The Anvil

SIXTEEN

MacLean felt the rug pulled from beneath him. Maria had never seen or heard of Von Jonek. Did that mean that the Hacienda Yunque was not the site of the X14 project after all? A cloud of depression engulfed him. It was possible that he had jumped to conclusions on the basis of circumstantial evidence. Maria had told him that the patients looked so well after surgery so he had immediately supposed that Cytogerm was being used. If he had stopped to think for a moment he would have realised that an essential part of cosmetic surgery was the disguising and minimising of scarring. It was very different from the surgery he had been used to. The surgeons at the Hacienda Yunque had no damaged tissue to contend with. There was no reason for the patients not to look well after surgery.

Maria sensed that something was wrong and MacLean told her that maybe the Hacienda was not the place they were looking for after all.

‘But what about Carla and the others?

MacLean shrugged apologetically.

The others were reluctant to let go too. Leavey said, ‘It’s stretching coincidence a bit far to find a link with plastic surgery here in Mijas and for it not to be concerned in some way with Lehman Steiner.’

‘But where is Von Jonek?’ argued MacLean.

‘Why is this man so important?’ asked Maria.

MacLean decided to tell her a little more. He told her that they were searching for a chemical that Von Jonek had stolen from him some years before in Geneva.

‘And it’s worth a lot of money?’

‘It’s worth more than money,’ said MacLean without explaining further.

To end the ensuing silence Leavey suddenly asked, ‘What does Yunque mean, Maria?

‘It means… ‘ Maria hesitated as she tried to remember the English word. She made hammering motions with her hand.

MacLean beat her to it as it came to him in a sudden rush. ‘Anvil!’ he exclaimed.

‘Yes, anvil.’

Leavey broke into a rare smile and MacFarlane said, Coincidence doesn’t stretch that far.’

MacLean agreed. ‘This has to be the place.’

‘I’ve been thinking about what you asked me yesterday,’ said Maria. ‘There is one local service that the doctors at the clinic use. They use a laboratory service in the town for lab tests on their patients.’

Questions followed thick and fast. MacLean wanted to know all about the lab, how big it was, how many people worked there, and whether the analysts ever went to the clinic themselves.

The service was run by one man working on his own and yes, he did go to the Hacienda, twice a week to cross-match blood for patients before they underwent surgery. There was always a possibility that things might go wrong in surgery and the patient might haemorrhage. A supply of fresh blood matched to the patient’s own had to be kept in readiness.

‘What other services does this man provide?’ asked MacLean.

‘Routine clinical tests for the doctors in the town,’ replied Maria.

‘What happens if he’s ill?’

‘I don’t know, Senor.’

‘A locum will go to the clinic instead,’ said Leavey with plain meaning.

‘Quite so,’ replied MacLean. ‘If only I can remember how to cross-match blood.’

‘And the man falls ill,’ added MacFarlane.

That evening, when it got dark, MacLean and the others went round to the address Maria had given them and found the sign outside the door. The Juan Tormo Laboratorio was located on the first floor of a four storey building in a quiet street that ran parallel to the Paseo Maritimo and some three blocks north of it. MacFarlane went up to have a look at the front door while Leavey and MacLean took a walk. They turned round after a few hundred metres and met MacFarlane coming to meet them. They could tell from his grin that he had been successful.

‘It’s open. I didn’t damage the lock; I can lock up again when you’ve finished.’

MacLean wasn’t sure what he was looking for when he entered the lab and used the torch that Leavey had given him to find his way around. He just needed some kind of feel for the set-up. The lab consisted of two rooms and an office. One room was equipped for bacteriology, the other for blood tests. There was nothing ultra-modern or daunting about the equipment but what there was seemed adequate for routine lab testing in a small town.

MacLean did not waste much time on the labs. He concentrated his attention on the books and papers in the office, starting with the diary and daybook. He was encouraged when he found the initials ‘H.Y.’ pencilled opposite Tuesday and Thursday of the following week, presumably these would be the days for blood tests at the clinic. The question now was, how could he possibly go in Tormo’s place? He continued leafing through the paperwork on the desk and found letters and circulars from various learned societies.

It was becoming apparent that Tormo was a committee man. His society membership certificates were displayed on the wall in glass-fronted frames as was a photograph of the man himself dressed in academic robes. No patient would ever come to these premises so there was no call to display such items for the reassurance of others. MacLean examined the photograph and considered that he had learned quite a lot about the man, most importantly, his Achilles’ heel; he was self-important. This could be used.

