Michael Palmer - The fifth vial

Where would the keys be?

The climb up the embankment was not going to be easy, and it would certainly not be worth doing if the keys were, as seemed likely, in Vargas's pocket. The notion of retrieving them from there made her queasy, but climbing up the difficult slope to check for them, then back down if they weren't in the car, then back up again made no sense.

Gingerly working her way down to the body, Natalie looked for a heavy rock to use as a Weapon in case she was wrong about Vargas. What she found instead was something much better — his gun. It was resting in some mud against the base of a huge fern, about twenty feet from the water. It was a heavy, long-barreled revolver with a dark wood handle — something close to what Jesse James might have worn. No surprise there.

She wiped off the barrel on her pants and carefully approached Vargas's body. His cheek was pressed into the mud, his face turned away from her, his arms outstretched. Cautiously, she knelt beside him, then hesitated before reaching into his pocket. Instead, she set her fingers on the skin over the radial artery at his wrist. His pulse was bounding!

Before Natalie could fully react to the discovery, a guttural scream issued from Vargas's throat. Snarling, he twisted over like a viper, latching on to the wrist of her gun hand. The once urbane policeman was an apparition. His upper lip was gashed through, and was bleeding briskly into the muddy mask that covered his face. His eyes were glazed by an insane fury, and his teeth, covered with mud and blood, were bared.

Natalie pounded frantically at his face with her free hand, and kicked him again and again with all her strength, hoping somehow to catch him in the groin. He outweighed her by fifty pounds at least, and despite all of her efforts, he steadily forced himself on top of her. His free hand got purchase around her throat, and his grip closed tightly.

Just as she felt she might be losing consciousness, one of her kicks connected, and for the briefest instant the grip on her wrist relaxed. Without a conscious thought, Natalie yanked her hand free, pointed the pistol in the general direction of her attacker, and fired.

In a spray of blood and gore, Vargas's form went instantly slack. The top of his skull, shot downward from no more than two feet, was gone, exposing what remained of his brain.

In near shock, crying out with every breath, her ears ringing from the ferocious blast of the revolver, Natalie wiped tissue and blood off her eyelids with the back of her hand. Then she whirled and plunged her face into the cool, silty stream.

Dr. Sanjay Khanduri, swarthy, handsome, and very intense, weaved through the teeming streets of the metropolis of Amritsar, proudly extolling its virtues to Anson, who sat in the seat next to him, and also to Elizabeth St. Pierre, in back.

"We are in Punjab State, Dr. Anson," he said in his clipped, Indian-British speech. "Amritsar is my hometown. It is one of the most beautiful cities in our country, and is a spiritual center and pilgrimage destination of Sikhism. Do you know about that religion?"

According to St. Pierre, Khanduri was one of the foremost lung transplant specialists in the world. Now, nearly two months after his remarkably successfully operation, Anson had no reason whatsoever to dispute that claim.

"I know something of it," he said. "Very mystical, deeply spiritual. One God, no idols, equality of all, five symbols. Let me see if I remember them — no cutting of the hair, always wear four specific tokens: a comb, a steel bracelet, special underwear of some sort, and…and some kind of small dagger. Is that it?"

"The dagger is symbolic of a sword, and the underclothes are those of soldiers, symbolizing the Sikhs' constant readiness to fight for their beliefs. Excellent, Doctor. I am very impressed."

"But you are clean-shaven, so I am assuming you are not a Sikh."

"That is true, Doctor. Although I do share much of the philosophy of the Sikhs, I do not share all of it."

"Sanjay," St. Pierre asked, "is it very far to Mrs. Narjot's home?"

"Not too far, Dr. Elizabeth, but as you can see, the traffic is bad. We are on Court Road, which is always congested. We must go to Sultan Road. Three miles, I would say. It would not take very long if we were actually moving."

Khanduri chuckled at his own humor. The mid-afternoon sky was an unbroken expanse of azure, and the sun was hot. With the surgeon's Toyota virtually motionless, beggars, chattering incessantly, were drawn to the windows beside the Caucasian man and the stunning African woman.

"I want to give something to each of them," Anson said.

"You are a very kind man, Doctor. Alas, there are many more beggars than you have money to give them."

"I suppose."

"And that is only in this section of the city. I am excited to see that you are breathing quite naturally. Now I get to appreciate firsthand that all of the positive reports Elizabeth has sent me are true."

"You did an amazing job."

"Thank you. I confess I was very nervous when the outbreak of Serretia marcescens pneumonia occurred throughout the hospital and we had to move you so soon after your surgery."

"To tell you the truth, I remember very little of those first few days after my operation. In fact, the hospital you transferred me to in Capetown is really the first memory I have."

"The Serratia outbreak was a dangerous one, Joseph," Elizabeth said, "especially with you on anti-rejection medication, however minimal."

"I was worried about transferring you to one of the other Amritsar hospitals," Khanduri added. "Serratia had already been showing up in some of their immunocompromised patients, and in addition they have been hit hard by staffing shortages."

"All's well that ends well," Anson said, sensing at that moment that he had never really analyzed the Shakespearean quote very deeply, and now wasn't at all sure he agreed with it.

"All's well that ends well," Khanduri echoed.

Traffic had begun moving again, and the beggars fell away. Anson sat quietly, marveling at the kaleidoscope that was Amritsar — architecturally sophisticated and opulent one block, tawdry and decrepit the next. It was a miracle that among this incredible mass of humanity, several million people in this city alone, at just the necessary moment, a lifesaving gift appeared for him in the form of a brain-dead man who was a virtually perfect tissue match to him.

"Whitestone has inquiries out quite literally all over the world," Elizabeth had explained when they were discussing his deteriorating health. "We are determined to protect our investment at all costs." She had punctuated the statement with a wink.

Indeed, thanks to the charming, unassuming man now serving as their guide, Whitestone's investment had been protected, and marvelously so. Now, as soon as he had finished making his peace with the widow and children of T. J. Narjot, Anson would complete the bargain and turn over the final secrets of the synthesis of Sarah-9.

Khanduri made a slight detour to take them past the gilded walls, dome, and tall minarets of the Golden Temple.

"The water in which the Golden Temple sits is called the Pool of Nectar," he said. "The Sikhs have been continuously embellishing and improving the structure in various ways since the fifteenth century."

"You seem very proud of the Sikhs," Anson said. "Why have you not embraced their religion?"

"I am Hindu," Khanduri replied simply. "I believe strongly in the caste system, and the Sikhs don't outwardly espouse it."