Donor (32 page)

Using this technique, it was possible to ‘prepare’ a foetus by surgically introducing stem cells from a putative donor into it while still in the womb, making a subsequent transplant after the baby’s birth problem-free. There was no need for steroids or any other kind of immuno-suppressants to overcome rejection problems. There simply wouldn’t be any. The tissue would be one hundred per cent compatible. The perfect transplant, in fact.

The limitations to this strategy, as Ross pointed out in his paper, were obvious. Such transplants would have to be restricted to organs that the donor could afford to lose, such as a half or whole kidney. If the foetus needed a heart or liver then, of course, there could be no human donor. It was suggested, therefore, that the development of this technique of ‘immunizing’ foetuses against rejection of a future transplant would best be pursued with animals in mind as the donors. Improvements in foetal surgery would also have to be achieved if stem cells were to be introduced without a high risk of premature labour induction.

Dunbar felt a chill down his spine as the picture became clear. He had discovered something so awful that his mind almost rejected it. He looked back over the text and picked out the the words ‘there could, of course, be no human donor’. He was mesmerized by them. In his head he started to modify the text: there could, of course, be no human donor unless … the stakes were high enough … to include murder as part of the procedure. And that’s what the ape experiments were all about. Ross was practising foetal surgery because he needed to introduce stem cells into unborn foetuses. Christ! It all fitted now. Kenneth Lineham, Amy Teasdale and now Amanda Chapman had not been admitted to Médic Ecosse as transplant recipients at all. They were the donors.

Dunbar rubbed his forehead as he struggled to come to terms with the discovery. Amanda’s marrow puncture had been carried out to obtain stem cells for surgical introduction into the unborn foetus of the Omega patient. That’s why she had been taken up to the Omega wing. In the intervening weeks, the Omega baby had been developing Amanda’s immune system and it must now be ready to accept Amanda’s tissue as its own. Dunbar guessed at an operation timed to coincide with a Caesarian delivery when the baby was large enough to receive a child’s heart.

It also seemed a fair guess that Ross had put out a request to the black market for a suitable kidney for Amanda, knowing that if the price were high enough one would be found. At some point before or during Amanda’s operation, he would substitute an incompatible kidney, an animal organ, knowing that she would reject it and die. He would then steal her heart for the Omega baby. At autopsy he would put the correct donor kidney into Amanda to make everything neat and tidy. Her death, like those of Amy and Kenneth before her, would be just another one of those things … unless two nurses said otherwise!

Dunbar thought back to McVay’s report on Amy Teasdale. He’d said that not only her kidney but also her heart had been removed; they had both assumed at the time that this had been part of a routine earlier autopsy. McVay had been asked to examine Amy’s transplanted kidney. If only he’d been asked to examine the heart too. He would almost certainly have discovered that it was not her own but the previous Omega patient’s baby’s heart. It was odds-on that Amy’s heart was currently beating inside the offspring of some unknown Omega patient in a foreign land. This could be proved with a second exhumation of Amy, but Dunbar prayed that that wouldn’t be necessary. In the meantime, the prime objective was to save Amanda Chapman’s life.

His immediate thought was to inform Sci-Med and call in the police. That would put an immediate stop to everything. The problem was that ‘everything’ included Amanda’s chances of a transplant in time. Despite everything, it was true that a real, compatible kidney had been found for her. It just wasn’t Ross’s intention to use it until after her death. There must be some way of allowing things to continue so that the kidney arrived safely and was given to Amanda. He’d contact Clive Turner at the Children’s Hospital but first he’d tie up a last loose end. He’d call Hasselhof at the Mayo Clinic again.

‘Who is this?’ asked an American voice after a short wait.

‘My name is Steven Dunbar. I’m calling from the Médic Ecosse Hospital in Glasgow, Scotland.’

‘You’ve got a nerve!’ retorted Hasselhof.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Dunbar, recoiling slightly from the earpiece.

‘The medical profession has enough problems without carpetbaggers like you in it.’

‘I’m sorry, there must be some kind of mistake. I really don’t understand what you’re talking about, Doctor. I’m calling about one of your patients who was transferred here from the Mayo Clinic.’

‘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 Médic 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 Médic 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 Médic 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 Médic 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.

‘Your kind of justice, I believe,’ he murmured. ‘An arm for an arm.’

SEVENTEEN

Dunbar knew his only chance of survival was to get out of the building before the other man returned or the security men came across from the gate-house. What about the staff? He decided they couldn’t be here. Research must have been suspended while Ross and the Arabs were using the farm as a prison. He was totally disorientated. He didn’t know what day it was or even whether it was day or night. He dragged himself to the front door and then stopped when he realized that he couldn’t go out this way. The door faced the gate-house. He would be seen. It might even be broad daylight out there. There was only one alternative and it wasn’t an attractive one. He would have to go out through the slurry pipe he and Jimmy Douglas had used.

He balked at the idea. He wasn’t at all sure he had either the stamina or the courage for it in his current condition but there seemed to be no alternative. But then what? There’d be no car waiting three hundred yards up the road this time and he didn’t have the strength for a prolonged cross-country run. Despair was on the horizon when he remembered Jimmy Douglas’s Land-Rover and the keys the hotel laundry had returned to him. Please God he had them with him and please God they were the only set of keys for the vehicle. Jimmy had said something about having it picked up. He felt in his pocket and found the keys.