Vivienne carefully folded a pink silk blouse and placed it on top of the blue jeans in the open suitcase on her bed. Then she checked her watch: 4:45 p.m. Not much time; she’d have to decide soon. In her handbag was a first-class Air France ticket to Paris for early the following morning, and she still hadn’t reached John Harris.

She’d called his office as soon as Angie had confirmed her booking for the Pazula shoot, to try to move up her appointment with him. But still worried that he might be connected in some way with Brian Arnold, she’d left no message with the answering service. Meanwhile, Lens had kept her busy all week with go-sees and last-minute bookings, hoping to dissuade her from spending ten working days out of the country.

She’d called Charles at home twice, and had gotten his answering machine each time. Ah, the wonders of modern communications, she thought. But that wasn’t really fair; she could have called him at his office, or late at night. She just wasn’t ready to talk to him yet.

Around midday, she’d returned from some last-minute shopping and tried Dr. Harris again. This time she’d reached Mrs. Riley.

“The doctor tried to call you,” Mrs. Riley had told her reproachfully, “but you’re not listed. Give me your number, and he’ll get to you before five.

“Ten minutes to go, Vivienne thought. She folded a red-and-white-striped cotton sweater and placed it in the suitcase. And if he doesn’t call? Would she still be able to get into Brian Arnold’s office today?

The suitcase was nearly full when the phone rang a few minutes after five. Vivienne lunged across the room and grabbed it on the first ring.

“Vivienne Lester? Dr. John Harris.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you called!”

“I tried to reach you, but . . .”

“I know, I’m not listed. Look, I had an appointment scheduled with you for next week, but I’m flying to Paris tomorrow morning.” (“Damn!” said Harris under his breath.) “Would it be possible for me to come talk to you right now?”

“I’m about to go into the OR,” he told her. “Emergency. We just got a liver, and when you get it, you have to use it.” He paused. “I’ve got a little time while they’re prepping . . .”

“I can be down there in twenty minutes,” said Vivienne.

“I’ll be scrubbing by then. Why don’t we talk a little now? You called me about the Reproduction Institute?”

“That’s right. What do you know about them?”

“Not much,” Harris said. “I recently had a patient fly to Barcelona for a kidney transplant. Seems his brother would only donate a kidney if the operation were done at the Institute. Please don’t think me rude, but what’s your interest in the place?”

Careful, Vivienne thought. “I, uh, have a friend who says they offer a program for organ . . . replacement,” she said. “You sign up for it and give them a sample of blood and they match you up with an organ if you need one.”

“That’s interesting,” Harris said cautiously. “Did your friend ever use the program?”

“No, not yet. Did your patient, uh, recover?”

“Yes, he did. He’s in great shape.”

They both fell silent, each not sure how much to trust the other. Is this woman really a new source of information about the Institute, Harris wondered, or could she be spying for Talmidge? Had Eric been found out already? “So you’re interested in joining their transplant program,” he said at last.

“Not exactly. I’d just like to know more about it.”

“So would I. What did your friend tell you?”

“Not very much, I’m afraid. That’s why I’m calling you. Dr. Mitchell says you’re involved in transplants. I figured you’d know about organ sources.”

Harris was silent for a moment, thinking. “Perhaps if you told me what you know already . . .” he suggested.

What the hell, Vivienne thought. Take a chance. “Okay,” she said. “My boyfriend arranged a genetic blueprint for me through the Institute. He used the words ‘biologically organized.’ I asked him what that meant, and he was kind of elusive and that bothered me. So I decided to try to find out for myself. You’re part of my . . . investigation, I guess you could call it.”

So Eric was right, Harris thought with a frisson of excitement.

“What have you found out so far?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Not a great deal,” Vivienne told him. Daniel’s letter to Elizabeth wasn’t something she wanted to talk about, especially if Harris were connected to Brian Arnold. “I was hoping you could help.”

“Actually it all sounds rather farfetched,” Harris said. “I certainly haven’t heard of anything like that.”

Vivienne tried again. “Look, I agree I’m working on pure speculation here. But I’m kind of angry that my boyfriend’s made certain medical . . . decisions about me without my consent. And frankly, it worries me that it’s all so hush-hush.”

“Who’s being hush-hush?” Harris asked her. “Whom else have you talked to about this?”

“I’m a model,” Vivienne continued, ignoring his question, “I’m going to France to do a fashion shoot. If you can’t help me, maybe I should just pop over to Barcelona and have a look for myself.”

Shit! Harris thought. That’s all Eric needs. “It would be very dangerous for you to do that,” he said aloud. “Very dangerous indeed.”

“Why?” Vivienne asked.

“For one thing, the Institute isn’t in Barcelona. It’s just outside a small mountain town to the north. I understand San Lorenzo is almost . . . medieval, and quite isolated.”

Vivienne was scribbling on her telephone pad.

