Michael Palmer - The fifth vial

Anson was still gazing at the temple, or he would have seen St. Pierre make eye contact with Khanduri in the rearview mirror and shake her head sternly and emphatically.

After three-quarters of an hour of driving, the surgeon pulled up be-fore a modest, two-story dwelling on a middle-class street that was not nearly as busy as most of those around it.

"T. J. Narjot was the foreman of a crew that works doing repairs for the electric company," he explained. "His wife, Narendra, as is often the case here in India, stayed home with the children. She speaks no English, so I will have to interpret for you. This state, Punjab, has its own language, but both she and I speak primarily Hindi. Elizabeth, do you wish to come in with us?"

"Yes," St. Pierre said after the briefest hesitation. "Yes, I think I would. Is that all right with you, Joseph?"

"Absolutely. Dr. Khanduri, please tell Mrs. Narjot that we will not inconvenience her long."

They were greeted at the door by a slender, attractive woman in her thirties, unadorned, wearing a sari of subdued color. Her head was uncovered, and her ebony hair hung loose to her shoulders. She made no pretext at being demure, but instead shook hands with her three visitors, and maintained steady eye contact when speaking with them. The small living room was neatly furnished, with very little art on the walls or end tables. There were several photos of a lean, good-looking, mustachioed man with an engaging smile, whom Narendra later confirmed was her late husband. From somewhere in the back of the first floor came clatter and the sound of children's laughter.

After Anson extended his sympathy and thanked his hostess for receiving them, he asked about her husband.

"T.J. and I were married for twelve years," Narendra said through Khanduri. "Our children are nine and six, both boys. They miss their father terribly, and they still get very upset at even speaking about what happened."

"I won't disturb them," Anson said.

"That is much appreciated. Until his hemorrhage, he was in excellent health. The stroke was very sudden and massive — bleeding, they told me, from tangled blood vessels that he had from birth."

"It was an arteriovenous malformation," St. Pierre interjected.

"I thought so," Anson said.

"My husband and I had spoken in general terms about what we would wish if something like this ever happened. Of course we never expected that — " Narendra began to weep. Khanduri motioned that it was okay to wait and allow her to continue, " — that either of us would need to make such a decision."

"I understand," Anson said.

"In the end, T.J.'s lung, corneas, and both his kidneys were transplanted. He then had a wonderful Shraddha" — a funeral, Khanduri explained — "and then his body was cremated."

"The Narjots are not Sikhs?" Anson asked, realizing as he asked the question that T. J. had neither the beard of a Sikh, nor the customary turban.

"No," Khanduri said. "Like me they are Hindu."

"But don't Hindus believe that organ donation is mutilation of the body, and therefore to be avoided?" Anson asked.

Khanduri did not turn to Narendra for the answer.

"In older days that was certainly so," he said, "but now there are an increasing number of Hindus who understand that organ donation is useful to others, and therefore most honorable. Fortunately for you, and for the other recipients of his organs, that is the case with the Narjots."

In all, the interpreted conversation lasted a little more than an hour, during which Anson asked about T. J. Narjot — his personality, interests, and personal history.

"He sounds like a very unusual man," Anson said when Narendra was through.

"Oh, he was," came the interpreted reply. "He was very special, and we shall miss him forever."

Finally, Narendra took her guests on a brief tour of her house that included a wave to her sons. In the hallway, Anson removed an envelope from his pocket. Narendra, immediately recognizing it for what it was, tried vehemently to refuse, but Khanduri intervened and, after a rather lengthy explanation, the woman accepted, then stood on her tiptoes and kissed Anson briefly on the cheek.

"Take care of yourself, Dr. Anson," she said. "My husband lives in you.

"My body will be a temple to his memory, Mrs. Narjot," Anson replied.

"So, Dr. Joseph," Khanduri said as they were driving back to the airport, "was the meeting with your benefactor's widow all that you expected it to be?"

"I do my best to avoid expectations," Anson said, "but it certainly was an enlightening experience. One that I shall never forget."

Anson's fists, held at his sides where neither Khanduri nor St. Pierre could see, were so tightly clenched that his nails nearly cut into the flesh of his palms.

It was three thirty in the morning when Anson slipped out the back window of his apartment. The jungle, cleansed by a light rain, was aromatic and mystical. Keeping low, and avoiding the security cameras, Anson took a long arc through the dense undergrowth, and then headed to his right, toward the access road to the hospital. The road was patrolled at night, but infrequently.

The flight home, with two connections, had taken most of a day. Anson had used his trusted friend, Francis Ngale, to set things up for him. Then he had showered, rested, dressed in clean, dark clothing, and finally set out through the window. After twenty minutes, he arrived at the road, paved by the government in gratitude for the work of the clinic. It took a few seconds to orient himself and determine that Ngale would be waiting a short distance to the south.

Anson was a brilliant man and loved solving puzzles of all kinds. The puzzle that was perplexing him now, however, was continuing to defy his logic. He did know that the journey he was taking to the village of Akomv limba would be a crucial step toward the solution. There were those, he knew, including Elizabeth, who considered him overly vigilant and suspicious. Now, it seemed possible that he hadn't been paranoid enough.

The rain clouds kept the unlit road quite dark, but there was some light reflected off them that sparkled on the wetness of the pavement.

"Francis," he called softly as he rounded a bend.

"Right here, Doctor," the security guard answered. "Just keep coming.

The massive man, as dark as the night, was waiting by the road, holding up the fourteen-speed bicycle that had once been Anson's, but now more or less belonged to anyone at the clinic or lab who might want to take it out for a ride. For Anson this would be the first time in two years, although his surgery had been so successful that he had no worries about using it now.

"You remember how to ride?" Ngale asked.

"I expect it will be as easy as riding a bicycle."

"Very funny. I have oiled the chain and the axles, as well as the gearshift and brakes. If you fall off, you will have only yourself to blame."

Anson patted his friend on the shoulder, and started pedaling. Ngale trotted beside him for a few concerned paces, then veered to the side of the road.

"I'll say hello to the mayor for you," Anson called over his shoulder.

"I already did that myself. Platini is waiting up for you."

As usual, the fragrances and sounds of the jungle were hypnotic, and twice Anson had to force his attention back to the road. The five-mile ride to the village of Akonolimba, on the banks of the Nyong River, took just over half an hour. The dirt road that eventually bisected the town was too muddy to ride, so Anson walked the last quarter mile. Many of the huts were made of cinderblock and corrugated aluminum, but some were still reed and thatch. The village had running water and electricity as well as telephone service, but few of the inhabitants could afford to take advantage of them, and some of those who could simply didn't want to.