Wendell Black, MD

by Gerald Imber, M. D.

  Not a word had been exchanged with my neighbor throughout the flight. I alternately read and laid out my plan. Once or twice I did manage short naps. I noticed she had looked my way and smiled a couple of times, but she kept her own counsel, didn’t drink, and barely glanced at the magazines she had piled on her lap. When she reached for her carry-on in the locker above us, I spoke up.

  “Here, let me help you with that.”

  She smiled. “It’s okay. I can do it.”

  “No, please, I’m just standing here.” I smiled back. She actually wasn’t unattractive. I lifted the anonymous black case easily and put it in front of her. It was unusually light.

  “See. I told you I could handle it. Thanks.” With that, she headed for the exit door at the back of business class. Outside passport control, she was met by a pasty-faced young man with close-cropped hair. He was tall and skinny and wore a dark business suit and black cop shoes. They spoke a few words and disappeared through a door marked RESTRICTED ACCESS. He hadn’t offered to help with her bag or shown any identification. She looked perfectly comfortable with the situation. I wondered whether she was intentionally seated alongside me. If so, why and by whom. There were too many possibilities. As I watched her, the line of passengers pulling bags and holding passports swarmed around me. They were professional travelers in a hurry, and I was in the way. I got my act together and was soon in a cab on the M4 headed into London for the second time in two weeks.

  The M4, an archaic excuse for a highway, was every bit as awful as it was at rush hour on business days. There was some sort of exposition at Earls Court—there always was—and traffic was backed up to hell and gone. All in all, it took more than an hour and a quarter to get to St. James’s Place, and it would have been worse if the driver hadn’t known how to avoid the rough spots in town.

  The first call I made from the cab was to Alison. I scrolled through my address book to find the number of the prepaid cell phone we had bought. The call rang through without an answer or a message. Alison called back within seconds.

  “Wendell.” I was very happy to hear her voice, even if she was all business, which was obvious in the single word.

  “Hi there. Everything all right?”

  “Unchanged. Just being cautious about answering the phone.” We passed pleasantries about my flight, commiserated about London traffic, but I avoided talking business. London taxis have an efficient intercom system between driver and passenger cabins, and though the light signaling operation was not lit, I didn’t want to take a chance.

  “Just checking in, call you in a bit.”

  By the time I was installed in my room, it was well after ten—only five my time, but I was wiped out. I was too tired to go anywhere for dinner beyond the clubby little bar downstairs. A bottle of water, a single malt, and all the salty snacks on the table would have to do. I had two sips of a second drink and headed back to my room.

  I called again. Alison answered on the second ring, and we got right into plans for the next morning. I had no idea what to ask Tahani or how to go about interrogating him. To my surprise, Alison claimed ignorance as well. “Wendell, my dear, I have never interrogated anyone in my life. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  After some laughter, it was clear that I knew more about police procedure than she, most of which rubbed off just from being on the job. Depressing. We roughed out what Tahani might be able to tell us and how to pressure him to let go. I told Alison about my seatmate and her reception at Heathrow. She was interested and asked a few questions that I couldn’t answer, mostly about the man who met her and where they left the customs line. Her fear was that MI6 had made me and she had been a tail. My fear was that it was some affiliate of the NYPD or the FBI. Both of which were suspicious of our motives, to say the very least. In the end, we knew no more about mystery woman than when I mentioned her.

