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

by Timothy Browne, MD

  Maggie put her hands on her head and sighed. “I remember a wealthy woman from our community called John and was all excited about a donation she had collected for us. She was a well-known philanthropist in our area, so John went to her home filled with expectation.”

  Maggie tossed a bread crumb to a colorful bird at their feet.

  “Of course, I don’t do the story justice like John does. But he walked into this beautiful mansion overlooking Lake Washington. Her late husband had recently passed away and suffered with terrible sores on his legs that needed to be wrapped every day. She saved all the elastic wrap bandages they had used. It was this huge plastic bag of stained, worn-out bandages.” Maggie stood for emphasis and stretched out her arms as far as they would go, making a funny face as she did.

  “I can still see John standing there with this huge bag of trash trying to be grateful,” she continued. “He said it was one of the first times he felt speechless, all the while holding this huge bag of bandages, trying to not let it touch him.”

  She stretched her arms out further and spread her legs, illustrating the image. “He told the lady that her bandages were really going to help some people, all the while wondering how fast he could get the mess to the dump and wishing he didn’t have to put it in our car.”

  “But you know John. He went out the next day and bought a bunch of boxes of bandages with whatever little money we happened to have then. The next time we got back here to Guatemala, every time he used one of those bandages, he took a picture and sent it to that woman to thank her for her support and told her what a great memorial it was for her husband. That was so John. No malice in his heart, always grateful. Even for the little things.”

  Anna translated Maggie’s words, and the team nodded.

  Nick noticed Carmen blink back a tear.

  “You know,” Maggie said, “that woman ended up becoming a great friend to us. In fact, she donated the new X-ray unit and suite just last year.” She shook her head. “Amazing how God works.”

  “Amen,” Carmen agreed.

  “Of course it wasn’t always this nice,” Maggie said, looking around the compound, “but in John’s heart it always was. He believed you give your very best to the poor, not your leftovers.”

  Everyone sat in silence, missing him terribly.

  Nick finally broke the silence. “You guys have been here—”

  “This is going on to our sixteenth year,” Maggie finished his sentence. “Hard to believe.”

  “I remember you telling me about your mission trip in college. Was that here?”

  “Well, Guatemala, yes. But I was in San Pedro la Laguna in the Lake Atitlan basin about two hours away.” She pointed to the east. “When John and I made the decision to become missionaries, we knew it would be Guatemala, but we decided on Quetzaltenango because it was a bigger town, but not too big.”

  Nick looked at Maggie and then at Carmen, the anesthesiologist, and then back at Maggie. “I just noticed something. You two could be sisters.”

  Maggie put her arm around Carmen and laid her head on her shoulder. “Mi hermana pequeña, my little sister.”

  Carmen gave her a kiss on the forehead.

  Maggie smiled. “The Maya, or maybe I should say the descendants of the Maya, are amazing people.”

  Anna spoke up. “The Mayas were supposed to be one of the most advanced civilizations on the planet. We studied them in our anthropology class. They had amazing architecture, art, and science. It’s fascinating, because around 900 AD their culture vanished, and nobody really knows why.”

  Nick stretched his leg and brought his foot down hard, squashing a huge cockroach scuttling across the dirt. “Maybe the la cucaracha ate them.”

  The team laughed, mostly at his Spanish.

  “La cucaracha. Machete. Hola. Dolor,” Juan Carlos said counting on his fingers the Spanish words Nick knew. Holding the fours fingers up to Nick proudly with a huge smile.

  “Okay, okay. I’m trying.”

  CHAPTER 19

  * * *

  The Handoff

  After the basketball team’s required homage to the late leaders, their bus headed toward downtown Pyongyang. Charles Hall could not get over the beauty of the city. Everywhere he looked there was some monument or impressive building: The Institute of Music, The Institute of Art, even an Institute of Taekwondo. All stunning, granite monuments dedicated to the past and present leaders of the country.

  At their stop at the Mansudae Grand Monument, Charles noticed how clean and fresh the air was, and he suddenly realized why. He could have counted on one hand the number of cars he had seen on their ride through the city.

  The bus made a sharp right, causing the young tour guide to grab the railing above her head. Charles tried to shut out her rambling about how every building was practically built, brick by brick, by their great leaders.

  Maybe they are the only ones who live here, he thought, looking at the nearly empty streets.

  “This is the main shopping district of the great city of Pyongyang, where ladies can find the very latest fashions from around the world.”

  Charles looked at the stores as the bus passed slowly, each store window perfectly arranged in faultless order. Every dress, suit, and luxury item, including the canned goods at what appeared to be a grocery store, was displayed with precision. Eerily, there was not a single shopper.

  It seemed to Charles as if they were in a Los Angeles movie set with wonderfully decorated store fronts, all for show.

  The bus rounded another corner and drove down a major thoroughfare lined with high-rise apartment buildings and a smattering of people walking in the neighborhood. Then Charles saw one of the largest gatherings he had seen since leaving the airport, approximately twenty people standing along the road, lined up in a perfectly straight line. He watched a bus pull up to the group and stop. The people filed into the bus as orderly as robots.

