Nearly two weeks had gone by, and Eric was comfortably settled in. His room at the top of El Lobo’s rickety exterior staircase wasn’t fancy, but someone had made a real attempt at homey attractiveness. The walls were freshly whitewashed, the bed was large and covered with a heavy tapestry spread, and the bathroom, though small, was modern and en suite. Blue mountain flowers peeped from a local ceramic vase on the dresser.

Not so surprising, thought Eric; the hotel’s few guests were nearly all hospital visitors, people who could well afford to pay dearly for what was, in fact, the only game in town. Even renting the room by the week, he’d discovered, didn’t reduce the cost to what one would reasonably expect to pay in such a backwater.

His days had begun to form a pattern.

Eric arrived at the hospital each morning at eight, having breakfasted on bread, cheese, and fruit in his room. He checked in, made rounds, and assisted or operated as directed by Talmidge, who seemed to enjoy keeping him off-balance with unexpected procedures and schedule changes.

A simple buffet lunch was provided in the hospital staff lounge, but lingering was not encouraged, and conversation was stilted and unsatisfying. Eric rarely finished before eight or nine at night. He’d gotten into the habit of breaking for a walk in the nearby hills if things slowed down. It kept him alert. And it began to establish a practice of random absences at various times during the day; later on, this might prove useful, he thought.

Each evening after a shower and a drink, he ate his dinner alone at El Lobo’s outdoor tables, enjoying the sharp tang of the mountain air. Sometimes Vincente and Felipe would join him briefly, and they would have a rather basic conversation in Spanish. Once they introduced him to Vincente’s aunt, a heavy, pleasant woman in black. She was friendly but not garrulous, and soon hurried off home to her family.

He’d assumed that, isolated as they were, the hospital staff would get together after hours. But most of the small staff appeared to have been drawn from the local population, and if they socialized, he wasn’t included. When he occasionally came upon this one or that in the town square, they exchanged waves or pleasantries, but no one tried to befriend him. They weren’t rude, they just kept to themselves.

Eric was beginning to realize how much the town depended on the hospital as a revenue generator. In fact, he’d noted with amusement that two days after he’d paid three weeks’ rent in advance, the bar’s rusting metal tables and chairs had been replaced by modernistic new ones of white plastic. No matter how much they knew or suspected, no San Lorenzian was going to rock Talmidge’s boat.

And how did Talmidge spend his evenings? Eric identified an old green Mercedes in the parking lot as belonging Talmidge. It was always parked in the same spot when Eric arrived in the morning and still there when he left in the evening. He sneaked back once just after midnight; there it sat. Was it possible that Talmidge actually lived at the institute? Eric had never spotted the man or the car in town.

It was lonely as hell, but it gave him time to think.

He was thinking now as he sat outside El Lobo five days later, feeding dinner scraps to the hound at his feet. A bottle of corriente - local red wine - and a cloudy glass stood in front of him. The glass was still full. The bottle was empty.

At any hospital in the world, Eric reflected, the work he’d been doing recently would have been considered fairly routine. The setup, on the other hand, was bizarre. In addition to cleaning up that aneurysm on his first day, Eric had assisted Talmidge in several transplants - a kidney, a cornea, the first joint of a finger - specialized operations which anywhere else would have been performed by three different specially trained surgeons. Yet Talmidge confidently performed them all. The man’s technical expertise was little short of amazing, and he could operate equally well with both hands.

But the idea of Talmidge blithely cutting and stitching his way from hairline to toenail paled in comparison with the bone-chilling horror of his choice of anesthetic.

Once hailed for the rapidity of its sleep induction and its lack of side effects, Cyclopropane had been banned from operating rooms around the world for at least fifteen years. And rightly so, Eric reflected. There you were, sawing away at somebody’s rib cage, and the next thing you knew, your patient was on fire. Along with the curtains, the nurse, and the surgical tray.

“I’m not worried, you understand,” he’d told Talmidge the second day they’d scrubbed together. “I’m terrified!”

But Talmidge had been quite serious when he’d explained that despite its tendency to explode into flame, he believed Cyclopropane was the finest anesthetic available. He’d even seemed to take pleasure in its danger, in being the only one daring enough to use it.

“Those fools didn’t take proper precautions,” he said dismissively. “I’ve never had any problems with it.”

“I didn’t even think you could get it anymore,” Eric mused.

“I make it myself,” Talmidge told him, “My own plant . . . pipe it right in.”

“Jesus!”

