Maggie tries to catch him off guard. “Did you kill my husband?”
“No.” There is no hesitation. “I needed him alive to work on that artificial heart. His death was a tremendous blow to me.”
She tries again: “Did Trace kill him?”
“Could be,” he says in too casual a way. “Marc found out about Trace organ harvesting. It upset him. Trace might have killed Marc to protect himself. But I don’t know.” Oleg’s breath grows raspier. “I’m getting tired, so I need to get to the point. My latest heart is failing. I have run out of time. We have the latest THUMPR7 here. We have the DNA sequencing machine and all the other equipment. We both know what went wrong the first time you tried the operation on that ‘poor man’ in Dubai — you didn’t have a heart. We have an ideal, healthy one now from a brain-dead man in a coma. The heart isn’t being shipped either. I’ve paid to have the brain-dead man brought here. Your husband and Trace Packer wrote quite a bit on the advantages of ‘beating-heart’ transplantation when developing the THUMPR7. We will have the ultimate version of that. The heart will be taken out by a team just minutes before insertion. In short, the conditions are finally perfect for the transplant that can save my life.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
Oleg Ragoravich gives her a sharklike smile. “Why do you think?”
And then she sees it. “You want me to do the transplant?”
“Yes. Of course. That’s why you’re here.”
Silence.
“Your husband is dead. Trace Packer, well, we don’t know where he is. No Marc, no Trace... That leaves you, Doctor McCabe.”
“But I’m a plastic surgeon—”
“Oh, you’re more than that. Let’s not play the false modesty card. I made a mistake back then. I relied on the two men. Old-world sexism on my part. I should have focused on you. You are the best surgeon of the group. Women often are better at focusing on what matters, at understanding the mission. They don’t let their egos get involved the way men do. When you were around, Marc and Trace were better doctors, researchers, and humans. When you left, it all went to hell.”
And if she hadn’t left, Maggie thinks, Marc would still be alive.
“Whose heart is it?”
“I told you. A man in a coma.”
“Someone from a refugee camp?”
“Does it matter?”
“Depends. Did you put him in a coma?”
“If I needed to, I would have. But I didn’t. He’s been brain-dead for months. If it makes you feel any better, I paid his caretaker a fortune to get him here.”
“I need reassurances—”
“No, Doctor McCabe, you don’t. You will do the surgery. You will be well paid. And after it is over, you will have both the satisfaction of completing your husband’s work and the guarantee of safety. I have assembled the finest cardiothoracic surgery team possible — surgical nurses, perfusion technologists, a cardiac anesthesiologist, and two top heart transplant surgeons to assist you. This will all be over for you after you do this transplant tomorrow.”
“It won’t work,” Maggie says. “The THUMPR7 isn’t ready.”
“The decision’s been made.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Do we need to play this game, Doctor McCabe?” Ragoravich sighs. “I showed you the carrot, so I might as well show you the stick.” He steeples his hands again and rests his forefingers on his chin. “If you refuse, the other surgeons will still proceed with the procedure. But instead of the brain-dead comatose man’s heart, I’ll use your father-in-law’s, which will be ripped out of his chest with no anesthesia while we make you watch.”
He grins. “Do I make myself clear?”
Porkchop can’t help but laugh.
“He actually used those words? Ripping my heart out of my chest?”
“It’s not funny.”
“Except it kinda is. Oh, and without anesthesia? Did he really say that too?”
“While he makes me watch.”
“That’s a nice touch. Such a flair for the dramatic.”
“Or the sadistic. What do you think we should do?”
Porkchop puts his hand to his chest. “Hell, Mags, I don’t want my heart ripped out of my chest.”
“Stop that.”
They are back on the porch of the guesthouse at Smith Haut Lafitte, watching the sun set so majestically you figure it’s showing off.
“You’ll do the surgery,” Porkchop says. “Like the man says, you have no choice. You do the surgery, we go home, we put this behind us.”
“And Trace?”
“What about him?”
“We still don’t know where he is.”
“A problem for another day.”
She takes a sip of wine. “None of this makes sense.”
Porkchop says nothing.
“It’s like they knew I was coming. It’s like they led me here.”
Porkchop still stares out in silence.
“Do you think Nadia set me up?” Maggie asks.
“How so?”
“She told me about Brovski landing in Bordeaux.”
“How did she know where he was again? Oh right, she stole his phone and dropped a pin.”
“Which is a little suspicious in itself, right? Maybe Nadia made that up. Maybe she’s on their side. I don’t know. But think about it. They were ready for us, Porkchop. Ragoravich had a surgical team prepared. He has the THUMPR7 and all our equipment. All he needed was me — and voilà, here I am.”
Porkchop takes another sip. “You asked this Ragoravich guy if he killed Marc.”
“Yes.”
“And he said no.”
“Right.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I do. He only cares about the THUMPR7. He needed Marc for that.”
“Did he?” Porkchop asks. “Or did he need you?”
“I don’t get what you mean.”
“Neither do I.” Porkchop lifts up the empty wine bottle. “Probably a little too much grape.”
“So what do we do now, Porkchop?”
“We finish our glasses. We stroll up the path to La Grand’Vigne. That’s the vineyard’s two-star Michelin restaurant. We sit at a little wooden table outside. We don’t look at the menu. We ask Chef Nicolas what we should order and his sommelier for the proper wine pairing. We finish watching this glorious sunset, and we think about Marc.”
The tears start pushing into her eyes again. “I shouldn’t have gone home. I should have stayed with him in Dubai.”
“Then you’d both be dead,” Porkchop says. “You would have gone to that refugee camp with him. You would have stayed by his side during the siege. And whoever killed him would have killed you too.”
“And whoever,” Maggie repeats. Then: “You think it was Trace.”
“Yeah, Mags, I do. But either way, you’re alive. Marc is dead. He’d want you to move on.”
“You don’t believe in life after death, do you?”
Porkchop shakes his head. “We get one ride. This is it.”
“So Marc is gone,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Forever.”
“Forever.”
“How do we accept that, Porkchop?”
“We don’t,” he says. “We can’t.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Before Maggie puts on her surgical gown, gloves, and goggles, Ivan Brovski enters the room and collapses into a chair.
“All okay?” Maggie asks.
“I need to deliver a message.”
Maggie waits.
“Oleg Ragoravich has given us clear instructions: If he doesn’t make it out of the surgery, neither do you.”
He looks up at her.
“Hell of an incentive,” Maggie says, because sometimes humor is the best defense mechanism.