MAYA HOPE, a medical thriller - The Dr. Nicklaus Hart series 1

by Timothy Browne, MD

  The would-be escorts still clamored for Nick’s attention.

  Maggie squatted to eye level with the boys and said something in Spanish. They looked at their feet. Maggie lifted their chins to meet her eyes and spoke to them.

  She put her hand on one boy’s shoulder and asked a question. The boy nodded shyly.

  After a moment, he dug in the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a wallet.

  Nick thought it looked like his wallet, and instinctively dug into his own pocket. It was empty.

  Maggie said something to the boy.

  The boy handed Nick the wallet. “I’m sorry, mister.” The boy looked at his feet again.

  Nick was shocked as he accepted his wallet. “Uh, thanks,” was all he could think to say.

  Maggie stood and opened a small purse slung around her shoulder. She handed each boy a coin and patted their heads.

  Nick was still in shock. “How did you know? What did you say to them?”

  “I told them that the Heavenly Father knows them by name and sees everything they do. And that He loves them very much.”

  She watched the boys walk away. One of them turned to wave at her and smile.

  “It’s amazing what love does,” she smiled and waved back.

  She looked into the sky at the setting sun. “Well, we better get going back to the Hope Center. There have been many incidences recently with bandits on the road back to Quetzaltenango.”

  She said it so matter-of-factly that Nick looked down at her five-foot frame and smiled. “Uh…Bandits?”

  “But they usually only come out after dark so it’s important that we get up over the pass before sundown,” she said with all seriousness.

  “Usually?” he said, all of a sudden not feeling very confident.

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  The Hope Center

  Nick lay on his back in the small twin bed with his heels hung over the end of the mattress. He felt disoriented. The ceiling fan circled above him clicking in rhythm, and a delicious aroma made his stomach growl.

  It was the best sleep he had experienced in weeks. He stretched his arms over his head and surveyed the room. It appeared he was alone, as all the other beds and bunks were empty in what appeared to be a dormitory.

  Nick heard a brood of squawking hens and the bleating of a sheep. Not since his youth in Montana had he awakened to an animal sound, in that case, the crow of the rooster.

  It had been dark when they arrived at the Hope Center on the outskirts of Quetzaltenango. Nick had been relieved when they pulled up to the gate.

  No bandits.

  Maggie had shooed him directly to bed and told him to sleep as long as he wanted. He hardly remembered climbing into the small bed, and now he wasn’t sure he had moved at all during the night.

  He let his feet drop off the side of the bed and sat up. He ran his fingers through his hair and remembered the warm kiss Maggie gave him on his cheek as they parted for the night. He wasn’t sure what he had gotten himself into, but for some reason it felt good to be here.

  John, wish you were here, my friend.

  Nick pulled on a pair of jogging shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes and opened the door to the outside. He had no idea what time it was, but the sun filtered through the scattered clouds at the mountaintops, painting them in pink.

  The compound of the Hope Center appeared to be a couple acres in size, surrounded by a high, cinder-block fence with razor wire coiled on top. It was immaculately clean with gravel pathways leading from one building to another, lined with flowers, palm and banana trees, and various shrubs.

  It had John’s fingerprints written all over it.

  Nick could hear the soft voices of children coming from a building to his left. He saw a large metal gate on his right, which he assumed they had come through last night.

  He walked toward the gate. A Latino man in a tan uniform rose from his chair next to the gate. Nick was surprised to see a sawed-off shotgun strapped to his back.

  “Buenos dias, Dr. Nick,” the man smiled at him. “Can I help you?”

  “I was going to go for a short run.”

  “Aw, like our Dr. John,” the man nodded. Then he realized what he had said. He looked down and shuffled his feet in the dirt.

  Nick saw the pain on his face. “Yeah, I miss him too.”

  The man shook his head and looked at Nick. “Mi nombre es Joseph,” he said, sticking his hand out to shake.

