'These men and women — especially the transplant surgeons — are burdened with incalculable responsibility.'
'The Guardians?'
'Gradually, in search of a philosophical center, the group began focusing more and more on the writings of Plato, particularly The Republic. His philosophy and logic made sense to everyone. Meeting by meeting, through readings and discussion, the basis for a highly secret society was formed.'
'Dr. Khanduri is a Guardian?'
'I said no names.'
'Damn it, is he?' Anson snapped.
'Yes, of course. Of course he is. Why do you ask?'
'Because he spoke about his disagreement with the Sikhs over their rejection of the caste system. Plato, as I recall, divided society into three castes.'
'He didn't use that word, but yes. The Producers — laborers, farmers, and the like — are the lowest of the three? the Auxiliaries — soldiers, managers, and secondary leaders — are next, and at the apex of the pyramid — '
'The Guardians,' Anson filled in, 'the elite.'
St. Pierre nodded proudly.
'Intellectually, athletically, artistically, creatively, altruistically, scientifically, and politically. Think of what would have happened if Einstein or Nelson Mandela, or Raymond Damidian, who invented the MRI scanner, or…or Mother Teresa, needed an organ to survive and they were mired down in some list or bureaucratic red tape or…or there were simply no suitable organs available. Think of yourself, Joseph, and all that you are about to bring to mankind because we were able to procure a lung for you — and not just any lung, a perfectly matched lung. As transplant specialists, it is the goal of the Guardians of the Republic to see to it that other Guardians around the world who need organs of any kind are supplied them.'
St. Pierre's zeal and intensity were chilling. Anson could barely breathe. The word 'procure' cut through him like a knife. For the first time, he began considering the possibility that the source of his new life might not have been someone legally dead.
'From where?' he managed hoarsely.
'Pardon?'
'Where? From where do these organs come?'
'Why, from the Producers and the Auxiliaries, of course,' St. Pierre said. 'Certainly not from other Guardians. That wouldn't make any sense. It is against our policies.'
Anson stared at the woman he thought he had known well for eight years. His utter disbelief was directed not merely at what St. Pierre was saying, but even more at her absolute comfort in saying it.
'How many Guardians are there now?' he asked.
'Not so many,' she replied. 'Maybe twenty-five, maybe thirty now. We are very selective and as you might suspect, very careful as well. Only the best of the best.'
'Of course,' he muttered. 'Only the best of the best.' He held up the remote. 'Elizabeth, I promise you that if you make one effort to move from that chair without answering my questions, I will press this button, and you will die, along with this lab.'
'But you will die as well.'
'My priorities are straight. Now, tell me about procuring this perfect match.'
St. Pierre fidgeted uncomfortably and looked around as if expecting a knight-errant to ride in and save her.
'Well,' she said finally, her composure now only marginal, 'if a Guardian is to receive an organ, it must be a perfect or near-perfect match. Otherwise there would be emotional trauma, and medical issues around the high doses of toxic anti-rejection drugs they would have to take. Look at you, Joseph. You are barely on any medications at all. After your operation, you were back at your critical work in almost no time.'
'I would imagine many of the Guardians who receive organs can pay for them.'
'And they do. Such monies are used to forward the work of the society.'
'Through the Whitestone Foundation.'
'We are the Whitestone Foundation, yes. We perform philanthropic works all over the world on behalf of artists, healers, politicians, and scientists like yourself. We own Whitestone Laboratories, Whitestone Pharmaceuticals, and soon, if you are a man of your word, Sarah-nine as well.'
'Don't you dare talk to me about being a man of my word. That entire trip to India was a fraud — a total charade.'
'That was because you wouldn't let up in your insistence to meet the family of your donor, and the council of the Guardians of the Republic felt that for the time being at least, that was neither practical nor desirable.' 'My operation wasn't performed in India?'
'I've cooperated with you in every way, Joseph. Now, will you please put that thing down.'
'Where was my surgery done?' He brandished the remote for emphasis. 'No lies.'
'Brazil. It was done at a Whitestone facility in Brazil. You were kept sedated and then transferred from there to a Guardian surgeon in Capetown as soon as it was safe.'
Anson took a deep, cleansing breath.
'Okay, now tell me, Elizabeth, who was he?'
'Pardon?'
'The donor. Who was he and where was he from?'
Again, St. Pierre cast about fruitlessly for someone to intervene. Her jaws were clenched in frustration.
'Actually,' she said finally, 'it was a woman — a woman from Boston in the States.'
'Her name?' 'I told you, no — '
'Goddamn it, Elizabeth,' Anson bellowed, 'give me her name or be prepared to die on this spot! I mean it, and you know I mean it!'
'It's Reyes. Natalie Reyes.'
'Okay. Now, step by step, you are going to tell me everything you know about this Natalie Reyes and how she came to be chosen to give me her lung.'
CHAPTER 35
When a man thinks himself to be near death, fears and cares enter into his mind which he never had before.
Ben reentered consciousness to a pungent, though not unpleasant, aroma, and a woman's voice softly singing in a tongue he didn't understand. The arrow was gone. The agonizing pain in his shoulder and the racking ache throughout his body were present, but strangely muted. It was not the first time he had awakened, he recognized, not the first time he had heard the woman singing. He was naked from the waist up, on his back, on a pile of blankets and rags in what seemed to be a cave. Sunlight was pouring in through the entrance, ten feet or so away.
Gradually, his vision came into focus, along with his memory, beginning with the moment of Vincent's gruesome death — some sort of dart to the side of his face, then a knife through his neck. The lethal arrow Ben had expected was never fired. Instead, what he remembered was a woman, kneeling beside him, speaking English and reassuring him that he was going to be all right. Smooth, tanned skin? dark, vibrant, concerned eyes. Along with a man wearing an eye patch, she had gotten him to his feet and struggled to get him to walk. The rest was a blur, except for her face. It was a lovely, intense, interesting face.
Steeled against the pain, he tried to sit. The woman singing nearby, more ageless than aged, made no