“Relax, boy. You’re working with me now.”

The man’s a nut case, Eric reflected. Well, of course, he is. That’s why I’m here.

He fed the dog some bread, then sipped his wine. So Talmidge considers me his protégé. Kinda scary, but also exciting. He might actually warm up to me enough to tell me something important.

Or he might just keep lying to me.

Eric thought again about the operation he’d performed late that afternoon. Did Talmidge really expect me to believe that bullshit about the monitor? he wondered. Do I seem that dumb? I guess I do. And I guess that’s good; it’s probably the best cover I could have.

The patient, fully draped and with his head hidden by a screen, was already on the operating table when Eric entered. As usual, Talmidge hadn’t told him what procedure was scheduled, and as usual, Eric was nervous about his ability and experience.

“Can we begin, Ricardo?” Talmidge asked.

Eric glanced over at the monitor; the peaks and valleys were stable and even.

Ricardo gave Talmidge a thumbs-up. “Good,” Talmidge said. “Go ahead, Eric. Open,”

“Uh, where?”

Talmidge chuckled. “Didn’t I tell you?”

No, you damn well didn’t, thought Eric.

“Today is a special day, Dr. Rose. This man here is donating his liver. And you are going to remove it.”

No wonder you didn’t tell me, you bastard, Eric thought. You want me to kill him.

“I can’t do that, Dr. Talmidge.”

“Of course you can, boy. I’ll help you.”

“It’s not that. He’ll die.”

Talmidge gave a pleasant little chuckle, “He’s already dead.”

Eric looked over at the monitor. The line was flat.

Oh, shit.

“That can’t be, Dr. Talmidge. His screen was healthy just a minute ago. I saw it.”

“You’re wrong, Eric. This man died of a stroke nearly half an hour ago.”

“Then why did you ask Ricardo if we could go in? What’s Ricardo giving him?”

It sure as hell wasn’t Cyclopropane, Rose thought, his mind whirling. No wonder they’d made sure the guy’s head wasn’t visible. An IV snaked up under the drapes. They could have given him anything, he thought. Oh, Jesus.

Talmidge flicked his eyes warningly at Ricardo, then turned to Eric. He spoke calmly.

“You’re new to our little family. You’re not familiar with the methods we use. I’ve developed a chemical which, when introduced prior to organ removal, reduces the rate of tissue breakdown. Now, get on with it!”

“But I saw the monitor!”

“That monitor is aberrant. Ricardo, get it looked at. Goddammit, Eric, open!”

Suddenly Eric knew what was beneath those drapes, behind that head screen. How could he have been so dense as not to have realized it before? He was about to play a part in the very process he’d outlined to Harris a million years ago, it seemed. He’d been right. But he wished now he’d been wrong.

His head was spinning. His knees were trembling. His hands were steady. He opened.

Eric drained the wine in his glass, then upended the bottle. A few drops trickled out. Think about something else.

He thought of the post-op patients he’d been making rounds on each day: the aging American actress who had just had a face lift - Eric hadn’t been asked to assist with that one - and the French politician who was so grateful for the liver transplant he’d just received. How wonderful, they both said, that no antirejection drugs were needed. You couldn’t do that in America. Or France. No, thought Eric. And I know why.

Between duties he’d found reasons to walk the entire floor on his own a number of times, from OR to recovery to patients’ rooms to the large locked double doors at the end of the corridor that he knew would not open for him as they had for Talmidge.

He found nothing peculiar, nothing unusual.

It was only on his daily walk, looking down at the hospital from above, that he remembered the small side door he’d noticed the day he’d first arrived to talk Talmidge into letting him stay.

He realized he’d never seen the other, interior, side of that door.

Later he’d managed a short but thorough examination of that part of the building and discovered the side door opened into a utility room. Funny place for a door, he’d thought. And why the paved path up to it?

Now, as he sat over the remnants of his meal thinking about the day’s events, another image suddenly came to mind. Like a photograph, he saw the monitor with its peaks and valleys. To one side of it stood Ricardo, large and brawny under his scrubs. And . . . something bothered him, nibbled at his memory. What was it?

The screen. Someone had moved the screen.

The screen had always been in place, he realized, each time he had entered the OR; it seemed to serve no purpose he could think of, but he’d never really thought about it. Today, though, somebody must have repositioned it slightly. Because when Eric studied the scene imprinted on his brain, he saw something just beyond the screen. He saw the edge of a door.

