by Tom Grace
Craig looked through the window at his wife and son and nodded, pointing at Nolan. Tears streamed down the woman’s face as she mouthed “Thank you” beneath her mask over and over.
TWELVE
Nolan sat with Dr. Irwin in her clinic office, a windowless cube of space littered with stacks of files and surrounded by bookcases filled with references and journals. Diplomas and medical credentials lined the one open area of wall in the room, enough sheepskin to decimate a herd had they been rendered from actual sheep.
“So you’ll make a small slit in my side,” Nolan said, “remove a chunk of liver and sew me up. After a few days rest, I’ll head home to Michigan. And in a month or so, my liver will be pretty much regenerated.”
“That’s correct.”
“Sounds pretty simple.”
“Barring any complications, your part really is straightforward. Zeke’s surgery is far more complex. I understand you’ve brought someone to look after you during your recovery?”
“Yes. She’s resting at the hotel but will be here with me in the morning.”
“That’s great. You will need to take it easy, so it’s important that you have someone you can count on.”
“I definitely can count on Roxanne,” Nolan said with a chuckle. “Nothing you’ve said has changed my mind. Where do I sign?”
The doctor produced a thick file of paperwork with the pages flagged where Nolan’s signature was required.
“All of your expenses are covered by the patient’s insurance company,” Irwin explained as Nolan worked his way through the forms.
After Kilkenny inked the last one, he returned the entire sheaf.
“The last time I signed that much paperwork was for my discharge from the navy.”
“Medicine is a very litigious business and federal regulations more than double the paperwork.”
“So I’ve heard. What now?”
“Blood work and a physical. We have to make sure you are healthy enough to donate.”
Irwin led Kilkenny to an open exam room and asked him to remove his clothing and don a hospital gown. She gave him a few moments for modesty, then returned with a nurse carrying a blood draw pack. Nolan sat on the exam table, and the nurse checked his temperature and blood pressure.
“Your temp is normal and your BP is nice and low. Do you run?”
“That and swim, when I can get time in a pool.”
The nurse swabbed the crook of his left elbow with Betadine, found a vein and began filling the test tubes. The flow was strong and steady.
“You have good veins.”
“I’ve been told they’re like fire hoses.”
The nurse quickly filled and labeled the tubes, then removed the needle and tended to the puncture wound. “Keep it elevated and maintain pressure until the bleeding stops.”
“I know the drill. Thanks.”
After the nurse left, the doctor opened the chart file she had started for Nolan and quickly ran through a long list of medical questions about himself and his immediate family. Aside from his mother, who died just shy of her fiftieth birthday, longevity was written into the Kilkenny genome. It was a trait he still hoped to pass on to his own children someday, and to the ailing Zeke in the morning.
“I know you just flew in from Italy, so I can check yes to travel outside the U.S. Aside from Europe, anywhere else in the past five years?”
Kilkenny thought for a moment. “Christmas Island, Russia, the Caribbean, Chile, New Zealand, Antarctica, China, Mongolia, France, and England.”
“Quite an impressive list. No visits to sub-Saharan Africa?”
“Not in the past five years. And I got all my shots for the exotic locales.”
“That’s what we’ll be looking for—we don’t want any stray bugs finding their way into Zeke. Let me take a look at your upper body.”
Nolan slipped his arms free of the loose-fitting gown and let the garment fall to his waist. The doctor’s steady eyes immediately gravitated to the freshest scars on her donor’s torso.
“What happened here?” she asked, inspecting the bullet scar on his right side.
“I had a bit of a mishap.”
“I should say.” Her eyes and fingertips moved carefully from scar to scar, surveying all of the most recent damage. “How did you get all of this?”
“I picked up some of my dings in the Navy, but the fresh ones are from a car accident a couple months ago outside Rome. Mostly superficial stuff, I have a clean bill of health.”
“Car accident?” Irwin said skeptically. “I worked the ER in Miami early in my career, and I’d say there was a gun and a knife rattling around in the car with you.”
“I can have our embassy in Italy copy you on the accident report if it’ll make you feel any better.”
“No need. As long as your blood is clean and you’re not harboring parasites, I couldn’t care less about how you spend your vacations. I’m just happy you’re here and in one piece.”
“Me, too.”
“The initial work on some of these wounds was a bit rough, but it looks like you had competent follow up. The permanent scaring is minimal.”
“My wife said my scars added character.”
“So much more than tattoos, and especially if they come with a good story.”
“‘It’s not the years, honey,’” Nolan said, quoting Harrison Ford’s Indiana Jones, “‘it’s the mileage.’”
“Exactly.”
The rest of the physical was routine, and Nolan provided additional bodily fluids for testing. Then the doctor left him alone to dress while she checked on the status of the blood work. He dressed, tossed the gown into a hamper by the door, then laid back on the exam table and closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept well on the flight and he was feeling the rigors of jet lag.
There was a rap at the door, and Irwin stepped inside.
“Sorry to wake you, but I have some preliminary results.”
“Was I out long?”