  Nick offered his name and shook Joseph’s hand.

  “Be careful out there,” Joseph warned. “Maybe go toward town.” He smiled broadly and pointed to the left out the gate.

  As Nick started out the gate, he saw a large group of people waiting in line outside the fence.

  Wonder who they are?

  * * *

  It didn’t take Nick long to realize he was in a different world as he made his way down a rutted dirt road and tried not to sprain an ankle. The air was surprisingly cool, and he wondered if he should have worn a jacket. The sun was peeking over the mountains, and he hoped it would warm up. The area was surrounded by mountains and reminded him of his hometown. Most of the mountains were covered in lush jungle and a couple of them looked like sleeping volcanoes.

  An old man that looked to be about ninety smiled at Nick as he trotted by. The man carried a large bundle of sticks wrapped in cloth and slung behind his back, supported by a sling around his forehead. Nick estimated fifty pounds of wood and was amazed the old man’s neck could support such a load.

  The rural road was dotted with shack-like structures, presumably houses, built from whatever was available—sticks, logs, bricks, tin, or thatch. A small boy in a dirty red Air Jordan shirt and tousled hair stood on the other side of a barbwire fence in front of his house and waved to Nick. A pig rooted through rotting trash that was piled to one side of the structure. An old woman sat on a rickety stool in the shade, waving a towel to shoo away flies.

  At another house, rusted oil barrels sat under the tin roof, providing a make-shift water collection system.

  Memphis had its poor sections, but this was poverty Nick had never seen before.

  Mongrel dogs with raw looking mange and prominent ribs barked from houses or trotted down the road. They didn’t bother Nick, for which he was relieved, as he doubted they were vaccinated for rabies.

  As he approached the town, the impoverished houses gave way to more permanent looking homes of cinder block. A short man in a cowboy hat and a stained, button-down shirt guided an ox pulling a load of firewood, similar to what the old man carried on his back. The ox pulled against a large wooden yoke, but it looked healthy.

  The firewood business must do okay.

  As Nick entered the town of Quetzaltenango, the dirt road yielded to brick, and retail businesses appeared. A small group of children, three boys and two girls, walked down the road dressed in matching school uniforms, white shirts and black pants or skirts. When they saw Nick, they chattered in Spanish and pointed at him.

  One brave boy waved at Nick. “Hello,” he said with a heavy Spanish accent.

  That caused them all to giggle and inspired further bravery.

  “Hi,” the smallest boy said.

  “Hey, mister.” A bigger boy said with macho confidence, checking the girls to gauge their reaction, which turned into a shoving match among the boys.

  I guess nothing changes between boys and girls, no matter where you are.

  It wasn’t long before Nick entered the city square with a large park in the middle and a central gazebo. At one end of the park was a large, official government building. A small group of vendors operated a farmer’s market at the other end.

  He walked into the park and, eyed by the market-goers, he felt like an alien. He gave himself a once-over and realized he was the only one in shorts and bright blue and green tennis shoes. I must look pretty odd to them.

  A woman sitting in front of a variety of fruit and vegetables smiled and waved him over.
/>   “Señor,” she said. “Señor, come buy from me.”

  Nick patted his pockets and gave the universal shrug of no money.

  “Hope Center?” she asked.

  “Si,” Nick replied back with one of the few Spanish words he knew.

  She jumped to her feet and grabbed a banana. Nick tried to protest, but before he knew it, she had it peeled and held it out to him. He tried to protest again.

  “Please,” she said offering it to him. “Present for you.”

  “Thank you,” Nick said, realizing that he was hungry. He took a large bite. It was the sweetest banana he had ever tasted. “Thank you,” he said between bites.

  * * *

  As Nick made his way back, the roads filled with people—school children headed to classes and adults headed to work. Nick noted that even in the midst of poverty, the people, for the most part, dressed nicely, women in beautiful, colorful dresses and men in long pants, collared shirts, and often cowboy hats.

