by Robin Cook
“Did the Cerino case involve that series of overdoses you’ve made reference to?” Jack asked Laurie.
“I’m afraid so,” Laurie said. “It was awful. The experience terrified me, and the problem is some of the characters are still around, including Cerino, although he’s in jail.”
“And not likely to be released for a long time,” Lou added.
“Or so I’d like to believe,” Laurie said. “Anyway, I’m hoping that doing the post on Franconi might provide me with some closure. I still have nightmares occasionally.”
“They sealed her in a pine coffin to abduct her from here,” Lou said. “She was taken away in one of the mortuary vans.”
“My God!” Jack said to Laurie. “You never told me about that.”
“I try not to think about it,” Laurie said. Then without missing a beat she added: “You guys wait out here.”
Laurie ducked into the mortuary office to get a copy of the list of refrigerator compartments assigned to the cases that had come in the previous night.
“I can’t imagine getting closed in a coffin,” Jack said. He shuddered. Heights were his main phobia but tight, confining spaces came a close second.
“Nor can I,” Lou agreed. “But she was able to recover remarkably. An hour or so after being released she had the presence of mind to figure out how to save us both. That was particularly humbling since I’d gone there to save her.”
“Jeez!” Jack said with a shake of his head. “Up until this minute I thought my getting handcuffed to a sink by a couple of killers who were arguing over who was going to do me in was the worst-case scenario.”
Laurie came out of the office waving a sheet of paper. “Compartment one eleven,” she said. “And I was right. The body wasn’t X-rayed.”
Laurie took off like a power walker. Jack and Lou had to hustle to catch up with her. She made a beeline for the proper compartment. Once there she slipped the autopsy folder under her left arm and used her right hand to release the latch. In one, smooth, practiced motion, she swung open the door and slid out the tray on its ball bearings.
Laurie’s brow furrowed.
“That’s odd!” she remarked. The tray was empty save for a few bloodstains and hardened secretions.
Laurie slid the tray back in and closed the door. She rechecked the number. There’d been no mistake. It was compartment one eleven.
After looking at the list once again to make certain she’d not misread the number, she reopened the compartment door, shielded her eyes from the glare of the overhead lights, and peered into the depths of the dark interior. There was no doubt: the compartment did not contain Carlo Franconi’s remains.
“What the hell!” Laurie complained. She slammed the insulated door. And just to be sure there wasn’t some stupid logistic error, she opened up all the neighboring compartments one after the other. In those which contained bodies, she checked the names and accession numbers. But it soon became obvious: Carlo Franconi was not among them.
“I don’t believe this,” Laurie said with angry frustration. “The damn body is gone!”
A smile had appeared on Jack’s face from the moment compartment one eleven had proved to be empty. Now, facing Laurie’s exasperated frown, he couldn’t help himself. He laughed heartily. Unfortunately his laughter further piqued Laurie.
“I’m sorry,” Jack managed. “My intuition told me this case was going to give you a bureaucratic headache. I was wrong. It’s going to give the bureaucracy a headache.”
CHAPTER 2
March 4, 1997
1:30 P.M.
Cogo, Equatorial Guinea
Kevin Marshall put down his pencil and looked out the window above his desk. In contrast to his inner turmoil, the weather outside was rather pleasant with the first patches of blue sky that Kevin had seen for months. The dry season had finally begun. Of course it wasn’t dry; it just didn’t rain nearly as much as during the wet season. The downside was that the more consistent sun made the temperature soar to ovenlike levels. At the moment it hovered at one hundred and fifteen degrees in the shade.
Kevin had not worked well that morning nor had he slept during the night. The anxiety he’d felt the previous day at the commencement of the surgery had not abated. In fact, it had gotten worse, especially after the unexpected call from the GenSys CEO, Taylor Cabot. Kevin had only spoken with the man on one previous occasion. Most people in the company equated the experience with talking with God.