“Dr. Talmidge is, well, somewhat erratic,” Harris continued. “He might not be very hospitable.”

He does know more than he’s telling me, Vivienne thought. He’s trying to scare me off. He’s probably in on the whole thing, along with Charles and Brian Arnold, and Lord knows who else! I was right to use a false name.

“If you’ll tell me what you know, I won’t have to go and visit,” she suggested.

“You seem to know more than I do.”

He sounds just like Brian Arnold, she reflected.

I have to convince her to stay away from the institute, thought Harris. “Actually, I’m doing some investigation into this thing myself,” he said, “along with a colleague of mine. So you really don’t need to risk a trip to the Institute. Just give me a call when you get back from Paris, and we can all sit down together and share information.”

If he’s in league with Arnold, I won’t get anything out of him, Vivienne decided. And if he’s not, then he doesn’t seem to know any more than I do. She glanced at her watch: ten past five. She might just make it.

“That would be fine, Dr. Harris,” she told him. “I’m afraid I have to go now . . . so many things to do before tomorrow morning. Thanks for your help.”

She disconnected abruptly and quickly dialed Arnold’s office, then hung up again. A surprise visit might be more effective. And if she were lucky, he’d have another patient or two on the premises, so she’d have to wait for him. Having to wait was an important part of the plan she’d worked out over the last few days, a plan she’d hoped she wouldn’t have to use.

She ripped a piece of plain paper from the telephone pad and scrawled a quick note. Stuffing the note in her handbag, she grabbed a jacket and hurried out.

As he scrubbed, John Harris reviewed the aborted phone call. It troubled him. The Lester woman had confirmed what he and Eric had suspected, but somehow he felt she could have told him even more. He feared he’d mishandled the conversation, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how.

“Vivienne Laker,” she told the intercom box and was promptly buzzed in by a surprised Berta.

“Dr. Arnold isn’t expecting you, is he?” she said, consulting her appointment diary.

“No . . . it was kind of spur-of-the-moment,” Vivienne told her, noticing with satisfaction the thin, pale young man paging nervously through a magazine. “Just tell him I wanted to, er, continue our discussion of the other day. The uh, second part.” That ought to get him, she thought.

Berta disappeared down the corridor; Vivienne heard a soft buzz of voices, and the nurse returned. “The doctor will see you in just a moment,” she said.

Vivienne flushed nervously. She’d assumed Arnold would want to deal with his waiting patient first. Now she was trapped. She perched on the sofa, running through the plan in her head, changing it all to fit this new circumstance. Presently Arnold appeared with a smartly dressed woman of about sixty. They said their good-byes and he held the door open for her as she left. Berta appeared and ushered the pale young man into the corridor, leaving Arnold and Vivienne alone in the waiting room. He turned to her, his eyes cold and bright.

He’d been surprised but delighted when Berta had given him Vivienne’s message. He’d been thinking about how best to deal with her; several alternatives had occurred to him. Now she was providing the means of her own destruction, he thought. Sex, augmented by drugs if possible, followed by blackmail: a threat to tell Charles about it if she so much as mentioned the institute again. You don’t think Charles will believe me? he could hear himself tell her. Then we’ll just have to show him the videotape. You didn’t realize you were performing for the camera? No one does, my dear; that’s part of the fun.

“I hoped you’d come back,” he said. Looking intently into her eyes, he slid a hand between her legs and squeezed. “Come on.”

As he’d come down the hall to the waiting room, he’d stepped into his specially equipped private office and hit the innocuous-looking wall switch that turned on the video camera. His last patient would wait. Better yet, he could watch.

Vivienne looked around in panic. “No! I mean, you still have a patient.”

“Forget him!” He lowered his head and bit at her breast.

She struggled and finally managed to push him away, hard. He smiled slowly, “You like force? That’s always exciting.”

“I like privacy,” she said. “Get rid of your patient. Berta too.”

He stood looking at her for a moment, then wheeled around and walked rapidly up the corridor. Shaking with tension, Vivienne sank onto the sofa, but the sound of a door opening along the corridor jerked her back on her feet again. Berta could come back to the waiting room any minute. Quickly she pulled the scribbled note from her handbag and propped it prominently on the reception desk. Now - where to hide?

She’d mentally reviewed her options at home when she’d first formulated the plan, and settled on the little-used file room. But now she wondered whether the file room was really such a good idea: what if he locked it when he left, and she couldn’t get out again? She remembered passing a utility closet on her way to the examining room that first day; could she get to it before the nurse came back?

She pulled the front door open slightly and left it ajar to give the appearance of a hasty exit. Then she hurried back to the desk and peeked around to the corridor in time to see Berta, carrying a pile of crumpled gowns, cross the hallway and disappear into a room at the far end. A laundry room? That seemed a better bet than the tiny utility closet. She’d have to work her way along the hallway toward it. She ran lightly along the corridor and slipped into the utility closet. It held a sink and an assortment of cleaning tools: mop, broom, pail; it was crowded, unlit, and grimy. She looked quickly around to get her bearings, then pulled the door nearly shut and stood still, barely breathing.

