Michael Palmer - The fifth vial

Fearing another relapse, Anson waited before setting the oxygen aside. The effort of pulling in enough air had left him light-headed and nauseated. It wasn't supposed to have come to this. In nearly fifteen years he had never taken time away from work, nor had he ever wished to.

After a particularly exhausting and depressing weekend on the party circuit, enmeshed with people he no longer cared about, doing things he more and more abhorred, Anson's life as a dilettante and playboy ended abruptly. He used his legacy and whatever else he could borrow, and brought his vibrant wife and child into the jungle on a mission to save the people of his continent.

Now, at fifty-five, he was physically a specter of the man he once was, and constantly frightened of having his work taken from him before it was ready, but even with diminished oxygen levels, his mind still processed information and solved problems at a torrid pace. There was no way he was supposed to stop now. As long as there was work to do, there was no way he could expose himself to the vagaries of a lung transplant and the anti-rejection treatments surrounding it.

Silently promising that as soon as Sarah-9 was perfected, he would relent, Anson fit his stethoscope in place and did a careful reevaluation of his patient. The child might last a day or two, but without some sort of divine intervention, three days was a stretch. Divine intervention. The words went right to the heart of the matter. Anson did not acknowledge the power of God, but he totally embraced the power of Sarah-9, named after his only child in the hopes that someday, she would understand the choices he had made. Even though Marielle didn't fit into any of the current clinical protocols, she might well benefit from treatment with the wondrous drug.

There was, however, a major problem in doing that.

Elizabeth St. Pierre, controller of the purse strings supporting the Whitestone Center for African Health, was also in charge of the clinical testing of the drug. She had vehemently forbidden random use of Sarah-9 before the researchers at the Whitestone Foundation had completed their evaluation. The edict restricting use of the drug seemed unreasonable on the surface, but Anson knew the problem was one strictly of his own making.

Until he relinquished his total control of its manufacture, Sarah-9 would be in precious short supply.

Anson felt his pulse quicken at the notion of stealing his own drug. He was doing everything possible for the girl, but her disease was deeply

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entrenched. He needed to increase the circulation in the area of the infection in order to deliver more oxygen and more antibiotics. Sarah-9 was just the ticket. Perhaps he could broker some sort of a deal with Elizabeth, he wondered now — his secret notebooks and cell cultures in exchange for enough Sarah-9 to treat his patient.

No, he decided. They could call him unreasonable or even paranoid, but he simply wasn't ready to turn over his research to Whitestone. At this juncture, it would be better to ask forgiveness than permission.

The bamboo and cinderblock research facility, a series of laboratories and sleeping quarters fifty yards north of the hospital, was impressively outfitted, with state-of-the-art incubators, two mass spectrometers, and even an electron microscope. With refrigeration units and both yeast and tissue culture lines to protect, there was also a phalanx of mammoth generators automatically backing up the power that had been brought out from Yaounde through the towering trees along the Sanagra River.

Doing his best to mask the weakness and uncertainty in his steps, Anson caught up with Claudine as she and the other evening nurse were medicating the patients. In addition to Anson and St. Pierre, two physicians from Yaounde and several residents worked at the hospital. They rotated nights on watch, but in truth, Claudine and the other nurses were experienced and competent enough to handle most problems.

"So, how is our flock doing, Claudine?" he asked, subtly bracing one knee against a wall.

The woman appraised him. "You are feeling better?"

"Much, thank you. I am going to go back to my quarters to wash up and change. Then I will return."

"You should stay there and get some sleep."

"Later this morning, after the others arrive, I will catch up on sleep. Believe it or not, I am quite wide awake at the moment."

"We worry about you."

"I appreciate that, Claudine, and I need you to. Please hold down the fort. I will be back shortly."

Anson paused to assure himself that his little patient was stable, and then left the hospital. A uniformed security guard was waiting outside the door.

"Good evening, Jacques."

"Good evening, Doctor. Long night."

"Sick child. Listen, you can stay there if you want. I am just going to my apartment to wash up."

"Sir — "

"I know, I know."

Unaccompanied walks at night were forbidden. Where there was poverty, there was inevitably crime. The security force — each armed and former military — was there primarily to thwart kidnappings and any form of industrial espionage. The commercial potential of the formulas and notebooks protected in Anson's massive safe was quite literally unlimited.

The dirt and stone path between the hospital and the research compound was weakly illuminated by ground-level lighting. It wound through lush jungle growth, and ended at a bamboo vestibule off of which there were five wings — three of them containing research facilities, and the other two, residential quarters. Posted by the doorway to the vestibule was another security guard — well over six feet tall, broad shouldered, and quite imposing in his starched khakis.

"Good morning, Doctor," he said formally. "Good morning, Jacques."

"Francis," the other guard replied with a curt nod. "The doctor wishes to wash up before returning to the hospital."

"Then so he shall. Thank you, Jacques. I can handle things from here."

The guard hesitated, clearly trying to recall if there was a regulation covering the transfer of hospital personnel from one security guard to another. Finally, he shrugged, nodded at the two men, and headed back along the path. Before Anson could speak, Francis Ngale nodded minutely at the security camera, mounted in a waterproof housing midway up a palm tree facing the door. There was no need for such a reminder. Anson was well aware of the electronic security throughout the compound. The system had been put in place by Whitestone once their deal with him was finalized.

With Ngale at his side, Anson started down the corridor to his two room apartment. Halfway there, at a spot safe from the cameras, they stopped.

"Pardon me for this observation, Doctor," Ngale said, "but your breathing seems quite labored tonight."

"It was bad a little while ago, but now it is better. I have been battling to keep a little girl alive."

"Nobody fights that battle better than you."

"Thank you, my friend. I was quite relieved to find you on duty tonight. I need to get at the medication."

"For the girl?"

"Yes. You know the rules prohibiting this?"

"Of course."

"And you are willing to risk helping me?"

"That question does not need asking."

Like almost everything else at the Whitestone Center for African Health, the security force was hired and supervised by Elizabeth St. Pierre. Now, although she and Anson were still as close as ever, there were times when she was forced to remind him that according to the pact he had made, it was the Whitestone Foundation that paid the bills, and the Whitestone Foundation that made the rules.

St. Pierre had brought Francis Ngale on board, but she was unaware that Anson had once saved the man's father from a nearly fatal episode of meningitis. Of all the security guards, Ngale was the only one Anson could completely trust.