It appeared to be a small door, solid-looking, set flush into the OR wall. Why was it there? Where did it go? It couldn’t communicate with the side door; the way the OR was positioned, this door would have to open toward the interior of the building.

* * *

Old Yaller had wandered off into the night, and Eric wiped his nearly empty plate with the last of the bread.

Where are the clones?

Not that mocked-up stuff in the lab with the half-wit guard. Those large refrigerated steel drawers with their slides all neatly labeled might contain the original samples, he conceded, and even the preliminary cultures, held in suspended animation. But surely those museum pieces, those hearts and kidneys in their pink soup, were strictly for the tourists.

He’d been so sure of what he’d find here. Not organs in jars. No, something far larger. Yet despite the evidence of today’s operation, the hospital seemed much too small to contain the complex he knew must exist.

Surely Taimidge can’t believe I’ll accept the crumbs of misinformation he carefully doles out to me, Rose reflected. He must know I’ll try to look beyond the metal-drawer room. Especially after today.

But . . . look where?

Eric sighed. You know very well where, he told himself. Behind the door in the OR, of course. The other side.

Okay, he thought, we have two choices. He considered them carefully. One. I can try to figure out a way to get beyond the door without getting caught. Two. I can think up a good excuse for putting it off.

He put some pesetas on the table and stood up slowly. The buildings around the square swayed a little, but he himself, he noticed, was steady as a rock. He picked his way through the little forest of tables and chairs and began climbing the stairs to bed, trying desperately to think of a good excuse.

It was a beautiful summer in France. The weather was kind to the grapes, so the locals were cooperative and relatively pleasant. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Pazula spoke an unassailable French. People on both sides of the camera were generous and even-tempered. And the fall fashions, though warm to wear, were both pretty and flattering. Days were productive, and evenings were fun and nobody ate alone.

Here in her sequestered world of work and friendly colleagues, Vivienne found it easy to banish from her mind the contents of the file folder in Brian Arnold’s desk and the repulsive lovemaking on the videocassette she’d taken from his office. This is more like it, Vivienne thought. This is how life should be. When did it change?

Marcella had been furious to lose Vivienne for two weeks, ominously predicting the loss of enormous fees. But Vivienne was glad she’d come, especially after she learned she’d lost the Revlon assignment to a younger model from a different agency. A job is not a life, she thought. I need to get back to that person who used to jump into the river from a tire swing.

For the first time, she began to think about what she would do in five or six years; thirty was old in the modeling business. She was surprised to find that such thoughts didn’t scare her as they did most models. Maybe I really will go to college, she thought. Maybe there, I’ll find something important to do with my life, something more intellectually stimulating. Dad would like that. Her investigation into the Institute back in New York had made her feel more competent, more confident about her ability to do more than just look beautiful.

She’d finally reached Charles from a phone booth at Kennedy Airport, and they’d both apologized and made up, though the wedding date remained vague. That suited Vivienne; dealing with today was enough right now.

Charles had reluctantly promised to look in on Angela while Vivienne was away. There was something about Angie’s cheerfulness, she reflected, which was perhaps a little too hearty. She hoped Angie wouldn’t crash. But if she did, Vivienne wanted someone to be there for her. Not that Charles was the ideal choice, she admitted to herself; he himself had been less than enthusiastic about the assignment. Still, she hadn’t been able to think of anyone else Angela couldn’t get rid of if she tried. One thing you could say for Charles, he was stubborn.

She’d tried to call him several times since her arrival, and had felt not disappointment but relief that she’d gotten through to him only once.

Now she sat in the plain country restaurant, sipping wine and trading war stories. Although stunned by what she’d read in Arnold’s office, and repulsed by the video of Dr. Feelgood frolicking in the nude with a famous pop star, she was determined to put it all out of her mind for these few weeks. A little breathing space might help her figure out what to do next.

Damn that woman!

Brian Arnold took a long pull at his Scotch as Vivienne seated herself on the sofa and looked through the Institute file for the fifth time. Damn her! He pushed the search button, and Vivienne moved quickly backward, disappearing from the screen; he hit “play” and she entered the frame again, sat down, and began to read.

Arnold was drunk, and he felt he had a right to be. If Vivienne went public with what she knew, he’d be destroyed professionally. And if Talmidge found where she’d gotten her information, he’d lose a lot more than those fat fees; Talmidge would destroy him.

