Organ symphony a leon ca.., p.1
Organ Symphony: A Leon Cazador Thriller, page 1
Organ Symphony
A Leon Cazador Thriller
Nik Morton
Organ Symphony
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2022 Nik Morton
Rough Edges Press
An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing
5130 S. Fort Apache Rd. 215-380
Las Vegas, NV 89148
roughedgespress.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
eBook ISBN 978-1-68549-145-1
Paperback ISBN 978-1-68549-146-8
Contents
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I. Silenced in Darkness
1. Heart Sold
2. Ungainly Puppets
3. Stockbridge Motherhouse
4. Health Farm
5. Only One
6. Mexican Standoff
7. Solemn Promise
8. Breaking Heart
II. Day of Wrath
9. Mosque-Cathedral
10. Western Barbarian
11. Organ Symphony
12. Little Finger
13. Live Donors
14. El Cobrador
III. Music Is Gone
15. Music Buff
16. Four Letters
17. Glorified Pimp
18. Obeying Orders
19. Fiscal Concerns
20. Black Heart
Afterword
Glossary
If you like this you may also enjoy: The Squad
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About the Author
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It’s no secret that you love books as much as we do. If you join now you’ll stay up to date on our newest releases, news and sales.
With love to Jennifer, friend, wife and first editor; and to our daughter Hannah whose name was used for the first incarnation of Sister Cristina many years ago; and to our son-in-law Farhad (‘Harry’) and our grandchildren Darius and Suri.
My thanks to James Reasoner, Mike Bray, and Jake Bray for believing in the character, Leon Cazador.
Organ Symphony
Part One
Silenced in Darkness
Chapter 1
Heart Sold
August 2016
Lazzaretto Piccolo, Laguna Veneto, Italy
Gho Jun chuckled beneath his surgical mask and in his high-pitched voice joked, “Soon our rich client will be heartless, no?”
Nobody in attendance responded; they were all used to his dark humor; he was considered eccentric but he was also a brilliant transplant surgeon. Not unduly bothered at the lack of banter in his colleagues, Gho made an eight-inch long incision down the middle of fifty-two-year-old Kenneth Carswell’s chest. The wealthy British entrepreneur under the scalpel was twenty-four years older than Gho, and now in a deep sleep, courtesy of a tube inserted down his throat which was attached to a ventilator; this maintained Carswell’s breathing while he was anesthetized. His body temperature had already been lowered to around twenty-eight degrees Centigrade which would reduce the cell activity—preventing damage to his cells when blood flow halted. Earlier, the thinner heparin had been introduced to Carswell’s blood to prevent it from clotting. All the man’s blood was rerouted through the nearby heart-lung bypass machine, which would add oxygen and remove carbon dioxide and sustain blood circulation throughout the body and, most importantly, the brain and other organs.
The flesh had been peeled back and clamped by Theater Sister Li Jing to reveal the breastbone. Now, wholly professional, Gho said, “I’m about to crack the chest.” He lifted the hand-held sternum saw, placing its blade on the exposed area and began cutting the breastbone down the center. “This is the fun part!” Well, not entirely professional: he enjoyed this bit particularly; the sound clearly grated on Nurse Weng Tao but it was music to his ears.
On the stainless steel trolley nearby were sterile packs of metal plates and screws, Gho’s preferred method when finally fixing the sternum halves together as they provided more rigid fixation than wire and improved bone healing.
All of this was standard procedure in Gho’s considerable experience. He’d been a trainee surgeon in Queensland in 2006 when Australia banned further joint research with China regarding transplantations because China wouldn’t guarantee prisoners were not being used in transplant operations. He was twenty-two then. Undeterred, he continued his work in China, harvesting organs from Falun Gong practitioners and Uighurs in their confinement camps. He learned a great deal and became highly proficient, but he felt his hard work was not duly recognized by the authorities. And he certainly was not receiving an adequate financial reward. So he left China to join the Black Foundation Clinic run by Aiden Black, based here. And he hadn’t looked back since.
Sister Li spread the ribcage and applied clamps on the sternum to keep the chest open and allow the surgeon access to Carswell’s dysfunctional heart.
“Clamps,” Gho said and Nurse Weng handed him the tools one at a time. He speedily clamped off all the major blood vessels to the client’s heart and then disconnected them in readiness for receiving the replacement organ.
Now he lifted out the useless heart and placed it indelicately in a bucket at his feet. “That won’t be needed again,” he said. “Where is our $300,000 replacement?”
“Right here, Jun.” Surgeon Kwan Yow and Sister Li presented him with the “donated” heart.
The two surgeons made a good team. Kwan had worked at the Nangfang hospital in Canton, a leading transplant hospital with a special wing for foreigners. It frequently used criminals’ organs. As the hospital’s chief surgeon at the time had said, “Why ask for consent when they’re going to be executed?” Enticed by Gho, Kwan also defected to the west and was recruited by Black. When he could be spared, his other place of work was in the Black Clinic in Córdoba, Spain.
