◆◆◆
Cameron stretched out again, but had not slept much when his phone rang at three-thirty.
“Thanks for a waste of a morning,” Jenkins started.
“What did you find out?”
“Not much. There actually was a lot of activity there – they are pushing to get some billionaire his newest toy delivered on time next week. No one in the main office would even talk to me, but I found the foreman out in the yard and showed him the photo. He recognized the boat at once, said they had delivered it about three years ago to one of their middle-men in Florida. Said that the rich come in two varieties – some want everyone in the world to know when they have a new yacht, the others want no one to know, and so use a broker to make the arrangements. The foreman had made the arrangements himself, what with refueling needing to occur crossing the Atlantic and all.”
“Did he mention anything about the way the boat was fit out?”
“Yes. One large master stateroom, two smaller guest suites, crew quarters for six. Large salon and galley. Oh, and the whole thing was set up accessible, you know, ramps, wide doorways, and an elevator between decks. Also extra fuel tanks for longer cruises.”
“That's gotta be Perez,” Cameron exclaimed. “Thanks, Jenkins, I owe you one. Did you get the name of the broker?”
“He said I'd have to get that from the main office, he couldn't remember. And like I said, they weren't talking”
Cameron drummed his fingers for a minute. Waiting for satellite confirmation would cost him a day. He went online and booked a flight from La Guardia at seven-thirty on American, and just had time to go home and pack before heading to the airport.