The Syndrome

He forced himself to look at the building. Watched Adrie

He was cold. It was freezing. And time didn’t just slow down, it turned as glacial as the weather. He was standing across the street from the Institute, a quarter of the way up the block, leaning against a sycamore tree. And he felt very conspicuous. There was no reason for him to be there, holding this unwieldy box. But there he was, eyes glued to the massive front door, muttering, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon…”

Because, all of a sudden, he didn’t want Opdahl to be there. There was something about the Institute, something about the building he was watching, that affected him in a primal way—like waking in the middle of the night to see a snake writhing across the bedroom floor. The fear he felt came from the deepest and most instinctive part of himself, a region of the brain that had nothing to do with rational thinking, and everything to do with survival.

And then he remembered. Watching the building from across the street, he remembered the dream he’d had that afternoon, the one Adrie

He’d gone to the Institute to meet with Opdahl—and he’d been ambushed. By a man with an aerosol. He remembered a cloud of spray, and then the floor, smacking him in the face. He remembered the long ride in the ambulance, the drugs wearing off, the gurney crunching over gravel as they arrived.

Then the operating room, where Gu

Brave?

McBride shivered, and glanced at his watch. 2:48. Twelve minutes, and counting, he thought, though why it should take so long… she should be out by now! Unless Opdahl had a picture of her—which he wouldn’t—unless he did. McBride looked at his watch a second time. 2:49.

Fuck it, he muttered, and launched himself toward the Institute.

He was halfway up the walk when the door opened. Putting on the brakes, he drew himself up, tried to look casual. Adrie

“Let’s get out of here,” McBride said.

He wanted to know whether Opdahl was in the Institute. Because he wanted to kill him. But not with Adrie

When they reached its puny Plexiglas shelter, he finally asked her: “Was he there?”

She frowned at him, didn’t answer. “You look really spooked,” she told him.

“Was he there?”

“Lighten up. What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve had a rough ten minutes.”

She grimaced at the sarcasm. “No,” she said. “He wasn’t there.”

“But he’ll be back,” McBride suggested, his voice hopeful.

“Not until Tuesday.”

His disappointment was palpable.

“Not to worry” she told him, sounding a little smug. “I found out where he is: he’s at the clinic in Spiez.”

McBride nodded as a tram rumbled toward them through the lightly falling snow.

“So?” Adrie

“So… what?” McBride replied.

“How far is Spiez?”

Chapter 40

Spiez was only seventy miles through the mountains, but there were a lot of mountains, and there was a lot of ice. The landscape was ferociously beautiful, with evergreen forests flocked with snow, and the Alps brooding under a leaden sky. It took their rented BMW nearly three hours to get there, so that it was well past dark when they arrived.

Even so, they could see that the town was a special one, with its own castle hard by the lake, an elegant marina, and a view toward the Jungfrau. The streets above the lake were narrow, winding, and hilly, and they had to stop twice to ask directions—once at a Gasthaus, and then at a restaurant that specialized in wild boar.

Their hotel, the Belvedere, was in a residential area overlooking the marina. They’d picked it out of a guidebook in the lobby of the Florida, ignoring the high rack rate in favor of its proximity to the Prudhomme Clinic. Unless the street numbers were very misleading, the hotel was only a block away from the clinic, and on the same street.

And, in fact, it was even closer than that. The buildings were side-by-side, the one a mansion in the Beaux Arts style, with cupolas and spires, the clinic a fortress of poured concrete—gray, severe, and minimalist. “Let’s see what kind of security they have,” McBride suggested, and turned into the clinic’s courtyard, where the gravel crunched beneath the tires in a way that was both familiar and unpleasant. Suddenly, the night exploded in a flood of light, and a man appeared in the doorway. “Pretty good,” McBride concluded, looping back to the street and into the parking lot next door.

“But they saw us!” Adrie

McBride pulled into a parking slot, and shook his head. “They’ll think we made a wrong turn.”

And then they were in Room 252 with a view across the lake, and the mountains silhouetted against the night. Adrie

“Let’s get some di

“The Prudhomme Clinic? Mostly, it is for young people.”

“What’s the matter with them?” Adrie

The woman shrugged. “I think they are having eating problems. So they are very ski

“You mean, they’re anorexic,” McBride suggested.

“Yes. And I think some drug problems, too—though I hope you don’t worry—”

McBride shook his head. “No, no—I’m sure the security’s excellent.”

“Absolutely. The clinic is very discreet. A good neighbor—if you don’t mind the architecture.”

McBride reassured her that they didn’t and, with Adrie

“You are staying in the house?” she asked, handing each of them a huge menu.

“Yes.”

She smiled. “Well, enjoy your stay.” Then she lighted the candle and stood back a moment, as if to admire the crisp white linen and gleaming silverware. “You would perhaps enjoy a complimentary glass of Swiss wine?”

They glanced at each other. “Delighted,” McBride said.

She returned a moment later. “It’s called Fendant,” she told them, setting a glass before each of them. “I think you’ll find it refreshing. Now, if I may recommend something? The lake fish is… “ She bunched her fingers into a bouquet and kissed them. “The best.”