Robin Cook - Mindbend

He was halfway back across the George Washington Bridge before he knew what he had to do. Everyone wanted proof. Well, he’d go to Puerto Rico to get proof. He was certain everything he’d seen on the cruise would be replicated there in spades.

Bill Shelly rose from his desk and clasped Adam’s hand. “Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve probably just made the best decision of your life.”

“I’m not saying I’ll definitely take the position,” cautioned Adam. “But I’ve been giving Puerto Rico a lot of thought, and I’d like to take you up on the offer to go down there and see the facility firsthand. Jennifer’s not happy about the idea, but if I really want to go, she’ll support me in the decision.”

“That reminds me; Clarence left a message that he’d gotten a rather strange call from your wife. She thought you were away on Arolen business.”

“In-law problems,” said Adam with a wave of his hand. “She and my father have never gotten along.”

Even Adam wasn’t sure what he meant, but fortunately Shelly nodded understandingly and said, “Getting back to the matter at hand, I’m certain you will be thrilled with the Arolen research center. When would you like to go?”

“Immediately,” said Adam brightly. “My bag is packed and in the car.”

Mr. Shelly chuckled. “Your attitude has always been refreshing. Let me see if the Arolen plane is available.”

While Shelly waited for his secretary to check, he asked Adam what had changed his mind about the management training program. “I was afraid I hadn’t been convincing enough,” he said.

“Quite the contrary,” said Adam, “If it hadn’t been for you, I never would have considered it.” As he spoke, Adam eyed Bill Shelly’s skull, resisting the urge to see if he, too, had been subjected to surgery. At this point Adam had no idea if anybody at Arolen could be trusted.

There were two Arolen executives on the luxurious Gulf Stream jet. One had gotten on the plane with Adam, and the other came aboard in Atlanta. Though both offered friendly greetings, they spent the trip working, leaving Adam to distract himself with some old magazines.

When they landed in San Juan, the two executives headed for the Arolen minibus, which was waiting at the curb. Adam was wondering if he should join them when he was greeted by two men in blue blazers and white duck pants. Both had close-cropped hair: one blond, the other dark. Their MTIC name tags said “Rodman” and “Dunly.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Schonberg,” said Rodman. “Welcome to Puerto Rico.”

As Dunly relieved Adam of his shoulder bag, Adam felt gooseflesh form on his back and arms in spite of the tropical heat. Rodman’s voice had the same inflectionless quality of the stewards on the Fjord, and as they walked to an awaiting limousine, Adam noticed that both men moved with the same mechanical step.

The limousine was not new, but it was a limousine nonetheless, and Adam felt self-conscious when they put him in the back seat by himself.

Leaning forward, he looked out at the rush-hour traffic. They drove out of the city, apparently paralleling the northern coast of the island, although Adam could not see the ocean. They passed shopping centers, gas stations, and automobile body shops. Everything appeared to be both beginning to decay and in the process of construction at the same time. It was a strange combination. Rusting rods stuck out of the concrete in various locations as if additional rooms or floors had been originally planned but the workers had failed to return. And there was litter everywhere. Adam wasn’t impressed.

Gradually, the shabby commercial buildings gave way to equally shabby housing, although on occasion there was a well-appointed and cared-for home amid the general squalor. There was no separation between rich and poor, and goats and chickens ran free everywhere.

Eventually, the road narrowed from four lanes to two, and Adam caught glimpses of the ocean beyond the green hills. The air became fresh and clean.

Finally, after about an hour and a half, they turned off the main road onto a well-paved lane that twisted and turned through the lush vegetation. At one point there was a gap in the foliage, and Adam had a spectacular view of the sea. The sky was shot with red, and Adam knew the sun was about to set.

The road plunged down a hill and tunneled beneath a dark canopy of exotic trees. About a quarter mile farther, the limousine slowed and then stopped. They had arrived at a gatehouse. On either side and extending off into the forest was an impressive chain link fence, topped with spirals of barbed wire. Resisters on the wire suggested the fence was electrified.

An armed guard came out of the house and approached the car. After taking a sheet of paper from the driver, he glanced at Adam and opened the gate. As the limousine drove onto the MTIC grounds, Adam twisted in his seat and watched the gate close. He wondered if the security was there to keep people out or to keep people in. He began to question what he was getting himself into. As when he was on the Fjord, he had no real plan and didn’t delude himself that he had any talent as a detective. His only consolation was that in Puerto Rico he wasn’t hiding behind a assumed name.

The car suddenly swept around a bend, and he was confronted by some of the most magnificent architecture he had ever seen, set against a background of rolling lawns and clear turquoise sea.

The main building was a hexagonally shaped glass structure of the same mirrored bronzed glass as Arolen headquarters. To the left and closer to the beach was another building, only two stories high, which appeared to be a club. Tennis courts and a generous swimming pool were off to one side. Beyond it was a white sand beach with a volleyball court and a row of Hobie Cats and surf sailers. Several of the craft were in use, and their colorful sails stood out sharply against the water. On the other side of the clearing were beachfront condominiums. All in all, the compound appeared like a world-class resort. Adam was impressed.

The limousine pulled up beneath a large awning at the front of the main building.

“Good evening, Mr. Schonberg,” said the doorman. “Welcome to MTIC. This way, please.”

Adam got out of the car and followed the man to a registration desk. It was like signing into a hotel. The chief difference was that there was no cashier.

After Adam signed in, another blue jacketed clerk, whose name tag said “Craig,” picked up his bag and led him to the elevator. They got out at the sixth floor and walked down a long corridor. At the very end was another elevator.

“Will you be with us long?” asked Craig in the now familiar inflectionless speech.

“Just a few days,” said Adam evasively as Craig pulled out his key and opened one of the doors.

Adam didn’t have a room; he had a suite. Craig went around like a bellhop, checking all the lighting, making sure the TV worked, glancing at the full bar, and opening the drapes. Adam tried to give him a tip, but he politely refused.

Adam was amazed by the accommodations. He had a magnificent view of the ocean, which had darkened with the approaching night. On the distant islands pinpoint lights sparkled. Adam watched as a single Hobie Cat beat its way toward the shore. Hearing sounds of Caribbean music, he stepped out onto the terrace. A band seemed to be playing in the building Adam thought was a club. The weather was perfect, and Adam wished Jennifer was with him. Even the honeymoon suite they’d had in the Poconos, with the heart-shaped bath, hadn’t been so luxurious.

Adam decided to try to call her. To his delight, she answered the phone herself, but when she realized who it was, her voice became cool.