Scarcity (Jack Randall #3) (20 page)

“No, doc was real happy about that.”

“Good. Lemme think a minute.” He walked to the drug cabinet and rooted in a pocket for the key. Throwing the door open he gazed into the interior. He started thinking out loud.

“Potassium would be too quick. They could correct it during the code and it may cause the heart to infarct.”

The Major had limited medical knowledge but he joined the man at the cabinet as they looked for possibilities.

“Histamine might do it. We could dump a lethal dose in his IV and wait for him to arrest. It would throw him onto a lethal arrhythmia. But they might give him drugs and counter that also. I don’t want to risk damaging the heart.”

“Insulin?” the Major ventured.

“It would drop his blood sugar and cause an arrest, too. But it’s easy to detect and correct. You just give them some sugar and they bounce right back.”

“I’ve never seen them check a sugar during an arrest.”

The man thought about that for a moment.

“Never?”

“Not once.”

“They probably never consider it. You can’t join the army if you’re diabetic. They’d have no reason to suspect it. That’s an idea, but we need something to put him in brain death, not stop his heart.”

The Major gazed around the room until his eyes fell on the rack of oxygen cylinders.

“I could charge an O2 cylinder with carbon monoxide and swap it out. Wouldn’t that work?”

The mortician considered it for a moment before rejecting it. “It would do it. It wouldn’t even trip the pulse oximetry sensor. But I’m still afraid of infarction. The heart’s going to have to be as undamaged as possible if we want it to last fourteen hours.”

The Major gazed back into the cabinet and let his eyes roam the shelves.

“Ketamine?”

“Yeah, it’d work, but not what I’m looking for.”

“Then I’m out of ideas. Why don’t we just put a round in his head?”

“Very funny. So he’s on a vent, two IVs?

“One in each arm.”

“Tell me about these burns.”

“They cover half his head and his neck on one side. One eye is covered, but the doc says he’ll probably never use it again. The hair will never grow back. The neck is ugly, but not too bad. Why?”

“You know where the carotid artery is, right?”

The Major automatically reached for his own neck and applied two fingers.

“Good, I think I found our solution. This is what you’re going to do.”

•      •      •

The Global Express 7000 was one of the finest business jets on the market. The owner of one could fly at speeds and distances unheard of just a few years prior. Most were owned by large corporations or wealthy individuals and outfitted to fit their every want and need. Many were equipped with multiple flat-screen TVs and fully stocked bars. Bedrooms were often found in the back so one could fall asleep in one country, only to wake up half a world away. For those who could afford it, it was the ultimate way to travel.

The crew in Bangkok often enjoyed the trappings of their plane. Too often, they would say. While the plane could hold up to fourteen people comfortably, they hardly ever had more than four on board. This, along with the unusually Spartan interior, only served to lighten the takeoff weight and increase the already impressive range and speed of the aircraft. They had been in and out of Bangkok on several occasions, and despite their recent arrival from the States, they were being sent out again the next day.

The medical crew had the POPS machine torn down and disassembled on a table in the hangar and were cleaning and replacing every part. This carrier was to be exchanged for one they would be picking up at their next destination. One of them worked on a smudge of something sticky he could only guess at on its eggshell white cover. He looked up as one of the pilots walked into the hangar.

“Back to China again?”

“Nope, your favorite,” the pilot replied.

“Afghanistan? Shit. How long?”

“Long enough to top off the tanks and scoot back to CONUS.”

“West coast?”

“East coast. Baltimore.”

The other medic groaned. They were in for a long day. Despite the luxury and space of the plane, an 8,000 mile flight was still an 8,000 mile flight. And they had already watched all of their movies.

“What’s the cargo?”

The pilot leafed through the paperwork he had until he found the ones he wanted. He handed them over without saying anything. The medic stripped off his gloves and scanned the documents.

“It’s a heart going to Johns Hopkins. We’ll have to tweak the harvest time maybe, but these papers look just as good as the last ones. We even have a new letter from Doctors Without Borders for verification. I don’t know who prints this shit up for us, but it’s good. I can’t tell the difference from the real stuff. We even have a pre-approved customs clearance, complete with sticker. Should be easy.”

“Easy? You don’t have to stay awake for fourteen hours flying this thing there. Makes me wish I was still doing the Mexico flights. Down and back in one day. That was cake.”

“So why did you switch?”

“The money for this is three times better, and I get to fly a Cadillac plane instead of a Citation taxi.”

“Greedy bastard,” the other medic chimed in.

“Yes I am,” the pilot confirmed without hesitation.

The medic laughed as he stuffed the papers in a pocket and gloved back up to continue his cleaning.

The pilot picked up a piece to examine it closer before the medic took it out of his hands and placed it in a container of alcohol.

“Do I go up in the cockpit and just start playing with stuff?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just how does this damn thing work anyway? What’s wrong with a cooler full of ice like we used before?”

“They still use it for short trips, but this machine will soon replace that, too, I’m sure.”

“Why’s that?”

“The machine mimics the body’s natural functions. It circulates blood through the organ, feeds it nutrients, oxygenates the blood, and keeps it at normal body temperature. All the cooler did was slow down the dying process long enough for a surgeon to get it into a new body. With this thing it’s like it never left. When we get the heart I’ll just hook up the major arteries and veins here, here, and here, fill this reservoir with the donor’s blood and turn it on. The machine does the rest.”

“But now does it beat? Don’t you need a real person for that?”

