Host

by Robin Cook

  They had experimented by making mock-ups of their own prints and using Michael’s HP laptop, which had a fingerprint lock, to see if they would work. It had taken several attempts, but eventually they did work. The step that they had found the most difficult was going from the negative toner print on the transparency sheet to the positive made from the wood glue. But they had kept at it until they thought they had perfected the step. Finally, feeling relatively confident, they had tackled Vladimir’s prints and made a number of copies.

  When they had finished, they debated whether to walk over right away and see if the fake thumbprints would open the Shapiro door, but they decided against it, as the chances of being seen were too great. Instead, they would try to go into the Shapiro after the shift change at eleven o’clock, when they reasoned there would be fewer people out and about in the medical center quadrangle.

  Now, as midnight was approaching, both Lynn and Michael were feeling progressively keyed up as they boarded the dorm elevator to go up to Lynn’s room to get the paraphernalia they needed for the break-in. Unfortunately, just as the elevator door was about to close, several fellow students who’d come back from studying in the library got on. Reluctant to talk in the presence of others, Lynn and Michael bit their tongues and stayed silent. Once they got to their floor and found themselves alone again, the floodgates opened, and they excitedly went over the general plan they had agreed on if and when they got into the institute.

  The first order of business was to go directly to the NOC and try to access the Shapiro data bank and learn what they could, including finding out Carl’s location. Then they would visit the appropriate cluster room. After that, they planned to check out the supposed recreation space on either the first floor or the fourth, whichever was more convenient, since those floors had the only access.

  “My sense is that we should make this visit as short as possible,” Michael said as they approached Lynn’s room, where they had left their gear. “We have to be fast. No foot-dragging! The longer we’re in there, the greater the risk. You know what I am saying?”

  “Of course,” Lynn said. “It stands to reason, but I am determined to get what we need from the Shapiro computer with Vladimir’s log-in. It might take a few minutes, and I don’t want you to be ragging on me. We need to find out how many deaths the Shapiro has had, and the cause, since it opened. We also want to know how many people have recovered enough to be discharged. It’s important, since I know from my reading what the stats should be.”

  “And we want to find out Carl’s location,” Michael added.

  “Obviously,” Lynn said. “That’s going to determine which cluster room we go to. Will you want to try to visit Ashanti?”

  “Not necessarily,” Michael said.

  Lynn keyed open her door and entered. Michael followed, closing the door behind.

  “Okay, I think it’s time we dressed for the occasion,” Lynn said, adding a touch of humor to temper her growing anxiety. Her intuition told her they were going to find something disturbing if they managed to get in, but it also reminded her that if they were caught, there was going to be hell to pay. She didn’t agree with Michael’s hope that they might only get a slap on the wrist because of their medical-student status.

  Without further discussion they quickly changed out of their clothes and got into the white one-piece Shapiro coveralls Vladimir had provided. When they were finished, they looked at each other. Lynn was the first to laugh but Michael quickly joined in.

  “Yours is way too small,” Lynn said. “Sorry to laugh.”

  “Yours is way too big,” Michael said. “Rest assured: no one is going to accuse us of being dipped.”

  “Surely not,” Lynn said. She knew that in Michael’s vernacular “dipped” meant “dressed up.” Both pocketed their mobile phones, each with a flashlight app and fully charged. Lynn checked the time. It was just after midnight. “It’s just about the time we thought appropriate.”

  “Okay,” Michael said. “Let’s go kick butt!”

  Over their distinctive scrubs they both pulled on long raincoats. They didn’t want any fellow students who might see them asking any questions about their outfits. Both picked up an envelope containing one of the fake thumbprints. Lynn put the stapled floor plans into a pocket—the one-piece Shapiro coveralls had an abundance of them.

  They were almost out the door when Lynn remembered something else. “Hang on a second!” she said. A moment later she was back, brandishing a screwdriver.

  “Why a screwdriver?” Michael questioned.

  “You’ll probably make fun of me if I tell you,” Lynn said. She pulled her door closed and made sure it was locked. Usually she didn’t care, but with someone else’s high-resolution digital camera on her desk, she didn’t want anyone going in.

  They headed toward the elevators. “You’re not going to clue me in about the screwdriver?”

  “No,” Lynn said. “I know you too well. I’ll tell you later when we come back here to the dorm.”

  “Suit yourself,” Michael said.

  They rode down by themselves.

  “I’m getting a bit nervous, bro,” Lynn admitted.

  “You’re not alone, sis,” Michael said.

  A few students were on the first floor, patronizing the vending machines and conversing in small groups. Lynn and Michael ignored them and went outside. It was not uncommon for third- and fourth-year medical students to leave the dorm at that hour, often being called over to the hospital, and no one questioned them. In the relative darkness they headed into the medical center quadrangle, following the serpentine walkway leading to the clinic building and the main hospital beyond. Very few stars were visible because of the light issuing mostly from the medical center windows. To the left, the Shapiro Institute loomed out of the darkness.

