Pandemic

18

WEDNESDAY, 7:40 A.M.

Emerging from the depths of the Lincoln Tunnel that runs under the Hudson River between Manhattan and New Jersey, Jack had to smile while thinking of New Jersey’s nickname: the Garden State. The traffic was nightmarish, with trucks and buses, and there was hardly a tree, a shrub, or even a blade of grass in sight. It was all concrete or macadam and as densely built up as New York, just not as high.

Jack had been to the state perhaps a dozen times and thought of it as quintessentially suburban, with lots of single-family houses separated by green lawns. But those forays had always been over the George Washington Bridge. Where he was now, racing west on a sunken highway, it seemed decidedly dystopian. Yet the farther he drove, the more pleasant it became. He even began to progressively see trees clothed in autumnal splendor, as well as a few homes with white picket fences. After twenty minutes of rather frantic driving, it was apparent he was heading for the countryside.

The scenery was not the only thing that changed as Jack headed westward, away from the urban sprawl. His level of anxiety ratcheted down several notches, making him realize how tense he had been. He thanked his lucky stars for the subway death case having been dumped into his lap and wondered how he would have been coping had it not come his way. With Sheldon Montgomery now joining his wife in camping out in the apartment, Jack felt his living situation had gone from bad to worse, making it almost impossible for him to deal with the angst and guilt associated with Emma’s circumstance. For Jack, who had a surgeon’s mind-set, he felt totally frustrated that there was nothing he could do or fix about her disorder.

As a method of emotional defense, Jack consciously turned his mind away from his domestic problems and concentrated on the case at hand. First and foremost, he still didn’t have a cause of death. He had a strong hunch plus probable laboratory confirmation it was a virus, but at almost forty-eight hours after the autopsy he didn’t have a specific organism. He’d had cases of unknown viruses in the past, but all had been at least identified by this time. Second, the patient had had a heart transplant with a heart that matched her own DNA at the twenty CODIS loci. For that to happen by chance, it would have been somewhere around one in seventy trillion, meaning it could happen only if the donor was an identical twin. Yet had that been the case, Jack was sure it would have been all over the media. Third was the weird circumstance of a youthful, well-kept, and well-dressed woman who suddenly died and yet was not missed by friends or family and even now seemed devoid of kin. Fourth involved the strange circumstance of the victim having been operated on at one hospital with expenses paid by another. And last, how was it that the executor of the woman’s estate, whatever it comprised, was a philanthropic billionaire Chinese businessman?

With some contemporary music playing in the background on the Escalade’s radio, Jack mulled over all these unique issues and wondered how many of them he might be able to explain after his visit that day. He knew he wasn’t going to learn anything about the virus. That was dependent on Aretha’s efforts, perhaps with the help of the CDC. As for the others, he thought there was a chance he’d learn something, but he really didn’t have a specific plan about how to go about doing so. Vaguely he thought he would just go to the Dover Valley Hospital and start asking questions. But before he did that, he wanted to stop by the Higgins Funeral Home to be a hundred percent sure they had gotten the message about the potential contagious nature of the remains.

Before he had set out, Jack had used Google Maps to locate the funeral home, as well as the hospital and GeneRx. It was a good move. Although the funeral home was in Dover itself, the hospital and the pharmaceutical company were situated a distance away in the direction of a federal property called Picatinny Arsenal. The site was north of Interstate 80, which Jack had used for about two-thirds of the drive from Manhattan. As he neared Dover, which was to the south, he exited the freeway and proceeded on side roads. He now could see what Warren meant about the area looking green. With the overcast sky and misty rain still falling, it reminded him of photos of Ireland.

The closer Jack got to his destination, the more revved up he became. His active intuition was again sending alarms that something about this strange case hinted that chicanery or worse was afoot, yet he had no idea whatsoever what it might involve. At the same time, he made himself a promise that he would make a Herculean effort at being as diplomatic as possible, meaning he would try to keep his reflexive sarcasm and self-righteousness to a minimum. The last thing he wanted was for complaints to get back to Laurie and make her job more difficult. There was also the issue Bart had raised that Jack had no official jurisdiction whatsoever in New Jersey, which could have legal repercussions.

Dover turned out to be a pleasant, modest rural town, with the tallest brick buildings only three or four stories tall. Google Maps had pegged the population at a bit more than eighteen thousand, and for Jack, coming directly from New York City, it appeared even smaller than that. Higgins Funeral Home was close to the center of town, and it was housed in a white, wood-framed Victorian building similar to a number of the funeral homes Jack had been forced to visit over the years. For Jack, the experience was like living a cliché, including the decorum and appearance of the funeral director, Robert Higgins III. Gaunt and pale and dressed in a dark three-piece suit, he was perfectly cast.

