“Search results with ‘unethical,’” I suggest. “See if we can find a back-alley transplant surgeon.”

Sherona grimaces. “This ain’t an abortion, honey. Can’t do it in a back alley or a storefront.”

“Fine,” I say, unable to mask my irritation. “The high-end version. A hospital that cuts corners, breaks the rules, whatever.”

“Hmm,” says Connie, her prominent, elegant nose almost touching the screen. “This is interesting. Didn’t pop up with the other transplant centers for some reason.”

“Hospital? Medical school?”

“Nope. Better. A private clinic with a clientele of celebrities and the superwealthy.”

The hair tingles on the back of my neck. A private clinic for the wealthy. Which means the place is all about money. And the man in the mask didn’t just take my son, he took all of our money, too.

“Go on,” I urge her.

Connie’s grinning—obviously she’s found something. “According to the New York Times, they’ve been sued for ignoring the federal guidelines for organ donation, specifically the waiting list for liver transplants. Seems they obtained a liver for a famous rock musician who ruined his own liver shooting drugs. Quote—‘one-stop organ shopping, with an all-star transplant team ready to deliver, provided the price is right.’”

“What about heart transplants?”

“It’s not the thrust of this particular article, but there is a reference to a heart-lung transplant for a Saudi prince. Once again, the prince wasn’t on the approved list, but the clinic got around that somehow. Reporter says it’s not like there are federal regulators hanging around the operating rooms. Quote—‘It’s basically an honor system. The major medical centers follow the guidelines, but private clinics can make their own rules.’”

“Where is this place?”

“Scarsdale,” she says, grinning like a kid who knows that teacher is about to award a big fat gold star. “That’s what they call themselves. The Scarsdale Transplant Clinic. And it’s right off 287.”

43 a pair in the hole

Dr. Stanley J. Munk paces the loading dock, puffing on an unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarette. Another personal vice unknown to his wife. The occasional stench of smoke on his clothing he always blames on others—patients, partners, one of the surgical nurses, whoever. Fact is, he only smokes while under stress. Stress, in his life, is not defined as surgery. He loves to cut, loves being in control of an anesthetized life. Stress he reserves for financial, professional or marital difficulties. He’s not sure where this particular situation fits into the scheme of things, but if it goes wrong it could encompass all three areas.

One thing he’s surmised, the man who calls himself Paul Defield is not only dangerous, he’s quite possibly becoming psychotic. Over the last few hours Munk, awakened at three in the morning, has received half a dozen cell-phone calls from the man, and he sounds not only aggressive but increasingly disorganized. Not at all the icy control freak who claimed to be a special agent for the FBI masquerading as a cop. A claim Munk now doubts. But if not a government agent, what is he? How did he get access to electronic and computer surveillance so sophisticated that Munk, something of techie himself, has never even heard of it?

Whatever his sources or methods, the man managed to crawl inside Stanley Munk’s skin, shared his secret life for a time. That alone makes him hideously dangerous. As for the proposed surgery, Munk remains confident that if things blow up legally he can successfully argue that he cooperated under duress. Which happens to be true. Other than whatever medical records Defield may or may not provide, he has no actual knowledge of the prospective patient or the prospective donor. It’s not as if he’s personally gone out on the black market to illegally obtain an organ, which if discovered would likely cause the revocation of his license to practice medicine and therefore endanger the partnership. From the beginning, Munk and his partners have been exquisitely careful about that particular distinction. Patients or the families or associates of patients have always obtained the necessary organs, at whatever the going rate. Thus providing plausible deniability, and legal cover, if not ethical purity.

Munk glances at his Rolex. Almost six in the morning. The days are so long this time of year that the sun has been up for more than an hour. Looks like a beautiful day on the way. Clear blue skies, perfect temperatures. A day to play hooky if ever there was one. Savoring his images, his trophies from the last junket.

Best not to think about that now.

His role in the transplant surgery will require something less than six hours, barring complications. Assuming that all goes well, and he’s able to remove Mr. Defield from his life, Munk has decided that he will reward himself with a spur-of-the-moment trip to Bangkok, or possibly Manila.

Definitely Manila. He’s due for a change, for something new. He can feel the anticipation building like a small, refreshing wave. In his mind, Dr. Munk is entering a certain room, wondering what, exactly, he will find beyond the beaded curtains, when the ambulance backs into the loading dock.

New Jersey plates, he notices. Is that where Defield hails from, some sweaty little suburb in the Garbage State?

The EMT gets out, advances to the dock. Light behind putting him in silhouette.

“Morning, Doctor.”

In the warmth of a summer morning, Munk shivers. He recognizes the voice.

“Everything groovy?” the man who calls himself Defield wants to know as he comes up the steps. “Team assembled, ready to go?”

“No problem,” says Munk. Chill is over and now he’s sweating. “Strictly routine.”

“What did you tell them? Son of a rock star?”

Munk shrugs, attempting to embody a casualness he does not feel. “State Department connection,” he says. “Child of an important diplomat.”

“The ambassador’s boy. I like that. Very classy.”

“Rock-star connection, somebody might tip off the press.”

In the blink of an eye, Defield is on him, rushing him backward until they both slam into the painted cinder-block wall at the rear of the loading dock.

“Are you playing me?” Defield hisses, pressing a gun into the soft flesh of Munk’s neck. “Tip off the press? What the fuck are you thinking?”

Physical fear of the gun makes Munk’s throat constrict, but he manages to say, “No press, that’s the point.”

“Who’d tip them off?”

“Nobody. Happened once with a nurse, she, um, leaked the story to a tabloid. Johnny Beemer gets a new liver. We fired her.”

“Johnny Beemer?” The gun is slowly lowered. Defield’s eyes are so bright they might be illuminated by inner lasers. “Oh yeah, I read about that. The punk rocker with the smack habit. What first put me on to you guys, as a matter of fact. Your high ethical standards.”

Munk wonders if the man is on something, or if the madness in his blood comes naturally. At the same time admonishing himself to keep his own mouth shut, no chitchat about the many celebrity connections to the clinic. No telling what will set Defield off or how he’ll react.

“Who have you told?” Defield wants to know.

“About you? Nobody.”

“About the transplant.”

“Just my partners. They had to know we’d be cutting this morning.”

“Cutting? That’s what you call it?”

“Surgery. We’ll be in surgery. There are six people on the team, you know that.”

“To fix the ambassador’s son.”

“Exactly,” says Munk. “What I told them. All they need to know. Strictly routine.”