  Walking quickly in and out of puddles of light cast downward by the Victorian street lamps, they approached the turnoff for the Shapiro about midway between the dorm and the clinic building. It was on their left. Opposite it, to the right, a short stretch of walkway branched off toward the bench where they had recently been sitting to watch the shift change. They couldn’t see the bench itself as it was completely lost in shadow.

  The students stopped and paused, first looking ahead and then behind. Both were disappointed to see a figure coming in their direction, seemingly from the dorm. A moment later the individual entered the cone of light from one of the lamps. They could tell it was a uniformed member of the security staff.

  “What should we do?” Lynn asked with moderate alarm. They didn’t want to draw attention, which they might by standing there.

  Michael pointed to the right. “Let’s return to our bench. We’ll let him pass. Maybe he’ll think we’ve come here to make out!”

  Lynn had to smile in spite of herself.

  It took them only twenty seconds to get to the bench. They sat down. Surrounded on both sides with shrubbery, they couldn’t see the security man initially, but in less than a minute he appeared and stopped for a moment, looking in their direction.

  “He might be able to see us,” Lynn whispered. “Kiss me! Make it look real!”

  Michael obliged, wrapping his big arms around Lynn’s relatively narrow shoulders. It was a sustained kiss. Both closed their eyes.

  After almost a full minute, they hazarded a look back toward the main pathway. The security man was gone. They detached themselves from their embrace.

  “It worked,” Michael whispered.

  “Such sacrifice!” Lynn teased.

  “Let’s promise never to do that again,” Michael teased back, “but it must have been convincing, since he decided not to mess with us.”

  Lynn nodded but didn’t respond audibly. Her attention had been absorbed by the Shapiro building silhouetted against the black sky. Its intimidating appearance was causing her to struggle with her intuition,
which was now telling her a different story than it had back in the safety of her room. Now it was saying they shouldn’t go in. But that was not the only inner voice clamoring for attention. At the very same time another part of her brain was screaming at her that she had to check on Carl; she had to find out once and for all how he was being treated and if he was being used as an experimental subject. It was an ambivalence-fueled mental tug-of-war.

  “All right!” Michael said excitedly, unaware of Lynn’s sudden indecision. “Let’s do this quick, fast, and in a hurry.” He leaped to his feet but noticed Lynn wasn’t moving. “What’s up, girl? You ready to step up or what?”

  Lynn stood. Her hesitancy eased in the face of Michael’s eagerness. “I’m ready, I think.”

  “Let’s do it!” Michael said. He moved quickly. Lynn had to almost run to catch up. When they got to the door, Michael popped up the protective cover for the thumbprint security pad with the Russian’s fake fingerprint already positioned on his thumb. He pressed it against the touchscreen, but nothing happened. “Fuck,” he said. “It’s not working.”

  “Let me try mine,” Lynn said. She and Michael rapidly changed places. She put her fake fingerprint on her finger and pressed it against the pad. Again nothing!

  “Mothafucka!” Michael blurted. Anxiously he glanced back along the walkway, fearing they might be observed while hesitating at the door. From the walkway they were in plain sight.

  “Wait!” Lynn said. “I remember reading that sometimes you have to heat it up.” She opened her mouth widely and thrust her thumb in, being careful not to touch the layer of pliable, almost rubbery wood glue to her teeth or tongue. She exhaled through her mouth, taking several breaths. Then she tried pressing it against the touch pad again.

  There was an audible click. She pushed on the heavy, solid door with her shoulder, and it opened.

  “Hallelujah!” Michael exclaimed.

  A moment later both students were inside, blinking against the brightness of the whiter-than-white hallway, evenly illuminated by LED light coming through the translucent ceiling. Lynn lost no time pulling the door closed. There was another audible click as the release lever fell into place. At that moment both pulled on Shapiro hats and masks.

  Looking up, Michael saw, attached to the ceiling about twenty feet down the hall, what he had thought was a video device when he had visited the Shapiro Institute the first time. He pointed it out to Lynn, then whispered, “Best if we ditch the raincoats!”

  After he and Lynn got their overcoats off, he balled them up into the tightest bundle possible and stashed them in the far corner by the door.

  Lynn was already looking at the floor plan for fifth level.

  “No need for a map,” Michael said. “The NOC is straight ahead on the right. Let’s move it!”

  “There’s a locker room on the left,” Lynn said, still studying the floor plan as they started forward. “Maybe we should leave the raincoats in there, instead of out here in the hall.”

  “My vote is we leave them be. There’s too big a risk of running into staff in the locker room, where we’d probably end up having to have a conversation, which would mean we’d get exposed as party crashers before we started. We can only expect to get so many miles out of these Shapiro suits.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Lynn said. She looked up at the video device as they passed under it, wondering if they were already under observation. She hoped not, as it would mean their visit would be a short one.

  Walking quickly, they approached the pocket door leading into the NOC.

  43.

  Thursday, April 9, 12:22 A.M.