He had to deal with the woman, now. It was too late for cutesy stuff like sex and videotapes, he decided. Addiction was the only answer. He’d get her back into his office, shoot her up with something. Tell her it’s a flu shot or some goddamn thing. One or two follow-up shots and he’d have her for good. But she’d never come back on her own; Charles would have to bring her. Perhaps he should show Charles the videotape, let him know what his girlfriend was up to. But no, he decided; Charles would be furious and break with the girl, and Arnold would lose any access he had.

He punched the pause button, dropped the remote control on the desk, and dialed Charles’s private number in Boston.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said without preamble when Charles answered.

“What? Who is this?”

“It’s Brian. We have a problem with Vivienne’s sample.”

“Brian? You sound funny. You been drinking?”

“Yeah. Look, our friends in Spain screwed up Vivienne’s sample. They want another one.”

“You’re kidding. They’re so efficient.”

“Right. Well, not this time, apparently. Are you in town tomorrow? Can you, er, bring her in?”

“I’ve got meetings all day. Anyway, Vivienne’s shooting in France. What was that crash?”

Arnold looked sourly at the pale stain where his glass of Scotch had hit the wall before smashing onto the hardwood floor. “Nothing. When’s she due back?”

“In about a week. I’ll call you.”

“OK. Listen, has she . . . said any more about the Institute?”

There was a pause. “No,” Charles said shortly. I’ll handle my own problems, he thought. “Anything else you wanted, Brian?”

“No.”

“Right. Good night, then.”

Arnold put down the phone with a bang. France. France was awfully close to Spain, he thought. I wonder . . . He checked the date on his watch, added seven, and made a note on his private desk diary. Then he reached himself a fresh glass from the built-in bar below the bookshelves behind his desk and poured himself another Scotch. Sipping the warm drink, he retrieved the remote control and pressed “rewind” and then “play.” Again Vivienne walked to the sofa and began reading through the papers. Arnold tried to picture her naked.

Charles was feeling testy and imposed-upon. The immediate source of his irritation was tomorrow morning’s meeting, brought forward in order to include a Merrill Lynch bigwig who was going on vacation. He’d had to hustle his staff to get all the presentation materials ready in time; well, that’s what they were there for. But he especially resented having to spend an evening in New York with Vivienne out of town. What on earth had made her suddenly decide to head off to France for two whole weeks? How he hated staying in hotels!

The second reason for his increasingly sour mood was the call he’d received as he was leaving his room that evening: Ingersoll were still undecided. The partners had approved the actual deal, but they needed more time. Time for what? he’d asked. Well, you know, just . . . time, he was told. He scowled. God, they were cautious!

Then, on top of everything, he had to pay this damn duty call. As he balanced unsteadily on the red metal-and-canvas chair and tried to make conversation, his only solace was that Angela seemed as uncomfortable about his being here as he did himself.

“Want some tea?” she asked.

“No thanks.”

“Coffee?”

“No.”

“Coke? Beer?”

“Nothing, Angela. Really.”

“It’s not catching, Charles.”

“Huh?”

“Cancer. It’s not contagious.”

Charles looked surprised. “I wasn’t even thinking of that,” he said honestly. Then, “How do you feel?”

“Crappy,” said Angela. “I throw up a lot. But that’s okay, it’s making me beautiful!” She spoke in self-derision, but Charles saw with a shock that it was true. She had slimmed down considerably, and her features were elegant in their sharpness.

“Look,” Angela said. “I know Viv made you come, but you don’t have to stay. You’ve done your duty.”

Charles looked at his watch. “Actually, I have a meeting in an hour not far from here. I’d, uh, planned to stay until then. Frankly, it’s too far to go back to the hotel and back downtown again. Do you mind?”

“Nah,” Angela said. “If you can stand it, I can stand it.”

“In that case . . .” Charles reached for his attaché case leaning against the wall behind him. “Do you mind if I do a little work? I’d just like to review these papers . . .”

“Go ahead,” Angela told him and reached for the book she’d put down on the floor when he’d arrived. Then, changing her mind, she uncurled herself and rose from the sofa. “I’ll just put on a kettle. Sure you won’t have some tea?”

Charles stood too, feeling guilty. “Tea would be nice,” he said. “But let me make it.”

“You’re kidding!” The words escaped before she realized it, but Charles laughed. “Oh, I’ve been known to make a cup of tea in my time,” he said. “Where’s the kitchen?”

“Just turn around, take three steps, and stick out your left hand!”