“Almost there,” Gho said, beginning to connect the blood vessels to the replacement heart.
Nurse Weng swabbed his brow.
The Black Foundation Administration Offices, Venice, Italy
This was a marvelous coup, Aiden Black thought, as the Chinese professor, an expert in immunology, was escorted into the palatial room with its vaulted ceiling, marble floor and tall windows that overlooked the Grand Canal.
Yu Wei had been poached from the Wuhan Institute of Virology. “Welcome to ACM, Professor,” Black said, his lips curving in a generous welcoming smile. His voice carried deep cultured African-American tones and echoed slightly in this room. Black stood up from his plush leather seat behind the imposing teak desk. The height of a basketball player, with musculature to match, he had buzz-cut black hair, broad nostrils, a high forehead and gleaming black eyes. Today he wore a crisp yellow short-sleeved shirt open at the neck to reveal a gold pendant, dark blue chinos, and a deep brown leather belt. He was far from being vain, but preferred bright colors to contrast against his ebony complexion.
A half-dozen framed certificates hung on one wall, most from the Salk Institute, San Diego.
He walked round the desk to greet the newcomer.
Yu bowed. “Thank you.” He spoke good English, which made life easier all round. His flat features did not convey any emotion, yet his darting gimlet eyes seemed to take in everything. Yu was in his mid-forties, probably only a couple of years older than Black, though he conceded that it was often difficult to gauge the age of Orientals. Yu wore a Westernized suit in dark blue, a crisp white shirt with a bow-tie.
The two men shook hands; the professor’s grip was firm and dry.
Black gestured at two ornate gold and mahogany armchairs facing across a low-level coffee table. The two men sat opposite each other.
Aware that at the outset he should not be too direct as it was frowned upon by Chinese, Black began, “I trust the flight was pleasant?”
“It was. The journey from the airport was an eye-opener too. No amount of exposure through books and film can prepare you for the real thing. Venice is truly unique. The boat trip here was a pleasure also. We in China have attempted to duplicate aspects of the city, but we have clearly failed.”
“I believe you will enjoy working in this environment, Professor. I confess I like it here very much, it’s a far cry from my previous residence in Washington DC.”
“Indeed, I have no doubt it will be conducive to my research. It is good to be working with an open-minded scientist like yourself, Mr. Black.”
When the overtures were first made to Yu, the feedback had been positive. The professor had become disillusioned with Dr. Shi Zhengli’s cavalier attitude to containment. Apparently, she was obsessed with her damned bats, but lax in ensuring that basic safety procedures were followed. “To be honest, I am glad to be getting out,” Yu had revealed. “I fear there will be another outbreak—perhaps worse than the SARS incident.”
Which didn’t bear thinking about, Black mused. The last he had learned Yu was involved in creating new biological weapons to destroy without trace the body’s immune system. Black was happy if the immunology research could redu ce tissue and organ rejection. “Their loss is our gain,” Black had opined.
As the transplant coordinator of the charity All Colors Matter, Black wielded considerable power and had at his disposal almost limitless funds, which he utilized to scour the globe for suitable surgeons to do his bidding in several clinics. The charity purported to save the lives of the poor and neglected with organ transplantation, which they did accomplish, though only five percent of the operations were for individuals from deprived families. The remaining operations were performed on rich, criminal and influential patients, all of whom paid very well indeed.
Although he was a self-made man, Black had inherited vast sums of money from his father, who had died of a sudden heart-attack. Black had been frustrated that even with all the money at his disposal the doctors had been unable to save his father’s life. Grief emboldened him and he lost himself in his work, buying and selling property, fostering scientific start-ups, constantly increasing his wealth, and garnering expertise in medical and technical research. Even so, he found time for affairs of the heart with a string of available women—until he fell for young Flavia De Santis. After a whirlwind romance, they married and nine months later she gave birth to a beautiful boy, Adriano Byron. Those days and years were bliss, a mixture of luxury travel, dedicated work and family get-togethers. Then, when Byron was ten Flavia was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor and died six months later. Byron was sent off to boarding school while Black buried his heartache and redirected his energies into financing medical research and establishing the Black Foundation and a number of worthy charities, including ACM. He had no wish to die like his father and wife; he intended to live long and prosper, and would employ any means to achieve that aim.
“Would you like to be given a tour of the city before you begin your work?”
“No, thank you.” The professor bowed politely. “The free time you have allotted to me in the contract will permit me to sight-see in due course. I am most anxious to see the laboratory facilities you promised and continue with my work.”
“Good. It’s only a short boat ride to the island. I will arrange it. Dr. Godsafe will accompany you.”