  I fell into a deep sleep and awoke at first light. My internal alarm clock was clanging away by six a.m. It didn’t matter that it was really one a.m., New York time—there was little chance for more sleep. I would catch a few hours later in the day, when I hit the wall. I didn’t know if there was a gym in the hotel, but I had packed running shoes, shorts, and a T-shirt, and from the look of the sunrise, it promised to be a beautiful day. I ducked out the alley, past the tail end of the Rothschild Bank, took a right onto St. James’s Street, and found my way past St. James’s Palace and into Green Park. The park was just waking up. The grass was wet with dew, and the last of the fall flowers were opening to the sun. There were a few other runners enjoying the morning, and we nodded an affirmation of one-upmanship on the rest of the world as we strode past one another. I ran an unfamiliar loop that felt to be about three miles, but I didn’t really have a goal. I felt good for the run and was back in my room forty minutes later. I was a little jittery after the episode with my seatmate on the plane and took care to check whether anything in the room had been disturbed. The idea of someone going through my things was a long shot, but not out of the question. These days it was pretty easy to document the layout without relying purely on memory. I pulled my cell phone out of the flapped back pocket of my running shorts and called up the picture of the room I had taken just before leaving. Nothing was out of place. I had even photographed the precise relationship of the items in my carry-on, which lay unzipped on the easel. Everything appeared to be as it had been left. That was all I could infer, but it put me enough at ease to enjoy a long, hot shower. My room-service tray was spartan and arrived exactly twenty minutes after being ordered, as promised. I wondered if the waiter had been loitering outside the door, counting down. The freshly squeezed orange juice was too cold and tasteless to have been recently produced, but the coffee was strong and hot. I diluted it with enough cold milk to make it potable and sipped it with a crusty slice of wheat bread flavored with butter and orange marmalade.

  I tossed off the terry robe, got a fresh blue shirt, socks, and boxer shorts from my bag, and dressed in the same trousers and jacket I had worn on the flight over. My necktie was a bit unfashionably wide, I was a little rumpled, and I congratulated myself on the cop-like fashion statement. It was easy to find a cab on the street and avoid sharing my destination with the hotel doorman.

  32

  Tahani’s place was in a posh area off Eaton Square. Very high-end and very uptight. I rang the appropriate bell in the small lobby of what had once been a grand house and was now several flats. Several very elegant flats, I would guess. Tahani buzzed me in and was at the second-floor landing to welcome me. There did not appear to be any staff present. Tahani was courteous, spoke without appreciable accent, well . . . an English accent, but that didn’t count. Despite our prior conversation, he did not act pressed for time. I followed him and took in the surroundings. The flat was not chic or overdecorated, or whatever I imagined it would be. The only hint that the occupant was anything other than an upper-class English gentleman came from a few tiny, old-looking Persian paintings. The other pictures in the hall and sitting room included a painting of a regal horse with cropped tail, that could have been a Stubbs, some hunt scenes, and a portrait of a very unattractive old English gent. The furniture matched the art, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see an old duffer in a three-piece pinstripe suit sleeping in a leather club chair. It was that English. Not quite shabby enough around the edges, but more English than the English, which was often the way with people proud of an adopted culture.

  Tahani was slight, maybe five-five or -six, a hundred and thirty, thirty-five pounds. He was dressed for the country, or at least he wore all the gear: corduroys, tan checked field shirt, shooting vest, and paddock boots. When we were facing each other, I reached out to shake his hand, which he offered raised, as if expecting a Victorian kiss. His fingers were delicate, the nails longish and buffed and polished with clear lacquer. I stopped in mid-sentence of introducing myself and stared. His waist, under the vest, was cinched with a wide belt, and the vest itself stood away with what could n
ot have been anything but the tenting from breasts.

  My jaw hung open, and I must have looked as stupid as I felt. Tahani savored the moment.

  “Dr. Black, you seem surprised. I thought you knew all about us.”

  I wanted to start asking questions, but Tahani seemed ready to save me the trouble of getting my thoughts together. Every interviewer says not to interrupt when they start talking. Look at them, say nothing. Let the urgent need to fill the silence take over. He invited me to sit on the overstuffed sofa by motioning with his hand, and he took a seat on a cane-and-cherrywood Sheraton chair kitty-corner from me.

