The Anvil

by Ken McClure

  Tormo finished his last blood count and washed his hands. ‘Well, Senors, a typical Monday in our small Spanish town. What do you think?’

  ‘Absolutely fascinating,’ replied MacLean, summoning up sounds of enthusiasm.

  ‘And tomorrow we go to the Hacienda.’

  ‘Oh yes, the hacienda,’ said MacLean feigning casualness ‘The clinic had no objections?’

  ‘Not when they heard the name of the society.’

  ‘What about photographs?’ asked MacLean with his heart in his mouth.

  ‘There is no objection to photographs being taken provided that none of the patients appear in them. The clinic was most insistent.’

  ‘Quite understandable,’ said MacLean. He made a joke about it being the kind of place where women would spend thousands of dollars to come to and then pretend they’d never been there.’ They all laughed.

  Late that night MacLean stood alone on the balcony of their apartment, looking at the sea and thinking of Carrie and Tansy. A breeze touched his cheek and he felt it cold. It made him shiver in the darkness. People had been saying that the weather had been unseasonably warm and that it wouldn’t last. The moon disappeared behind rolling clouds and the air started to move as if a monster had stirred in his sleep and altered his breathing pattern.

  At four in the morning the storms which had been lashing the eastern Mediterranean shores of Israel and Lebanon reached the south coast of Spain on their way west. They had lost little of their venom on the journey. The wind drove the rain on shore with a fury that made babies cry and old folks cross themselves. There was no question of sleeping through the din. Leavey got up and made coffee.

  ‘It might work to our advantage,’ he said, as he handed mugs to the other two. If the rain persisted he wouldn’t be able to get any decent pictures of Tormo entering the Hacienda, so they might all have an excuse to go back again on Thursday, giving them two bites at the cherry.

  All three of them had to put down their coffee in order to secure the balcony awnings and fasten the shutters against the night. Water poured through the drainage holes on all the balconies in the apartment block and fell like a waterfall into the courtyard below.

  It was still raining when Leavey and MacLean arrived at Tormo’s laboratory and found him, as before, delighted to see them. They were his link with the recognition he so much desired. He had some specimens to attend to before they could leave for the Hacienda. There had been an outbreak of suspected food poisoning among the residents at one of the hotels in town and Salmonella was a possibility. MacLean strengthened his image by making some knowledgeable comment about the bacteriology of Salmonella infections. ‘You’ll be plating on DCA?’ he asked.

  ‘Si, and Selenite subculture,’ replied Tormo.

  Leavey looked out of the window and tried to guess which car was Tormo’s.

  It was ten thirty when they got into Tormo’s dark blue Peugeot estate car and set off for the Hacienda. Butterflies were beginning to think it was summer in MacLean’s stomach but Leavey seemed as implacable as ever. He gazed out of the window as if he were a passenger on a bus travelling a route he’d done a thousand times before.

  The climb up the mountain road proved to be even more laborious than the last time, as the storm had washed mud and scree off the hillside to litter the road. In all they had to stop four times to clear obstructions from their path before reaching the great wrought-iron gates of the clinic. Tormo got out to ID himself on an entry-phone at the side. As he returned to the car an electric motor hummed into life and the gates swung slowly open.

  They drove slowly up the drive and through the orchard to the house. The Hacienda looked even more impressive at close quarters although it had a brooding quality because of a large cliff overhang above it. MacLean had not realised that the house literally backed into the rock face. Leavey who had been thinking the same thing whispered, ‘No back door,’ as they followed Tormo up the fifty or so steps to the entrance. The nearer they got to the building the smaller they began to feel. It towered above them haughtily as if it and everyone in it were looking down on them.

  Prompted by Leavey’s elbow, MacLean asked Tormo to pause at the head of the steps so that he could take a photograph of him entering the Hacienda. Tormo adopted a suitable pose but Leavey shook his head, maintaining that he was having difficulty with rain on the lens of the camera. He tried for the other side of the steps, crouching down as he’d once seen Patrick Lichfield do on television, but still looked deliberately doubtful. ‘A pity,’ he said. ‘This might even have made the cover.’