MacLean flicked idly through the pages of the journal of the ‘International Society of Medical Analysts’, stopping as he came to a photograph of a man in a white coat looking suitably serious. The article was headed, ‘A Week in the Life of… ‘ The current article was devoted to Dr David Schulz who ran ‘a busy practice in Hamburg’. The reporter had followed him through an average week. This seemed to be a regular feature and it gave MacLean the idea he was looking for. He put everything back the way he had found it and left the premises to rejoin MacFarlane and Leavey.

‘Finished?’ asked MacFarlane.

‘Thanks Willie,’ said MacLean. MacFarlane went back upstairs to lock up.

‘How’d it go?’ asked Leavey.

‘I think I know how to do it,’ replied MacLean.

Next morning MacLean turned up at the Juan Tormo Laboratorio and announced himself as a representative of the International Society of Medical Analysts. He was received warmly by Tormo who turned out to be a lot older than the graduation photograph MacLean had seen on the wall. The years had turned him into a small, dapper man in his middle fifties with a dark pencil-thin moustache, which gave him the air of a silent-film villain. MacLean could not avoid an image of Tormo tying a widow to a railway track while a train thundered (silently) round the bend.

He explained that he had been detailed by the society to find a suitable Spanish candidate for their ‘Week in the Life’ spot in the journal. He had been to Madrid and Barcelona interviewing likely candidates and had come south for a short holiday before returning to the rigours of winter. He had just happened to see Tormo’s sign while passing and it had given him an inspired idea…

Tormo took the bait, modestly protesting the smallness of his operation but beaming with pleasure at the possibility of seeing his own photograph appear in the journal. His practice was small but very interesting and varied, he maintained. He thought that there was plenty here to interest the readership.

‘Interesting,’ said MacLean, pretending to take notes.

‘What exactly would this involve?’ asked Tormo.

MacLean told him that he only had a week left to spend in the south. He would call head office in Paris and if they agreed with his plan he would spend the whole week with Tormo, following his every working move. He presumed that Tormo would be visiting various surgeries etc?

Tormo began selling himself to MacLean as MacLean hoped he would. On Tuesday he would be working at the Hacienda Yunque, one of the most prestigious private clinics in the country. Tormo lingered on the exclusive nature of the clientele and MacLean realised that he had met his first Spanish snob. This was good. Snobs were always predictable. He said that he thought Tormo’s role as consultant to the clinic was fascinating and would make excellent copy. Perhaps they could get a photograph of him working at the clinic itself?

Tormo was openly enthusiastic. He obviously saw himself ending up as the chairman of every influential committee in the region. He would have to obtain the director’s permission of course but he did not foresee any difficulty as there was no suggestion of any popular-press involvement. Discretion and good taste were of paramount importance at the Hacienda. He felt sure that the International Society of Medical Analysts would be welcome but what about MacLean’s head office? Did he think they would go for the idea?

‘I don’t see any real problem,’ replied MacLean. ‘Why should people in big cities get all the coverage?’

MacLean returned with the news of his success.

‘Do you think the Hacienda will allow it?’ asked Leavey.

MacLean admitted that this might be the stumbling block but, according to Maria, security did not seem to be a big thing at the clinic. They did not behave as if they had anything to hide. MacFarlane was keen to know how he planned to look for the Cytogerm.

‘Play it by ear,’ replied MacLean, admitting that things would be a whole lot easier if Leavey were permitted to come along as the society’s photographer.

On Monday morning Leavey and MacLean turned up at Tormo’s laboratory, MacLean with his reporter’s notebook and Leavey with his camera equipment slung professionally over his shoulder.

‘Head office agreed,’ announced MacLean. ‘They’ve even assigned me a photographer.’

Tormo was delighted with the news. MacLean could see that he’d had his hair cut, just in case.

They spent the morning cataloguing the work that came in for routine analysis and Leavey took pictures of Tormo posing at the microscope and looking suitably quizzical at test tubes which he held up to the light — ‘I think my left side is better.’

MacLean had decided that he would not mention the Hacienda Yunque at this stage, gambling that Tormo would. They got to four in the afternoon without any mention having been made of it and MacLean was beginning to get anxious. Had the clinic refused permission? he began to wonder.

Tormo finished his last blood count and washed his hands. ‘Well, Senors, a typical Monday in our small Spanish town. What do you think?’

‘Absolutely fascinating,’ replied MacLean, summoning up sounds of enthusiasm.

‘And tomorrow we go to the Hacienda.’