Jack introduced himself without bothering to flash his NYC official badge and came right to the point. “I believe you have the body of Carol Stewart here in your facility, which was picked up last evening from the New York Chief Medical Examiner’s Office.”

“That’s not correct,” Robert said. He spoke slowly and precisely, his tone hushed, even though there were no visitors in evidence.

“What is not correct?” Jack asked. He tensed, wondering if he was in for another major surprise.

“The body was picked up by my younger brother,” Robert agreed. “But it is not here.”

“Has it already been cremated?” Jack asked. He couldn’t think of any other reason the body wouldn’t have been there.

“It has not,” Robert said. “A second autopsy was formally requested by the executor of the estate. Early this morning the body was picked up by one of the Morris County medical examiners, who also has a small private office here in Dover.”

“Is there no next of kin involved?” Jack asked.

“None,” Robert said. “We have been dealing only with the executor.”

“Interesting.” That had become his stock phrase over the last couple days, adopted from Aretha. The request for a second autopsy by Wei Zhao was a surprise for Jack, although not nearly in the same category as the other surprises he’d been experiencing about the case. But this had a personal aspect, as it was a minor professional slap in the face, since there had been no attempt to contact him about the findings of the first autopsy. Jack felt strongly that a second autopsy was a total waste of time and resources.

“His name is Dr. Harvey Lauder,” Robert offered. “And his office is only a few blocks away. Would you care for the address?”

“That would be helpful,” Jack said. While Robert wrote down the address on the back of one of his business cards, Jack added: “The reason I stopped in here was to make sure you were told that the case may involve an unknown infectious virus and precautions need to be taken until it is ruled out.”

“We understood that,” Robert said. “And we communicated it to Dr. Lauder as well. We did not remove the body from the sealed body bag while it was in our possession in our cooler. When the body comes back we will treat it with the utmost care, whether it is to be cremated or embalmed, depending on the dispensation decided upon by the executor.”

“That would be the prudent course,” Jack said, unconsciously mimicking the funeral director’s stilted language.

Once outside, Jack used Google Maps on this phone to locate the private office of the forensic pathologist. When he saw how close it was, he walked. It felt good to stretch his legs.

“I’m sorry, but Dr. Lauder is not here,” an assistant-cum-secretary said. “He’s at the Dover Valley Hospital for a case.”

Jack left his card with his mobile number and asked if Dr. Lauder might give him a call. He thought there was a chance he might see the pathologist at the hospital, which was Jack’s next destination, but in case he didn’t, Jack wanted to find out exactly what was found at the second autopsy. He was also interested to learn why it was ordered.

Leaving Dover, Jack drove north, going under Interstate 80. Soon he was in even more rural environs. Now he understood even better Warren’s laconic description of the area as “a bunch of little lakes and green hills.” Especially in the direction of Picatinny Arsenal to the north, Jack was amazed at the extent of the virgin temperate forest, all in a blaze of color despite the cloud cover and lack of direct sunlight. It didn’t seem possible to him that such an environment existed within a forty-minute drive of the concrete canyons of New York City.

Coming within sight of the Dover Valley Hospital and its neighboring GeneRx building, Jack could see that the photos he’d viewed online did not do it justice. Both buildings were larger and more impressively modern, with their sheathing of travertine marble and gold-tinted glass, as well as more carefully constructed than the pictures suggested. What had not been apparent also was the degree of physical security around GeneRx. Although it was partially concealed with elaborate plantings, a high razor-wire-topped fence faced the building and disappeared off into the forest on either side. Also partly hidden with evergreen trees was a manned gatehouse guarding the entrance drive.

The approach to the hospital was altogether different. Instead of the rather forbidding look surrounding GeneRx, it was inviting, with lawns, contoured shrubbery, and carefully attended flowerbeds bursting with mums and other fall flowers. What was not evident at either building was many people. As Jack parked and walked to the hospital entrance, only one other family emerged from the hospital and headed to their car. No ambulances came rushing with their sirens blazing, bound for the emergency room drop-off. The entire complex had a serene, futuristic atmosphere.

But inside the building it was different. As soon as Jack entered he felt immediately at home, as if he was back in Champaign, Illinois, in his former life, arriving at a more modern version of the hospital where he did his eye surgery. In contrast to the parking lot, there were plenty of people, and they were all in the usual outfits seen in a community hospital, including pink-smocked volunteer ladies manning an information booth. There was even a busy coffee shop and a sundries store.

