Seizure (30 page)

An outdoor restaurant with a central bar and a thatched roof stood high above the steeply sloped beach's edge, affording a pleasant view up and down the strand. At one-thirty, the eatery was still filled to overflowing, including a line of people patiently waiting for tables or empty barstools. Gaetano stopped and took out his photos to review the images of the professor and Tony's sister. His eyes lingered on the sister, while he wished she were the mark. The thought of the various ways to give her a violent message brought a smile to his face.

Armed with a refreshed mental image of the people he was searching for, Gaetano took a slow walk around the bar/restaurant. The tables were arranged around the periphery, with the bar in the center. Every table and every seat at the bar were occupied, mostly with scantily clad people of all shapes, sizes, and ages in bathing suits and cover-ups.

Gaetano found himself back where he'd started, without seeing anyone who resembled either the guy or the girl. Leaving the restaurant, he took a flight of stairs that led down to a landing with several outdoor showers before descending another flight to the beach. To the right, at the foot of the stairs, was the hotel's beach concession, with towels, umbrellas, and lounge chairs for the guests. Gaetano took off his shoes and socks and rolled his pant bottoms before traipsing down to the water's edge, where gentle waves lapped at the shore. When he stuck his toes into the water, he found himself wishing he had on his bathing suit. The water was crystal clear, shallow, and delightfully warm.

Walking on the damp, densely packed sand, Gaetano first rambled to the east while scanning the faces of all the people on the beach. It wasn't particularly crowded, because most everybody was having lunch. When he ran out of people, he turned around and walked west. When he ran out of people in
that direction, he decided the professor and the sister weren't on the beach.
So much for that idea,
he thought moodily.

Gaetano went back and retrieved his shoes. He helped himself to a towel and went up to the landing, where he rinsed his feet off. With his shoes back on, he climbed the remaining stairs and set off up the sidewalk that traversed the lush lawn in front of the hotel's plantation-style main building. Inside, he found himself in what looked like the living room of a large, luxurious house. A small bar in the corner with six stools reminded him it was, after all, a hotel. With no customers, the bartender was busy cleaning his glasses.

Using a house phone on a desk stocked with hotel stationery, Gaetano called the hotel operator. He asked how to dial one of the guest rooms and was told she would be happy to connect him. Gaetano said he wanted room 108.

While the phone rang, Gaetano helped himself to a bowl of fruit on the desk. He let it ring ten times before the operator came back on the line to ask if he'd like to leave a message. Gaetano said he'd try again later and hung up.

At that point, Gaetano wondered if the hotel had a pool. He hadn't seen one where he would have expected it, namely out in the middle of the expansive lawn, but since the hotel's grounds were obviously large, Gaetano figured there still could have been one. Accordingly, he walked across the living room–like lounge and entered the hotel's reception area. There he asked and was given directions.

It turned out the pool was to the east, set away from the ocean at the base of a formal garden that rose up in successive tiers to be capped by a medieval cloister. Gaetano was impressed with the setting but disappointed at having the same luck as he had on the beach. The professor and Tony's sister were neither at the pool nor in the snack bar next to the pool. They also weren't in a nearby health club or on one of the many tennis courts.

“Crap!” Gaetano mumbled. It was clear to him that his marks were currently not in the hotel. He looked at his watch. It was now after two. He shook his head. Instead of wondering if he would have to spend the night, he started thinking how many nights it might take at the rate he was going.

Retracing his steps back to the reception area, Gaetano
found a comfortable couch that had another bowl of fruit as well as a stack of classy magazines that were positioned so as to afford a clear view through an archway to the front entrance of the hotel. Resigned to waiting, Gaetano sat down and made himself comfortable.

2:07
P
.
M
., Friday, March 1, 2002

 

Leaving Spencer to
go up to his expansive office, Paul took the stairs and descended into the basement of the central building after the two of them had said goodbye to their guests. Paul often wondered what Spencer did all day, rattling around in that huge room, which was four times the size of Paul's neighboring office and ten times more sumptuous. Yet Paul did not begrudge the situation. It had been Spencer's only demand during the building of the new clinic. Other than insisting on a ridiculously large personal space, Spencer had otherwise given Paul relatively free rein—most important, in regard to the laboratory and its equipment. Besides, Paul had a second office, albeit tiny, in the laboratory, which he used a hell of a lot more than the one in the admin building.

Paul was whistling as he opened the fire door on the basement level of the stairwell. He had reason to be in a good mood. Not only was he anticipating a serious enhancement of his legitimacy as a stem-cell researcher by collaborating with a potential Nobel laureate, but more important, he was looking at the prospect of a significant and needed financial windfall for the clinic. Like the mythological phoenix, Paul had
again risen from the ashes, and this time there had been literal ashes. Less than a year before, he and the other principals at the clinic had to flee Massachusetts with barbarians in the form of Federal marshals at their former facility's gate. Luckily, Paul had anticipated problems because of what he had been spearheading in the research arena, although he envisioned the problems would come via the FDA, not directly from the Justice Department, and he had been making detailed plans to move the clinic out of harm's way offshore. For almost a year, he had been siphoning off funds behind Spencer's back, which had been easy, since Spencer had essentially retired to Florida. Paul had used the money to buy the land in the Bahamas, design a new clinic, and begin construction. The unexpected raid by law enforcement in the wake of a couple pesky whistle-blowers merely meant he and his cohorts' departure had to be precipitous and prior to the new clinic's completion. It also meant they had to activate a preplanned doomsday protocol, burning down their old facility to eliminate all the evidence.

