Robin Cook - Foreign Body

“Is there someplace Miss Hernandez might have gone?” Sidharth asked. “Could she have gone shopping, anything like that?”

“I’m sure not,” Neil said. He was tempted to mention the possible attempt on her life and that she was afraid to go out of the hotel.

They arrived on the ninth floor and hurried down to 912. Sidharth pointed to the “Do Not Disturb” sign. Neil nodded and said, “It’s been there all day.”

“Miss Hernandez,” Sidharth called out, after ringing the bell. He knocked a few times, after which he took out a master key card. He opened the door and stepped aside for Damini. The woman ducked into the room but immediately reappeared.

“The room is empty,” Damini said.

Now Sidharth went in as well. They looked in the main part of the room and in the bathroom. Nothing seemed to be amiss, except the shower door was ajar with a dry towel slung over the top. Sidharth even made a point to feel it.

“It just looks like she merely stepped out,” Sidharth said.

Neil had to agree. Except for the shower door and the “Do Not Disturb” sign still displayed, everything appeared normal.

“What would you like us to do, Mr. McCulgan?” Sidharth asked. “Nothing seems overwhelmingly suspicious. Perhaps your friend will be back for dinner.”

“Something is wrong,” Neil said, shaking his head. He’d advanced into the foyer of the room, and as he turned to leave, his eye caught the damaged trim on the doorjamb where the safety chain had been attached. “Here’s something,” he said. “The safety chain and its housing are missing.”

“You’re so right,” Sidharth said. He pulled out his mobile and called down to the front desk. “Have security come up to nine twelve on the double.”

“I want the police called,” Neil said. “I want them called now. I think there has been a kidnapping.”

October 19, 2007

Friday, 7:14 p.m.

Varanasi, India

“There’s no denying that Varanasi is an interesting city,” Laurie said. “But that’s as far as I’m willing to go.” She, Jack, and Arun had just reached the Dasashvamedha ghat on the River Ganges. They had had to walk on a horrendously busy pedestrian shopping street closed to traffic except for official vehicles for what she thought could have been a mile.

The flight from New Delhi had gone reasonably well, although it was delayed by more than a half-hour. It was also very crowded. The ride from the airport to the hotel took almost as long as the plane ride, but both Laurie and Jack had been entranced by the view outside their windows. There had been a constant cavalcade of small, primitive and crowded commercial shops of a bewildering variety, and the closer they got to the center of the city, the more squalid they became. It was easy for the two pathologists to believe India had a billion people, considering the population density they were witnessing, and also a half-billion stray animals.

Check-in at the hotel went smoothly, particularly because the general manager, Pradeep Bajpai, was an acquaintance of Dr. Ram. And Pradeep had been helpful by providing the contact with a professor at the Banaras Hindu University by the name of Jawahar Krishna, who was willing to be a guide. Jawahar had come directly to the hotel, while the group had an early dinner. The thought was that they might be out a good portion of the night, and they’d better eat while they could.

“It is a city that takes getting used to,” Jawahar said, understanding where Laurie was coming from. He was somewhere in his forties or early fifties, with a broad face, bright eyes, and curly gray hair. With his Western-style clothes and flawless English, he could have been a professor at an Ivy League college. It turned out he’d studied at Columbia University for several years.

“I’m alternately impressed with the feeling of religiosity and repulsed by the filth,” Laurie continued. “Particularly the excrement, human and otherwise.” They had passed numerous cows, stray dogs, and even some goats wandering among the throngs of people, the garbage, and all kinds of trash.

“We make no excuses,” Jawahar said. “I’m afraid it has been this way for more than three thousand years and will continue to be like this for the next.”

Jawahar had also been particularly helpful for the group’s real reason for having come to Varanasi — namely, to try to get access to Benfatti’s and Lucas’s corpses. As a Shiva scholar, Jawahar was personal friends with one of the leading Brahmin priests of the Manikarnika ghat. The Manikarnika was the major of the two cremation ghats in Varanasi, and where Benfatti and Lucas were undoubtedly being sent. As a go-between, he’d been willing to negotiate with his friend on Jack and Laurie’s behalf to be notified by mobile phone when the Americans had arrived and allowed access for enough time to obtain their samples. The price was to be ten thousand rupees, or a little more than two hundred dollars. Jack had tried to have Jawahar find how much the hospitals were paying, but whether the Brahmin knew or not, he wouldn’t say.

“So, where are we here?” Jack asked, looking down the tiered steps toward the river. The sun had set behind them. In the faltering light the river was a vast, smooth, oozing body that looked more like crude oil than water. Down at the edge, fifteen to twenty people were bathing. A wide variety of small boats cluttered the shoreline. The current was slow, as evidenced by various slow-moving flotsam. “My God! Is that a human body they are throwing into the water out there, and a cow carcass floating by?”

Jawahar’s eyes followed Jack’s pointing finger. The objects were about two hundred yards offshore. “I believe you are right,” he said. “It’s not unusual. There are certain people who are not allowed to be cremated. They are just thrown into the water.”

“Like who?” Laurie asked, making a disgusted expression.

“Children under a certain age, pregnant women, lepers, people bitten by snakes, sadhus, and—”

“What are sadhus?” Laurie asked.

Jawahar twisted around and pointed to a line of aged, bearded men with dreadlocks knotted into buns sitting cross-legged alongside the passageway to the ghat. Others were spotted around the ghat. Some wore robes; others were practically naked, wearing only loincloths. “They are self-proclaimed Hindu monks,” Jawahar explained. “Some were respectable businessmen earlier in their lives.”

“What do they do?” Laurie asked.

“Nothing. They just wander around, indulge in bhang, which is marijuana and yogurt, and meditate. All they own is what they carry around, and they subsist totally on alms.”

“To each his own,” Jack said. “But back to my question. Where are we?”

“This is the main or most known or the most populated ghat,” Jawahar explained. “It’s also the focal point of religious activity in Varanasi, as you can see by all the Hindu priests performing their particular religious rites.”

About halfway down the stone steps and parallel with the water’s edge, there were a series of platforms. Each platform had an orange-robed priest carrying out complicated movements with candlesticks, bells, and lamps. Loud chanting inundated the entire area from a series of speakers strung the length of the ghat. Several thousand people milled about, including other Hindu priests, sadhus, merchants, con artists, children, would-be guides, strolling families, pilgrims from all over India, and tourists.

“I recommend we hire a boat,” Jawahar said. “We have plenty of time before we are apt to hear from the Brahmin, but even if we do, we can put in at shore closer to the cremation location.”

“Is that the cremation ghat we can just see?” Laurie asked, pointing off toward the north. There was an indistinct glow and apparent smoke snaking up against the darkening mackerel sky.