The Syndrome

Rangy yet solidly built, the fiftyish Opdahl moved with the grace and languor of an aging athlete—which, in fact, he was, having won a bronze medal in the downhill decades earlier. It came up in conversation one time—the strange coincidence that McBride’s father had medalled in the same Games (Sapporo, 1972), taking a silver in the biathlon (the first American ever to place in the event). Opdahl had winced good-naturedly, complaining that “Norway owns the biathlon—at least, we’re supposed to!”

Now, Opdahl shook his hand and clapped a friendly arm around McBride’s shoulder. “So how was your trip?” he asked. “No problems?” The older man ushered McBride inside, then pushed the door shut behind them.

“A little jet lag,” McBride replied. “But, no. The flight was fine.”

“And the Florida?” Opdahl asked, looking bemused as he took McBride’s duffel and set it beside the door.

“The Florida’s great!”

Opdahl chuckled. “Large rooms, yes. But, great? I don’t think so.”

McBride laughed. “Well, it’s cheap, anyway.”

Opdahl shook his head, and clucked. “Next time, stay at the Zum Storchen, and let the Foundation worry about the money. I’ve told you: that’s what we do!”

McBride made a gesture that was something between a shrug and a nod, and glanced around. The Institute’s quarters were more or less as he remembered them, with Persian carpets scattered across the marble floors, coffered ceilings and oak wainscotting, oil paintings of flowers and landscapes, and a scattering of blond PCs on antique wooden desks.

Though he’d only been to the Institute twice before, he was surprised to find its headquarters so quiet. Noticing that surprise, Opdahl clapped him on the shoulder, and gestured toward the stairs. “There’s just us!” he exclaimed, leading the way.

“Really?”

“Of course. It’s Saturday! No one comes to work on Saturday—except the boss. And that’s only because I don’t have a choice!”

“Why not?” McBride asked, as they began to mount the steps. “If you’re ‘the boss’—”

“Because I live here,” Opdahl told him.

They ascended the stairs in tandem, heading toward the third floor. “I always assumed you lived in the city,” McBride remarked.

Opdahl shook his head, and winced. “No. This is… what do you say? ‘My home-away-from-home.’“ He paused on the landing, and turned to explain. “My wife lives in Oslo—hates Switzerland. Says it’s too bourgeois.”

“Well,” McBride said, “that’s its charm.”

“Of course, but—one can’t argue these things.”

“And your children?”

“All over the place. One boy’s at Harvard, another’s in Dubai. Daughter’s in Rolle.”

“School?”

“Mmm

“And the rest of the time?”

Opdahl flashed a grin, and resumed climbing. “The rest of the time I’m raising money for the Foundation, or sticking pins in maps, trying to keep track of people like you.”

It was McBride’s turn to smile and, as they climbed, he made a joke about being breathless. “I thought there was an elevator,” he remarked.

“There is, but I don’t like to use it on weekends,” Opdahl replied. “If there were a power failure… well, you can imagine.”

On his previous visits, McBride had met with Opdahl and his assistants in a conference room on the second floor—so he was at least mildly curious about the living quarters overhead. Arriving on the third floor, they came to a door that seemed entirely out of keeping with the building they were in. Made of steel rather than wood, it was unusually thick and sported a brushed aluminum keypad that governed its opening.

Opdahl punched three or four numbers, and the door sprung open with a metallic click. The foundation director rolled his eyes. “Ugly, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s… big,” McBride remarked.

Opdahl chuckled. “The previous tenants were a private bank,” he explained. “From what I’ve heard about their clientele, a big door was probably well advised.”

The office itself was large and comfortable, brightly lighted and furnished in a modern style—unlike the rooms below. There was a wall of books and a leather sofa. A Plexiglas coffee table was laden with a silver tray that held a steaming pot of tea, two cups and saucers, milk and sugar, and a little pile of madeleines.

“Tea?” Opdahl asked.

McBride nodded—“Please”—and walked to the windows behind the desk, where he marveled at the view. Seen through the trees, the lake was the color of Windex, and glittered like broken glass. “Spectacular,” he said.

Opdahl acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of his head, pouring the while. “Sugar?”

“Just a little milk,” McBride replied. And, then, noticing the computer on the director’s desk, he cocked his head and frowned.

“Where’s the A-drive?” he asked.

“What’s an ‘A-drive’?”

“For your floppies.”

“Oh, that!” Opdahl replied. “There isn’t one.”

McBride was genuinely puzzled. “How come?”

Opdahl shrugged. “We like to keep our data confidential and, this way, we can be sure it stays in-house.” He handed McBride a cup of tea and, sitting down behind the desk, gestured for the young American to take a seat on the couch. Then he sipped, and exclaimed, “So!” A pause. “You’ve been doing a wonderful job!”

“Well… thanks,” McBride replied.

“I mean it, Lewis. I know how difficult it can be to work in places like Haiti. They’re filthy, and if you don’t know what you’re doing, they can be dangerous.”

“I got my shots.”

“Still… “ Opdahl leaned forward, and cleared his throat. “You must be wondering what this is all about…”

McBride shifted in his seat, and smiled. “Not really,” he said. “I just assumed. The fellowship ends in a couple of months…”

Opdahl nodded in a way that confirmed the observation even as he dismissed its relevance. “Well, yes, you’re right—of course, but… that’s not the reason you’re here.”

“No?” McBride gave him a puzzled look.

“No.” A whirring sound came from the hall outside the office and, hearing it, the two men looked in its direction.

“Is that the elevator?” McBride asked.

The director nodded, his brow creasing in a frown.

“But—”

“It’s one of the staff,” Opdahl supposed. “He probably forgot something.” Then the whirring stopped, and they could hear the doors rolling back. A moment later, there was a knock. “Would you mind?” the director asked, gesturing toward the door.

McBride frowned. Hadn’t Opdahl said, “There’s just us”? And something about not using the elevator. But he did as he was asked. “No problem,” he said, and, getting to his feet, stepped to the door and opened it.

There was only a fraction of a second to take things in, and no time at all to make sense of it. What he saw was this: a man in surgical scrubs with a gas mask over his face. Then a cloud of spray, and the floor rising toward him. A shower of lights. Darkness.

He was in an ambulance. He was sure that he was in an ambulance because he could see the lights on the ceiling, reflected red lights, going around and around. Nearby, a man in surgical scrubs watched him with a look of mild curiosity.

McBride wanted to ask what was wrong with him, but it was difficult to speak. His mouth was dry, his tongue like wood. When he tried to talk, his voice was slurred, as if he were drunk. After a while, he gave up trying to talk, and tried to concentrate on what had happened. There was a man in a mask. An emergency worker of some kind. Which meant a gas leak, or something like it.

And the aerosol? What was that?

He tried to raise his head—tried to sit up—but it wasn’t possible. He was strapped to a gurney, flat on his back, and soaked in lassitude. A tranquilizer, then, and by the feel of it, a powerful one. Thorazine, maybe. He closed his eyes, thinking, I should be frightened… it would be healthier to be frightened.