  “You certainly have fallen into our mess, haven’t you? Farzan getting killed panicked me. I promise you, this was completely crazy. He was such a nice man. But what can I do for you? I didn’t kill Farzan, you know.” I stared at Tahani. I wanted to say that we checked with customs and knew he wasn’t in the country, but I said nothing and waited. “So what do you want to ask me? You can have a good look. Maybe that will put you more at ease.” With that, he held his vest open and began to pull his shirt out of his pants, and started to stand up.

  “Not necessary, doctor, I’ve seen it before.”

  “Of course you have.” He sat up straight in the hard chair, and it was clear I had lost the moment.

  “There is a network smuggling heroin from the Middle East to the United States, through the UK. Breast implants filled with three or four hundred grams of high-quality heroin are implanted in mules, mostly transsexual men—or, rather, transgender men. The implantation has been performed in London and the ex-plantation in New York.”

  “Ex-plantation is not a word, doctor.”

  “I stand corrected, but you know what I mean.”

  “I do.”

  “We know you are involved, and we need your help.” As soon as the words passed my lips, I realized how much like Rodriguez I sounded. I didn’t feel good about it; nor did I change course. I listened.

  “I know nothing about any illegal activity. I am a British subject. Born in Iran. Educated in Iran and Great Britain, and I remain a dual citizen. My loyalty is entirely British. I would do nothing detrimental to my country.”

  “Which country?”

  “You haven’t been listening. Great Britain is my country.”

  “Yes, I understand, but that is not what I came here to talk about.” I proceeded to outline what I thought I knew about his involvement in the smuggling operation, including the recruitment of Asian mules who were virtual slaves in homes in the Arab countries. He nodded occasionally, and let me make my case. “I think the drug-smuggling is only a means to an end. Except, perhaps, for the mules. Have you ever thought about the inefficiency of bringing heroin across borders this way? It’s stupid. It’s high risk, high cost, for small quantities. Not a good business model.” I had resorted to reason instead of intimidation, but apparently I wasn’t very good at that either.

  “I see.” Tahani grimaced. He was not looking at all feminine. “I have nothing to do with any illegal activity.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I may have to ask you to leave my home.”

  If I didn’t push now, I would lose him. “Don’t do that,” I said. “I came a long way to talk to you. This is your way out. When we finish putting the facts together, the New York police will talk to the Metropolitan police, and MI5, and they will be on you like Velcro until you give it up. This is serious shit. If you’re lucky, you’ll be back trolling Daneshju Park. More than likely the Revolutionary Council will lock you away until you don’t care anymore. Then there are the people that killed Farzan. Throw me out and it’s a lose-lose situation for you. Help me and I can help you slip through the cracks.”

  There is a moment in life when everything hangs in the balance. Is the person behind you on that dark street a threat? How do you act? The warm, forceful spray of arterial blood as a vessel tears loose during surgery, demanding action. What you do next changes life forever. I felt low for bullying him the way I did, but Tahani was now at that juncture. He was there. He had his demons, he had fucked things up miserably, but he wasn’t dumb. It didn’t take long.

  “I understand.” And then he began to sob. He had dropped all pretense, and he was very feminine. “What have I done?” It was all the usual stuff. I waited it out. He took two folded tissues from his vest pocket, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose. It was dainty. I was impressed. I felt dirty. I waited.

  “I’m ready. What do you want to know?”

  It was a good conversation. The implant and smuggling side worked as we thought it had. Tahani did the surgery on the London end. He was furnished with sterile, heroin-filled implants. He was supplied with mules from the population of poor souls willing to do anything to finance their gender-correction surgery. The Iranian connection came from home in the form of threats to Tahani’s parents. He had been contacted anonymously by telephone. Conversations were in Farsi. He received the calls on his mobile phone from blocked numbers. London or Tehran, he had no way of knowing. Casual mentions of Tehran weather and the activities of his parents made it clear only that they were under close surveillance. When one of his conversations with his mother was replayed on the phone, it was obvious that at least one side of his conversations was being recorded. From that moment he took his contact seriously.