Adding to Kevin’s unease was seeing another wisp of smoke snaking its way up into the sky from Isla Francesca. He’d noticed it when he’d first arrived at the lab that morning. As near as he could tell it was coming from the same location as the day before: the sheer side of the limestone escarpment. The fact that the smoke was no longer apparent failed to comfort him.
Giving up on any attempt at further work, Kevin peeled off his white lab coat and draped it over his chair. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he knew his housekeeper, Esmeralda, would have made lunch, so he felt obliged to make an appearance.
Kevin descended the three flights of stairs in a preoccupied daze. Several co-workers passed him and said hello, but it was as if Kevin did not see them. He was too preoccupied. In the last twenty-four hours he’d come to realize that he would have to take action. The problem wasn’t going to pass as he’d hoped it would a week previously when he’d first glimpsed the smoke.
Unfortunately, he had no idea what to do. He knew he was no hero; in fact, over the years he’d come to think of himself as a coward of sorts. He hated confrontation and avoided it. As a boy, he had even shunned competition except for chess. He’d grown up pretty much a loner.
Kevin paused at the glass door to the exterior. Across the square he could see the usual coterie of Equatoguinean soldiers beneath the arches of the old town hall. They were up to their usual sedentary pursuits, aimlessly passing the time of the day. Some were sitting in old rattan furniture playing cards, others were leaning up against the building arguing with each other in strident voices. Almost all of them were smoking. Cigarettes were part of their wages. They were dressed in soiled, jungle-camouflage fatigues with scuffed combat boots and red berets. All of them had automatic assault rifles either slung over their shoulders or within arm’s reach.
From the moment of Kevin’s arrival at Cogo five years previously, the soldiers had scared him. Cameron McIvers, head of security, who had initially shown Kevin around, told him that GenSys had hired a good portion of the Equatoguinean army for protection. Later Cameron had admitted that the army’s so-called employment was in reality an additional payoff to the government as well as to the Minister of Defense and the Minister of Territorial Administration.
From Kevin’s perspective the soldiers looked more like a bunch of aimless teenagers than protectors. Their complexions were like burnished ebony. Their blank expressions and arched eyebrows gave them a look of superciliousness that reflected their boredom. Kevin always had the uncomfortable sense they were itching to have an excuse to use their weapons.
Kevin pushed through the door and walked across the square. He didn’t look in the direction of the soldiers, but from past experience he knew at least some of them were watching him, and it made his skin crawl. Kevin didn’t know a word of Fang, the major local dialect, so he had no idea what they were saying.
Once out of sight of the central square Kevin relaxed a degree and slowed his pace. The combination of heat and hundred-percent humidity was like a perpetual steam bath. Any activity caused a sweat. After only a few minutes, Kevin could feel his shirt beginning to adhere to his back.
Kevin’s house was situated a little more than halfway between the hospital-lab complex and the waterfront, a distance of only three blocks. The town was small but had obviously been charming in its day. The buildings had been constructed primarily of brightly colored stucco with red tile roofs. Now the colors had faded to pale pastels. The shutters were the type that hinged at the top. Most were in a terrible sta
te of disrepair except for the ones on the renovated buildings. The streets had been laid out in an unimaginative grid but had been paved over the years with imported granite that had served as sailing ships’ ballast. In Spanish colonial times the town’s wealth had come from agriculture, particularly cocoa and coffee production, and it had graciously supported a population of several thousand people.
But the town’s history changed dramatically after 1959, the year of Equatorial Guinea’s independence. The new president, Macias Nguema, quickly metamorphosed from a popularly elected official to the continent’s worst, sadistic dictator whose atrocities managed to outclass even those of Idi Amin of Uganda and Jean-Bedel Bokassa of the Central African Republic. The effect on the country was apocalyptic. After fifty thousand people were murdered, a third of the population of the entire country fled, including all the Spanish settlers. Most of the country’s towns were decimated, particularly Cogo, which had been completely abandoned. The road connecting Cogo to the rest of the country fell into ruin and quickly became impassable.