  ‘Maybe the weather will be better on Thursday,’ suggested Tormo, having taken the bait. MacLean agreed.

  The door was opened by a frumpish woman in her forties whom Tormo introduced as Senora Seeler, the housekeeper. She nodded formally to Leavey and MacLean before leaving Tormo to lead the way to the clinic’s laboratory. Leavey and MacLean exchanged admiring glances as they walked through the Hacienda. This was a class act.

  They passed quietly and unobtrusively through areas where residents sat, swathed in towels and robes, manicured hands holding glossy magazines, legs crossed languidly, resting on footstools which accompanied their lounger chairs. No one took notice of them; MacLean thought of the ‘invisibility’ of servants in times gone by. They paused in one of the empty rooms to admire the view from a panoramic window. They stood in silence but Chopin accompanied the vista from an unseen and unobtrusive sound system.

  ‘I think I want to stay here,’ murmured Leavey and MacLean agreed.

  Tormo smiled and said, ‘The Hacienda is not for mere mortals Senors.’

  ‘Story of my life,’ said Leavey.

  The small laboratory was superbly equipped but after what they had seen, they had not expected anything else. Tormo said that he was often tempted to bring up his other blood samples and run them through the automatic blood analyser; he couldn’t possibly afford one himself. The lab was the first indication that they were not in a luxury hotel because so far, they had not come across anything to suggest clinical nature of the place. There was no lingering smell of anaesthetics or disinfectant. There were no trolleys parked in the corridors and not even a nurse to be seen.

  MacLean remarked on this and Tormo said, ‘All the medical and surgical facilities are downstairs. The patients don’t actually go down there until the day of their operation. The nurses on this floor do not wear uniforms. It keeps the patients relaxed.’

  MacLean gradually built up a picture of the clinic and its internal layout through prudent questioning of Tormo. The patients’ suites, the communal lounges and recreation areas were on the main floor. There were two operating theatres, recovery rooms and post-operative care facilities on the floor below. All services from water to anaesthetic gases were furnished from a large basement complex. Offices and staff living quarters were on the top floor with the exception of the maintenance staff who lived in an annexe to the basement.

  MacLean now had a clear objective. He had to get downstairs to the surgical and medical area where he felt sure he’d find the clinic’s pharmacy. If Cytogerm were here at all, that’s where it would be. He set himself a target for the day of finding out where the pharmacy was located. Leavey had ensured that they would be coming back on Thursday. That’s when he would try to lay hands on the stuff.

  Leavey and MacLean watched Tormo carry out blood tests with Leavey taking the occasional photograph and MacLean asking the odd question as he considered what to do next. Eventually he had an idea. ‘If you are the only analyst employed by the clinic you must look after the theatres too?’ he asked Tormo.

  ‘I do routine monitoring of the surfaces for bacterial contamination,’ agreed Tormo. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was just thinking we might get more dramatic pictures of you at work in a theatre. Labs are interesting but operating theatres are more… atmospheric, don’t you think?’

  ‘I see,’ replied Tormo thoughtfully. ‘I take your point. I’ll have
to check the theatre schedules.’

  Tormo left the room and MacLean crossed his fingers in a silent gesture to Leavey. They did not have long to wait for Tormo’s return. The little man was smiling. ‘We are in luck,’ he announced. ‘No theatre is in use this morning. We can go down there now, if you like.’

  Leavey and MacLean followed Tormo down some well-lit stairs and paused at the foot where they came to a tray across the floor with some wet sponge-like material in it. ‘Routine disinfecting of our shoes,’ said Tormo. ‘We have to walk through it. We will have to gown-up too. These are the rules.’ They were led into a small ante-room where Tormo told them to leave their jackets and put on the green gowns he handed them. ‘Post-operative infection at the clinic is practically unknown,’ he said. ‘They like to keep it that way.’

