by Robin Cook
It took Adam a moment to realize that the interview was over.
• • •
Four hours later, washed and shaved and dressed in his best suit, Adam was sitting outside his father’s office waiting for Dr. Schonberg to finish with his last appointment. It was after six o’clock.
When Dr. Schonberg was finally free, he listened with some impatience to what even Adam had to admit sounded farfetched.
“I simply can’t believe this,” he told Adam. “Look, if it will make you feel better, let me call Peter Davenport of the AMA. He’s the guy who certifies the courses for CME credits. He’s been on several of the cruises himself.”
Dr. Schonberg dialed Davenport at home and jovially asked his opinion of the Arolen cruises. After listening for a few minutes, he thanked the man and hung up.
“Pete says the seminars on the Fjord are completely above board. Some of the evening entertainment was a little risqué, but otherwise the conferences were among the best he’s attended.”
“He was probably drugged like the rest of them,” said Adam.
“Adam, please,” said Dr. Schonberg. “You are being ridiculous. MTIC has been sponsoring seminars and medical conventions either under its own auspices or through Arolen Pharmaceuticals for over a decade. The cruises have been going on for five years.”
“That may be,” said Adam, losing hope of convincing even his own father, “but I swear to you they are drugging the doctors and subjecting them to rigorous behavior modification. They even operate on certain people. I saw the scars on Dr. Vandermer myself. I think they are controlling him through some kind of remote-control device.”
Dr. Schonberg rolled his eyes. “Even given the small amount of psychiatry that you’ve had, Adam, I would think you would be able to recognize how paranoid your story sounds.”
Adam abruptly stood up and started for the door.
“Wait,” called Dr. Schonberg. “Come back here for a minute.”
Adam hesitated, wondering if his father would relent.
Dr. Schonberg tilted back his chair. “Let’s say for the sake of discussion that there is something to your story.”
“That’s gracious of you,” said Adam.
“What would you have me do? I’m the director of new products for the FDA and I can’t espouse a wild theory like yours. But seeing you are so upset, perhaps I should go on one of these cruises and see for myself.”
“No,” interrupted Adam. “Don’t go on the cruise. Please.”
“Well, what would you like me to do?”
“I guess I want you to start an investigation.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” said Dr. Schonberg. “If you agree to see a psychiatrist and explore the possibility that you may be experiencing some sort of paranoid reaction, I’ll make further explorations into Arolen.”
Adam took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. If one more person suggested that he see a shrink, he’d scream.
“Thanks, Dad,” he said. “I’ll give your offer some serious thought.”
As he rode back to the airport, Adam wondered just what kind of treatment Arolen had given Pete Davenport of the AMA and how much of the medical profession was under MTIC’s control.
• • •
Adam landed at LaGuardia around nine and took a cab back to the city. The thought of returning to his empty apartment was depressing, and he was very concerned about Jennifer. Although he dreaded having to drive out to Englewood and brave the Carsons’ anger, he didn’t feel he had much choice. He had to talk to Jennifer.
There were no lights on at the Carson house when he pulled into the drive. Cautiously, he walked up the front steps and pressed the doorbell. He was surprised when the door opened almost immediately.
“Your headlights shone right into our bedroom,” Mr. Carson said angrily. “What on earth do you want at this hour?”
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” said Adam, “but I need to speak to Jennifer.”
Mr. Carson folded his sizable arms across his chest. “Well, you have some nerve. I’ll give you credit for that, but my daughter refuses to speak to you. Maybe she’ll change her mind after a few days, but for the moment . . .”
“I’m afraid that I must insist,” said Adam. “You see, I don’t believe she needs an abortion . . .”
Mr. Carson grabbed Adam’s shirt and shouted, “You will insist on nothing!” He shoved Adam back from the doorway.
Adam regained his balance, cupped his hands over his mouth, and began calling, “Jennifer! Jennifer!”