Jack approached the information booth, deciding on a strategy on the spur of the moment. He had considered asking for Dr. Lauder, the fellow forensic pathologist, but decided he preferred to talk directly with someone who was part of the hospital organization and not a temporary hired hand. He ended up asking for the medical director of the Zhao Heart Center, with the idea of going for the jugular.

“That would be Dr. Theodore Markham,” the volunteer said in response to his question. She motioned for Jack to pick up one of the red phones on the information booth’s countertop. A moment later, Jack was talking to the man’s secretary. When Jack asked for the doctor, the secretary asked who she could say was calling. Jack gave his full name and his official position in hopes that curiosity might get him a few minutes with the clinic director. The woman politely asked him to hold the line, promising she would be right back.

As Jack waited, he marveled at how much more civil people could be in contrast to how they were all too often in the city. But it turned out the secretary had been lying. She didn’t come right back on the line as she’d promised. Instead, it was Dr. Theodore Markham himself.

“Is this really Dr. Jack Stapleton of the NYC OCME?” the doctor asked, as if he hadn’t believed his secretary. His tone suggested true surprise, even glee.

“The one and only,” Jack said, trying to tamp down his urge for sarcasm. He did not expect to be greeted with open arms after showing up uninvited at an institution that was possibly doing something not entirely kosher at best and immoral and illegal at worst.

“But this is an internal line,” the medical director said.

“It is indeed,” Jack responded. “I’m here at the information booth of your hospital.”

“Well, isn’t that terrific! I’ll be right down.”

Jack replaced the receiver with a sense of surprise. He’d been mildly concerned about how he’d be received, yet it seemed the man was truly delighted that Jack had unexpectedly dropped by. And this impression was confirmed when the doctor appeared. Although Jack had never met the man, he knew who he was the moment he got off the elevator. Of course, it helped that he waved as he rapidly approached, almost at a jog. He was of small to moderate stature and clean-shaven, sported a full head of dark, curly hair, and was smartly dressed with a crisp white shirt and fashionable tie. Most noticeable to Jack was that he moved with great energy, as though he’d had ten cups of coffee, such that his long white unbuttoned coat billowed behind him as if he were heading into a wind.

“Welcome!” the doctor said, enthusiastically pumping Jack’s hand. “To what do we owe this pleasant surprise? Please call me Ted.”

“I just had a few questions about a case,” Jack said, nonplussed at his reception. In his role as the final arbiter of patient care or the lack thereof, Jack was accustomed to defensive posturing by physicians. Secretly he wondered what the man would say if Jack admitted that a large part of why he was there was the need for an engrossing diversion from emotionally problematic domestic issues.

“Well, we will do our best to answer them,” Ted said. “Please, come up to my office.” He gestured over his shoulder back toward the elevators.

“Sure,” Jack said, following his exuberant host.

“It’s quite a facility, isn’t it?” Ted said as they boarded the elevator. He hit the button for the second floor of the four-story building.

“It’s surprising,” Jack said. “It’s not what I think of when I think of a community hospital.”

Ted laughed with genuine amusement. “It is actually unbelievable. This fabulous architectural wonder of a building is not even half of it. The medical equipment we have is astounding. And everything is essentially brand-new. Believe me, this place is going to be on the map big-time.”

“How so?” Jack asked as the elevator door opened.

“Heart transplants, for one,” Ted said. “That’s going to be the main draw, although other organs will also be done. And our IVF clinic could rival the heart program. And gene therapy. And personalized cancer treatments. There are so many exciting things going on. I tell you, the sky is the limit. The secret is that we get to work directly with the hundreds of bioscientists across the lawn at GeneRx. That means we have a direct link from laboratory bench to hospital bedside. None of the usual town/gown divide. You’ve heard of the gene-editing marvel of CRISPR/CAS9, haven’t you?”

“To a degree,” Jack said as they walked down the hallway of a clinic that rivaled the Zhao Heart Center at MGH, which Jack had visited the day before.

“This little hospital stands to be the first out of the gate with the marvels CRISPR/CAS9 is going to bring to clinical medicine,” Ted explained. He gestured for Jack to precede him into his attractive corner office. “GeneRx specializes in biologicals, meaning protein-based drugs made by living systems. In their case, it’s mostly goats, sheep, pigs, and even chickens, and a few other animals, too.”