  Misha Zotov was notorious for being a deep sleeper, especially after getting very little sleep the night before, and his cell phone’s selected ring tone was almost too melodious to pull him out of Morpheus’s grasp. To make things worse, he had passed the evening imbibing considerably more vodka than usual. Over-drinking was his method of dealing with stress, which he was experiencing more than usual thanks to the series of threats to the biologics program. Up until a few weeks ago, there had been nary a blip. Unfortunately that had changed dramatically, particularly over the last week or so. The last, and possibly worst, was due to Darko’s screwup with the two medical students.

  After the fourth ring, Misha was conscious enough to recognize the sound. With great effort he reached for the phone on his bedside table. As he did so, he looked at the clock and cursed loudly. Blinking madly to focus, he checked to see who was calling. When he saw it was Darko Lebedev, he started cursing anew.

  Misha slapped the phone to his ear and flopped back onto his pillow. “This better be good,” he growled in Russian.

  “It’s good,” Darko said, sounding strangely upbeat. “Very unexpected but good: the medical students have taken care of themselves.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Timur and I have been keeping them under observation since you and I talked this afternoon. At first they seemed to be acting normally and apparently did not tell anyone about my visit last night. But then this evening they went out into the hospital garden around ten-thirty and sat for an hour in the dark on a secluded bench that had a view of the door to Shapiro Institute.”

  “You think they were observing it?”

  “That was our impression, because it was during the shift change.”

  “So how is this taking care of themselves?”

  “It gets better. After they left their observation spot, we thought we were done for the night. Then, to our surprise, Timur called me to come back because they reappeared a bit later, dressed in raincoats. They then went back outside to the same bench and after making out for a while, they went over to the Shapiro door. We had no idea what they were planning. To our shock, they opened the door and went inside!”

  Misha sat up suddenly, pulling the covers off his companion for the night. “How the fuck did they open the door?”

  “We don’t know. Apparently they fooled the thumbprint scanner, which isn’t all that difficult.”

  “This is terrific,” Misha said. “It’s like having fish jump into the boat.”

  “I thought you would be pleased.”

  “Listen! Call whoever is heading up security tonight. Tell them that I have authorized a lockdown for the Shapiro until further notice. Have them electronically seal the external door and even the door through the visiting area to the hospital.”

  “I already did,” Darko said. “The Shapiro is in total lockdown, which includes all communication with the outside world except for the hotline from control center. Do you want Leonid and me to go in and take care of them?”

  “No!” Misha said. He bounded out of bed. “I’ll get in touch with Fyodor. We’ll consult with Dr. Rhodes and Dr. Erikson. We should figure out a way to add these pests to the inventory.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind after talking with Fyodor,” Darko said. “Leonid and I will be happy to do whatever is necessary.”

  “Will do,” Misha said. “Good job!”

  Misha disconnected from Darko and pulled up Fyodor’s number in his contacts. A few seconds later, he could hear the phone ringing. He knew Fyodor was going to be a bear upon awakening, but he also knew he would be pleased with what he had to tell him.

  44.

  Thursday, April 9, 12:33 A.M.

  Lynn glanced up at Michael, who was looking at the monitor screen over her shoulder. They were in the Shapiro NOC, which they had found empty, as they had expected, going by Vladimir’s comments. Lynn was sitting at one of the terminals. She had quickly logged in to the Shapiro network without difficulty, using Vladimir’s user name and password, and, once connected, had first typed in Carl’s name. What had popped up was his home page, which Michael said looked the same as Ashanti’s, even with the same apparent location: Cluster 4-B, but with a different number. Carl’s was 64, w
hereas Ashanti’s was 32. What also was different was that it didn’t say DROZITUMAB +4 ACTIVE but rather ASELIZUMAB PRELIMINARY.

  “What do you think?” Lynn asked.

  “I think it is convenient they are both in Cluster 4-B and the number must be their bed like you suggested. We can check them both.”

  “I’m asking about the ‘aselizumab’ reference.”

  “I guess he is going to be given aselizumab, whatever the hell that is.”

  “We’ll have to look it up later,” Lynn said hurriedly. “At least we know from the ‘ab’ at its end that it is a biologic drug.” Exiting the window, she then queried how many deaths the Shapiro Institute had logged since its doors opened in 2007. The answer flashed on the screen: 31.

  “That’s incredible,” Lynn said. “Do you believe that’s true?”

  “The system has serious restricted access. Why wouldn’t it be true?”

  “Hell, if it is a true stat, they must be doing something right,” Lynn said. She was impressed, even a bit relieved. “Two years ago, when we visited there had already been twenty-two deaths in six years, but they had a low census, a fraction of the potential capacity. They must be full now and have had only nine deaths in two years. That’s phenomenal.”

  “Find out the current census!” Michael suggested.

  Lynn turned back to the screen and typed in the question. The answer came back instantly: 931 patients out of possible 1200. “There you go,” she said. “They have almost a thousand patients! And if they lose less than five patients a year, that is an incredible statistic. In my research Monday night, I found out that the mortality for people in a vegetative state is ten percent up to as much as forty percent per year. Here they are managing less than one percent, if I’m doing the math right.”