“That’s enough,” yelled Mr. Carson. He grabbed Adam again, intending to march him to his car. But Adam sidestepped his father-in-law and ran inside. At the foot of the steps he shouted again for his wife. Jennifer appeared in her nightgown in the upstairs hall. She looked down at her husband with dismay.
“Listen to me,” shouted Adam again, but before Jennifer could speak, Mr. Carson had grabbed Adam from behind and carried him back out the door. Unwilling to fight back, Adam tripped when he was shoved toward his car and fell off the porch into the bushes. He heard the door slam before he could scramble to his feet. He was beginning to get the message that Mr. Carson would never let him speak to Jennifer that night.
Climbing into his car, Adam tried to figure out what he could do to keep Jennifer from having the abortion, at least until she got a second opinion. He only had three days to persuade her.
He was halfway back across the George Washington Bridge before he knew what he had to do. Everyone wanted proof. Well, he’d go to Puerto Rico to get proof. He was certain everything he’d seen on the cruise would be replicated there in spades.
CHAPTER
15
Bill Shelly rose from his desk and clasped Adam’s hand. “Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve probably just made the best decision of your life.”
“I’m not saying I’ll definitely take the position,” cautioned Adam. “But I’ve been giving Puerto Rico a lot of thought, and I’d like to take you up on the offer to go down there and see the facility firsthand. Jennifer’s not happy about the idea, but if I really want to go, she’ll support me in the decision.”
“That reminds me; Clarence left a message that he’d gotten a rather strange call from your wife. She thought you were away on Arolen business.”
“In-law problems,” said Adam with a wave of his hand. “She and my father have never gotten along.”
Even Adam wasn’t sure what he meant, but fortunately Shelly nodded understandingly and said, “Getting back to the matter at hand, I’m certain you will be thrilled with the Arolen research center. When would you like to go?”
“Immediately,” said Adam brightly. “My bag is packed and in the car.”
Mr. Shelly chuckled. “Your attitude has always been refreshing. Let me see if the Arolen plane is available.”
While Shelly waited for his secretary to check, he asked Adam what had changed his mind about the management training program. “I was afraid I hadn’t been convincing enough,” he said.
“Quite the contrary,” said Adam, “If it hadn’t been for you, I never would have considered it.” As he spoke, Adam eyed Bill Shelly’s skull, resisting the urge to see if he, too, had been subjected to surgery. At this point Adam had no idea if anybody at Arolen could be trusted.
• • •
There were two Arolen executives on the luxurious Gulf Stream jet. One had gotten on the plane with Adam, and the other came aboard in Atlanta. Though both offered friendly greetings, they spent the trip working, leaving Adam to distract himself with some old magazines.
When they landed in San Juan, the two executives headed for the Arolen minibus, which was waiting at the curb. Adam was wondering if he should join them when he was greeted by two men in blue blazers and white duck pants. Both had close-cropped hair: one blond, the other dark. Their MTIC name tags said “Rodman” and “Dunly.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Schonberg,” said Rodman. “Welcome to Puerto Rico.”
/> As Dunly relieved Adam of his shoulder bag, Adam felt gooseflesh form on his back and arms in spite of the tropical heat. Rodman’s voice had the same inflectionless quality of the stewards on the Fjord, and as they walked to an awaiting limousine, Adam noticed that both men moved with the same mechanical step.
The limousine was not new, but it was a limousine nonetheless, and Adam felt self-conscious when they put him in the back seat by himself.
Leaning forward, he looked out at the rush-hour traffic. They drove out of the city, apparently paralleling the northern coast of the island, although Adam could not see the ocean. They passed shopping centers, gas stations, and automobile body shops. Everything appeared to be both beginning to decay and in the process of construction at the same time. It was a strange combination. Rusting rods stuck out of the concrete in various locations as if additional rooms or floors had been originally planned but the workers had failed to return. And there was litter everywhere. Adam wasn’t impressed.
