‘I figured that,’ said Hasselhof. ‘You people promised that man and woman something that can’t be done. There is no operation that could save that woman’s baby. The malformation is far too great for corrective cardiac surgery to be of any value, but you people obviously convinced them otherwise. That, sir, is fraud in my book. And you now have the nerve to call me for advice!’
Dunbar was about to explain to Hasselhof that he hadn’t called for advice and that he wasn’t part of the Medic Ecosse set-up, but he changed his mind. There wasn’t time. He simply asked one question. ‘What if the baby were to have a heart transplant, Doctor?’
‘A transplant? The child wouldn’t survive long enough for a donor to become available. Even if one did, the necessary steroid suppression of the immune system would lay the child open to every infection under the sun. It’s just not possible.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Dunbar. ‘I’m obliged.’
He put down the phone, muttering to himself, ‘Oh yes it is, Dr Hasselhof, if you know how to make sure the baby accepts the heart as its own flesh and blood so you don’t have to use steroids and if you’re prepared to murder the donor for her heart.’
Dunbar called the Children’s Hospital and asked to speak to Clive Turner.
‘Dr Turner’s in theatre at the moment,’ he was told.
‘Damn!’ said Dunbar as he put down the phone. A voice inside his head urged caution. ‘Take it easy. There’s no need to panic. Think it through. The first thing to establish is when they plan to operate on Amanda.’
He would simply go back to Medic Ecosse and inquire, which would be in keeping with his new up-front policy of asking things outright. As he prepared to leave his room, Dunbar wondered if there was anything he’d overlooked. He had the unpleasant feeling that there was but for the moment whatever it was eluded him. He had his briefcase and his computer. He had his notebook in his pocket. As soon as he’d established when the kidney from Geneva was going to arrive, he’d devise a plan of action to intercept it and inform Medic Ecosse. He closed the door with an air of finality and set off to play out the last act in a nightmare.
He got no further than the car park. As he inserted his key into the car door lock he felt a sharp pain in his thigh and the world started to swim. Nausea… a falling sensation. His last conscious thought was the realization that Medic Ecosse knew he’d contacted the Mayo Clinic. He’d phoned the first time from the hospital, and the call would have been logged. He’d given away that his interest in the Omega file was not confined to financial matters.
Dunbar woke up in complete darkness. He had a splitting headache and felt sick but this was partly due to the smell in the room, a strange mixture of excrement and… wet grain was the best he could come up with. It was the smell of harvest time in the fields, a throwback to his childhood. But no, it wasn’t that… It was the smell of animal feed. And animals.
Despite his muzziness it took him only a moment to figure out that he must be back at Vane Farm. He tried to sit up but the pain in his head soared to new heights so he slipped back down again. As long as he lay still he could think clearly. He ran his hands over his body. He had clothes on, shirt, trousers, shoes. One of the sleeves of his shirt, the left one, had been torn away and his upper arm ached. Oh God! They’d been giving him more injections. That meant there was no way of knowing how long he’d been unconscious. It could have been days or even weeks. Amanda Chapman could be dead by now.
His next thought was to wonder why he’d been allowed to regain consciousness at all. Was it deliberate or a mistake? The human body quickly developed a tolerance to narcotics, which meant dosage had to be increased to maintain the effect. Was that it? Had he come round before his next injection was due? If so he probably didn’t have much time. He rolled over on to his stomach and began to drag himself over the floor to explore his surroundings.
The first thing he came into contact with was a sack made of coarse hessian; it was full. He stretched up, put his hand inside the neck and pulled out a handful of small hard round pellets. He smelt them; it was animal feed. He also found a metal scoop inside the sack and put it in his pocket. It was a weapon of sorts, he supposed.
The room was a food store. The only thing other than sacks of feed-stuffs in the room was a floor-standing machine which, judging by feel, was some kind of processor. It had a large loading hopper on top and an exit pipe with a grille over its front lower down. There was a control panel on the front with two buttons on it, one raised and one recessed. The recessed one must be the On switch. It always was on industrial machines; a safety measure.
Dunbar froze as he heard voices. They were quite loud but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He put this down to his wooziness until he realized that they were not speaking English. The throat-clearing sounds suggested Arabic. There were two of them and they were probably coming to give him his next injection — or worse. Feeling as ill as he did, and armed only with a pellet scoop, he could do little to stop them.
A mobile phone started to bleep and the men’s talk stopped, to be replaced by one side of a phone conversation, again in Arabic. When it ended it became apparent that one man had been called away. Both voices receded and Dunbar heard the front door open and close. He waited for returning footsteps and did not have long to wait. At least with only one opponent the odds were a little more even. He lay down again, hiding the metal scoop in his right hand behind the small of his back. He wished his head would clear. He felt as if he were in a drunken stupor.
He opened his eyes fractionally so he could see something when the door was opened. The lock turned, the door swung open and he saw the silhouette of a tall, well-built man with a syringe in his right hand. He seemed to stand still in the doorway for ages, like an executioner contemplating his victim’s neck on the block as some announcement ceremony went on around him.
Dunbar desperately wanted to swallow but did not dare. He closed his eyes completely as the light was clicked on. The next few moments were going to decide whether he lived or died. The light on his eyelids dimmed as the man’s shadow fell on them. Dunbar sensed him kneel down to his left. He could hear his breathing, smell a suggestion of foreign food on his clothes.
He felt his arm being grasped firmly but not with undue roughness. The man suspected nothing. Timing was all-important now. At the first touch of the needle point Dunbar rolled smartly away to stop it piercing his skin. He brought the metal scoop from behind his back and swung it at his assailant’s head. It connected with a dull clunk and threw the man off balance, but Dunbar knew the blow wasn’t heavy enough to knock him out. The man was already recovering and soon Dunbar was going to be in real trouble. He’d used up his adrenalin in fighting the effects of the drug.
Fuelled by panic, he struggled to his knees and swung his right fist at the Arab but his arm felt like lead and the punch carried no weight at all. The Arab evaded it with ease and grinned as Dunbar slumped back to the floor. There was no point in trying to throw any more punches; he hadn’t the strength to make them count. He backed away instinctively, now just hoping to survive as long as possible. The Arab recovered his syringe and checked it leisurely before coming after him.
As Dunbar retreated, he stumbled against the sack of animal feed, which spilled over. He grabbed a handful of pellets and flung them across the floor under the Arab’s feet. It seemed odds against, but for once he got the luck he needed. The Arab lost his footing and pitched forward, saving himself from falling by reaching into the hopper of the processing machine. Instinctively, Dunbar groped for the On switch on the control panel — it took only a second but seemed like an eternity — and pressed it.
The machine sprang to life and drew the Arab’s arm into the blades. Mercifully, he fell into unconsciousness as the scream died on his lips. The machine jammed. Dunbar hit the Off switch and was enveloped in silence.