“Not really. Typically we charge extra for naps, but you’re a special case so we’ll wave the fee.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank you, and I really do mean that,” Irwin said. “So far, your blood work looks great. There’s more to do, but I’m confident enough to admit you.”
Nolan’s stomach audibly grumbled.
“When was the last time you ate?”
“A few hours ago, before we landed in Miami. An airline breakfast.”
“Then we’ll have to do a very thorough screen of your blood work. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“There’s still time to get you a decent meal before you’re restricted to fluids. Give me a moment to change, and I’ll take you out to one of the finer eatin’ places in the greater Gainesville metropolitan area. Nothing as fancy as what you might have enjoyed in Italy, but decent southern cooking that’ll sit well and see you through until tomorrow.”
“Sounds great. I’ll see if Roxanne has sufficiently recovered from our flight to join us.”
“We can pick her up on the way. I’ll admit you after dinner. From that point on, you’re on fluids until midnight, then nothing at all afterwards. I have an operating room scheduled for seven tomorrow morning, so we’ll get you up around five.”
Nolan checked his watch. “I’m still on Rome time. After a good meal, if I can get a Do Not Disturb on my door, I think I can sleep straight through until morning.”
THIRTEEN
HONG KONG, CHINA
TUESDAY, MARCH 17; 7:20 AM
The South China Sea glistened in the early morning sunlight as the Air France Boeing 777 made its final approach into Hong Kong International Airport. The man-made plateau nestled off the northern shore of Lantau Island was created in the waning years of British colonial rule—an engineering feat considered one of the top ten construction achievements of the twentieth century. The islands of Chek Lap Kok and Lam Chau had been leveled and the spoils were used to merge the two into a single landmass,
increasing the total area of Hong Kong by one percent. The aircraft touched down on runway one, slowed to taxi and headed toward the elegant vaults of the main terminal.
At the gate, Sister Mary Song waited patiently as the passengers in the rows ahead of her seat collected their belongings and moved toward the jet way. The young man seated beside her for this connecting flight from Paris politely stood in the aisle, allowing her to exit.
“Thank you,” Song said.
Song collected her checked bag and followed the signs to immigration. As she waited in line, she located the leather case containing her passport and Hong Kong Identity Card. The official documents identified Song as a citizen of the Peoples’ Republic of China and a resident of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region. Entering mainland China from Hong Kong, even for a citizen like Song, required an additional permit from Beijing. She waited behind the white line for the uniformed man to wave her forward.
“Song,” the official said flatly as he read her family name from the document.
He studied Song’s face, comparing it to the photograph in her passport. The photograph was taken when she was still at the university, her straight black hair long and silky. She was nearly nine years older than the woman, girl really, in the picture, and what remained of her once lustrous hair was tucked away beneath the habit of her order. Satisfied that the picture matched the woman, the official flipped to the passport pages set aside for visas and endorsements.
“I see you left Hong Kong last year,” the official said.
“Yes, in late November.”
“You traveled to Italy and,” he paused to study the document stapled into the booklet, “the Holy See—Vatican City. Your stay there has exceeded ninety days.”
“My stay has been extended indefinitely,” Song explained. “I now work and live in Vatican City.”
The official carefully studied the endorsements of both the Vatican and China’s embassy in Rome and concluded that Song’s papers were in order.
“The purpose of your visit to Hong Kong?” the official asked.
“A family matter—my mother is quite ill.”
“My condolences,” the official replied.
He stamped the next page in Song’s passport and returned it to her as he waved the next person in line forward. She nodded and proceeded through the security doors into the airport’s main concourse. Even at this hour, the broad space teemed with people and she quickly melted into the flow. People respectfully moved around her, and she felt curious eyes gazing at her. The religious habit had that effect on people, especially in this modern age when it was less frequently seen in public.
Song studied the directional signage, looking for the graphic indicating a women’s restroom. After passing several gates, she found what she was looking for. She joined the queue with several other women and girls and soon entered the restroom. She noted that only the wheelchair accessible cubicle was unoccupied and, recalling no one in line requiring such accommodation, darted inside and locked the door.
Thankful for the extra width of the cubicle, Song removed the various elements of her habit and hung them on the door hook. From her carry on, she retrieved a silk blouse and a cinnamon-colored skirt with a matching blazer. With the addition of a stylish watch, earrings and a string of pearls, Song transformed from a nun into an anonymous businesswoman. She then stowed her habit in the carry on and exited the cubicle.
Song caught a few curious glances from some of the other weary women in the room, whom she imagined were questioning their recollections of a nun going into the cubicle. She stopped at the basin to wash her hands and touch up her face and hair before reentering the world.
Outside the airport, she hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address in Tai Po.
FOURTEEN
TAI PO, CHINA
9:10 AM
The surgical suite bore little resemblance to the rest of the twentieth-floor apartment. Half of the residential unit had been transformed into exam, procedure, and recovery rooms comparable to the best medical suite found in any hospital or outpatient facility in Hong Kong. And as the property of the Ministry of State Security, this facility maintained no official records.
