Clive Cussler - The Eye of Heaven

“I saw her voice mail light blinking and took the liberty, figuring it was probably you. I was up, anyway. Here’s the info. It’s a first-class establishment. Apparently, the rich in Thailand regularly contend with the same issues Lazlo’s facing. The website looks like a five-star hotel’s, and it’s part of one of Bangkok’s top hospitals.” She gave him the particulars, which he repeated aloud so Remi could memorize them.

They had Analu drop them at the plane after calling the crew and alerting them that they’d need to fly to Bangkok immediately. When they arrived at the airport, the G650 was already humming for the short flight. Sandra greeted them with a gleaming welcome smile. Sam had called the clinic and confirmed that they could accommodate Lazlo. They’d warned him what to expect and explained that he could have a drink on the plane to avoid the risk of convulsions, but not to allow more than one strong cocktail.

Sandra prepared a double Finlandia and tonic at the request of Lazlo, who perked up after he’d swallowed it like a parched man at a desert oasis. Sam and Remi made small talk with him during the flight, and a car from the clinic met them at the airport.

The facility lived up to its web presence. After completing a long application and signing his name to it, Lazlo was led into the depths of the clinic by staff, while the administrator, a handsome Asian woman in a dark blue business suit, explained their procedures to Sam and Remi.

“Believe it or not, the opium withdrawals are the least of his issues. We deal with that problem using drugs that cleanse the opium from the opiate receptors while he’s under deep sedation, so if he’s only been smoking for a few months and not injecting, that will be dealt with in a matter of hours. The alcohol is a different, and potentially more serious, complication. Your friend appears to be a long-term alcoholic and that can be quite dangerous to wind down.”

“He’s been drinking for as long as I’ve known him,” Sam said, “which is at least a decade.”

“Then it will be a rough ride for the next three to four days, and possibly longer. We use nitrous oxide and vitamin regimens to reduce the withdrawal effects, but every patient is different. Additionally, the physical withdrawal process is only the beginning. He’ll need ongoing care for at least thirty days and he should enroll in a program.”

“We’re already making arrangements for him in Mexico City. He’ll be well looked after,” Remi assured the woman.

“Very good, then. Will you be staying in town for the duration?”

“Yes. We’re at the Mandarin Oriental,” Sam said. “I jotted our cell number on the information form.”

The administrator stood and shook their hands. “Try not to worry. We’ll do everything we can to make this as comfortable as possible for him.” She hesitated. “I wouldn’t stop in during the detox period — he’s not allowed visitors until that phase is over.”

Remi nodded. She and Sam had looked up “alcohol withdrawal” at the plane terminals while en route and she could well understand why the patient was off-limits for seventy-two hours or longer.

Four days went by quickly. Every meal was an opportunity to test the various restaurants the concierge had recommended. They took a tour of the city on the second day and spent long hours after that walking the streets of the teeming downtown whenever the sky was clear. When they returned to the clinic, the administrator showed them to Lazlo’s room and then left.

“How did it go?” Sam asked.

“Far worse than expected,” Lazlo said with a troubled but clear stare. “Wouldn’t want to have to go through that again. Rather like being dragged through broken glass after having been roasted on a spit. No, actually, that might be more pleasurable, come to think of it.”

Sam nodded. “The good news is that’s a once-in-a-lifetime event if you’re careful. How are you feeling now?”

“Certainly not a hundred percent but could be worse, all things considered.”

“Have they got you on anything?”

“Valium. Said there’s a danger of dependence, so it’s a mixed blessing. But it’s got the worst of the symptoms under control.”

“Have they indicated when you’ll be fit for travel?” Remi asked.

“Haven’t asked. I assumed I’d be working from here. Is that not the case?”

Sam and Remi exchanged a look. “We thought it might be better if you came with us to Mexico.”

“Good heavens. Mexico? I must admit that’s a pleasure I’ve yet to experience.” Lazlo paused. “I was rather hoping that you could get me high-resolution scans of the document in question, as well as a computer, so I could begin my analysis while incarcerated. It’s an awfully tedious place, this.”

“I have them on a flash drive,” Remi said. She ferreted around in her purse and extracted a notebook computer, pretending astonishment. “And, oh, what’s this? Just a computer. We thought you might want to get started.” She set the notebook on his bed and the drive on the table next to it before rooting around in her bag and finding the power cord. “Voilà! You’re a one-man cryptology department on wheels.”

“Good show. Good show indeed. Now all I need to do is find the on switch.”

Lazlo’s hands were unsteady as he lifted the computer and set it on his lap, but that wasn’t surprising given his state when he entered the clinic. They both knew he would be in fragile shape for some time to come, having already arranged for a clinic in Mexico City to supervise his ongoing treatment.

After another ten minutes, they left him to his new project with a promise to see him again the following afternoon. Next they met with the administrator, who approved him for discharge and travel in forty-eight hours, but with a stern caution to keep the plane dry so as not to present temptation. Neither of them had a problem with that, and, on the way back to the hotel, Remi passed the word to Sandra.

Checkout from the clinic two days later was a paperwork-intensive ordeal. Everyone sighed in relief when they were finally rid of the building and on their way to the airport. Sam and Remi had enjoyed the unexpected downtime but were itching to get back to Mexico, their sense of being under the gun more intense than ever. Lazlo was being tight-lipped about any progress he’d made on the manuscript, as was his fashion, although at times he would smile like a mischievous child, which they generally took to be a positive sign.

The flight across the Pacific was an hour shorter due to a strong tailwind but still exhausted them by the time they arrived in Mexico City. A representative from the clinic where Lazlo would take up residence met them at the airport and ferried them to the clinic’s building in an upscale area of downtown near the business district. Sam and Remi checked back into the Four Seasons, where their luggage had been sent from Cuba courtesy of Lagarde’s friend.

That evening, they had dinner with Carlos Ramirez, who was a charming host and took them to one of Mexico City’s top restaurants — Pujol — where they dined like royalty on the chef’s tasting menu and a host of rare tequilas.

Carlos told them that progress at the new find had been slow, hampered by the weather — it had rained for three days in their absence, as a massive front had moved across Mexico, flooding the whole area in its wake. The marginally accessible streets had become impassable, so Maribela and Antonio had been unable to resume their work until the previous day. Carlos said that they were excited by the images Sam and Remi had brought back from Cuba and had found a few more similarities between the artifacts in the crypts and the carvings in Havana.

By the time the evening wound down, Sam and Remi were satiated and optimistic about their chances now that Lazlo was on their team. They both agreed that they were lucky to have Carlos helping them and were sorry to see the night end. Carlos bade them good night and offered to drive them back to the hotel, but they declined, preferring to linger over after-dinner drinks. When they left, Sam held the restaurant door open for Remi, admiring her Hervé Léger black cocktail dress and the way it clung to her curves.