‘Oh yes, the hacienda,’ said MacLean feigning casualness ‘The clinic had no objections?’

‘Not when they heard the name of the society.’

‘What about photographs?’ asked MacLean with his heart in his mouth.

‘There is no objection to photographs being taken provided that none of the patients appear in them. The clinic was most insistent.’

‘Quite understandable,’ said MacLean. He made a joke about it being the kind of place where women would spend thousands of dollars to come to and then pretend they’d never been there.’ They all laughed.

Late that night MacLean stood alone on the balcony of their apartment, looking at the sea and thinking of Carrie and Tansy. A breeze touched his cheek and he felt it cold. It made him shiver in the darkness. People had been saying that the weather had been unseasonably warm and that it wouldn’t last. The moon disappeared behind rolling clouds and the air started to move as if a monster had stirred in his sleep and altered his breathing pattern.

At four in the morning the storms which had been lashing the eastern Mediterranean shores of Israel and Lebanon reached the south coast of Spain on their way west. They had lost little of their venom on the journey. The wind drove the rain on shore with a fury that made babies cry and old folks cross themselves. There was no question of sleeping through the din. Leavey got up and made coffee.

‘It might work to our advantage,’ he said, as he handed mugs to the other two. If the rain persisted he wouldn’t be able to get any decent pictures of Tormo entering the Hacienda, so they might all have an excuse to go back again on Thursday, giving them two bites at the cherry.

All three of them had to put down their coffee in order to secure the balcony awnings and fasten the shutters against the night. Water poured through the drainage holes on all the balconies in the apartment block and fell like a waterfall into the courtyard below.

It was still raining when Leavey and MacLean arrived at Tormo’s laboratory and found him, as before, delighted to see them. They were his link with the recognition he so much desired. He had some specimens to attend to before they could leave for the Hacienda. There had been an outbreak of suspected food poisoning among the residents at one of the hotels in town and Salmonella was a possibility. MacLean strengthened his image by making some knowledgeable comment about the bacteriology of Salmonella infections. ‘You’ll be plating on DCA?’ he asked.

‘Si, and Selenite subculture,’ replied Tormo.

Leavey looked out of the window and tried to guess which car was Tormo’s.

It was ten thirty when they got into Tormo’s dark blue Peugeot estate car and set off for the Hacienda. Butterflies were beginning to think it was summer in MacLean’s stomach but Leavey seemed as implacable as ever. He gazed out of the window as if he were a passenger on a bus travelling a route he’d done a thousand times before.

The climb up the mountain road proved to be even more laborious than the last time, as the storm had washed mud and scree off the hillside to litter the road. In all they had to stop four times to clear obstructions from their path before reaching the great wrought-iron gates of the clinic. Tormo got out to ID himself on an entry-phone at the side. As he returned to the car an electric motor hummed into life and the gates swung slowly open.

They drove slowly up the drive and through the orchard to the house. The Hacienda looked even more impressive at close quarters although it had a brooding quality because of a large cliff overhang above it. MacLean had not realised that the house literally backed into the rock face. Leavey who had been thinking the same thing whispered, ‘No back door,’ as they followed Tormo up the fifty or so steps to the entrance. The nearer they got to the building the smaller they began to feel. It towered above them haughtily as if it and everyone in it were looking down on them.

Prompted by Leavey’s elbow, MacLean asked Tormo to pause at the head of the steps so that he could take a photograph of him entering the Hacienda. Tormo adopted a suitable pose but Leavey shook his head, maintaining that he was having difficulty with rain on the lens of the camera. He tried for the other side of the steps, crouching down as he’d once seen Patrick Lichfield do on television, but still looked deliberately doubtful. ‘A pity,’ he said. ‘This might even have made the cover.’

‘Maybe the weather will be better on Thursday,’ suggested Tormo, having taken the bait. MacLean agreed.

The door was opened by a frumpish woman in her forties whom Tormo introduced as Senora Seeler, the housekeeper. She nodded formally to Leavey and MacLean before leaving Tormo to lead the way to the clinic’s laboratory. Leavey and MacLean exchanged admiring glances as they walked through the Hacienda. This was a class act.

They passed quietly and unobtrusively through areas where residents sat, swathed in towels and robes, manicured hands holding glossy magazines, legs crossed languidly, resting on footstools which accompanied their lounger chairs. No one took notice of them; MacLean thought of the ‘invisibility’ of servants in times gone by. They paused in one of the empty rooms to admire the view from a panoramic window. They stood in silence but Chopin accompanied the vista from an unseen and unobtrusive sound system.

