approached me. I make a good income as a perfusionist in France — not as much as one would make here in the States, but still quite a lot. But I have expensive tastes, and I indulge them. I was carrying a lot of debt at high interest. So when he said he could offer me an assignment that would pay very well, I was interested in hearing more about it. I asked what it was, and he said there was an opportunity for me to take part in a transplant operation in America. I asked him why he’d want me to travel all the way from France when there were already many perfusionists in America. It quickly became clear that this was to be an illegal operation. He wanted me because of my financial problems and, I suppose, because I have no contacts with the medical or legal authorities in America.’
‘Did he tell you who the patient was?’
‘No, not by name. He just told me that a very rich man in his eighties was dying of end-stage congestive heart failure. He wanted a new heart but couldn’t qualify for an approved program because of his age. Phillipe said he’d located a resource that could obtain hearts outside of normal channels. I told him I had no interest in breaking the law and even less in going to jail. He said there was no danger of that. He said he and his friends had performed a number of these operations in the past and no one was any the wiser.’
‘Is that the word he used, friends? Not colleagues? Or associates?’
‘I think so. Yes. I’m quite sure it is. Is that important?’
‘I don’t know. It might be. What happened next?’
‘This conversation didn’t occur all at once. It took place during the course of two or three meetings.’
‘I understand.’
‘Even though he said there was very little risk, I told him I wasn’t interested. I didn’t want to be involved in anything illegal, and given the shortage of healthy hearts for transplant, I didn’t believe it was ethically right to deprive someone younger of the chance for a normal life to help an old man who’d soon die anyway.’
‘Did he accept that?’
‘He seemed to.’
‘What changed your mind?’
‘Money. Avarice overcame both scruples and discretion. In our final discussion he told me that for one operation, one day in the operating room, he would deposit a hundred thousand euros in a numbered account in my name in the Cayman Islands. That’s a hundred thousand euros for one day’s work plus a couple of days’ preparation and travel. That’s more than I make in a year. Even so, I didn’t say yes right away. I went back to my apartment and looked at the pile of unpaid bills on my table.’
‘Sounds familiar.’
‘Then I drank a bottle of wine and went out and had sex with an old friend I hadn’t seen in a year.’
‘Lucky friend.’
She ignored the comment. ‘The next morning I called Phillipe at his hotel and told him I would take part.’
‘And you did?’
‘Yes. That was three operations ago. The third was last week. It never occurred to me until the Dubois girl’s body was discovered that they might actually be killing people to harvest their hearts.’
McCabe’s mind was racing. Two more transplants. Two more harvested hearts. Whose hearts? Two more young blond female athletes? Where were the bodies? Buried under a golf course like Elyse Andersen? What about Lucinda Cassidy? He was jumping too far ahead. He forced himself to slow down.
‘What made you think that’s what they were doing?’ he asked.
‘Timing. We performed a transplant Wednesday afternoon. Katie Dubois’s body was found Friday night. Then over the weekend, news reports said her heart had been cut from her body. I didn’t know for sure if there was a connection, but it seemed likely. When I saw you at the funeral, I decided I would talk to you.’
‘When were the other two operations?’
‘The first was late December last year, a week or so before Christmas. The second this spring, April sometime.’
‘Do you know the name of the hotel Spencer was staying in?’
‘Yes. The Hotel du Midi in Montpellier.’
‘When he was staying there?’
‘November last year. I’m not sure of the exact dates. I left my diary behind in France.’
McCabe took out his cell and hit Tom Tasco’s number.
‘Detective Tasco.’
‘Tom? It’s Mike McCabe. I’m in the car, and I can’t talk long. Do me a favor and check if Philip Spencer stayed at the Hotel du Midi in Montpellier, France, spelled M-O-N-T-P-E-L–L-I-E-R, last November. If so, try to get the exact dates he was there. Maybe the local gendarmes will cooperate and check it out. If not, go through Interpol.’
‘What the hell was he doing in France?’ asked Tasco.
‘Can’t talk about that now. See if you can get any background. Where he flew from and to. Airline and flight number. Anything else that seems pertinent.’
‘Gotcha.’
McCabe hung up and turned back to Sophie. ‘You said you’d performed three of these operations including the one, when? Last Wednesday?’
‘Yes. In the afternoon.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No. The way it works is I arrive in Boston a day before the surgery. I’m picked up at Logan by a driver and taken to a hotel. A different hotel each time. This time it was a Ramada Inn near Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I check in — ’
‘Using your real name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who makes the reservation?’
‘I do. Phillipe calls me and tells me to book a flight and gives me the name of a hotel. He also gives me the name of a car service. I book them as well.’
‘Who pays?’
‘I do. With my Visa card.’
‘Okay, so you checked into the Ramada Inn on what day? Tuesday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘It’s the same each time. I stay in my room. My meals are sent up. A man calls. Not Phillipe. It’s a voice I don’t know. This time I was told to be ready by five o’clock on Wednesday morning. I was picked up and taken to the surgery site.’
‘That’s the phrase he used? Surgery site? Not hospital? Not OR?’
‘The man said surgery site.’
‘Who picked you up?’
‘A driver. I was made to wear a blindfold the whole time we drove until I entered the building.’
‘Could you see anything at all?’
‘No.’
‘How long did you drive?’
‘About four hours.’
Four hours. Maximum radius from Portsmouth about two hundred and fifty miles, give or take. That covered a lot of territory. He needed more to go on. ‘Try to think back,’ he said. ‘I want you to close your eyes and, in your mind, put yourself back in that car. Can you do that?’
She looked at him, not sure where he was leading. ‘Yes. I can try.’ She closed her eyes.
‘Describe the trip for me as best you can remember from the time you started off.’
‘I got in the car. The driver closed the door and got in himself. He closed his door. We drove out of the hotel parking lot.’
‘Did you turn left or right?’
