Blood Money (21 page)

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Authors: Chris Ryan

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #General

BOOK: Blood Money
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‘Get in. Now.’ As the first van disappeared round the corner, the second van was preparing to set off with a delivery. Amber and Paulo stood impassively, still at gunpoint. They were in no doubt that if they so much as thought about trying to get away or overpowering the courier, he would shoot. They had been in enough troublespots to know when someone was just waving a weapon around and when he would really use it.
Now the courier was telling them to get in the van. The two friends complied. It was something their training had taught them: if you can’t see a way out, do as you’re told. Look around for escape routes – weaknesses the enemy hasn’t spotted – but don’t make a break for it unless you’re really sure it will work.
‘Sit down.’
There was a hospital trolley in the van, along with the boxes. Amber was trying to remain cool but she couldn’t help giving Paulo a nervous look. Did the trolley mean they would have their organs stolen, like Bina? The courier had made several phone calls while the van was being loaded, all the time keeping an eye on them. Had he been arranging something with his body-snatcher friends?
Paulo wondered why didn’t they just shoot them and take their organs right now? He thought he’d hit on a ray of hope, but then he remembered some of the information Hex had got: organs lasted longer if the donor was alive when they gave them.
Amber and Paulo sat down obediently.
The courier beckoned one of the other staff into the van, then climbed onto the footplate, shadowing him with his gun.
The man tore the wrapper off a pre-packaged syringe and leaned over Amber. A drop of clear fluid bled from its needle and glinted in the sunlight like fresh dew. ‘Hold still,’ he said.
Amber shrank away. ‘What’s that?’
It was the courier who answered. ‘You’ll like this, druggie. See how well we’re treating you. This one’s on the house.’
Amber stiffened as the needle came towards her.
The courier jerked the gun at her. ‘Just be a good girl and take your medicine, or we’ll tie you down.’
Paulo looked down at the trolley. His left hand was on a webbing strap, about where the wrist would be if he was lying down. There were more restraints on the other side and at the feet.
Dios
, these people were well equipped. He put his hand on Amber’s leg, trying to reassure her. He felt her muscles go rigid as she fought her instinct to resist.
She watched as the slender needle sank into her skin, gritting her teeth as the cold liquid flowed into her vein. It hurt; no injection she’d ever had had hurt like this. What were they giving her? If she fought she would get shot. Might that be better? She clenched her teeth together so hard her jaw hurt.
Paulo would be next. The man was ripping open another package for his shot. He held the needle upright like Excalibur. Paulo’s mind was racing. What could he do? Amber had had to submit; she hadn’t seen any way out. He felt the restraint under his left hand. A desperate plan began to form in his mind.
Paulo held out his left arm. ‘This is the arm I prefer,’ he said. Might as well play the drug addict.
The courier smiled. ‘That’s right. No use pretending. We know what you are.’
Paulo smiled back. There was another reason why he wanted them to use that arm. He forced himself to watch the needle slide in as though he was enjoying it. But he could feel the sweat breaking out on his back. What were they giving him? It seemed to take an eternity for the needle to empty. How much were they giving him? He looked at Amber. She was staring ahead; still alert, but inscrutable, unreadable. She wasn’t going to give their captors the pleasure of a response. But what would the drug do to her?
Amber was fighting to keep control of herself. Her adrenaline levels were rocketing; there was an alien substance in her system, spreading through her bloodstream, flooding her cells. She was always so careful about what she put into her body; even food was chosen carefully so that she could stay as healthy as possible. Now someone had polluted her body with a drug.
The courier and the man with the needles were leaving the van now. ‘We’ve got to go now,’ said the courier. ‘Sweet dreams.’
They stepped out and slammed the doors. The sound made Amber come to with a jerk. The drug was taking over. She tried to shake herself awake, but she felt like she was slipping into a warm bath. So, they had been given a sedative.
She wanted to lean on something. She lolled backwards, her head touching the cold metal side of the van. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was easier to rest her head there than to sit up. Beside her, Paulo was making a jerking motion with his arm. ‘Keep still, Paulo,’ she murmured and flicked him with her hand.
Paulo was working fast. As soon as their captors left the van he unbuckled the restraining strap and yanked it off the trolley. He slipped his left hand through up to his elbow and pulled the strap tight. The needle had gone in his forearm, so if he could improvise a tourniquet, he could slow down the rate at which it went into his bloodstream.
They could hear the distinctive voice of the courier in the front of the van,. He was talking on the phone. ‘Hello, Sergeant Chopra? The girl is on her way. All tested and sorted. Tell Trilok he owes me one. And you can also tell him if he wants to do it again I’ve got a couple more donors.’
Paulo had the tourniquet as tight as it would go. His fingers were tingling and going numb; the blood supply was being cut off. He’d have to be careful not to keep it that tight for too long or his fingers would start to die. He only had a short amount of time, then he’d have to loosen the tourniquet and let the drug through.
Amber was lolling back against the side of the van, barely conscious, watching him. With one arm still bound by the tourniquet, Paulo heaved himself off the bench and knelt in front of a refrigerated cabinet. Inside was a row of what looked like ice-cube trays, labelled:
CORNEAS READY FOR TRANSPLANT
–
KEEP COOL
. He swept them aside irritably with his hand. He didn’t know what he was looking for but there must be something in there they could use. Before it was too late.
31
T
HREE-THIRTY
Trilok padded into the back of the room. The General Medical Ethics Committee was in session. The six members sat around a semicircular desk. It was equipped with the latest boardroom technology: there was a general display screen for big presentations and each member had their own personal screen for when they needed to call up extra information.