The irony for Paul was that this recent rise from the ashes had been his second miraculous recovery. Only seven years before, his prospects had appeared dismal. He'd lost his hospital privileges and was poised to lose his medical license in the State of Illinois only two years after he'd finished his ob/gyn residency. It was over some stupid, diddly-squat Medicaid/Medicare billing scam he'd copied from some local colleagues and then refined. The problem had forced him to flee the state. Pure serendipity had taken him to Massachusetts, where he'd taken a fellowship in infertility in order to avoid the Massachusetts Medical Board's finding out about his problems in Illinois. His luck continued when one of the fellowship instructors happened to be Spencer Wingate, who was contemplating retiring. The rest was history.

“If only my friends could see me now!” Paul mumbled happily, as he walked down the basement's central corridor. Such musings were a favorite pastime. Of course, he used the term
friends
loosely, since he didn't have many, having been forced to be a loner most of his life after being the butt of jokes throughout his formative years. He'd always been a hard worker, yet he was destined to continually come up short by
society's usual criteria, save for getting a medical degree. But now, with a superbly equipped laboratory at his disposal and without even the threat of FDA oversight, he knew he was positioned to become the biomedical researcher of the year, maybe the decade . . . maybe even the century, considering the Wingate's potential to have a virtual monopoly with both reproductive and therapeutic cloning. Of course, for Paul, the idea he was to be a famous researcher was the biggest irony of all. He'd never planned on it, had no appropriate training for it, and even had the dubious honor of being the last in his class in medical school. Paul laughed silently, knowing that in reality he owed his present position not only to luck, but also to U.S. politicians' ongoing preoccupation with the abortion issue, which had effectively kept oversight from the infertility business as well as handicapped stem-cell research. If that hadn't been the case, researchers on the mainland would be where he was at the moment.

Paul rapped on Kurt Hermann's door. Kurt was the clinic's head of security and one of Paul's first hirelings. Soon after his arrival at the Wingate Clinic, Paul had sensed the enormous profit potential of infertility, particularly if one were willing to push the boundaries and take full advantage of the lack of oversight of the field. With that in mind, Paul had assumed security would be a big issue. Accordingly, he had wanted to find the right person for the job, someone without a lot of scruples, in case draconian methods became necessary, someone highly chauvinistic in the nonsexist sense of the term, and someone with some serious experience. Paul had found all of the above in Kurt Hermann. The fact that the man had been discharged from the U.S. Army's Special Forces under less-than-honorable circumstances following a series of prostitute murders on the island of Okinawa did not trouble Paul in the slightest. In fact, he had considered it a plus.

Hearing a “Come in,” Paul opened the door. Kurt had designed his own basement office complex. The main room was a combination office with a couple desks and a couple chairs, plus a small gym with a half dozen exercise machines. There was also a mat for tae kwon do sparring. In addition, there was a video room with an entire wall of monitors showing feeds from cameras sprinkled all around the complex. Down a short
interior corridor were a bedroom and a bathroom. Kurt had another, larger apartment over in the laboratory building, but on occasion he would stay right there in his office for several days on end. Across from the office's bedroom was a holding cell, complete with a sink, a head, and an iron cot.

The sharp metallic clank of weights caught Paul's attention and directed it toward the gym section of the room. Kurt Hermann sat up from a bench press. He was dressed as usual, in a tight-fitting black T-shirt, black pants, and black cross-trainer shoes, all of which contrasted sharply with his closely cropped, dirty blond hair. At one point, Paul had casually inquired why Kurt insisted on wearing black, considering the radiant power of the Bahamian sun. Kurt's response was only a slight shrug and an arching of his eyebrows. For the most part, he was a man of few words.

“We need to talk,” Paul said.

Kurt didn't answer. He peeled off his Velcro wrist straps, ran a towel across his forehead, and sat down behind his desk. His bulging pectoral and triceps muscles strained the fabric of his T-shirt as he placed his forearms on the desktop. Once he was seated, he didn't move. Paul likened him to a cat ready to pounce.

Paul took hold of one of the side chairs, positioned it in front of the desk, and sat down himself.

“The doctor and his girlfriend have arrived on the island,” Paul said.

“I know,” Kurt responded in a clipped monotone. He turned around the monitor on his desk. The image was of Daniel and Stephanie, frozen in their approach to the front entrance of the administration building. Both their faces were plainly visible, as they squinted in the morning sun.