  Well, at least a few people actually live here.

  Their last stop before the hotel was an orphanage. Oakland wanted to display the appearance of goodwill on this trip, and the North Korean diplomat had suggested a visit to a children’s home, as he called the orphanage.

  The State Department told the team that visiting the orphanage was simply a stunt by the DPRK in response to a CNN report of a damning plight of the orphans in North Korea with horrific stories of starvation and cruelty. An older orphan had miraculously escaped into China and told stories of indescribable abuse. To counter this, Kim Jong-un was recently filmed visiting an orphanage in Pyongyang, surrounded by happy children. Charles wondered if this was the orphanage where they were headed.

  The bus slowed to a stop in front of a one-story gray building with no markings.

  “Please follow me into the children’s home,” the tour guide ordered as the bus door opened.

  “Thanks a lot, Oakland,” one of his teammates quipped, throwing a children’s bouncy ball at the back of Oakland’s head.

  The rest of the team grabbed duffel bags full of toys that they brought to give to the children.

  Charles was one of the last off the bus to be greeted by a line of ten women in dresses covered with white aprons or medical lab coats and odd-looking chef hats. All the women bowed to the players as they passed, but they never made eye contact.

  The orphanage lobby was filled with large portraits of Kim Il-sung, Kim Jong-il, and Kim Jong-un holding children, dancing with children, and playing with children. The woman with the largest hat escorted them into an adjacent room, indicating that they were to leave their bags of toys in the entryway.

  Wonder if she’s a doctor or something. She looks more like the head chef.

  The tour guide helped herd the group into the room. Even though she was dwarfed by the tall men, she did not appear intimidated. There were chairs in the room, and she ordered them to sit.

  “We are honored to be in this great children’s home that was built by the Great Leader, Kim Il-sung, as a testimony of the great
perseverance of our children despite the horrific atrocities the great satan, America, has affected upon our people. These children represent the victory over that fascist government.”

  Charles clenched his fist. Man, if she was a guy, I’d…

  After her speech, a door opened at the far side of the room, and ten children marched in, boys in blue shorts and white shirts, girls in tiny Korean ceremony dresses, like the Chosŏn-ot worn by the women who met their plane. Each child wore lipstick, and red rouge had been painted on their cheeks.

  Charles expected the children to be shocked by the huge black men seated before them, but each child stood at attention and stared past them. Charles estimated that they were only four or five years old, and he could not believe their discipline.

  The headmaster said one word to them. In unison, they said something in Korean, probably more propaganda, Charles surmised, and then the children began singing and dancing, each step, each note highly choreographed.

  Charles watched in fascination as the children moved like puppets on strings. They sang two songs, and as abruptly as they had entered, they left. The door shut tightly behind them.

  Charles looked around, thinking that maybe they could give the children the toys they brought, but the staff did not move to retrieve the bags.

  “Follow me.” The guide ordered the men to follow the headmistress of the orphanage. They entered a separate but similar room. Laid out on the floor were ten babies wrapped tightly in blankets. They looked to be about a year old. The babies rested their heads on pink pillows. They were covered by yellow blankets with bright red flowers.

  The headmistress spoke to the tour guide.

  “Mrs. Gae wants me to tell you the babies names,” the tour guide told the men. She walked down the line of babies and spoke each name.

  “Bullet, Bomb, Gun, Sword,” she continued down the row.

  “For Pete’s sake, where is Little Brass Knuckles?” Charles’s teammate whispered to him. Charles could hardly contain his laughter and covered his mouth.

  The tour guide caught him and shot him a nasty look. “The babies will grow up to finally defeat the imperial pigs once and for all.”

  Charles turned away from her stare.

  The headmistress spoke to the guide again. The men were escorted to the next room. This room was the nursery, filled with cribs, and each holding a baby. Charles counted thirty-three.

  As they walked through the room, they heard not a peep from within the cribs. Charles worried that the babies were dead. He peeked into the cribs and was relieved to see the babies sleeping.

  “Hey, Charles, smell that?” his teammate whispered. Charles took a big breath.

  “What the—? Is that what I think it is?”

  “Dude, is that weed I smell?”

  “Yeah, I could sure use a hit of that right now.”

  “You think they smoked these kids to keep ‘em quiet?”

  “Dude, from what I’ve seen so far, I don’t doubt it.”

  The men walked from the nursery through a back door into a hallway, and before they realized it, they were escorted out the back exit and directly to the awaiting bus.

  Charles heard Oakland begin to protest. “Hey, we need some pictures with the kids. What about the toys?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Oakland. It is time to get you to your hotel.” The tour guide herded them onto the bus without flinching.

  “Whatever.”

  Charles heard the resignation in Oakland’s voice.

  * * *

  Pak and two of his subordinates were waiting in the lobby of the Yanggakdo International Hotel when the team arrived. They watched and listened as the unruly crew admired the ornate lobby, their voices echoing off the granite walls. Pak had already shed his uniform for his suit and overcoat.

