CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Tré hadn’t laid eyes on Dr. Lawrence Haines before, but when an extremely tall man with a chiseled forehead and regal bearing strode into the reception area, he had a hunch and rose.

The man smiled and said, “Just passing by and thought I’d see if Dr. Forester could slip me in.” Haines introduced himself, extending a hand as large as a baseball mitt.

“He’s still at a lunch meeting, sir. He should be back very shortly. I can text and let him know you’re here.”

“Excellent,” Haines said, glancing around. “Are you his receptionist?”

Tré introduced himself. “I’m his administrative assistant.”

“The dean doesn’t have a dedicated receptionist?”

“No. I’m the jack-of-all-trades.”

“You must be stretched thin, Tré.”

“Would you like to wait in the inner office, Dr. Haines?”

“That would be kind. So, Tré, have my people reached out to you about staying?”

“They did.”

“And?”

“I believe I will, yes. Dr. Forester encouraged me.”

“Excellent. We’ll honor your experience, and we’ve got plenty of work to go around.” The cell phone in Tré’s belt holster chirped with a text. “Go ahead and check that if you need to,” said Haines.

Tré read the message. “I’m being asked by one of the office managers down the hall to help move a file cabinet. Could you excuse me for a minute?”

“You are a jack-of-all-trades. I don’t see why we even have file cabinets anymore. May have to do something about that.”

Soon enough Marianna had reason to appreciate Cornell’s remark about all Americans not being like him. The taxi driver who ferried her from the New Canterbury bus station to the hospital gave her no hello, no smile, no warmth. “This is it, lady,” he said, stopping near the front entrance.

“How much do I owe?”

“What it says there.” He jabbed a finger at the meter. “Seventeen fifty.”

Marianna handed him one of the twenty-dollar bills she’d gotten in Warsaw and waited for the change. He craned his neck and stared at her. “You really want something back?”

Realizing he was talking about a tip, she flushed and remembered reading that tipping was more expected and costly in America. But her resources were so limited. “Yes, please,” she said. “The change.”

He handed her two dollar bills and two twenty-five cent pieces. When she passed him back the two coins, he grimaced as if she had just dropped a turd on his palm.

“Thanks, lady,” he said. Your bag’s in the trunk. Get it yourself.”

“And if you knew what I’ve been through,” she said in Ukrainian, “maybe you wouldn’t be such an asshole.”

She got her valise and headed for the entrance, leaving the trunk lid open. She heard him get out and say something. No time to worry about it. The trees lining the walkway were decked in fall colors. The main doors whooshed open automatically. It was an elegant lobby. Tall windows of colored glass. The layout reminded her of the Feofaniya Hospital in Kyiv. She headed for the restroom. It was empty and warm and smelled very clean. Taking out her toilet kit, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and applied deodorant, perfume, and a little makeup. Several women came in and out. “A long day for you too, honey?” one lady asked. “I’ve been here three days.”

Her reflection in the mirror looked like a nightmare. The black hair made her resemble an anime character. Getting directions from a security guard, she rode an elevator to the fifth floor then strode down a long corridor that transitioned from modern to traditional, with dark tiles and wooden doors. Finally, she saw an arched entrance of dark polished wood with a placard that said Dean’s Suite.

She was almost there when a man suddenly walked out. He was too young to be Dr. Forester, whose photo she had seen on the website. This man was skinny, and his hair was in a bun at the rear of his skull. He gazed at a cell phone and whistled as he sauntered past her. Standing at the entrance, she felt lightheaded and tired, her mouth dry. What if he wouldn’t see her? What if he had gone away? What if he didn’t care or wouldn’t believe her? What would she do next if this didn’t work?

She marched in past a glass case displaying antique medical instruments. There was a desk on one side and a waiting area on the other with a potted tree, a couch, and a coffee table laden with magazines. There was no one here. At the end was a closed door with a placard that read: Jack Forester, MD, FACEP, Dean. She went to the door, mouthed a silent prayer, and knocked.

A deep voice emerged from inside. “Come in.”

She opened the door. A gray-suited man stood by the windows. He was silhouetted in the bright light and she could not distinguish his features. “Dr. Forester,” she said, “please forgive my intrusion. But I am someone who has traveled far.” She swallowed. “I need your help, and you may need mine.”

“Miss, I’m afraid you’re talking to the wrong person. I’m waiting for Dr. Forester myself.” As he ambled toward her, she could see it was not Dr. Forester. “I’m Dr. Haines. Larry Haines.”

“I am so sorry,” she said, backing out the door. He was very tall. Very.

“No need to apologize.”

She spun about, her face burning. At that moment the same skinny young man with the hair bun marched in under the archway. “Hello,” he said, looking startled. “Can I help you?”

She glanced back toward Dr. Forester’s office. The man was standing in the doorway watching. “I would like to talk please with Dr. Forester,” she said to the young man.

“Do you have an appointment?”

She had thought of calling during the bus ride but decided against it. What would she have said? Better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission. “I tried to call but I could not get through,” she lied.

“And your name is?”

She must only use the name on her new passport. “I am Vlada Marina.” They were her two middle names. Easiest to remember.

“Vlada Marina,” he repeated. “Does he know you?

“Not at the present, but I have information he needs. A confidential thing that he will understand.” She took a long breath. “He will want to see me. You can believe me.”

The young man seemed skeptical. The big man still stood in the doorway to Dr. Forester’s office. He suddenly cleared his throat. “Tré,” he said. “I’ll just be saying a quick hello to Dr. Forester and won’t take much of his time. Let me give up the remainder to the young lady. This sounds important.”

The young man looked at him, then back at her. “Okay, Ms. Marina. Have a seat please.”

She gave the tall man a look of gratitude, which he returned with a nod and smile. Then she went to the couch and took up a magazine, her fingers trembling. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. I can only pray.