Robin Cook - Mindbend

“So it is true that I am not carrying a defective child,” said Jennifer.

“I’m afraid I can’t go so far as to say that,” said Dr. Vandermer. “Unfortunately, we have no idea of the result of your amniocentesis. We’ll have to repeat the procedure. I’m terribly sorry this happened. There were twenty people besides yourself who had amniocentesis that day, and all of them have to be repeated. Obviously it will be done at the clinic’s expense.”

“When do you want to repeat the test?” asked Jennifer. She appreciated Dr. Vandermer’s willingness to accept responsibility even though the error was undoubtedly made by someone in the lab.

“As soon as possible,” said Dr. Vandermer. “Remember, we are up against a time constraint if there really is a problem.”

“How about if I get back to you in the morning?” said Jennifer.

“That will be fine. There’s no rush, but the sooner we do it, the better.”

The flight to Miami was uneventful. As soon as Adam was airborne, he removed his own driver’s license from his billfold and replaced it with Smyth’s. Then he studied the addresses in the passport. If someone asked him where he lived, he wanted to be able to rattle it off by heart.

The plane landed at five minutes after four, and since Adam had carried his luggage aboard, he was at the taxi stand by four-fifteen. The taxi was an old broken-down Dodge station wagon and the driver spoke only Spanish, but he recognized the name of the Fjord and understood that Adam was going on a cruise.

Adam stared at the tropical scenery. Miami was much more beautiful than he’d imagined. Soon they passed over a long causeway and Adam saw the harbor. The cruise ships were tied up in a line, with the Fjord the last in the row. Compared to the others, the Fjord seemed neither especially large nor particularly small. Like the others, it was painted white. It had one huge smokestack with an image of two intertwining arrows on the side. Adam wondered if that were MTIC’s logo.

Adam’s driver could not get close to the curb, so Adam paid him and got out in the middle of the street. Suitcase in hand, he made his way toward the entrance of the building. The din of car horns, voices, and idling motors was terrific, the air heavy with fumes. It was a relief to get inside.

Adam made his way to an information booth where the receptionists’ uniforms reminded him of the staff’s dress at the Julian Clinic. They, too, were dressed in white blouses and blue jumpers.

Adam had to shout to be heard. He asked how he should check in and was told to go up the escalator to the second level. Adam thanked the girl who’d directed him by mouthing the words.

Getting on the escalator was a trick, especially with the suitcase. While he rode up, he looked over the crowd. Although there were a few women, the majority of the people were men and they certainly looked like doctors-prosperous and self-satisfied. Most were dressed in business suits, though a few had on sport shirts and slacks.

On the second floor of the terminal was a long registration table, divided into alphabetical segments. Adam joined the line marked “N-Z.”

Glancing around the room, he suddenly got cold feet. Maybe he should leave. No one would notice. He could just catch a cab to the airport and fly home. He began counting the number of people between him and the registration desk. At that moment, Adam’s eye caught those of a man standing a few feet away in the neighboring line. Quickly looking away, Adam nervously tapped his foot. There was no reason for someone to be staring at him. Gradually, Adam allowed his eyes to return to the next line. Unfortunately, the man was still looking directly at him. When he saw Adam look up, he smiled. Self-consciously, Adam smiled back. Then, to his horror, the man came over.

“My name is Alan Jackson,” he said, forcing Adam to put down his suitcase and shake hands. Nervously, Adam introduced himself as Stuart Smyth. Alan just nodded and smiled again.

He was at least ten years older than Adam and had broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His sandy hair was combed forward, probably to hide a bald spot.

“You look awfully familiar,” said Alan. “Are you from New York?”

Adam felt the blood drain from his face. He hadn’t even checked in yet and already he was in trouble.

At that moment the loudspeaker came to life: “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. For those of you with boarding cards, the Fjord will be ready to receive you in just a few minutes. If you haven’t received a boarding card, we recommend that you proceed to the registration desk immediately.”

“Aren’t you in orthopedics?” asked Alan as soon as the loudspeaker fell silent.

“No,” said Adam, relieved. Obviously the man didn’t know the real Smyth. “I’m OB-GYN. How about you?”

“Orthopedics. I’m with the University of California, San Diego. This your first Arolen cruise?”

“No,” said Adam quickly. “How about you?”

“It’s my second,” said Alan, turning suddenly. “My God, there’s Ned Janson. Hey, Ned, you old bastard. Over here!”

Adam saw a stocky, dark-haired man who was with one of the few women in the crowd look up. Seeing Alan, his face lit up with a smile. He took the woman by the arm and made his way over.

While Alan and Ned had a back-slapping reunion, Adam introduced himself to the woman. Her name was Clair Osborn. She was a handsome lady, about thirty, with a round, healthy face, and long, muscular legs. She was dressed in a short black-and-white skirt. Adam was enjoying himself until she told him she was a gynecologist.

“What’s your specialty?” asked Clair. “Orthopedics or OB-GYN?”

“Why limit the choices to those two?” joked Adam, trying to change the subject.

“It’s my brilliant intuition,” said Clair. “Plus the fact that this cruise is for orthopods and obstetricians only.”

Adam laughed nervously. “Well, I’m OB. ”

“Really?” said Clair with delight. “Then we’ll be going to the same functions.”

“That will be nice,” said Adam. “Is this your first cruise?” Adam wanted to talk about anything other than OB-GYN. He didn’t fool himself into thinking he could hold up his end of a professional conversation.

“Sure is,” said Clair. “It’s Ned’s first time, too. Right, Ned?” Clair yanked on Ned’s arm to get his attention. Hearing bits and pieces of their conversation, Adam understood that Alan and Ned had trained at the same hospital.

“Hey! This is great,” said Ned after meeting Adam. “Why don’t we all have dinner tonight?”

Alan shook his head. “The Arolen people do the seating. They consider meals an extension of the scientific sessions.”

“Oh, bullshit,” said Ned. “What is this supposed to be, summer camp?”

The man in front of Adam moved away with his boarding card in hand. Adam stepped up to the counter and faced a young man nattily dressed in a white blazer. On the breast pocket was the same logo Adam had seen painted on the side of the Fjord’ s smokestack. On his lapel was a name tag that said “Juan.” Below the name and in small letters was printed “MTIC.”

“Your name, please?” asked Juan. His voice sounded as if he’d asked the question so often that he was speaking by rote.

“Stuart Smyth,” said Adam and fumbled with his billfold to get out the driver’s license. In the process his Arolen card dropped on the counter. Luckily, Juan was already busy entering Stuart Smyth into the computer so he didn’t see it. Adam turned around to see if any of his new friends had noticed, but they were busy talking. Adam turned back to face Juan, thinking that by the time this cruise was over, he was going to be a nervous wreck. Furtively, he slipped the Arolen card into his jacket pocket.