  He doubted that any of these buffoons would know or care about State secrets, but he had no doubt that the mongrel Americans would have planted a CIA agent in the group. That’s why their every movement would be closely monitored. Every room was bugged with the latest eavesdropping equipment. The country may not have adequate medical care, but when it came to the military and spy organizations, little was lacking. Every conversation at their tables in the dining room would be monitored. A handler was assigned to each team member. Nothing would be missed.

  Even if the men visited the massage club in the basement with an exclusively female staff, their visits would be recorded and analyzed. As much as they hated the Americans, they were fascinated by them, like scientists studying animals. The more they knew about them, the more they could control them.

  Charles Hall was told to ask for and to use the bathroom in the lobby of the hotel. He hoped Hall was smart enough to remember. Then, on cue, he heard Hall ask the tour guide for the restroom. She pointed to a room across the lobby.

  Pak nodded to one of his men who understood and followed Hall. Passing a small package seemed like such an archaic way to pass information, but it was the safest. Every tiny bit of electronic information in and out of the country was monitored, and even he, the Director, could not escape the fact that the wrong people could intercept an electronic message.

  Pak scanned the lobby and watched his man. No one was the wiser. His spy agency was doing its job monitoring every movement of the basketball team, and following one of them into the bathroom would not be suspicious. Pak’s man followed Hall inside. In short order, Hall exited. After a moment, Pak’s man exited. Pak did not flinch or speak when his man returned to his side.

  * * *

  Pak’s car phone rang as his Mercedes pulled away from the hotel.

  “Yes.”

  “Jang Song-thaek has been arrested,” the caller stated.

  “Excellent.” Pak hung up. A surge of electricity flew through his body. It was one of the first times in his life that he wanted to laugh out loud. But he refrained so his driver would not see a change in his countenance. Nevertheless, he was ecstatic.

  The framing of Kim Jong-un’s famous uncle was a crowning moment in Pak’s career. Jang, who was married to Kim Jong-il’s sister, was the true leader of the country, and Kim Jong-un simply a figurehead. Jang controlled both the military and the head of the Korean Worker’s Party and was the most powerful man in North Korea. He was also old school and had to be eliminated if the new order of Korea would succeed.

  How easy it was to manipulate that boy.

  It had taken two years to lay down the groundwork for Kim to believe that his uncle was undermining him and about to stage a coup.

  Pak smiled to himself. The whole Kim family line had to be exterminated from the earth. Soon, even the famous aunt would be collected and executed, along with every possible descendant. They would not have the luxury of being sent to the work camp to die of starvation. Their death would be swift and thorough.

  But Pak wondered if he should have Jang tortured and die a slow, humiliating death.

  Feeding him to dogs would be appropriate. Dogs eating dogs. He picked up the phone to relay the message.

  After hanging up, Pak pulled the envelope and the small metal box from the inside pocket of his suit coat. It had taken all his will power to wait, but the delayed gratification was his hallmark and delight.

  Pak felt blood surging into his loins; once again he thought could smell his mother’s perfume. He wondered if his mother would be proud of her son if she knew what he was accomplishing.

  As he opened the envelope from his three-man team in Guatemala, he noticed that his hands were shaking. This was uncharacteristic; Pak was always steady as a rock. He shook it off and read the typed note: Phase 1 completed. 100% successful. Final formula included. Phase 2 begun and going well. Threat eliminated as requested.

  Yes, indeed, it was a very good day. Pak barked an order to his driver. I cannot wait to show this to Professor Kwon.

  CHAPTER 20

  * * *

  Isabella

  Nick sat alone on a bench in a far corner of the compound shaded from the noon
day sun by a large mango tree, heavy-laden with ripening fruit. He had found this secluded spot one night while strolling around the Hope Center. He was glad to have a place to go to gather himself. Two green and yellow parakeets chattered overhead. His sack lunch sat next to him, but he didn’t feel much like eating.

  The kids from California were fantastic, but he had a hard time keeping up with their energy. They worked as hard as he did everyday, but instead of collapsing into bed, they either played volleyball or soccer or headed into town to go on treasure hunts. They tried to explain it to him, but he was still not sure he understood. Something about praying together and hearing from God and then finding the people that God had shown them to talk to.

  Their faith both inspired him and confused him. He had never in his life seen such enthusiasm for God. As the week went on, he learned not to fear the long lines of people that would queue up in the morning because they were not all there to see the gringo doctor. Many came for prayer with these passionate young Christians.

  Nick had overheard the kids talking about the miracles that had happened. He decided one of these days he needed to check it out. But he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. God seemed like such a distant thought.

  A surgical case yesterday with an elderly man still had him a bit unnerved. The man came to the clinic with a dislocated shoulder. The problem was that it had been out of the socket for three months. The other problem was that the man was ancient.

  Carmen, wisely, did not want to give him a general anesthetic or even a block, for that matter. But she and Nick, and the others decided it was worth giving him some narcotics and try to put the shoulder back into place; otherwise, the man would be in considerable pain. Resetting it would be a long shot, as the tissues would have scarred down by now.