Robin Cook - Host

After the fourth ring, Misha was conscious enough to recognize the sound. With great effort he reached for the phone on his bedside table. As he did so, he looked at the clock and cursed loudly. Blinking madly to focus, he checked to see who was calling. When he saw it was Darko Lebedev, he started cursing anew.

Misha slapped the phone to his ear and flopped back onto his pillow. “This better be good,” he growled in Russian.

“It’s good,” Darko said, sounding strangely upbeat. “Very unexpected but good: the medical students have taken care of themselves.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Timur and I have been keeping them under observation since you and I talked this afternoon. At first they seemed to be acting normally and apparently did not tell anyone about my visit last night. But then this evening they went out into the hospital garden around ten-thirty and sat for an hour in the dark on a secluded bench that had a view of the door to Shapiro Institute.”

“You think they were observing it?”

“That was our impression, because it was during the shift change.”

“So how is this taking care of themselves?”

“It gets better. After they left their observation spot, we thought we were done for the night. Then, to our surprise, Timur called me to come back because they reappeared a bit later, dressed in raincoats. They then went back outside to the same bench and after making out for a while, they went over to the Shapiro door. We had no idea what they were planning. To our shock, they opened the door and went inside!”

Misha sat up suddenly, pulling the covers off his companion for the night. “How the fuck did they open the door?”

“We don’t know. Apparently they fooled the thumbprint scanner, which isn’t all that difficult.”

“This is terrific,” Misha said. “It’s like having fish jump into the boat.”

“I thought you would be pleased.”

“Listen! Call whoever is heading up security tonight. Tell them that I have authorized a lockdown for the Shapiro until further notice. Have them electronically seal the external door and even the door through the visiting area to the hospital.”

“I already did,” Darko said. “The Shapiro is in total lockdown, which includes all communication with the outside world except for the hotline from control center. Do you want Leonid and me to go in and take care of them?”

“No!” Misha said. He bounded out of bed. “I’ll get in touch with Fyodor. We’ll consult with Dr. Rhodes and Dr. Erikson. We should figure out a way to add these pests to the inventory.”

“Let me know if you change your mind after talking with Fyodor,” Darko said. “Leonid and I will be happy to do whatever is necessary.”

“Will do,” Misha said. “Good job!”

Misha disconnected from Darko and pulled up Fyodor’s number in his contacts. A few seconds later, he could hear the phone ringing. He knew Fyodor was going to be a bear upon awakening, but he also knew he would be pleased with what he had to tell him.

Thursday, April 9, 12:33 A.M.

Lynn glanced up at Michael, who was looking at the monitor screen over her shoulder. They were in the Shapiro NOC, which they had found empty, as they had expected, going by Vladimir’s comments. Lynn was sitting at one of the terminals. She had quickly logged in to the Shapiro network without difficulty, using Vladimir’s user name and password, and, once connected, had first typed in Carl’s name. What had popped up was his home page, which Michael said looked the same as Ashanti’s, even with the same apparent location: Cluster 4-B, but with a different number. Carl’s was 64, whereas Ashanti’s was 32. What also was different was that it didn’t say DROZITUMAB +4 ACTIVE but rather ASELIZUMAB PRELIMINARY.

“What do you think?” Lynn asked.

“I think it is convenient they are both in Cluster 4-B and the number must be their bed like you suggested. We can check them both.”

“I’m asking about the ‘aselizumab’ reference.”

“I guess he is going to be given aselizumab, whatever the hell that is.”

“We’ll have to look it up later,” Lynn said hurriedly. “At least we know from the ‘ab’ at its end that it is a biologic drug.” Exiting the window, she then queried how many deaths the Shapiro Institute had logged since its doors opened in 2007. The answer flashed on the screen: 31.

“That’s incredible,” Lynn said. “Do you believe that’s true?”

“The system has serious restricted access. Why wouldn’t it be true?”

“Hell, if it is a true stat, they must be doing something right,” Lynn said. She was impressed, even a bit relieved. “Two years ago, when we visited there had already been twenty-two deaths in six years, but they had a low census, a fraction of the potential capacity. They must be full now and have had only nine deaths in two years. That’s phenomenal.”

“Find out the current census!” Michael suggested.

Lynn turned back to the screen and typed in the question. The answer came back instantly: 931 patients out of possible 1200. “There you go,” she said. “They have almost a thousand patients! And if they lose less than five patients a year, that is an incredible statistic. In my research Monday night, I found out that the mortality for people in a vegetative state is ten percent up to as much as forty percent per year. Here they are managing less than one percent, if I’m doing the math right.”

“You’re doing the math right,” Michael assured her. “In fact it is less than half of one percent. I’d say it’s a damn good advertisement for automation, which is what they had told us was key.”

“Like I said, they have to be doing something right. It’s even more impressive if they are using their patients for drug testing.”

“What did you say you found was the major cause of death in coma patients?”

“Pneumonia and other infections often stemming from bedsores. It is because the patients are so immobile.”

“Maybe keeping visitation to a minimum really works. It’s like reverse precautions for immune-compromised people.”

Lynn nodded. Michael had a good point, even though the visitation policy bothered her from a personal perspective because of Carl. “Let’s look at the other side of the coin,” she said, “and check how many people recovered enough to be discharged. Remember, trauma is a major cause of coma and around ten percent of them recover enough to go home.”

Suddenly Michael straightened up. He looked back toward the hallway.

“What’s the matter?” Lynn asked nervously. As focused as she was on what she was doing, she had forgotten where they were.

“I thought I heard something,” Michael said.

For a few moments both students listened intently, holding their breaths. All they could hear was the hum of the powerful ventilation system.

“I don’t hear anything suspicious,” Lynn said.

“Nor do I,” Michael agreed. “Okay, my mind must be playing tricks.” Nervously he glanced at his watch. “I’m thinking it’s best if we get our asses out of here. Someone someplace is going to be aware that these stats are being accessed by someone in the middle of the fucking night. What we are doing here is legally more serious than our coming into this place.”

“I’m with you,” Lynn said. “I know! But this is important. Just a few minutes more.” She went back to the keypad and quickly asked for the number of people discharged since the Shapiro had been in operation. The answer was as surprising as the death rate: none!

Lynn looked back up at Michael. She was taken aback. “I’m not sure which is more incredible: the low death rate or the lack of any discharges.”