January 2017
Charleston, South Carolina
He ran as if his life depended upon it. The boy’s breath was strained because he was bodily weak, partly from malnutrition but also from the after-effects of the operation. He’d made good his escape and he hoped the night would envelop him, hide him from pursuit.
He darted among shadows and hurried between the parked huge semi-trailers. He wheezed, clasping his side. A dull throb stabbed at his vitals. Yet the ache could not rid him of how terrible he felt, abandoning the others. He would get help, he would, truly!
The smell of oil, grease and burnt rubber from overworked tires filled his nostrils.
At the end of the alleyway formed by trucks he glimpsed the lights of a gas station and a diner.
Help was there for the asking! His heart leaped at the prospect. A heart that, he reminded himself, had already been sold.
“Yo, boy!” the hateful man shouted from behind him.
He shouldn’t have but he could not avoid reacting; he stopped, hesitated and looked back.
Legs splayed apart, the tail of his checkered shirt hanging loose, the man grated, “You come back here, kid!”
“No way!” the boy snapped and turned and started running again.
Until massive pain hammered between his shoulder-blades and he found himself on the ground, lying in a puddle of oil. Now his breathing was really difficult. Waves of pain washed over him.
He had failed. He thought that, after all, his life really had depended on him running away.
Then blackness deeper than night overwhelmed him and took away all the pain.
Chapter 2
Ungainly Puppets
January morning sunlight slanted through the jalousies of the window. Sister Cristina flung aside the sheet, swung her legs out of the narrow bed and sat for a moment in contemplation, her breathing steady and relaxed, welcoming a new day, another day in her life as a nun in the Order of Missionary Sisters of the Mother of Christ.
She removed her lightweight linen pajamas and plucked from its hook on the otherwise empty wall her gray tracksuit, its back emblazoned with ST. PAUL’S HOSTEL FOR THE HOMELESS. She put it on, then tied with a twirl gizmo her long curling auburn hair at the nape, and finally fastened the laces of her trainers. All set, she opened her room’s door and stepped into the lobby of the hostel.
Their old handy-man Marco glanced up, his lazy eye following shortly after the good one. He waved “good morning” and she signed back.
She exited through the front entrance doorway. Above was the plaque: “Then will the rags of the poor shine with splendor, and the gorgeous raiment become tarnished.” She descended the steps and breathed in the air—grateful for its freshness before the day’s traffic built up.
As she jogged toward the Battery, she called “Hi, Al” to the newsvendor on the intersection of Market Street. Somewhere she could hear gospel singing, probably from Georgia cleaning the steps of the Pentecostal church on Bay. At the last count there were roughly twenty-five denominations in the city.
After a while, Sister Cristina rested for a short spell in the gardens of White Point, leaning against an old cannon. Here, in the shade of palmetto and oak trees, she caught her breath. She breathed in deeply, the air crisp and invigorating. She let out a gasp, watched her breath float in front of her. Seagulls squawked over the confluence of the rivers Ashley and Cooper, which created the Atlantic, if Charlestonians could be believed. God, it was good to be alive!
The low-profile skyline of Charleston was bathed in the orange glow of the sunrise, punctuated with over 180 steeples or spires. The white spire of St. Michael’s boasted a four-faced clock. A beautiful city with its antebellum homes, it had suffered hurricane, fire, earthquake, epidemics and bombardment during the Civil War—that “Late Unpleasantness” as the older fraternity preferred to call it. There seemed to be more Civil War commemorative plaques than black-eyed peas. But now it was a vibrant exciting and beautiful city again.
She spent half an hour at old Rich’s Gym, mainly on weights, and then returned to the hostel, ready for another day.
Showered and dressed, she donned the scapula—the yoke of the Lord, the wimple and veil—the helmet of salvation, which restricted vision the better to avoid distractions from prayer and good works, and tied the black cord about her waist with three knots to signify the three vows she took almost five years ago; some other Orders insisted on twelve knots, for the Stations of the Cross; she thought that was a mite excessive. She tied the rosary to the cord belt and kissed her crucifix and then knelt down on the prayer stool and thanked God she had found new meaning in her life.
No sooner had she entered the hostel office than the telephone rang, breaking into her thoughts.
It was Leon Cazador. Her heart missed a beat to hear his mellifluous voice. “Hello, Leon. It’s lovely to hear you—but why such an early call?”
“I’m afraid it’s bad news, Maggie. I’m with Armando.”
Before taking her vows she’d been named Maggie. Their friendship had been intermittent since he left the States in 2001. Her profession then had been a private investigator working in New York. That’s where they’d first met. They’d grown fond of each other, but neither committed. When she got the call to the Order and took the religious name of Cristina, he insisted on calling her by her old name; it was less formal, he argued, and besides that’s how he’d always known her. Usually, he only did so in private.