Gradually, the shabby commercial buildings gave way to equally shabby housing, although on occasion there was a well-appointed and cared-for home amid the general squalor. There was no separation between rich and poor, and goats and chickens ran free everywhere.
Eventually, the road narrowed from four lanes to two, and Adam caught glimpses of the ocean beyond the green hills. The air became fresh and clean.
Finally, after about an hour and a half, they turned off the main road onto a well-paved lane that twisted and turned through the lush vegetation. At one point there was a gap in the foliage, and Adam had a spectacular view of the sea. The sky was shot with red, and Adam knew the sun was about to set.
The road plunged down a hill and tunneled beneath a dark canopy of exotic trees. About a quarter mile farther, the limousine slowed and then stopped. They had arrived at a gatehouse. On either side and extending off into the forest was an impressive chain link fence, topped with spirals of barbed wire. Resisters on the wire suggested the fence was electrified.
An armed guard came out of the house and approached the car. After taking a sheet of paper from the driver, he glanced at Adam and opened the gate. As the limousine drove onto the MTIC grounds, Adam twisted in his seat and watched the gate close. He wondered if the security was there to keep people out or to keep people in. He began to question what he was getting himself into. As when he was on the Fjord, he had no real plan and didn’t delude himself that he had any talent as a detective. His only consolation was that in Puerto Rico he wasn’t hiding behind a assumed name.
The car suddenly swept around a bend, and he was confronted by some of the most magnificent architecture he had ever seen, set against a background of rolling lawns and clear turquoise sea.
The main building was a hexagonally shaped glass structure of the same mirrored bronzed glass as Arolen headquarters. To the left and closer to the beach was another building, only two stories high, which appeared to be a club. Tennis courts and a generous swimming pool were off to one side. Beyond it was a white sand beach with a volleyball court and a row of Hobie Cats and surf sailers. Several of the craft were in use, and their colorful sails stood out sharply against the water. On the other side of the clearing were beachfront condominiums. All in all, the compound appeared like a world-class resort. Adam was impressed.
The limousine pulled up beneath a large awning at the front of the main building.
“Good evening, Mr. Schonberg,” said the doorman. “Welcome to MTIC. This way, please.”
Adam got out of the car and followed the man to a registration desk. It was like signing into a hotel. The chief difference was that there was no cashier.
After Adam signed in, another blue jacketed clerk, whose name tag said “Craig,” picked up his bag and led him to the elevator. They got out at the sixth floor and walked down a long corridor. At the very end was another elevator.
“Will you be with us long?” asked Craig in the now familiar inflectionless speech.
“Just a few days,” said Adam evasively as Craig pulled out his key and opened one of the doors.
Adam didn’t have a room; he had a suite. Craig went around like a bellhop, checking all the lighting, making sure the TV worked, glancing at the full bar, and opening the drapes. Adam tried to give him a tip, but he politely refused.
Adam was amazed by the accommodations. He had a magnificent view of the ocean, which had darkened with the approaching night. On the distant islands pinpoint lights sparkled. Adam watched as a single Hobie Cat beat its way toward the shore. Hearing sounds of Caribbean music, he stepped out onto the terrace. A band seemed to be playing in the building Adam thought was a club. The weather was perfect, and Adam wished Jennifer was with him. Even the honeymoon suite they’d had in the Poconos, with the heart-shaped bath, hadn’t been so luxurious.
Adam decided to try to call her. To his delight, she answered the phone herself, but when she realized who it was, her voice became cool.
“Jennifer, please promise me one thing,” said Adam. “Don’t have the abortion until I get back.”
“Get back?” questioned Jennifer. “Where are you?”
Adam hadn’t meant to tell her where he was, but it was too late to think of a lie. “Puerto Rico,” he said reluctantly.
“Adam,” said Jennifer, making it obvious that she was furious, “if you want to tell me what to do, you can’t keep running off. The moment the court gives me clearance, I intend to go back to the clinic.”