Once inside and gazing out the window, Jack had a better view of the biopharmaceutical building, including the Farm behind it. The farm portion wasn’t visible from the public road or from the hospital parking lot.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Ted said, gesturing toward a group of Herman Miller chairs at a round table. “Can I get you anything?” he asked graciously. “Coffee, tea, water, or even a Coke if you’d like.”

“A coffee would be nice,” Jack said. While Ted went to ask his secretary to get the coffee, Jack looked around at Ted’s many framed diplomas from big-name institutions, including the American Boards of Internal Medicine and Cardiology. Jack couldn’t help but be impressed. Ted was an extremely well-trained academic cardiologist. Jack knew the type. They selflessly dedicated their lives to medicine as a true calling.

“I have a confession to make,” Ted said when he returned and took one of the seats. “I took the liberty of calling our chief cardiac surgeon, Dr. Stephen Friedlander, right after you called me to say you were downstairs. I knew he’d want to come by to say hello and have an opportunity to thank you. We are all indebted to your efforts at identifying poor Carol Stewart.”

“How exactly did you find out?” Jack asked.

“We got a call from Dr. Chris Barton right after you left MGH yesterday. He told us of your visit to the Zhao Heart Center and explained all the effort you had expended and what you had managed to accomplish, thanks to a tattoo. Of course, we were crushed to learn of her untimely death. She was a courageous woman who had struggled with cardiomyopathy for several years. She was well-known around here, truly admired, and liked. It was a real loss for all of us. But we needed to know because we need to find out why it happened, so it doesn’t happen in the future. You did us a great service. Thank you so much.”

“It’s part of my job,” Jack said.

“That may be true, but from Chris Barton’s perspective you went way beyond what he would have expected,” Ted said. “Anyway, thank you. So, what are your questions? I’ll be happy to try to answer them, unless they involve details of surgical technique.”

Jack had so many questions he didn’t know what to ask first. At the same time, he wanted to try to be as tactful as possible and not squander his unexpectedly hospitable reception, which he was afraid might happen if he ventured too hastily into sensitive areas. Since one of the issues that both intrigued and bedeviled him the most was the apparent DNA match between Carol and the donor heart, he tried to think of the subtlest way to broach it. What popped into his mind on the spot was getting into a discussion about the motorcycle victim, as it would have had to have been an identical twin. Why such an extraordinary fact would have been kept a secret totally mystified Jack, but there had to have been a reason. Yet before he could put a guileful question together, the secretary returned with the coffee.

“Would you like cream or sugar?” Ted asked. He was solicitously holding both.

“Both, please,” Jack said. Then as soon as the secretary had departed, and the cream and sugar had been stirred into his cup, which gave him a few extra moments to think, he said, “Dr. Barton told me about the coincidence of the fatal motorcycle accident happening on the same day that Carol Stewart’s heart situation became critical. Was the victim related to Carol? Dr. Barton had told me it was a good match.”

“It wasn’t good, it was a fabulous match,” Ted said enthusiastically. “The best I have ever seen, and with the rarest AB-negative serology, which is the reason we pushed for a targeted or direct donation. There was a twelve-out-of-twelve HLA match, zero reactive antigen, and a negative cross-match. It doesn’t get any better than that.”

“Was the motorcyclist related to Carol?” Jack asked, still skirting the issue.

“I believe he was a Stewart, but I’m not positive,” Ted said. “Or he was related somehow. I personally don’t get involved in that, as we have our own organ-donation team who deals with the grieving parents, to separate donor issues from recipient needs. All I knew was the heart matched extraordinarily well. The fact that the kinship issue wasn’t stressed is because we have some hillbillies around here despite our proximity to the city. We might not have any families that are as hostile to each other as the McCoys and the Hatfields, but there are feuds, even within the same family.”

The alarm bells that this case had set off in Jack’s brain started ringing again. “So the motorcyclist was a male?” he asked, to be certain Ted hadn’t had a slip of the tongue.

“Yes,” Ted said. “Ninety percent of motorcycle driver deaths are men.”

“True,” Jack said. As a medical examiner, he was aware of the statistic. But that wasn’t the source of the silent ringing he was hearing. If the motorcyclist was a male, there was no way he could have been an identical twin. Jack was back to square one.

“The reason it was such a serendipitous situation,” Ted said, unaware of Jack’s mental state, “was that Miss Stewart had been on the UNOS waiting list for a year. With AB-negative she clearly wasn’t going to get an organ. Obviously, the motorcyclist’s serology was also AB-negative.”