For a number of years, the town was fated to be a mere curiosity for the occasional visitor arriving by small motorboat from the coastal town of Acalayong. The jungle had begun to reclaim the land by the time a representative of GenSys had happened upon it seven years previously. This individual recognized Cogo’s isolation and its limitless surrounding rain forest as the perfect spot for GenSys’s intended primate facility. Returning to Malabo, the capital of Equatorial Guinea, the GenSys official immediately commenced negotiations with the current Equatoguinean government. Since the country was one of the poorest of Africa and consequently desperate for foreign exchange, the new president was eager and negotiations proceeded apace.
Kevin rounded the last corner and approached his house. It was three stories like most of the other buildings in the town. It had been tastefully renovated by GenSys to give it storybook appeal. In fact it was one of the more desirable houses in the whole town and a source of envy of a number of the other GenSys employees, particularly head of security, Cameron McIvers. Only Siegfried Spallek, manager of the Zone, and Bertram Edwards, chief veterinarian, had accommodations that were equivalent. Kevin had attributed his good luck to intercession on his behalf by Dr. Raymond Lyons, but he didn’t know for certain.
The house had been built in the mid-nineteenth century by a successful import/exporter in traditional Spanish style. The first floor was arched and arcaded like the town hall and had originally housed shops and storage facilities. The second floor was the main living floor with three bedrooms, three baths, a large through-and-through living room, a dining room, a kitchen, and a tiny maid’s apartment. It was surrounded by a veranda on all four sides. The third floor was an enormous open room with wide-plank flooring illuminated with two huge, cast-iron chandeliers. It was capable of holding a hundred people with ease and had apparently been used for mass meetings.
Kevin entered and climbed a central stairway that led up to a narrow hall. From there he went into the dining room. As he expected, the table had been laid for lunch.
The house was too big for Kevin, especially since he didn’t have a family. He’d said as much when he’d first been shown the property, but Siegfried Spallek had told him the decision had been made in Boston and warned Kevin not to complain. So Kevin accepted the assignment, but his co-workers’ envy often made him feel uncomfortable.
As if by magic Esmeralda appeared. Kevin wondered how she did it so consistently. It was as if she were always on the lookout for his approaching the house. She was a pleasant woman of indeterminate age with rounded features and sad eyes. She dressed in a shift of brightly colored print fabric with a matching scarf wrapped tightly around her head. Besides her native tongue, she spoke fluent Spanish and passable English that improved on a daily basis.
Esmeralda lived in the maid’s quarters Monday through Friday. Over the weekend she stayed with her family in a village that GenSys had constructed to the east along the banks of the estuary to house the many local workers employed in the Zone, as the area occupied by GenSys’s Equatoguinean operation was called. She and her family had been moved there from Bata, the main city on the Equatoguinean mainland. The capital of the country, Malabo, was on an island called Bioko.
Kevin had encouraged Esmeralda to go home in the evenings during the week if she so desired, but she declined. When Kevin persisted, she told him she’d been ordered to remain in Cogo.
“There is a phone message for you,” Esmeralda said.
“Oh,” Kevin said nervously. His pulse quickened. Phone messages were rare, and in his current state he did not need any more unexpected events. The call in the middle of the night from Taylor Cabot had been disturbing enough.
“It was from Dr. Raymond Lyons in New York,” Esmeralda said. “He wants you to call him back.”
The fact that the call was from overseas did not surprise Kevin. With the satellite communications GenSys had installed in the Zone, it was far easier to call Europe or the U.S. than Bata, a mere sixty miles to the north. Calls to Malabo were almost impossible.
Kevin started for the living room. The phone was on a desk in the corner.
“Will you be eating lunch?” Esmeralda asked.
“Yes,” Kevin said. He still wasn’t hungry but he didn’t want to hurt Esmeralda’s feelings.
Kevin sat down at his desk. With his hand on the phone he quickly calculated it was about eight o’clock in the morning in New York. He pondered what Dr. Lyons had called about but guessed it had something to do with his brief conversation with Taylor Cabot. Kevin did not like the idea of an autopsy on Carlo Franconi, and he didn’t imagine that Raymond Lyons would either.
