CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Corporate Offices of European International Conglomerate, No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London, August 22, 1962

Antoine was growing increasingly concerned about the health of his friend, Michaele. Michaele walked about like an old man—older than he was chronologically. He seemed to have lost energy and drive, which was quite unlike him since they had finally gotten away from the gulag and the Allied POW camps. When they first came to London, Michaele was a dynamo who attacked their business with a dizzyingly frenetic enthusiasm, and they had prospered beyond their wildest expections as a result. As of the present date, their legitimate income was almost the equal to their income from their organized crime pursuits.

Michaele was pale and had lost a significant amount of weight, and now coughed constantly. When they first left the gulag, Michaele had been extremely thin, but now he looked more like the keeper of the crypt. Antoine decided that today was the day to confront him and to find out what was the matter. He elected to have the talk with his old friend and Herr Caussidière—their Swiss partner—before their meeting with the architects and construction people from Argentina, where they were about to start three new building complexes. The two men had decided to relocate to the highly accommodating South American country sometime during the upcoming year as soon as the projects were completed.

Michaele was sitting at the conference table coughing—having a particularly bad spell. Antoine saw that Michaele’s handkerchief was soaked with blood even though his old friend quickly put it into his pocket and gave Antoine a wan smile.

“Good morning, Michaele. Sounds like your cough is getting worse.”

“No, my friend—about the same. Probably a bronchitis. It’ll pass.”

Antoine shook his head. “Don’t think so, Michaele. You still have some blood on your cheek.”

Michaele did not want to bring out the blood-soaked handkerchief; so, he struggled to get up and find a box of tissues. Antoine produced a box of fancy French “Le Troubadour” tissues from a cabinet and handed it to Michaele. The effort to stand caused another spasm of coughing, and now he was embarrassed to be filling multiple tissues with thick blood.

“I’d better get to the bathroom,” he said.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Michaele. It’s only you and me here. You can’t keep things from me—certainly not things like this. This is serious; it’s certainly more than just a little cold or bronchitis. You know that, my friend. You’ve been sick for a while, and we need to get you to a doctor today as soon as the meeting is over. For that matter, I can handle the Argentines myself. Why don’t you go have a lie down for a while? Leave business to me, all right?”

To his considerable surprise, Michaele nodded his head. Another surprise came when he offered his arm to Antoine for help getting up.

The meeting was efficient and productive. The Argentine businessmen and builders presented complete construction and business plans which met Antoine’s specifications in all aspects. There was no explicit statement about the obvious overages in the labor and materials estimates. Everyone in the room knew that this was the Argentine way. There were palms to be greased all along the way, not the least being the paranoid kleptocratic administration of José María Guido, who was serving as the interim president while the country’s two military factions created political chaos.

The general upheaval was—remarkably enough—not particularly bad for business. The prospect of any foreign investment in the country was greeted favorably by all participants in the current Argentinian drama, and they all left the businessmen and builders to their own devices. In fact, there was a decidedly positive aspect to the conflict and the administration’s both-hands-in-the-public-trough approach. Regulations were ignored, and bribes were kept to a reasonable level to avoid discouraging investment. All in all, things were moving smoothly for the European International Conglomerate. Antoine signed for the president and CEO—as Laird Eagen and Randolph Bellwether, the respective pseudonyms for himself and Michaele. He and the Argentinians drank a champagne toast, and they wished Randolph a speedy recovery.

Antoine called the consumption service at the Royal Brompton Hospital because he was more than just suspicious that Michaele had the disease. Since Michaele did not smoke, Antoine figured that it was not cancer. He decided that the Royal Brompton was as good a place to start as any.

The physicians of the sanatorium were extremely busy, since the Royal Brompton was one of only a few hospitals equipped to treat consumption. Triple the usual fee for Doctor Evan Goodefellow’s surgery and a promise of a handsome grant to the hospital magically cleared the way for Michaele to be seen the following day.

Michaele was too tired and sick to speak for himself; so, he readily agreed to let Antoine do the talking with the doctors. Antoine provided such history as he could, and the doctor examined Michaele.

“We will need a chest x-ray,” the doctor said.

“Let’s get it done as quickly as possible, if you please,” Antoine requested.

The doctor brought the radiographic plates and showed the two men.

“You can see here that almost the entire right lung is opaque—white—and has pushed the heart and left lung to the left. This is a big mass. While it could be cancer, my examination of the sputum revealed acid fast bacilli; so, consumption is the better diagnosis.”

“Could you explain that in lay terms, Doctor?” Antoine asked.

“Of course—pardon me for getting too technical. The dye or stain used to identify the tuberculosis germ is called acid fast and when it is positive, the patient—you, Mr. Bellwether, has active growing tuberculosis. Because the stain colors the bacteria red, we medical people irreverently refer to them as ‘red snappers.’ The old name for TB was ‘consumption.’”

Michael spoke up; his voice soft and his speech punctuated with productive bloody cough, “I understand that TB is untreatable, is that right?”

“Definitely not—not anymore. In fact, I want you to start on two medications this very day and to get plenty of rest. If you have the means, you might want to go to a sanatorium in the desert area of the United States. They are working wonders there. But this is getting ahead of the game. Take the medications for six months along with the rest, then we will see if you are a candidate for pneumonectomy.”

Antoine raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry again,” the physician said. “Surgery. The left lung will have to be removed in order to allow the healthy tissues to be successfully treated by the medications.”

Michaele went pale, “Can a man survive with only one lung, Doctor Goodefellow?”

“Indeed, he can. In fact, my prognosis is that you will live for many more years; but, of course, with a lessened ability to exercise due to reduced lung capacity. You should be able to get out and about on walks, play golf if you are so inclined, and swim. That is one of the recommended treatments in those desert sanatoria.”

“We’ll do it all. We put ourselves into your hands, Doctor.”

“That’s the spirit. I will write you a prescription for one year of isoniazid and p-aminosalicylic acid. That is now the standard of care. Let’s see you back in say a month to see how things are going.”