The meeting was chaired by an elderly man with white hair and a long ivory-coloured shirt. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said, looking around at the assembled members. ‘We’re here this afternoon to review the case of’ – he consulted his notes – ‘Mr Roy Gopal.’
Gopal. An image sprang to Trilok’s head: the shrunken figure in the bed; the demanding voice on the other end of the phone, day and night. He’d started getting migraines whenever the man rang. No client had been such a tough case. And Trilok had never had to go to so much trouble to find a donor. But now the tests were complete and he was in front of the committee at last. Which was as good as being home and dry.
Trilok felt like he needed a rest. Maybe after this he would just concentrate on patients who were no trouble; the really sick ones who would never survive a transplant anyway. They just paid their money, accepted the test results he’d forged and that was that. They died within a few months, but they died with hope in their hearts. Certainly it was a much easier way to make a living than to actually have to arrange a transplant for real.
The committee chairman was going through the facts of the case. ‘Mr Gopal is about to have his second transplant. As you know, gentlemen, this makes it harder to find a match. However, he has a cousin who lives out in the village of Nayla. This cousin . . .’
Trilok nodded to himself as the chairman read out the details. Trilok had written them himself, and handed them over just half an hour before the meeting started. Plus a handful of banknotes. Bina was supposed to be Gopal’s cousin. Of course, in real life, there was no way rich old Gopal would be related to Bina’s impoverished family in Nayla. The very thought was ridiculous. But so long as the chairman persuaded the others to pass it, the paperwork would be signed and they could whisk Bina and Gopal to the transplant unit.
‘There are more details on your screens, gentlemen,’ said the chairman, and turned to look at his monitor. Again Trilok smiled to himself. Two other members were also definitely on his side, thanks to his regular payments. That meant three people in all would be arguing for the case, and that should easily persuade the remaining three. For the transplant to go ahead, the committee had to be unanimous.
All the members turned to look at the details on their screens. Then something unexpected happened: Trilok saw an expression he didn’t want to see. The three people he thought he could rely on looked worried. Very worried.
Then he heard something he definitely didn’t want to hear. The chairman said in a quiet voice: ‘I don’t think we can approve this one.’
For a moment the room was silent. Then, one by one, the others agreed.
Trilok was aghast. The members he thought he could rely on were rejecting one of his transplants. And not just any transplant;
this
transplant. He could feel his migraine coming on again. He stood up; usually he stayed sitting quietly at the back of the room, but he was so shocked he stood up.
The chairman was looking for him anyway. He beckoned him over, then went back to staring at his screen.
Trilok went and looked at it – and saw something that shouldn’t have been there. Trilok knew very well what it was: the details of a Swiss bank account.
‘As I said,’ the chairman repeated, ‘I don’t think we can approve this one.’ He wouldn’t look Trilok in the eye.
The other two members who were in Trilok’s pay were looking at him with a similar expression. Shocked; betrayed. He went round to their screens. Each of them showed a message: ‘These accounts will be emptied unless the prisoners and the girl are released immediately.’
One of the other members turned to look at Trilok. ‘Trilok,’ he said quietly, ‘who have you been messing with?’
His neighbour had something to say too. He pulled Trilok down by his lapel and hissed into his ear, ‘Trilok, if I lose my money, I’m dragging you down with me.’
Trilok swallowed. He straightened up. ‘I’ll sort it out. Leave it to me.’ He walked stiffly from the room.
His migraine was pounding in his head. What the hell was going on? How had anyone found out he was paying committee members? How had they found out the bank account details, for heaven’s sake? And what was this about prisoners? What prisoners?
He went down the corridor, past the reception area, out into the lift area and made a phone call.
It was answered immediately. ‘Chopra,’ he hissed, ‘I’ve got the committee on the verge of mutiny. Has something been going on?’
Sergeant Chopra sounded breathless, like he’d been running. ‘Only those kids. But it’s all fine now.’
‘What kids? Who are these kids?’
‘The kids who came to the station looking for the girl. Remember I phoned the clinic and told them to move her?’
‘You said that was sorted.’
‘I thought it was. But they kept sniffing around. They even managed to tail her to the Vikram depot. So—’
Suddenly it all made sense to Trilok. ‘You took them prisoner?’ He couldn’t believe it. ‘You took some kids prisoner?’
Sergeant Chopra sounded irritated. ‘That’s what you pay me for, isn’t it? You don’t know what I have to do sometimes to watch your back. And you can hardly get all high and mighty about kidnapping.’
‘That was different. She asked to meet me, then got cold feet. Once she’s done it she’ll be glad she has. But you’ve taken some kids prisoner?’ Trilok repeated it again, disbelieving. ‘Chopra, you’ve gone too far. I never wanted you to do anything like this!’
‘What’s the matter, Trilok? Losing your nerve? I’ve got a couple of donors on the way. Kidneys, eyes, hearts, lungs – anything you like. Maybe that will change your mind.’
Hex was still under an orange tarpaulin on the building site. The villains were putty in his hands, all held captive by their greed – and by what he was managing to do with one small but very powerful palmtop. He had hacked into the computer system at the General Medical Ethics Committee and organized that little display with information from Trilok’s documents. He had timed the information to appear five minutes after the meeting started – just long enough for everyone to settle in, say hello and get comfortable. Then he sat back to imagine the chaos.
He heard a familiar voice near him and peeped out from under the tarpaulin. Standing no more than a few metres away was Sergeant Chopra. He was on the phone, having an argument. Hex heard a word that chilled him: ‘prisoners’. When he had sent the e-mail mentioning prisoners he had only been guessing, given that he hadn’t heard from the others in way too long – but here it was confirmed. Amber, Paulo and Alex were prisoners.

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