“Dr. Barton mentioned that,” Jack said.

“Other questions?” Ted asked.

“Yes.” Jack struggled with what next to ask. “We were surprised when a toxicology screen revealed that Miss Stewart had no immunosuppressants in her system.” Reluctant to go for broke, which would have happened had he stayed on the topic of how closely the donor heart matched, he’d changed the subject to the immunosuppressant issue. Now more than ever he was certain that something was amiss with this case, and the cynic in him began to wonder if the hospitality he was experiencing was to placate him.

“It was for good reason you found no immunosuppressants,” Ted said. “She wasn’t on them. She had been doing so admirably, even with her active immune system, which she had, by the way, that we were able to lower and eventually eliminate immunosuppressants. It was a function of how well she had accepted the donor heart, which thrilled us. You have no idea.”

“Hello, hello,” a voice called, as two figures bounded into the room. The first was tall but slightly stooped, with striking, prematurely white hair. In contrast, his face was boyish, with a lantern jaw and bright blue eyes. He was attired exactly as Dr. Chris Barton had been the day before at MGH, in a long white doctor’s coat over scrubs, with a surgical mask dangling from his neck. The second man was similarly dressed but of Asian genealogy, with coal-black hair, small features, and a slight build. Both were smiling as if they had been laughing prior to coming into the room.

Jack and Ted stood as Ted introduced Dr. Stephen Friedlander and Dr. Han Lin to Jack, suggesting as he did so that they should all be on a first-name basis. Jack shook hands with both surgeons. At that point all four people took seats around the circular table.

Like a true surgeon, Stephen took control. He had a deep and commanding voice despite his boyish looks. “We are thrilled you surprised us by stopping by, Dr. Stapleton,” he said. “As I’m sure Ted has told you, we heard the efforts you had gone through to identify our patient, Carol Stewart. As sad as the news was, I personally want to thank you very much for what you did. From what I understand, Carol’s body might not have been identified until she missed her next follow-up visit here at our clinic and we reported it to Missing Persons. It is particularly sad, as I personally know she’s been estranged from her family and had some setbacks in her own social life. I know because she told me not that long ago on her last follow-up visit, which, by the way, was perfect on all accounts. There was absolutely no sign of any coming catastrophe.”

“As I told Ted,” Jack said, “it is part of the job of the medical examiner to identify the dead. At OCME we learned that lesson the hard way after 9/11.”

“At this point our goal needs to be finding out why she died,” Stephen continued. “Whatever it was, we do not want it to happen again. Since we know you did an autopsy, we are interested to hear your findings.”

“I have yet to sign the case out,” Jack said. He appreciated finally being asked, but with Laurie’s insistence on holding off on telling anyone, he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to say, especially until he got confirmation from Aretha. “I’m waiting on some tests.”

“We were concerned about a virus,” Stephen said. “We sponsored a second autopsy here this morning.”

“So I heard,” Jack said. “And what was found?”

“We believe she died of a cytokine storm,” Stephen said. “She had a strong immunological reaction to something in her system. Exactly what, we don’t know. We thought about a virus, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

“Sounds familiar,” Jack said. “I also suspected a virus — influenza, to be exact. But all the usual viruses have been ruled out with rapid screening tests, including influenza.”

“We know it wasn’t a virus,” Stephen said with conviction. He sat back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. “We know it for certain.”

“And how is that?” Jack asked.

“We have access to electron microscopy, which is the benefit of having superb resources. We simply looked. Actually, Dr. Lin looked. Right now, he’s our most experienced electron microscopist. There’s no virus in her lung fluid. Case closed.”

“Yes, I looked for virus,” Dr. Lin said with a heavy accent. “No virus was present.”

“That’s curious,” Jack said. “We began seeing cytopathic changes suggestive of virus in human kidney cell tissue cultures within twenty-four hours of inoculation. The plan is to search for an unknown virus.” Although Jack tried to sound confident, he was shocked and dismayed to hear that no viruses were seen on microscopy. He wondered if Aretha had tried. He doubted it, as she surely would have told him. He didn’t even know if the Public Health Lab had an electron microscope.

“Undoubtedly you were seeing the results of a viral contaminant,” Stephen said confidently. “It happens all the time. If viruses had been present, they would have been seen on microscopy. Since there’s no virus present, running viral searches is a waste of time and money. Our forensic pathologist thinks the case needs to be signed out as a therapeutic complication, despite her surgery being more than three months ago. We agree and think you should do the same. We can share with you our electron photomicrographs for your records for confirmation. What we will be doing going forward is an extensive study of the proteins in the patient’s serum that must have come from the heart and keyed off the cytokine storm. We have that kind of capability. What we’ll be willing to do, if you are interested, is keep you in the loop and let you know what we find. I’m sure we will publish the results, and we’d welcome you as an author.”