Soon she heard Berta return along the corridor; presumably she was heading to her desk and would see Vivienne’s note. Now! She pushed open the door and checked the hall: empty. She raced up the corridor and in through the door at the end. She found herself in a small storage room. Though cramped, it was larger than the utility closet and offered more coverage. Several boxes of clean gowns were piled against one wall; a small canvas handcart filled with laundry stood off to one side. A faint light filtered in through one small sooty window. Stifling her repugnance, she climbed carefully into the laundry cart and burrowed down under the contents.

Soon she heard Arnold and his patient exiting from an examination room. Their voices receded down the hallway, and then all at once she heard Arnold, loud and angry. She couldn’t make out the words; he’d obviously been given her note: “Sorry, lost my nerve. Maybe next time. V.”

Now someone banged the front door shut; someone stomped up the corridor again. How late did Arnold see patients? she wondered. How long before she could get up and look around? People moved about outside the door; she heard Arnold curse. Then all was quiet again. It was warm and airless under the laundry; Vivienne felt herself drifting off. . . .

The sound of the storage-room door banging back against the wall brought her fully awake again; she froze as Berta dumped another load of laundry on top of her. Arnold called out, “Don’t forget the security system when you leave!” He sounded furious. The nurse muttered a reply and banged the door shut behind her.

Security system? Vivienne wondered, Well, she was already inside; she’d worry about it when she left.

Slowly she made her way up through the laundry and looked out over the top of the cart. Underneath the door, she could see a strip of light. She watched it until it went out. Soon after, she heard the front door slam.

Did Arnold realize he was being tricked? Was he waiting for her out there in the dark? She decided to stay in the laundry cart for a quarter of an hour, just in case. The minutes seemed endless as she stared at the glowing green watch face, but at last it was six o’clock; she climbed out of the laundry cart and opened the door.

The corridor was in shadow, lit only near the waiting room, where light from the street spilled in through the curtained window. Slowly she moved down the hall toward the file room. It was very quiet. She turned the doorknob and felt the door swing slowly inward.

“This is Dr. Brian Arnold!”

Vivienne jumped back, her heart beating wildly.

“Office hours are eleven to five-thirty. Please leave a message at the sound of the beep . . .”

An answering machine. Vivienne listened, fascinated, as a voice begged “Dr. Brian” to call him back immediately. He’d used up his prescription, he said, and was desperate to renew it. She shuddered. How could Charles have sent her to such a man? But of course, she understood now. He was the link with the Institute, the only person authorized to send the samples. And Harris? What was he? Well, Harris wasn’t her problem.

She stepped into the file room. Although the sky was still light, little of its illumination reached this room through its small courtyard window. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a flashlight?

She tried the handles on the file cabinet; the drawers were locked shut, of course. How could she get into it? Perhaps there were some tools in the utility closet. Cautiously she made her way across the hall. She felt sure now that she was alone in the office, but it was still spooky. Snapping on the light, she looked in vain for a hammer and screwdriver. Nothing. She turned off the light again and closed the door and leaned against it, thinking.

She needed something small and pointy to bang into the lock and break it. And she needed something heavy to bang it in with. She went back up the hall, peering in through the doors she passed. The two examining rooms didn’t suggest anything to her, but then she opened a third door and found herself looking into a different sort of room.

She switched on the light. She was in Brian Arnold’s office. Heavy drapes covered the windows; a mahogany desk sat in front of built-in bookcases. Set across from the desk, strangely placed out in the middle of the room, was a large, wide sofa. Why hadn’t he brought her in here last time she’d visited? she wondered.

She walked over to the desk. There was the usual desktop clutter: pens and pencils, a yellow lined pad, a letter opener, several books. In one corner, a large, heavy crystal paperweight winked in the light. She hefted it in her hand. All she needed now was something strong and sharp. The letter opener? Too flexible. Maybe that thin silver ball-point pen.

Back in the file room, she fitted the point of the pen into the small keyhole in the file lock and banged on the other end with the paperweight. The lock was about thigh height, and it was hard to put any power behind her swing. Setting her tools on the desk, she studied the cabinet. Perhaps if she could topple it over on its back . . . The file was heavy, but she maneuvered it into a position where there was clear floor behind it. Then she got behind it and pushed against the base with her foot while tugging at the top of the cabinet. Suddenly it toppled backward, and she jumped clear; the cabinet hit the floor with a resounding crash.

