Robin Cook - Foreign Body

“Mr. Srivastava can see you now,” one of the secretaries said fifteen minutes later, pointing the way toward her boss’s door.

Naresh heaved himself to his feet. A few seconds later, he was standing in front of Ramesh’s desk. Ramesh didn’t invite him to sit down. The man had his fingers intertwined, elbows on his desk. His watery eyes regarded Naresh irritably. It was obvious there was to be no small talk on this occasion.

“You said on the phone you wanted to see me because there was a problem,” Ramesh said sulkily. “What’s the problem?”

“I got on Miss Hernandez first thing this morning. I didn’t get there early enough to tail her to breakfast at the Imperial, so I don’t know whom she met there. But right after that, not too much after nine, she came back to the Amal and then took a hotel car, apparently to go sightseeing.”

“Do I have to hear all this?” Ramesh complained.

“If you want to know how the problem happened,” Naresh said.

Ramesh made a rotating motion with his index finger for Naresh to continue.

“She stopped briefly at the Red Fort, but it didn’t appeal to her. Next she went to the bazaar, parked at the Jama Masjid, and hired a cycle rickshaw.”

“Can’t you just tell me the problem?” Ramesh complained again.

“It was at that moment that I came into the parking area just after someone in a new E-Class Mercedes. I vaguely noticed him because he’d been tailing her as well from the Red Fort.”

Ramesh rolled his eyes at Naresh’s lengthy rendition.

“He took off after Miss Hernandez, which I thought curious, so I redoubled my efforts and ran after both. From then on everything happened in the blink of an eye. He didn’t hesitate. He ran up behind Miss Hernandez and pulled a gun. It was right in the middle of the crowded bazaar, with people all around. He was going to shoot, no questions asked. I had two seconds to decide whether to intervene. All I could hear was your telling me not to let her become a martyr. Well, that’s what she was about to become, so I shot and killed the would-be killer.”

Ramesh’s mouth slowly dropped open. Then he slapped a hand across his forehead and leaned on his elbow while he shook his head in short arcs. “No!” he cried.

Naresh shrugged. “It all happened so fast.” Naresh reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper. On it was written Dhaval Narang. He placed it on the desk in front of Ramesh.

Without removing his head from his hand, Ramesh reached out and picked up the paper. He read the name. “Do you know who this guy is?” Ramesh blurted. He raised his eyes and looked irritably at Naresh.

“I do now. It is Dhaval Narang.”

“That’s right. It is Dhaval Narang, and do you know whom he works for?”

Naresh shook his head.

“He works for Shashank Malhotra, you bungling idiot. Malhotra was getting rid of the girl. It would have been ascribed to thieves. The martyr issue is only if we, the Indian civil services, killed her, not Malhotra.”

“What should I have done? I was trying to follow your orders. Why didn’t you tell me Malhotra was going to take care of her?”

“Because I didn’t know. At least I didn’t know for sure.” Ramesh rubbed his face vigorously. “Clearly, now everything’s worse. Now she’s warned she’s been targeted. Where is she?”

“She went back to her hotel.”

“What happened at the site?”

“The shot caused a general panic. She fled with everyone else. I stayed at the site to help the local constables restore order and get the victim’s ID.”

“Did she come back and talk to the police and to you?”

“She came back and was accompanied by an American man. I don’t know where or how they teamed up. But she didn’t talk to the police, which is somewhat strange. I thought about pulling her in, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

“That just shows how suspicious she is.”

“Maybe she will just leave after such an experience?”

“Wouldn’t that be nice, but not according to her grandmother’s case manager or the CEO of the hospital. For whatever reason, this young woman is motivated no matter what happens.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Have you had any luck in regard to finding out who is the source providing the material to CNN?”

“I put two people on it this morning. I haven’t spoken with them since.”

“Give them a call while I call Shashank Malhotra. Also, there was another death but at the Aesculapian Medical Center. Once again, CNN got it extremely early.”

Ramesh picked up his phone. He was not looking forward to talking with Shashank Malhotra. Despite what he said to Naresh, Ramesh knew that he was ultimately responsible for Dhaval Narang’s demise. As Naresh said, he should have been informed.

“I hope you are calling me up to thank me for solving your problem,” Shashank said when he came on the line. His tone was neutral. It wasn’t as cheerful as it had been the day before, nor as menacing.

“I’m afraid not. I’m afraid there’s an additional problem and an extension of the old one.”

“What?” Shashank demanded.

“First, Miss Hernandez has talked the spouse of the third patient into wanting an autopsy. And second, Dhaval Narang was shot and killed this morning in the Old Delhi bazaar.”

“You’re not serious?”

“Did you send him to talk to the Hernandez woman, to get her to leave India?” Naresh asked.

“He’s truly dead?” Shashank questioned, with anger and disbelief.

“I have it from a good source.”

“How could this have happened? He was a professional. He was no amateur.”

“People make mistakes.”

“Not Dhaval,” Shashank growled. “He was the best. Listen, I want this woman taken care of.”

“We feel similarly, but she’s now been alerted that someone wants her dead. I think we better handle this problem from this end.”

“You’d better!” Shashank groused. “I don’t want you to have to start looking over your shoulder to and from work.” With that said, he hung up.

Ramesh dropped the phone back into its cradle. He looked up at Naresh, who’d finished his call as well.

“Nothing yet,” Naresh said. “But they’ve barely begun the investigation. It’s not going to be easy. There are lots of private academic doctors who have admitting privileges at other nonacademic private hospitals, and most have admitting privileges at more than one. It’s more for convenience’s sake for the patients in terms of location, and they apparently don’t admit that many, as they are not supposed to have private patients.”

“Your people are going to continue to work on it, I presume?”

“Very much so. What do you want me to do?”

“Keep tabs on the Hernandez woman. Supposedly, a friend is coming tonight who is a forensic pathologist. Remember, there are to be no autopsies. Luckily, in this situation, we have the law on our side.”

October 18, 2007

Thursday, 4:32 p.m.

New Delhi, India

Cal had his legs crossed and his feet on the corner of the library table. Santana had gotten him a bunch of articles about medical tourism that had been springing up in the U.S. newspapers. They had all picked up on the three CNN segments about the New Delhi deaths, and on the three networks’ evening news broadcasts. People were eating it up. Cal’s favorites were those laced with personal stories of people canceling scheduled trips, mostly to India but also to Thailand.

With everything suddenly going so well, Cal should have been ecstatic, but he wasn’t. Like a toothache, the issue involving the Hernandez woman had been bothering him all day. Early that morning, he’d called back the anesthesiologist and the pathologist, and again had gone over the hypothetical scenario involving succinylcholine. If the two doctors had been at all suspicious, they didn’t show it in the slightest, and in certain respects competed with each other in making certain the diabolical scheme was foolproof.