The tiny kitchenette was narrow and cramped, but its countertop, small sink, and half-size fridge were spotless. He filled the dented kettle and set it to boil on the two-burner stove, then pawed through the unmatched crockery in the cabinet to locate two mugs. Boxes of tea were jumbled together with ketchup, mustard, and canned tuna fish on the open shelving; he chose Irish Breakfast.

When it was ready, he carried the tea back to the living room and placed one of the mugs on the floor next to Angela’s sofa - “Better let it cool,” he cautioned - then put his own on a small water-marked side table.

Still standing, he opened his attaché case, removed some papers and a pen, and began to read.

“You gonna stand up for the next hour, Chas? Thanks for the tea.”

“That chair is a menace.”

Angela swept aside the colorful throw rug and swung her feet onto the floor. “Come sit here,” she said. “Drag that table over and make yourself at home.”

He hesitated, then shrugged and complied. The sofa, though old and spavined, was better than the umbrella chair.

Angela scooped up her book again and began to read. Soon she was chuckling.

Charles looked over. “What is it?”

“Penguin Island. Ever read it?”

“Yes indeed,” he said. “A great favorite of mine.” He studied her with new interest.

“Yes, Chas, even fat ladies have brains,” said Angela.

“Now, cut that out!” he said.

“What?”

“That putting-yourself-down crap.”

“But I wasn’t . . .”

“The hell you weren’t. Anyhow, you’re not a fat lady anymore. You’re a slim, pretty lady. And a brainy one too . . .” He indicated the book with an angry chop of his hand. “So try to like yourself a little better, OK?”

He turned back to his papers.

Angela looked over at him in fury. Who the hell did he think he was, talking to her like that? Saying those awful things, telling her that she didn’t like herself, that she was brainy, that she was pretty.

Telling her that she was pretty.

She turned back to her book, but she couldn’t concentrate.

“You really think I’m pretty?” she asked finally, hating herself for it.

“Yes,” he said, not looking up from his papers.

There was silence for a moment.

“Well, thanks a lot!” Angela said hotly.

“Well, you’re welcome!” Charles answered in kind.

Then they glanced sideways at each other, and the humor of the situation hit them and they broke into smiles and then guffaws and the uncomfortable feeling was gone.

Charles went back to his papers. Angela went back to her book, but again, she couldn’t imagine why, her concentration kept slipping. She looked over at Charles. He really is cute, she thought. I never used to like him, but then, I never really talked to him before, not on a personal level. She studied his face. It was sweet of him to make the tea, she reflected. I never would have thought he’d . . .

“What?” Charles had felt her stare, and was now looking over at her, slightly annoyed. “What is it?”

Angela flushed. “Nothing,” she said. “Uh, I was just wondering, er, what big deal you’re putting together.” As soon as she said it, she felt like a jerk. But Charles seemed pleased.

“Actually, I’d like to talk about it,” he said. “Especially now before the presentation. It helps to run through it out loud.”

“Go ahead,” Angela said, dropping her book on the floor.

Charles stood up and began to pace. “Well, it’s a tax-shelter deal in association with a major brokerage firm. We have a plan for five office buildings in three cities, and we’re looking for an investment of forty million over a five-year-period . . .”

He outlined the plan, then began to describe the initial tax advantages and potential pay-out. Angela had expected to be bored; she’d asked about his deal because, in her embarrassment, it had been the first thing that had popped into her head. But now she found herself riveted. Of course, she didn’t understand everything, but she was surprised to find that when she got up the courage to ask a question, she actually understood the answer. Or most of it.

Charles, too, seemed surprised that she should grasp the concepts so quickly; Vivienne had always found his business deals so hard to follow, he’d stopped attempting to explain them to her. And yet here was Angela, not only understanding, but getting excited about it.

At last Charles put his papers back in his attaché case and looked at his watch.

“I ought to be going,” he said. “You’ll be all right?”

“Sure,” said Angela. “I’ll be fine.”

“So long, then.” Charles went to the door, then turned back. “I’ll, um, I’ll try to drop by again sometime,” he said.

“Yeah,” Angela said. “Anytime.”

“Well, g’bye.”

Just as the door was closing behind him, Angela called “Good luck!” and his answering “Thanks!” echoed down the narrow stairway.

Angela carried the mugs to the sink and began to wash them. That was fun, she thought. I hope he comes back again. She pushed back her hair with a wet hand, plastering it out of her way. Pretty. He thinks I’m pretty.

Ol’ Chas can be awfully nice when he tries, she thought. And his business is fascinating. She grinned to herself. I must tell Vivienne that I’m beginning to understand what she sees in him!