  I asked about the financial aspect of working with the smugglers and said that Farzan had mentioned that Tahani had fallen on hard times.

  “Yes, that is true. I was struggling to maintain my lifestyle here in London and help my family in Iran. I lost a great deal of money in the financial collapse, but I blame myself for being greedy. Doing their bidding paid well and was not very arduous work. Just a few cases a month. Things were so bad that, in truth, I might have done it for the money alone, without the implied threat, but I was never given that choice.”

  “How did you fill the implant?”

  “I had nothing to do with that part.”

  “So how did it work? Were they factory-pre-sealed, like silicone gel implants, or empty shells meant to be filled with saline?”

  “Saline-type, but already filled and sealed.”

  “And how did you know they were sterile? Were they in the manufacturers’ sterile containers?”

  Breast implants are supplied to surgeons in sealed boxes in which sealed, sterile, bowl-like containers held the implant. The whole bowl is removed under sterile conditions by the surgeon. A tab is pulled, separating the top from the bowl, and the sterile implant is removed from the sterile container by a sterile-gloved hand. Refilling implants and resealing the container would require access to the manufacturing plant. Filling implants with heroin is another process. It does not lend itself to performance at the time of surgery, as inflating saline-filled implants, but it can easily be done through the same type of filling tube.

  “They were in surgical trays wrapped in autoclave paper sealed with tape sterility indicators. I always checked.” In this flood of honesty and self-incrimination, the self-serving remark flashed brightly. I guess we all need to feel good about ourselves. Tahani looked away, and I sensed embarrassment.

  “Who gave you the trays?”

  “The patient always brought them to the clinic on the morning of surgery.”

  “How were you paid?”

  “Same way. Cash wrapped in autoclave paper on the morning of surgery.”

  “No bank deposits?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “When are you scheduled to do the next case?”

  “There is nothing on the schedule. I am told a day or two in advance of surgery. Usually it is a message on a Friday for Saturday or Sunday surgery. For obvious reasons I cannot use my own staff, so they provide a very competent Persian nurse. We speak in Farsi at the operating table, but she treats me like an employee, so there is no other conversation.”

  “Who removes the implants in New York?”

  “They never told me, but I have always thought there was a Pers
ian connection.”

  “But do you know?”

  “No. I never asked. It was better that I didn’t know, but it was time to leave London.”

  “Why now?”

  “Too much of my life has changed. As you can see.” He put his hands under his breasts, lifted them, looked at them, and smiled. “My practice has suffered and I feel too vulnerable here. That’s why I went to New York.” He was telling me something, but I wasn’t sure I got it.

  “Farzan told me you disappeared. Is that true?”

  “Yes. That is true. I went to Tehran to see my family and from there to France, Cuba, Canada, and New York. I did not want my observers to know I had traveled to America. I came back home because they scheduled another operation.”

  “Why didn’t you just stay in New York?”

  “Too many reasons. I had not made arrangements for my family and I needed more money for that.”

  “When is the operation they called you back to do?”

  “This morning.”

  “Great.” The opportunity came out of left field. I had to compute it quickly. “I have to make some calls. Wait for me. This can help us.”

  “No, Dr. Black, I’m sorry. The operation was this morning before we met.”

  33

  It was coming together quickly. Or maybe coming apart quickly, was more accurate. Too many links in the chain had weakened for the operation to go on much longer. Whatever they were going to do, it would be soon. I needed to get some direction and some help. The time for threats had passed. “Listen to me, Dr. Tahani. I believe you have been straight with me.”

  He laughed. “Poor choice of terms, doctor.”

  He hadn’t lost his sense of humor, and I was glad I hadn’t either. It was a bond. I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “I will do everything possible to help you, but you have to work with us starting right now. I have to leave. I will call you later to thank you for the coffee . . . which, by the way, you never offered. When I end the call, you will find a secure public phone and call me on this number.” I handed him my NYPD card with my cell number. “It’s a U.S. number.”