Standing by the kitchen door of thecrowded restaurant, the young assistant chef watched the commotion grow as one byone; the four customers at table 11 became violently ill. Finally, he reenteredthe massive kitchen and made his way nonchalantly to the pay phone installedfor the use of the hired help. The number he dialed was handwritten on athree-by-five file card.
'Yes?' the man's voice at the other endsaid.
'Xia Wei Zen here.'
'Yes?'
The chef read carefully the words printedon the card.
'There are four leaves on the clover.'
'Very good. You know where to go afteryour shift. The man in the black car will take the empty vial from you inexchange for the rest of what you are now owed.'
The man hung up without waiting for areply.
Xia Wei Zen glanced about to ensure no onewas watching, and then returned to his station. Work would not be nearly sotaxing for the rest of his shift. For one thing, there was a good deal of moneyawaiting him. And for another, there would be many fewer orders coming in fromthe dining room tonight.
The call came into the emergency room ofGood Samaritan Hospital at 9:47. Four Priority Two patients were beingtransported by rescue squad from a Chinese restaurant twenty blocks away.Preliminary diagnosis was acute food poisoning.
It was a typically busy Friday night. Thenurses and residents of the large teaching hospital were already three hoursbehind. The twenty available treatment rooms were full, as was the waitingroom. The air was heavy with the odors of perspiration, antiseptic, and blood.All around were the sounds of illness, misery, and pain — moans, babies crying,uncontrollable coughing.
'Ever eat at a place called the JadeDragon?' the nurse who took the call from the rescue squad asked. 'I think so,'the charge nurse answered. 'Well, next time you might want to consider Italian.One rescue is on the way in with two probable food poisonings. Two more will be leaving shortly. Altogether, two men, two women, all in theirforties, all on IVs, all vomiting.'
'Vital signs?'
'The numbers are okay for the moment. Butaccording to the crew on the scene, none of them are looking all that good.'
'Fun and games times four.'
'Where do you want them?'
'What do we have?'
'Seven can be cleared if you can talk Dr.Grateful Dead, or whatever the hell his name is, into writing a fewprescriptions.'
'Perfect. Put whoever looks worst in thereand the rest in the hall. We'll move them into rooms as we can. Might as wellorder routine labs and an EKG on each of them, too.'
'Chop chop.'
Ron Farrell grunted in pain as his litterwas set on the emergency bay platform and telescoped up into transportposition. He was on his side in a fetal position. The pain boring into hisstomach was unremitting. Jack Harmon, who had quickly become even sicker than Susan,had been transported in the ambulance with him. Now, Ron saw him wave weakly asthe two of them were wheeled through the automatic doors and into the commotionand fluorescent glare of the intake area.
The minutes that followed were a blur ofquestions, needles, spasms of pain, and examinations from people dressed insurgical scrubs. Ron was wheeled to a small room with open shelves of suppliesand a suction bottle on the wall. The staff had addressed him courteouslyenough, but it was clear that everyone was harried. Ron's personal physicianwasn't affiliated with Good Samaritan, as far as he knew. There was reallynothing he could think of to do except wait for the medication he had beenpromised to take the pain away.
You are feeling better, yes?' a man'svoice said in a thick foreign accent that Ron could not identify.
Still in the fetal position that gave himthe least discomfort, Ron blinked his eyes open, and looked up. The man,dressed in blue surgical scrubs like most of the ER staff, smiled down at him.The overhead light, eclipsed by his head, formed a bright halo around him anddarkened his face.
'I am Dr. Kozlansky,' he said. 'It appearsyou and the others have developed food poisoning.'
'Goddamn jade Dragon. Is my wife allright?'
'Oh yes. Oh yes, I assure you, she is mostfine.'
'Great. Listen, Doc, my stomach's killingme. Can you give me something for this pain?'
'That is exactly why I am here,' he said.
'Wonderful.'
The physician produced a syringe half fullof clear liquid and emptied it into the intravenous line.
'Thanks, Doc,' Farrell said.
'You may wish to wait and thank me when.. when we see how this works.'
'Okay, have it your — '
Farrell was suddenly unable to speak.There was a horrible, consuming emptiness within his chest. And he knew in thatmoment that his heart had stopped beating.
The man continued smiling down at himbenignly.
'You are feeling better, yes?' he asked.
Ron felt his arms and legs begin to shakeuncontrollably. His back arched until only his heels and the back of his headtouched the bed. His teeth jack-hammered together. Then his consciousness beganto fade. His thought became more disjointed. His dreadful fear lessened andthen finally vanished. His body dropped lifelessly back on to the bed.
For a full minute the man stood therewatching. Then he slipped the syringe into his pocket.
'I'm afraid I must leave you now,' hewhispered in a voice free of any accent. 'Please try to get some rest.'
1Year Later
Chapter1
Harry Corbett was on his fifteenth lap aroundthe indoor track when he first sensed the pain in his chest. The track, abalcony just under an eighth of a mile around, was on the top floor of the GreyBuilding of the Manhattan Medical Center. Ten feet below it was a modestlyequipped gym with weights, the usual machines, heavy bags, and some mats. Thefitness center, unique in the city, was exclusively for the hospital staff andemployees. It had been created through the legacy of Dr. George Pollock, acardiologist who had twice swum the English Channel. Pollock's death, at ageninety, had resulted from his falling off a ladder while cleaning the guttersof his country home.
At the moment of his awareness of thepain, Harry was actually thinking about Pollock and about what it would be liketo live until ninety. He slowed a bit and rotated his shoulders. The painpersisted. It wasn't much — maybe two on the scale of one to ten thatphysicians used. But it was there. Reluctant to stop running, Harry swallowedand massaged his upper abdomen. The discomfort was impossible to localize. Onemoment it seemed to be beneath his breastbone, the next in the middle of hisback. He slowed a bit more, down from an eight-minutes- per-mile pace to aboutten-and-a-half. The ache was in his left chest now. . no, it was gone. .no, not gone, somewhere between his right nipple and clavicle.