  Tormo led them along a corridor to the nurses’ station where three nurses sat at a curved desk. ‘I’m going to do some sampling in theatre one,’ said Tormo. ‘These gentlemen are from International Society of Medical Analysts, they are doing an article about me.’

  The nurse smiled and nodded.

  Tormo clicked on the theatre lights and MacLean stopped in his tracks. He had expected a well-equipped modern theatre but this one had an observation gallery. He was staring up at it when Tormo asked him if anything was the matter. ‘You don’t usually see these outside teaching hospitals,’ he said.

  ‘The Hacienda quite often has visitors from other clinics,’ said Tormo, making MacLean even more confused. How could the clinic be using Cytogerm and still inviting the world to watch?

  Tormo was confused by MacLean’s preoccupation. ‘It’s quite usual for surgeons to watch other surgeons at work,’ he said. ‘The Hacienda is at the forefront of cosmetic technology.’

  ‘Yes, of course, ‘ replied MacLean quickly, then seeing his chance he added, ‘I wonder: do you think I could see an operation?’

  Tormo frowned, unable to see the relevance of such a request but this was tempered by his desire to please the man who was going to bring him fame. ‘I really don’t know,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It would be most unusual. Are you medically qualified?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied MacLean without further explanation.

  ‘I would have to seek the director’s permission.’

  ‘It would add depth to the article,’ said MacLean. If the surgeons were using Cytogerm, there was no way they could disguise it from him, of that he was certain.

  ‘Perhaps we might do the photographs?’ asked Tormo tentatively. MacLean was brought back down to earth. He organised a series of tableaux with Tormo heroically testing various surfaces in the theatre for contamination while Leavey clicked away with his camera.

  On the pretext of having to use the toilet MacLean followed Tormo’s directions while Leavey insisted on taking a few more pictures. He took the opportunity to look around the floor. He found the Pharmacy down a corridor to the left of the nurses’ station.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked a female voice behind him. It was a nurse. MacLean replied in French, the language of the question, saying that he was lost. He was trying to find his way back to the theatre where he was working with Senor Tormo. The nurse gave him directions and MacLean thanked her.

  Leavey was still dutifully snapping away at Tormo when MacLean returned to the theatre. MacLean shot him a look of appreciation and asked how it was going.

  ‘I think I’ve got some good shots,’ said Leavey.’

  ‘I didn’t realise so much went into a simple magazine article,’ said Tormo.

  MacLean smiled knowingly. ‘If it’s to be a good one, shall we go back upstairs?’

  Leavey packed up his camera equipment and Tormo asked MacLean how he thought the article was progressing. MacLean assured him that things were going well and reminded him to ask about permission to see one of the clinic’s operations. He and Leavey were left alone in the upstairs lab while Tormo went to see the director. ‘I found the Pharmacy,’ said MacLean. ‘It’s down from the nurses’ station on the left hand side.’

  ‘Was it manned?’ asked Leavey.

  MacLean confessed that he had not had the chance to find out. A nurse had found him snooping around.

  ‘We may need a diversion on Thursday,’ said Leavey. ‘I made a mental note of where the fire alarms were.’

  Tormo returned and said, ‘The director wasn’t keen on the idea at first but I assured him that you were a distinguished representative of the Analysts’ society and when he heard you were medically qualified he agreed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said MacLean. ‘I look forward to it.’

  Tormo glanced at Leavey and said, ‘I am afraid of course, that there is no question of allowing your colleague into the gallery.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Leavey. ‘I can’t stand the sight of blood.’

  ‘When will this happen?’ asked MacLean.

  ‘The director has kindly given you a choice,’ replied Tormo. ‘There are two scheduled operations tomorrow, one for breast implants and another for thigh liposuction. On Thursday there is only one, facial surgery for the removal of crows’ feet and a double chin.’

  MacLean opted for the Thursday operation. If they were using Cytogerm it would be for the face job.

  ‘Very well,’ said Tormo.

  They returned down the mountain and said their good-byes, arranging to meet again on Thursday morning.

  ‘You are not coming to my lab tomorrow?’ asked Tormo.

