Michael Palmer: The fifth vial

"Okay."

"Department of anthropology at the University of Chicago?"

"Okay."

"Mr. Callahan, you had an appointment to meet with Professor Gustafson fifteen minutes ago."

"I had what?"

Ben shuffled through the papers on his desk until he found his appointment book, optimistically containing a full page for each day of the year. The name Alice Gustafson, an address, office number, and the time fifteen minutes ago were written in his uneven scrawl on the page for today. Beneath the time were two words: Organ Guard. Only now did he remember taking the call, a week or so ago, from a secretary who didn't exactly bubble over about the wonderful opportunity the job presented for him.

He had agreed to the appointment without bothering to tell the woman he still had absolutely no idea what it was about. Now, it appeared, he had missed it. After four or five years in college, and a stretch as a high-school social studies teacher, he had rolled the dice and decided on life as a private detective. Now it seemed it was time for something else. Perhaps he would learn that he was better suited for life behind a hot-dog pushcart or maybe his true calling was as an animal trainer.

"I…I'm sorry," he said. "Something came up and I've been delayed."

"I guess," the woman replied. "Well, Professor Gustafson says that if you'd like to reschedule the interview, she can see you at one today."

Ben scratched at the reddish brown stubble of five o'clock shadow that seemed to be appearing on his face earlier and earlier of late, and stared down at the words in his book. Organ Guard. Still no bells. He really had to start paying more attention.

"This appointment," he said, "can you refresh me a little?"

Even over the phone he could hear the woman sigh.

"You responded to an ad we placed in the papers about a year ago, requesting your services for Organ Guard. At the time we informed you and those others who responded that we were putting together a database of investigators for future jobs. You encouraged us to include you."

This has to be bullshit, Ben was thinking. He couldn't remember the last time he had encouraged anyone to do anything.

"So, what is this interview about?"

Again a sigh.

"Mr. Callahan, I believe Professor Gustafson has some work for you."

"And money to pay for it?"

"I believe so, yes. So, will we see you at one?"

Ben pulled his keyboard over and moved to go online to search for Organ Guard, then remembered that his browser service had been disconnected for the usual reason. Well, at least this didn't seem to be another stalk-and-gawk infidelity job. After Lady Katherine de Souci, he might not have another one of those left in him.

"One o'clock," he heard himself say. "I'll be there."

Ben was certain he had an umbrella someplace, but never used it. After checking the closet off his small, deserted waiting room, he gave up looking. A cab was a possibility, but also an expense, and one of the remaining spoils of his years as a teacher was a decent trench coat. Head down, wearing the belted coat and a Cubs cap, he pushed twelve blocks through a penetrating rain, ducking into entryways for relief every minute or two. Haskell Hall, on Fifty-ninth, was an expansive, powerful stone building with deeply carved openings, anchoring a well-maintained, tree-lined quad.

ALICE T. GUSTAFSON, Ph.D. MEDICAL ANTHROPOLOGY

was on a small, brass-embossed plaque beside the door of her third-floor office. Beneath it, a smaller plaque — letters mechanically carved in white into black plastic — read ORGAN GUARD INTERNATIONAL. The door was locked. Ben knocked softly and then a little louder.

It was just as well, he thought. What he really needed to do at this point was to hunker down in his apartment with his cat, Pincus, and figure out what he wanted to do with his life if, in fact, he wanted to do anything at all. What about sales? Everybody needed a Mazda or a vacuum cleaner. He moved to knock again, then thought, The hell with it, and turned to go. A woman, arms folded, was standing just a dozen or so feet away, appraising him. Her plaid, long-sleeved shirt was tucked into carpenter's chinos and cinched around her narrow waist with a broad leather belt and heavy silver buckle. She was sixty or so, with gold-rimmed glasses, a narrow, intelligent professor's face, and graying dark hair, fixed in a short ponytail. Ben's take on the woman, especially after three weeks of Katherine de Souci, was decidedly positive.

"Mr. Callahan, I'm Professor Alice Gustafson," she said. "Sorry if I startled you."

"Only a little. I guess I just flunked the catlike-senses part of my professional evaluation."

Ben shook her narrow hand which, it was sadly easy to tell, had the firm swelling of chronic arthritis in the knuckles.

"Years of walking places where I didn't want to disturb the people or startle the wildlife have given me a fairly soft tread," she understated, opening her office with a key, and, Ben noted, with some difficulty.

The space was surprisingly roomy, but also cluttered and cozy. One wall held two eight-foot-high windows, and opposite them were floor-to-ceiling bookcases, piled to overflowing with academic tomes, bound and loose journals, and even a few works of fiction. In one corner, a tall, glass-enclosed case held dozens of artifacts of various kinds, unlabeled and arranged in no discernible order. On the back wall were a number of framed photos of people, mostly men, and all of them brown or black skinned. Most of the men were displaying scars on their sides, and none of them looked either prosperous or happy.

"Coffee?" Gustafson asked, gesturing to a Mr. Coffee in the corner as she settled in behind a busy, massive, antique oak desk, and in front of a six-foot-wide world map festooned with pushpins.

Ben shook his head and took the chair opposite her. There was an odd, appealing mix of intensity and serenity in the woman's face.

"I…I'm embarrassed to say that I don't really remember answering your ad," he said.

"So Libby, our department secretary, told me. Well, no matter. You're here."

Ben looked about.

"I'm here," he said.

"But you have no idea where here is. Is that right?"

"I suppose you could say that."

The professor studied him for a time, and Ben sensed that she was close to thanking him for coming and sending him back to whatever rock he had crawled out from. He wouldn't have blamed her in the least, and sadly, it wouldn't really have mattered to him. Was he in a depression? Midlife crisis? Probably both. But that didn't matter either. Maybe instead of the friendly neighborhood career counselor, he should pay a visit to the friendly neighborhood psycho-pharmacologist.

"I think you should know," Gustafson said finally, "that you're not the first detective I've interviewed for this job. You're the third."

"Why did you reject the first two?"

"I didn't. Neither of them wanted it."

"Not enough money?" Ben asked, knowing from his experience with others in his clan that there was little likelihood of any other possibility.

"A year or so ago it looked like we were going to get a grant to expand the investigative, enforcement-oriented portion of our work. That's why I placed the ad I did — to try and line up the right people for the job. Then

the source of our grant decided to spend their money elsewhere. Now another foundation actually has delivered. It's not much, but it is something."

" Congratulations."

"Would you like to hear what this is all about?"

That's okay. Whatever it is, I'm not up for it, Ben was thinking.

"Go on," his voice said.

Gustafson took a small pile of twice-folded pamphlets from her drawer and handed one over. It was entitled "Underworld Organ Trafficking," and subtitled "The World's Problem."