“No. I can set the machine to pulse the blood through the heart, or I can stick electrodes in it here, and here, and the machine will give it little shocks to make it beat.”

“Like a pacemaker?”

“Yeah.”

The pilot bent down and looked the machine over for a minute before straightening up with a shiver.

“Creeps me out. What’s next? Frankenstein?”

“Maybe in a few more years,” he said it with a straight face and his partner turned away to hide his.

“Think I’ll stick to flying,” the pilot replied before spinning on his heel and walking off.

The medic watched him leave until he disappeared through the door of the plane.

“Think he bought it?”

“Yeah . . . you got a sick sense of humor, you know that?

“Yes . . . yes I do.”

Drug Cartel’s Security Chief Captured
THE ASSOCIATED PRESS, December 25, 2011
 
 

—FIFTEEN—

L
uis pulled his car up to the gate of the home and pushed the button through his open window. After a short wait the gate jumped and creaked as it parted, allowing him to drive through. He drove past the overgrown grass and untrimmed hedges on his way to the front door. It was amazing how quickly the grounds were deteriorating. The gardener had been given a vacation, as had most of the maids. Only Anita’s former nanny, and now head housekeeper had been allowed to stay. The girl’s friends and their families had been given a story to keep them quiet, while the immediate relatives had been sent a carefully worded email explaining that they were off on a business trip that they had decided to make into a family vacation as well, and they would call when they returned. The husband and wife had not left the house for the past week. The maid was venturing out for food and keeping the interior somewhat clean, but it was too much for one person and it was beginning to show.

He strode around the side of the home to enter from the back as it was closest to the dining room. The pool was full of leaves and he found the father sitting in a chair staring at it. He looked up as Luis approached.

“They have not called.”

I know
, Luis thought,
I haven’t told them to yet.

“They’ll call tonight at the time stated in the letter. We’re ready. I must however talk to you and your wife. Is Consuela here?”

“No, my wife sent her away for the day. She was . . . hovering. My wife wanted to be alone.”

“I understand. Could we go inside?”

“Yes.”

The man rose from the chair on tired legs. Luis eyed him closely. The shirt was new, but the wrinkled pants were the same ones he’d had on yesterday. His hair was also unkempt. The man was obviously not sleeping well, if at all. Good.

Luis followed him inside and they found his wife in the kitchen, sitting at the table. She was only steps outside the dining room as if afraid to get too far from the phone and its awaited call, despite assurances from Luis that it would not ring yet. She looked even worse than her husband, but at least she had some food in front of her, although little appeared to be gone.

“How are you today, Mrs. Perez?”

She attempted a smile before replying. “I’m still here waiting.”

“Not much longer, let’s hope.”

Luis placed the box of equipment he had brought for appearances sake on the dining room table. They watched with anticipation.

He had visited the Perez family every day since they had hired him. Mostly just to put on a good show and build their trust. He always brought another piece of equipment, and the dining room of the large house resembled a busy office or communication room. He had speakers and microphones set up so they could speak with the callers hands-free, as well as a variety of recording equipment. Spare batteries and chargers for the cell phone were laid out and plugged in and a generator waited in the garage with cords trailing into the house, ready to be started and hooked up in the event that the city’s power, notoriously unreliable, should be interrupted at a crucial time. This he had all explained to the family and their confidence in him had improved with every visit.

After arranging everything just so, he paused to open a bottle of water before turning the chair around and facing them.

“I expect the call soon, most likely in the early evening. I know better than to ask you not to be here when it comes so I must prepare you for what will be said. They’ll be loud and threaten many things. They will demand an outrageous amount of money. Their language will be harsh and insulting. You must
never
let them get to you. Do you understand? If you cannot keep your emotions in check, you must leave the room. They would like nothing more than to hear you crying, Mrs. Perez, or to hear you get angry, sir. They work to play on your emotions, and we can’t let them do that.”

“You expect us not to be emotional? How can I not be? They have my little girl. Who knows what they’re doing to her.”

“I understand. But I not only ask this of you, I require it. It is the key to getting your daughter back. Can you do this? I need to know.”

Mr. Perez sat with his wife and Luis saw the head come up and the shoulders go back. He spoke with a forceful voice.

“We will control ourselves. You have our word.”

Luis was happy to see a little steel in the man’s back. But not too much. It was a fragile situation. One he had to perform well through tonight.

“Will we be able to speak to her?”

“No. Remember when I told you that the kidnappers keep each part of their operation separate? The man we’ll speak with tonight is just their negotiator. He’ll be someone who is high up, perhaps even the man in charge, but he’ll be alone in a room much like the one we are in now. He most likely does this almost every night, each time with a different family. Your daughter won’t be anywhere near him. She’s somewhere in the city, but where she is, even he may not know. We’ll demand further proof of life. ”

“Will you know him . . . from before?”

“Perhaps. I’ve talked with many such men on the phone or over the radio in the last few years. I may recognize his voice, or the name he uses.”

Luis reached out for a file on the desk and opened it. He removed a list of names and placed it on the table. Some of them were in groups and highlighted in various colors. He placed it on the table in front of them.

“These are all men you have talked to?”

“Most of them yes, some have dealt with others who work as I do.”

“What are the colors?”

“The blue ones are amateurs, usually a low payoff and quick return. The yellow names are Colombian rebels who need money to support their revolution.”

“And the red names?”

Luis reached out and took the list back from the man.