  ‘We have enough information and photographs to be going on with,’ said MacLean. ‘We’ll just fill in the details from your diary for tomorrow.’

  Leavey and MacLean started to walk back to the apartment, both deep in thought and saying nothing until Leavey broke the silence and said, ‘That was all just too easy.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking,’ agreed MacLean.

  ‘They were all behaving as if they had nothing to hide and I suspect I know the reason,’ said Leavey.

  ‘Me too,’ said MacLean. ‘They have nothing to hide.’

  ‘But it must be the place,’ said Leavey.

  ‘So what is Lehman Steiner spending 18 million dollars on and where is Von Jonek?’

  MacFarlane was keen to hear their news when they reached the apartment, particularly if they had found a role for him in the proceedings.

  ‘We’ve no doors for you to open Willie because they’re all being opened for us,’ said Leavey, saying that he was going to take a shower and leaving the room.

  ‘But surely it’s the place?’ said MacFarlane.

  ‘We’ve just been saying that ourselves,’ said MacLean. He told MacFarlane that he was being allowed to attend an operation on Thursday.

  ‘Another day of twiddling my thumbs then,’ said MacFarlane.

  ‘Maybe not Willie,’ said MacLean thoughtfully.

  ‘How so?’ asked MacFarlane.

  MacLean told him of Tormo’s estate car and suggested that if he could secrete himself in the back of it on Thursday morning he could gain access to the Hacienda and be free to roam around while everyone else was inside. He suggested that he could check out the basement area, something neither he nor Leavey had managed to do.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’ asked MacFarlane.

  ‘Anything and everything,’ said MacLean.

  On Thursday the weather reverted to blue skies and sunshine. They stopped for a while at the entrance to the Hacienda so that Leavey could take pictures of Tormo, briefcase in hand, smiling under the archway. He was anxious that Leavey should capture the name of the clinic in every shot. While this was going on, MacLean sneaked a look into the back of the Peugeot and saw that MacFarlane had made it.

  SEVENTEEN

  MacLean was escorted to the viewing gallery above the theatre by Tormo who had been informed by telephone that the operation would be starting shortly. Tormo returned to the lab and MacLean was left alone in the gallery. It was a strange feeling; for the first time in along time he wanted to be down
there in the theatre, a part of the green-clad team who were preparing the patient. But he was an outsider now, separated from a world he doubted he would ever know again.

  The patient was a woman in her mid thirties. MacLean recognised her as one of the confident, sophisticated ladies he had seen in the lounge on Monday but now she was devoid of make-up and controlled expression. She had the innocent vulnerability, which he had always found appealing in his own patients, a reminder of just how much a patient’s life was in a doctor’s hands.

  The surgeon entered the theatre and acknowledged everyone including MacLean up in the gallery. MacLean nodded in reply and watched as the man began to sketch lines on the patient’s face with a marker pen. He noticed how the flabby area under her chin resisted the advance of the pen, obliging him to tighten it artificially by pinching it tight with his other hand.

  With all the guide lines drawn in, the surgeon checked with the anaesthetist that all was well and made the first incision. MacLean leaned forward in his seat, anxious not to miss the smallest detail. Within fifteen minutes he knew that Cytogerm was not going to feature in the operation. The man working below him was not just a surgeon, he was an artist and his admiration for him was only tempered by his bitter disappointment at not having found what he was looking for.

  He watched the man work through the tiniest of incisions so as to make the scar as small as possible and then disguise even that with the finest of needlework. What a waste, he thought that so much talent should be being squandered on such inconsequential surgery.

  As the operation came to an end and the patient was wheeled out to the recovery room, MacLean caught the surgeon’s eye and conveyed his admiration with a smile and nod. What he really wanted to do was stand up and applaud. He returned to the lab upstairs and feigned interest in what Tormo was doing until the blood tests had been completed for the day. Leavey knew without being told that MacLean had failed to find the Cytogerm. When Tormo left the room for a moment he asked about tackling the Pharmacy.