“That’s very good of you,” Jack said, trying to keep his tone neutral. “I appreciate the gesture.” Actually, it sounded to him as if they thought they could buy him off with nothing more than an authorship of a study that might get published and might not. Worse yet, from Stephen’s body language, Jack sensed that the meeting was coming to an end despite his serious effort of being tactful and avoiding confronting them directly.

“Well,” Stephen said, slapping his thighs in preparation of getting to his feet. “Consider it a standing offer.”

Clearing his throat and deciding to go for the jugular, come what may, Jack leaned forward and said: “I think I should mention to you one test that was done in our lab whose results we already have in hand. We ran DNA analysis on both the patient and the heart to upload the profiles into CODIS in hopes of helping the identification process. A hit on either would have been helpful. To our shock both profiles were the same. Especially with twenty loci as the new standard, that is statistically impossible. Do you folks find that as surprising as we do?”

Both Stephen and Ted laughed, but it wasn’t entirely sincere to Jack’s ear. Stephen spoke up: “Of course we find that surprising, since we, too, know it is statistically impossible. Obviously, you should run the tests again. Surely there was a mix-up with the samples. I mean, we knew it was a great match, which we attributed to the possible kinship of the parties involved. I guess that’s why we were able to wean her off immunosuppressants so quickly.”

“We ran it twice,” Jack said. “And for the CODIS results to match, it would have had to have been identical twins. Obviously it wasn’t identical twins, since they were of different sexes, as Ted confirmed. There have been cases of identical twins being separated at birth, but that could not have been the case in this instance. In theory we’re facing a miracle here, but in reality it is more of an enigma that needs to be explained. The rapidity of Carol’s death reminded me of the influenza pandemic of 1918. To be entirely honest, I’m worried about a new pandemic.”

Jack sat back and watched the three people sitting at the table with him. Although Dr. Lin seemed unfazed, the other two were clearly discomfited, raising Jack’s curiosity and reminding him of the Shakespearean quote, “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”

“Could you excuse us for a moment?” Stephen asked.

Jack shrugged. “Of course.”

Stephen and Ted both stood and left the room. It sounded as if they were arguing as the door closed behind them. Jack stared across the table at Dr. Lin, who smiled back at him. Jack tried to guess the man’s age but couldn’t. He looked particularly youthful, but Jack knew that couldn’t be the case, as the man was already a surgeon. His face was seemingly devoid of facial hair of any sort. Judging from the man’s accent, Jack assumed he was from China. To make conversation, Jack asked if that was the case.

“Yes, I am from China,” Dr. Lin said. He smiled broadly. “I’m from Jiao Tong University School of Medicine.”

“Are you in training?” Jack asked.

“Yes, I am training in cardiac surgery,” Dr. Lin said. “My institution sends someone here to Dover every year for transplant work.”

“Do you get good training here?”

“Oh, yes, the best,” Dr. Lin said.

Jack looked up as Stephen and Ted returned. Whatever their disagreement had been, it seemed to have totally passed. Although they had clearly been uptight when they left, there had been a definite transformation. They were literally laughing as they retook their seats.

“Well, you are in for a treat, my friend,” Stephen said, clapping his hands together with exuberance.

“That sounds encouraging,” Jack said. “I’ve been in need of a treat for years.”

“Ted and I both came to the conclusion simultaneously,” Stephen continued. “We thought that to properly show our collective appreciation of your efforts, you should meet the boss, the brains of the whole operation, Dr. Wei Zhao. Of course, it depends on your interest. What I mean to say is that there is no compulsion involved. How does the idea strike you?”

“My dance card has some leeway,” Jack said. Here was yet another surprise. Being offered the chance to meet the man of the hour was perhaps the last thing that Jack had expected on his visit.

“Perfect,” Stephen said. “And I’m happy to report that we have already called our Han emperor, and he is delighted to meet you.”

“I’m touched,” Jack said. “When might this happen?”

“In about an hour,” Stephen said. “Here’s what Ted and I propose. We’ll take you on a tour of our hospital or GeneRx. Your call. The meeting with Dr. Zhao will take place in our boss’s home office, which is a short fifteen-minute drive. Are you game?”

“Absolutely,” Jack said. “Sounds like a delightful afternoon.”