Kevin had first met Raymond six years previously. It was during a meeting in New York of the American Association for the Advancement of Science where Kevin presented a paper. Kevin hated giving papers and rarely did, but on this occasion he’d been forced to do so by the chief of his department at Harvard. Dating back to his Ph.D. thesis his interest was the transposition of chromosomes: a process by which chromosomes exchanged bits and pieces to enhance species adaption and hence evolution. This phenomenon happened particularly frequently during the generation of sex cells: a process known as meiosis.
By coincidence, during the same meeting and at the same time Kevin was scheduled to present, James Watson and Francis Crick gave an immensely popular talk on the anniversary of their discovery of the structure of DNA. Consequently, very few people came to hear Kevin. One of the attendees had been Raymond. It was after this talk that Raymond first approached Kevin. The conversation resulted in Kevin’s leaving Harvard and coming to work for GenSys.
With a slightly shaky hand Kevin picked up the receiver and dialed. Raymond answered on the first ring, suggesting he’d been hovering over the phone. The connection was crystal clear as if he were in the next room.
“I’ve got good news,” Raymond said as soon as he knew it was Kevin. “There’s to be no autopsy.”
Kevin didn’t respond. His mind was a jumble.
“Aren’t you relieved?” Raymond asked. “I know Cabot called you last night.”
“I’m relieved to an extent,” Kevin said. “But autopsy or no autopsy, I’m having second thoughts about this whole operation.”
Now it was Raymond’s turn to be silent. No sooner had he solved one potential problem than another was rearing its unwelcome head.
“Maybe we’ve made a mistake,” Kevin said. “What I mean is, maybe I’ve made a mistake. My conscience is starting to bother me, and I’m getting a little scared. I’m really a basic science person. This applied science is not my thing.”
“Oh, please!” Raymond said irritably. “Don’t complicate things! Not now. I mean, you’ve got that lab you’ve always wanted. I’ve beat my brains out getting you every damn piece of equipment that you’ve asked for. And on top of that, things are going so well, especially with my recruiting. Hell, with all the stock options you’re amassing, you’ll be a
rich man.”
“I’ve never intended on being rich,” Kevin said.
“Worse things could happen,” Raymond said. “Come on, Kevin! Don’t do this to me.”
“And what good is being rich when I have to be out here in the heart of darkness?” Kevin said. Unwittingly his mind conjured up the image of the manager, Siegfried Spallek. Kevin shuddered. He was terrified of the man.
“It’s not forever,” Raymond said. “You told me yourself, you’re almost there, that the system is nearly perfect. When it is and you’ve trained someone to take your place, you can come back here. With your money you’ll be able to build the lab of your dreams.”
“I’ve seen more smoke coming from the island,” Kevin said. “Just like last week.”
“Forget the smoke!” Raymond said. “You’re letting your imagination run wild. Instead of working yourself up into a frenzy over nothing, concentrate on your work so you can finish. If you’ve got some free time, start fantasizing about the lab you’ll be building back here state-side.”
Kevin nodded. Raymond had a point. Part of Kevin’s concern was that if what he’d been involved with in Africa became common knowledge, he might never be able to go back to academia. No one would hire him much less give him tenure. But if he had his own lab and an independent income, he wouldn’t have to worry.
“Listen,” Raymond said. “I’ll be coming to pick up the last patient when he’s ready, which should be soon. We’ll talk again then. Meanwhile just remember that we’re almost there and money is pouring into our offshore coffers.”
“All right,” Kevin said reluctantly.
“Just don’t do anything rash,” Raymond said. “Promise me!”
“All right,” Kevin repeated with slightly more enthusiasm.
Kevin hung up the phone. Raymond was a persuasive person, and whenever Kevin spoke to him, Kevin inevitably felt better.
Kevin pushed back from the desk and walked back to the dining room. Following Raymond’s advice he tried to think of where he’d build his lab. There were some strong arguments for Cambridge, Massachusetts, because of the associations Kevin had with both Harvard and MIT. But then again maybe it would be better to be out in the countryside like up in New Hampshire.