The evening doorman, having relieved the day man at five-thirty, was sneaking a quick cigarette around the corner of the lobby when the sound of the crash reached him. It seemed to have come from Dr. Arnold’s office, yet he’d seen the doctor and his nurse leave the building some time before. Crushing his smoke underfoot, he went over and tried the door.

Vivienne heard the front door rattle. “Anyone in there?” called a male voice. Vivienne didn’t move. Had someone seen the light she’d turned on?

After a long minute, the doorman shrugged his shoulders and went back out to his post. Vivienne, having tiptoed out to the waiting room, heard his receding steps. Returning to the file room, she continued her attack on the cabinet, smashing away at the pen in the semidarkness. At last she was rewarded by the sound of the lock clicking out.

Pulling the drawers out from their now-horizontal position was impossible; she managed with difficulty to tumble the cabinet over onto its side.

But instead of the papers she’d been sure had been secreted there, the cabinet was filled with videocassettes. Each cassette was labeled with a series of numbers. Could these be tapes of the Institute? Somehow it seemed unlikely, but she took one at random and jammed it in her handbag.

There wasn’t much she could do to tidy the room; she knew she lacked the strength to stand the cabinet up again. So she simply left the cabinet lying on the floor like some disemboweled beast and went back to Arnold’s office.

She’d left the light on; no one could see in through those heavy drapes. Now she dropped her handbag on the sofa and once again approached his desk. She tried each drawer; everything was locked tight.

She went over to the sofa and sat down facing the desk, trying to think where Arnold could have hidden a key. It was simply too depressing, after all this, to believe he carried the only one on his person. She rose and wandered around the room, looking under, in, and behind bric-a-brac carefully placed on shelves, desk, windowsill. Nothing.

She checked the desk drawers again; perhaps she could break into them the way she had the file cabinet. But these locks looked far more solid.

Then she had a thought: perhaps Berta might keep a key somewhere. Berta would have to be privy to Arnold’s secrets. She’d be the one to send the samples to Spain, so she’d have to know about the Institute. And she’d also be aware of what kind of practice Arnold ran. Berta would have to be completely trustworthy. And if she were, she could be trusted with the key to his desk. Maybe.

She hurried out to the darkened waiting room and flipped on the light. She had to risk someone seeing it; the search couldn’t be done in the dark.

The lock on Berta’s fancy desk was more decorative than useful, and Vivienne bashed it in easily. Quickly but thoroughly she rifled through the contents of each drawer, opening every aspirin tin and paper-clip box. At last, way at the back of the bottom drawer, wedged underneath file folders suspended from metal rods, she found a small flattish tin which had once contained English lemon drops. Now it held a small key suspended from a pale silken cord.

She hurried back to Arnold’s office and unlocked the desk drawers one by one. Her heart was pounding, and she stood up and took several deep breaths to calm herself before opening the drawers.

The central drawer which nestled under the desktop held the usual clutter of blank stationery, pencils, and prescription pads. Sample boxes of various medications filled the top two side drawers. She shoved all three drawers back in and opened the bottom side drawer.

Inside lay a box of unused file folders. She pulled it out and set it on top of the desk. Underneath was an old red sweater, folded and positioned to make it appear as if it filled the rest of the drawer. Vivienne yanked it out; beneath was an old folder, worn and creased, its contents secured by a thick rubber band. Tossing the sweater onto the desk, she leaned down and took out the folder. The rubber band was old; it split as she pulled it off. Inside were papers. She recognized the letterhead of the Institute.

She carried the folder over to the sofa and began to read.

It was after six-thirty when she replaced the file in Arnold’s desk and relocked the drawers. She moved automatically, her mind spinning, wishing she’d never read the papers, never started asking questions. What should she do? What could she do?

Turning off the light, she left Arnold’s office and headed down the hall and through the waiting room, where she dropped the key back into its candy tin. She hesitated at the front door, remembering the security system, then shrugged. She’d have to take her chances.

She pulled a scarf from her handbag and tied it over her hair. As she pushed the door open, a siren began shrieking loudly just past her ear. Without hesitation, she dashed into the lobby, nearly colliding with the doorman.

“What’s happening?” she shouted to him over the din of the alarm. “Is it a fire?”

He looked at her curiously. “Excuse me,” he said. “Do you live here?”

“It’s coming from over there!” she told him excitedly, pointing toward Arnold’s office. “I think I heard someone scream! Call the police!”

The doorman took a few steps in the direction of the office entrance and Vivienne immediately dashed out of the lobby into the street. As she rounded the corner, she heard the doorman shout “Stop!” but he didn’t seem to be following her. At Park Avenue, she caught a cab and collapsed in the back seat.

Don’t worry, she told herself. The evening doorman wasn’t on duty when you arrived. Arnold believes you left the office while he was seeing that patient. There’s nothing to tie you to the break-in.

Behind the bookcase, the camcorder continued to record, its lens permanently focused on the sofa. It ran out of tape just before the police showed up.