  As he got closer to the Hope Center, Nick realized that most of the people were headed in the same direction. At two blocks away, he realized that a line had formed down the side of the road leading to the Hope Center.

  I wonder what event Maggie is holding?

  Nick saw Maggie with a clipboard about half way down the line talking with the people. She hugged some of the women and patted the children’s heads. She wore a bright purple skirt and white linen blouse and looked radiant, probably more at ease and relaxed than he had seen her in years.

  Maggie handed the clipboard to a woman holding a baby and took the child from her arms and gave it a big squeeze. She put her face to the baby’s belly and gave it a raspberry, which made the baby giggle and squeal with delight.

  Nick made his way to Maggie, and everyone looked at him. Many of the women eyed him up and down, staring bashfully at his bare, hairy legs. Self-conscious, he blushed.

  “El Doctor,” Maggie smiled and used the baby’s hand to wave at Nick. The baby shyly turned away.

  Maggie said something to the crowd in Spanish. He could tell it was about him.

  The crowd responded in unison: “Buenos dias, El Doctor Nick.”

  Nick thought it was funny how they said his name, like Neek.

  “Buenos dias,” he said slowly, in not very good Spanish, which made the crowd crack up.

  He spoke to Maggie. “Are you having a fair or a party? Everyone is so dressed up and happy. What’s up?”

  “Why, El Doctor…they are here to see you.”

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  Basketball

  Pak Song-ju was not often intimidated, but as he watched the old Russian-built jetliner roll to a stop, he was filled with anxiety. His only relief was the memory of his last encounter with the girl at the clinic. He imagined the sweet smell of her perfume and the feel of her tender skin.

  But this was not the time to show any weakness. Pak slowed his breathing and pulse, something he learned long ago in order to beat a polygraph test, if ever he had to.

  He stood with a delegation of top leaders of North Korea. Typically, they would not lower themselves to meet an airplane, but the order had come from Kim Jong-un himself. Pak sensed a similar annoyance from his counterparts. He stood next to the Vice-Marshal of the National Defense Commission who had called him the night before. On his other side was a ranking member of the Korean Workers Party Committee, and next to him was a member of the Cabinet, and behind him, multiple generals and department chiefs. All were in their required military uniforms, including Pak, to his displeasure. He would have preferred one of his tailored suits, an overcoat and a fedora, the dress appropriate for the head of the country’s top spy organization.

  All this for a group of stupid basketball players.

  Eighteen Americans altogether were met by twenty highly-decorated and uniformed North Korean officials. The higher number of Koreans was deliberate, a show of power, the upper hand. The North Korean government-sponsored media outlet was present to record the ceremony. The government loved the fact that this trip caused a stir in the U.S. and hoped to add to the fire between the nations.

  Although it was humiliating to stand in the cold, waiting for the Americans to deplane, it worked in Pak’s favor. He had a mission. He knew when and how the hand-off with his contact was supposed to go, but in his line of work, he realized nothing was ever as easy as it seemed on paper.

  The jet engines wound down, and the ground crew wheeled a set of deplaning stairway to the side of the aircraft. A military band, ordered by Kim Jong-un, started up the DPRK’s national anthem.

  The tension rose as the Americans exited the plane. Pak instantly recognized the third player. Karl Oakland, sporting neon blue hair, facial piercings, and dark sunglasses, ducked out the aircraft door, threw both arms up in triumph and smiled broadly, waving and flashing peace signs.

  As Pak thought of his mission, his jaw tightened and his brow furrowed, but he didn’t think his comrades were aware of his changing physiognomy. They stood frozen at attention, eyes straight ahead, united in hatred for evil America, as they had been taught as children.

  The great evil had landed.

  The rest of the players left the plane, each having to duck as they came out the door. As the group descended the stairs, they were met at the bottom by two young women dressed in Chosŏn-ot, the traditional Korean ceremony dress—flowing, vibrant pink gowns with white jeogori tops trimmed with a bright red ribbons. The women looked like dolls next to the American giants as they handed each player a bouquet of flowers.