‘I think I want to stay here,’ murmured Leavey and MacLean agreed.

Tormo smiled and said, ‘The Hacienda is not for mere mortals Senors.’

‘Story of my life,’ said Leavey.

The small laboratory was superbly equipped but after what they had seen, they had not expected anything else. Tormo said that he was often tempted to bring up his other blood samples and run them through the automatic blood analyser; he couldn’t possibly afford one himself. The lab was the first indication that they were not in a luxury hotel because so far, they had not come across anything to suggest clinical nature of the place. There was no lingering smell of anaesthetics or disinfectant. There were no trolleys parked in the corridors and not even a nurse to be seen.

MacLean remarked on this and Tormo said, ‘All the medical and surgical facilities are downstairs. The patients don’t actually go down there until the day of their operation. The nurses on this floor do not wear uniforms. It keeps the patients relaxed.’

MacLean gradually built up a picture of the clinic and its internal layout through prudent questioning of Tormo. The patients’ suites, the communal lounges and recreation areas were on the main floor. There were two operating theatres, recovery rooms and post-operative care facilities on the floor below. All services from water to anaesthetic gases were furnished from a large basement complex. Offices and staff living quarters were on the top floor with the exception of the maintenance staff who lived in an annexe to the basement.

MacLean now had a clear objective. He had to get downstairs to the surgical and medical area where he felt sure he’d find the clinic’s pharmacy. If Cytogerm were here at all, that’s where it would be. He set himself a target for the day of finding out where the pharmacy was located. Leavey had ensured that they would be coming back on Thursday. That’s when he would try to lay hands on the stuff.

Leavey and MacLean watched Tormo carry out blood tests with Leavey taking the occasional photograph and MacLean asking the odd question as he considered what to do next. Eventually he had an idea. ‘If you are the only analyst employed by the clinic you must look after the theatres too?’ he asked Tormo.

‘I do routine monitoring of the surfaces for bacterial contamination,’ agreed Tormo. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I was just thinking we might get more dramatic pictures of you at work in a theatre. Labs are interesting but operating theatres are more… atmospheric, don’t you think?’

‘I see,’ replied Tormo thoughtfully. ‘I take your point. I’ll have to check the theatre schedules.’

Tormo left the room and MacLean crossed his fingers in a silent gesture to Leavey. They did not have long to wait for Tormo’s return. The little man was smiling. ‘We are in luck,’ he announced. ‘No theatre is in use this morning. We can go down there now, if you like.’

Leavey and MacLean followed Tormo down some well-lit stairs and paused at the foot where they came to a tray across the floor with some wet sponge-like material in it. ‘Routine disinfecting of our shoes,’ said Tormo. ‘We have to walk through it. We will have to gown-up too. These are the rules.’ They were led into a small ante-room where Tormo told them to leave their jackets and put on the green gowns he handed them. ‘Post-operative infection at the clinic is practically unknown,’ he said. ‘They like to keep it that way.’

Tormo led them along a corridor to the nurses’ station where three nurses sat at a curved desk. ‘I’m going to do some sampling in theatre one,’ said Tormo. ‘These gentlemen are from International Society of Medical Analysts, they are doing an article about me.’

The nurse smiled and nodded.

Tormo clicked on the theatre lights and MacLean stopped in his tracks. He had expected a well-equipped modern theatre but this one had an observation gallery. He was staring up at it when Tormo asked him if anything was the matter. ‘You don’t usually see these outside teaching hospitals,’ he said.

‘The Hacienda quite often has visitors from other clinics,’ said Tormo, making MacLean even more confused. How could the clinic be using Cytogerm and still inviting the world to watch?

Tormo was confused by MacLean’s preoccupation. ‘It’s quite usual for surgeons to watch other surgeons at work,’ he said. ‘The Hacienda is at the forefront of cosmetic technology.’

‘Yes, of course, ‘ replied MacLean quickly, then seeing his chance he added, ‘I wonder: do you think I could see an operation?’

Tormo frowned, unable to see the relevance of such a request but this was tempered by his desire to please the man who was going to bring him fame. ‘I really don’t know,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It would be most unusual. Are you medically qualified?’

‘Yes,’ replied MacLean without further explanation.

‘I would have to seek the director’s permission.’

‘It would add depth to the article,’ said MacLean. If the surgeons were using Cytogerm, there was no way they could disguise it from him, of that he was certain.