“A good shot,” Paul commented. “It certainly shows to good effect that the woman is downright attractive.”

Kurt turned the monitor back around toward himself but didn't respond.

“Any information about the identity of the patient since the last time we talked?” Paul asked.

Kurt shook his head.

“So a repeat visit to their apartment back in Cambridge and one to their office didn't reveal anything?”

Kurt shook his head. “Nothing!”

“I hate to beat a dead horse,” Paul said, “but we need to know who this person is as soon as possible. The longer we have to wait, the less chance we have of maximizing our compensation. And we do need the money.”

“Things will be easier now that they are here in Nassau.”

“What's your strategy?”

“When will they be starting their work here at the clinic?”

“Tomorrow, provided they get a FedEx package they are waiting for.”

“I need possession of their laptops and their cell phones for a few minutes,” Kurt said. “To do that, assistance from the lab people may be needed.”

“Oh?” Paul questioned. It was rare for Kurt to ask for help from anyone. “Sure! I'll arrange for the assistance from Ms. Finnigan. What is it you'd want her to do?”

“Once they are working here, I need to know where they keep their computers, and hopefully phones, when they go over to the cafeteria.”

“Well, that should be easy,” Paul said. “Megan will surely provide them with some sort of lockable compartment for their personal effects. Why would you want their cell phones? I mean, I understand why you'd want the laptops, but why the phones?”

“To check their Caller IDs,” Kurt said. “Not that I expect to learn anything, considering how careful they've been up to now. Nor do I expect anything from the computers. That would be too easy. These professor types are far from stupid. What I really want to do is insert a bug in each of their phones to monitor their calls. That is what is going to give us what we want. The downside is that the monitoring has to be close, within a hundred feet or so, because of power limitations. Once the bugs have been planted, Bruno or myself will have to stay within range.”

“Now, that's going to be a chore!” Paul exclaimed. “I hope you remember that discretion is the key here. We can't have any type of scene over this; otherwise, Dr. Wingate will be apoplectic.”

Kurt gave one of his signature inscrutable shrugs.

“We found out they are staying at the Ocean Club on Paradise Island.”

Kurt nodded his head ever so slightly.

“We did learn something else today that might be helpful,” Paul said. “This mystery patient might be someone high up in the Catholic Church, which could work nicely in our favor, considering the church's stand on stem cells. Maintaining the secrecy might be worth a lot of money.”

Kurt didn't respond in the slightest.

“Well, that's it,” Paul said. He slapped his knees before standing up. “Let me emphasize again, we need the name.”

“I'll get it,” Kurt said. “Trust me!”

 

“What's going on?” Daniel questioned, with an edge to his voice. “Are you giving me the silent treatment or what? You haven't said boo since we left the clinic twenty-some minutes ago.”

“You haven't said much yourself,” Stephanie responded. She was staring broodingly out the front windshield and didn't bother to turn her head in Daniel's direction.

“I said it was a beautiful day when we got into the car.”

“Oh, wow!” Stephanie remarked with unmistakable derision. “That's a stimulating conversation-starter, considering what we've experienced this morning.”

Daniel cast Stephanie a quick, irritated glance before redirecting his attention to the road. They were driving along the north shore of the island, heading back to their hotel. “I don't think you are being fair. In front of our hosts, you carry on like a banshee, which I don't want you to do anymore, and now that we're alone, you're as quiet as a mouse. You're acting as if I did something wrong.”

“Yeah, well, I can't understand why you're not outraged about what's going on at the Wingate Clinic.”

“You mean about their supposed stem-cell therapy.”

“Even calling it therapy is a gross misnomer. It is a pure, unadulterated medical scam. Not only is it bilking desperate people out of money and appropriate treatment, it will give stem cells a bad name, because it's not going to cure anything, except as an elaborate placebo.”

“I am outraged,” Daniel said. “Anybody would be, but I'm equally outraged about the politicians who are making it all
possible and at the same time forcing us to deal with these people.”

“And what about the Wingate's putative trade secret that enables them to supply human eggs on demand with only twelve hours notice?”

“That is equally as ethically worrisome, I have to admit.”

“Worrisome!” Stephanie repeated scornfully. “It's a lot more than worrisome. Did you happen to see that there is an article about oocytes in the journal they gave us?” She unrolled the magazine, which she had clutched in her hand. She pointed. “Article number three's title is ‘Our Extensive Experience with In Vitro Maturation of Human Fetal Oocytes.' What does that suggest?”

“Do you think they get their oocytes from aborted fetuses?”

“With what we know, that would not be an outlandish supposition. And did you notice all the pregnant young Bahamian women working in the cafeteria, none of whom, I might add, had any of the usual signs of being married? And what about Paul flaunting their experience with nuclear transfer? These people are probably offering reproductive cloning on top of everything else.”

Stephanie exhaled forcibly while shaking her head. Instead of looking over at Daniel, she turned and looked out her passenger-side window. She had her arms tightly folded over her chest. “Just being there and talking with these people, much less working there, makes me feel like an accomplice.”