Song lay supine on a procedure table clothed in a hospital gown folded up over her ribs. She was naked from the waist down, her legs bent and splayed in stirrups. An IV line ran from a plastic bag hanging on a stainless steel stand to the needle set into her left arm. It carried a mixture of saline and an anesthetic that rendered Song mercifully unconscious for the invasive procedure.
The doctor peered intently at the digitally rendered image on the ultrasound display. The tip of the phallus-shaped transducer—sheathed in a condom and coated with a sterile lubricant gel—probed the reproductive structures of Song’s body from within her vagina. The doctor slightly adjusted the aim of the transducer to provide a clearer image of her left ovary. The follicles within the ovary appeared swollen—between fifteen and twenty millimeters in size—the eggs were ripe for harvest.
In the weeks leading up to this procedure, Song had received a series of injections to stimulate the production of hormones crucial to ovulation. As a healthy young woman, the injections amplified the normal cycle of her body to produce several mature eggs. The final injection came just a day before she boarded the flight to Hong Kong.
A bright white spot appeared on the display as the doctor guided a hollow needle through the wall of her vagina toward the target ovary. The needle tip penetrated the ovary and slipped carefully into the first follicle. Applying a gentle suction, the doctor aspirated the fluid within the follicle. The egg detached and was drawn out with the fluid.
The doctor efficiently moved from follicle to follicle, collecting fourteen samples from Song in a plastic petri dish. He removed the needle and transducer and then gently straightened Song’s legs on the table and adjusted her gown for modesty. He left Song under the care of the nurse assisting him and retreated to an adjacent lab space.
FIFTEEN
HONG KONG, CHINA
12:45 PM
Peng’s flight from Beijing arrived in Hong Kong at mid-day, and his documents endured only the most cursory of glances from airport security as he was escorted through the airport to a waiting car. His driver made no effort to engage him in small talk on the journey into the New Territories. The meandering drive wound through the Kowloon Peninsula and eventually turned north onto the Tolo Highway. As they neared Tai Po, the highway skirted along Tolo Harbor and, in the distance, Peng saw the faint outline of the mountainous landmark Pat Sin Leng—the Ridge of the Eight Immortals.
Tai Po had evolved over a millennium from a tiny fishing village noted for clamming and pearls into a major town home to nearly four hundred thousand people. The older, low-density areas of the town were surrounded by looming apartment towers as the scarcity of land drove construction vertical. Peng’s driver guided the dark blue Buick sedan up to the curb in front of a thirty-story building.
Peng exited the rear of the car and headed toward the main entrance of the residential tower. The driver moved on to a nearby parking area where he would wait for a summons to return. The tower was relatively new—completed just before the handover in 1997—and in good repair. He flashed his credentials at the front desk and continued on to a bank of elevators. A few moments later, he was knocking on the door of an apartment on the twentieth floor. The door opened just a crack with the chain still in place, and a middle-aged woman peered at him suspiciously.
“Yes?” she said.
“I am Peng. You have something for me.”
“Identification.”
Peng offered his diplomatic passport, and the woman appeared to check the document against a reference he could not see.
“You are Peng,” she said.
The door closed. Peng heard the clatter of the chain being removed, and he was granted entry. The woman, who was dressed in surgical scrubs, guided him to the apartment’s main room. It had a balcony and enjoyed
a fine view of the old village and the harbor.
“Please sit,” the woman said. “I will bring you tea.”
“And my package?” Peng asked.
“It is not yet ready,” the woman replied. “But soon. The procedure is almost finished. I will inform the doctor that you are here.”
The woman disappeared behind a door into the private area of the apartment. Peng remained standing, enjoying the view.
The doctor studied the collected samples under a powerful microscope and counted eleven oocytes. Though swollen by fertility drugs, not every follicle contains an egg. A few he deemed overly mature and unlikely to result in successful fertilization. Others were too immature, and he discarded those as well, leaving just eight eggs in the petri dish for the next stage—freezing.
Oocytes are the largest cell in the human body and largely composed of water. To extend the viability of the harvested eggs beyond a few hours until the time they would be needed, the doctor bathed them in a mild cryoprotectant solution to reduce the amount of water that could expand into cell-damaging ice crystals when frozen. Like antifreeze, the solution lowered the freezing point of the water in the cells, allowing the oocytes to be stored in a frozen liquid state.
“Excuse me, doctor,” the nurse said from the open doorway. “The courier has arrived.”
The doctor nodded but kept his eyes on the clock as he timed the initial exposure of cryoprotectant.
Once the required amount of time elapsed, he placed the eggs in a bath of highly concentrated anti-freeze and simultaneously flash froze them with liquid nitrogen. Through the microscope, as the icy fog cleared, the eight oocytes appeared like crystal balls suspended in clear water. Not one showed signs of rupture or damage from the abrupt change from room temperature to minus-197 degrees Celsius.
With gloved hands, the doctor sealed the dish containing the frozen eggs and set it into a cylindrical insulated stainless steel storage container. This he set into an Igloo cooler packed with dry ice and labeled Human Tissue Transport in Chinese and English.