‘Perhaps we might do the photographs?’ asked Tormo tentatively. MacLean was brought back down to earth. He organised a series of tableaux with Tormo heroically testing various surfaces in the theatre for contamination while Leavey clicked away with his camera.

On the pretext of having to use the toilet MacLean followed Tormo’s directions while Leavey insisted on taking a few more pictures. He took the opportunity to look around the floor. He found the Pharmacy down a corridor to the left of the nurses’ station.

‘Can I help you?’ asked a female voice behind him. It was a nurse. MacLean replied in French, the language of the question, saying that he was lost. He was trying to find his way back to the theatre where he was working with Senor Tormo. The nurse gave him directions and MacLean thanked her.

Leavey was still dutifully snapping away at Tormo when MacLean returned to the theatre. MacLean shot him a look of appreciation and asked how it was going.

‘I think I’ve got some good shots,’ said Leavey.’

‘I didn’t realise so much went into a simple magazine article,’ said Tormo.

MacLean smiled knowingly. ‘If it’s to be a good one, shall we go back upstairs?’

Leavey packed up his camera equipment and Tormo asked MacLean how he thought the article was progressing. MacLean assured him that things were going well and reminded him to ask about permission to see one of the clinic’s operations. He and Leavey were left alone in the upstairs lab while Tormo went to see the director. ‘I found the Pharmacy,’ said MacLean. ‘It’s down from the nurses’ station on the left hand side.’

‘Was it manned?’ asked Leavey.

MacLean confessed that he had not had the chance to find out. A nurse had found him snooping around.

‘We may need a diversion on Thursday,’ said Leavey. ‘I made a mental note of where the fire alarms were.’

Tormo returned and said, ‘The director wasn’t keen on the idea at first but I assured him that you were a distinguished representative of the Analysts’ society and when he heard you were medically qualified he agreed.’

‘Thank you,’ said MacLean. ‘I look forward to it.’

Tormo glanced at Leavey and said, ‘I am afraid of course, that there is no question of allowing your colleague into the gallery.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Leavey. ‘I can’t stand the sight of blood.’

‘When will this happen?’ asked MacLean.

‘The director has kindly given you a choice,’ replied Tormo. ‘There are two scheduled operations tomorrow, one for breast implants and another for thigh liposuction. On Thursday there is only one, facial surgery for the removal of crows’ feet and a double chin.’

MacLean opted for the Thursday operation. If they were using Cytogerm it would be for the face job.

‘Very well,’ said Tormo.

They returned down the mountain and said their good-byes, arranging to meet again on Thursday morning.

‘You are not coming to my lab tomorrow?’ asked Tormo.

‘We have enough information and photographs to be going on with,’ said MacLean. ‘We’ll just fill in the details from your diary for tomorrow.’

Leavey and MacLean started to walk back to the apartment, both deep in thought and saying nothing until Leavey broke the silence and said, ‘That was all just too easy.’

‘Just what I was thinking,’ agreed MacLean.

‘They were all behaving as if they had nothing to hide and I suspect I know the reason,’ said Leavey.

‘Me too,’ said MacLean. ‘They have nothing to hide.’

‘But it must be the place,’ said Leavey.

‘So what is Lehman Steiner spending 18 million dollars on and where is Von Jonek?’

MacFarlane was keen to hear their news when they reached the apartment, particularly if they had found a role for him in the proceedings.

‘We’ve no doors for you to open Willie because they’re all being opened for us,’ said Leavey, saying that he was going to take a shower and leaving the room.

‘But surely it’s the place?’ said MacFarlane.

‘We’ve just been saying that ourselves,’ said MacLean. He told MacFarlane that he was being allowed to attend an operation on Thursday.

‘Another day of twiddling my thumbs then,’ said MacFarlane.

‘Maybe not Willie,’ said MacLean thoughtfully.

‘How so?’ asked MacFarlane.

MacLean told him of Tormo’s estate car and suggested that if he could secrete himself in the back of it on Thursday morning he could gain access to the Hacienda and be free to roam around while everyone else was inside. He suggested that he could check out the basement area, something neither he nor Leavey had managed to do.’

‘What am I looking for?’ asked MacFarlane.

‘Anything and everything,’ said MacLean.

On Thursday the weather reverted to blue skies and sunshine. They stopped for a while at the entrance to the Hacienda so that Leavey could take pictures of Tormo, briefcase in hand, smiling under the archway. He was anxious that Leavey should capture the name of the clinic in every shot. While this was going on, MacLean sneaked a look into the back of the Peugeot and saw that MacFarlane had made it.