  Pak had seen black people in Paris during his schooling years, but never in his life had he seen men this tall. As the team approached, he was relieved that someone had the forethought to place the welcoming committee on an elevated platform that would require the players to reach up to the North Koreans to shake their hands.

  With disdain, Pak shook their hands and smelled a combination of body odor, alcohol, and tobacco. The Americans talked loudly and walked at random down the receiving line. They slapped each other on the back and gave hi-fives.

  What an uncivilized group of pigs.

  The players were escorted to a nearby bus. It was the beginning of a highly-choreographed event that would showcase the very best of North Korea. Nothing was left to chance. The bus would drive only on certain streets; the team would see only what the officials wanted them to see and nothing more.

  * * *

  Charles Hall sat near the back of the bus and looked out the window as the large coach wound its way through downtown Pyongyang. He was surprised. He had heard of the poverty and starvation in North Korea on CNN, but the city was beautiful and clean, with large granite buildings everywhere that equaled the size and grandeur of Washington, D.C.

  He thought it was strange that none of the North Korean officials had joined them on the bus. Only two young Korean men in suits sat silently at the front and another stood at the front facing them. His arms were crossed, and there was a permanent glower on his face.

  A Korean girl dressed in a green uniform and garrison cap with a red star medallion and holding a microphone stood and faced the team. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. She spoke with a slight British accent and her English was perfect. Peering over the seats at the girl, Charles thought it was unnatural for such perfect dictation to come from an Asian woman.

  “You have entered the eternal city of Pyongyang,” the girl began, “the greatest city in the world because of the sovereignty of the Great Leader, Kim Il-sung, whose spirit leads us to victory today to defeat the fascist pigs, and the Dear Leader, Kim Jong-il, who, by his great intelligence, developed nuclear weapons that will be used to destroy our enemies.”

  She almost shouted, even though the volume on the microphone was at its maximum. It made his ears hurt.

  Man, I need some Advil.

  “No enemy has been able to harm us with their corruptible power and evil ways,” the girl continued. “The great satan of Ameri
ca was turned back by the heroic efforts of the Great Leader, Kim Il-sung.”

  Did she just say that?

  Charles pushed himself up in his seat to get a better look at the girl. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought Oakland had put her up to this, but the tone of her voice and her determined face told him her ranting was serious.

  “Now, as the spirit of Kim Il-sung lives eternally in his grandson, our Supreme Leader, Kim Jong-un, the people of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea will destroy all remaining enemies and conquer the fascist pigs.”

  Huh?

  Without hesitation, she went on. “Over to your left you will see the Kim Il-sung Stadium which is the world’s largest stage for the largest games.” She gestured out the left side of the bus. “Next to the Stadium, you will see the newly built Institute of Basketball, built personally by our Supreme Leader Kim Jong-un who designed it and personally attended to its building.”

  Charles looked at the white granite building that appeared to take up two square blocks. There was a large fountain in front with a picture of Kim in a hard hat pouring concrete.

  “You kidding me? That’s just for basketball?” one of his teammates said.

  Another whistled, and another exclaimed, “Amazing!”

  “You can see by the superior intellect and resourcefulness of our great country. No other people can match our superior race.”

  I wonder when she is going to talk about the twenty million people who have starved to death the last few years in this superior country?

  Charles remembered the nerdy dude from the State Department that lectured them before they left. The man showed nauseating pictures smuggled out through China of starving women and children.

  “Our first stop is to the glorious Mansudae Grand Monument of our Great Leader, Kim Il-sung, and the Dear Leader, Kim Jong-il,” the guide continued. “I would respectfully ask that you remain in an orderly and quiet group as we approach the monument. You will each be given a bouquet of flowers to present to our leaders as you bow and give them their due respect.”