“Please, Jennifer,” said Adam.
“I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” said Jennifer, and she slammed down the receiver.
Adam sank back on the bed totally depressed. He only had two more days. The phone rang and Adam grabbed the receiver, thinking it might be Jennifer, but it was just the receptionist, telling him that dinner was in half an hour.
• • •
The dining room was in the club overlooking the beach. The row of Hobie Cats stood in the sand just beyond the sliding doors. A full moon had risen, casting a glittering path along the surface of the water.
The room had dark green walls and matching carpet with pink tablecloths and pink upholstery. The waiters were dressed in white jackets with black pants.
Adam was seated at a round table for eight. To his immediate right was Dr. Heinrich Nachman, whom Adam had met the day he’d had his interview at Arolen. Next to Dr. Nachman was Dr. Sinclair Glover, a short, portly, red-faced man who said he supervised fetal research.
Next to Dr. Glover was Dr. Winfield Mitchell, a bearded but bald middle-aged man wearing wire-rimmed glasses. Nachman said Mitchell was in charge of psychotropic drug development. Adam had the distinct impression the man was a psychiatrist, judging by how calmly he listened to the conversation without contributing anything, yet at the same time maintaining a superior-than-thou attitude.
Beyond Dr. Mitchell was a business executive, a William somebody; Adam missed his last name. He was strictly Ivy League, with sandy blond hair and a boyish complexion. Also at the table were Brian Hopkins, who was in charge of management training, Ms. Linda Aronson, who handled PR, and a jovial older man named Harry Burkett, who was the manager of the Puerto Rican compound.
Remembering his experience on the Fjord, Adam was at first reluctant to try the food, but everyone else was eating with gusto, and none of them appeared to be drugged. Besides, Adam reasoned, if they had intended to drug him, they could have done so on the plane.
The atmosphere at the table was relaxed, and everyone made a point of making Adam feel welcome. Burkett explained the reason MTIC chose Puerto Rico for its research center was because the government offered excellent tax incentives as well as a policy of noninterference. It turned out that many drug firms had large installations on the island.
Adam asked about the heavy security.
“That’s one of the prices we have to pay for living in this paradise,” said Harry Burkett. “There’s always a chance of terrorist activity from the small group championing Puerto Rican i
ndependence.”
Adam wondered if that were the whole story, but he did not pursue the issue.
William, the MTIC executive, looked over at Adam and said, “MTIC has a certain philosophy about the medical profession. We feel that economic interests have supplanted service. I’ve heard that you agree with that premise.”
Adam noticed that the rest of the table was listening. He swallowed a bite of dessert and said, “Yes, that’s true. In the brief time I was at medical school I was dismayed by the lack of humanism. I felt that technology and research were considered more rewarding than patient care.”
There were several doctors at the table and Adam hoped he wasn’t offending them, but he did notice that Dr. Nachman was smiling. Adam was pleased, since he thought the more enthusiastic they were about him, the better his chance of learning what they were doing.
“Do you think your attitude would make dealing with doctors difficult?” asked Linda Aronson.
“Not at all,” said Adam. “I think my understanding of medical reality makes it easier. As a sales rep I’ve been reasonably successful.”
“From what Bill Shelly has reported,” said Nachman, “I think that Mr. Schonberg is being modest.”
“Adam, has anyone described our plans should you decide to enlist in our management training program?” asked Dr. Glover.
“Not specifically,” said Adam.
Dr. Nachman folded his hands and leaned forward. “Arolen is about to release a whole new generation of drugs or treatment modalities as a result of our fetal research. We are looking for someone to work with Linda to educate the medical profession in these new concepts. We feel that you have the perfect background and attitudes for the job.”
“Precisely,” said Linda. “But we don’t mean to overwhelm you. At first, all you would be doing would be familiarizing yourself with Arolen’s research.”
Adam wished he had more than two days. The job they had in mind would undoubtedly put him in a position to learn what he needed.