Scorpion Scheme Read online

  I recognized the name after he said it. One of the med students had told me the Egyptian government "is good now, very stable." He'd neglected to explain its scorpion underbelly, which I should have researched myself.

  A familiar female voice called from the TV. I turned to catch another clip of Karima Mansour at the IED site and immediately clicked the TV off.

  When we climbed on the bus to the hospital, I clung to one of the overhead rails. Just like in Canada, people tended to clog up the front and refuse to move to the back. I whispered to Tucker, "I still don't feel like I understand the politics. At all."

  "Join the club."

  "I mean, I don't know who are the good guys or the bad guys, or if everyone's grey. I don't have a clue who bombed us and why." I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. "We don't even know why we're here. Isabelle never told us."

  Tucker grinned. "Well, I'm here to help people. For the rest of it, I'll ask around at work."

  Easier said than done. I started off on the ambulatory side of the ER, tending to a five-year-old kid with a supracondylar fracture. She'd fallen while trying to climb a book case and brought it down on herself. She was lucky to have only one mildly-displaced fracture that should heal well.

  "In'sha'Allah," said her mother.

  I beamed and repeated, "In'sha'Allah." It means "God willing," and is the first Arabic word I learned from patients in Montreal. It's like saying "with any luck," or "I hope so."

  The little girl put up with a cast better than most Canadian five-year-olds. Then Rudy helped me enter some orders on Selsis, the electronic medical record system.

  "Thanks, Rudy. It looks like SARKET, the EMR at St. Joe’s, but better." When he grinned, I felt comfortable saying, "I have a non-medical question, if that's okay."

  "Sure, sure. My pleasure."

  I cleared my throat. "You remember the IED that, ah, affected Tucker and me on our first day?"

  "Of course. We're so sad that it happened and grateful that you and Tucker were not harmed."

  "Well, this morning we saw that the government had executed 12 people in retaliation. It seems awfully fast. I mean, it hasn't even been 48 hours since the IED—"

  Rudy looked as if he'd swallowed a ghost pepper but was too polite to spit it out. "Ah, this is not medicine. This is politics."

  "I know. I don’t understand Egyptian politics, so that’s why I’m asking you."

  His eyebrows relaxed. "I see. Do you know what I think? It would be the best policy to leave it like that."

  My turn to frown. "To leave it like what?"

  "You’re a tourist. You’ll be back in Canada soon. Enjoy your freedom."

  You mean ignorance? I thought, but he gave a little wave, signed up for the next chart, and disappeared into room 2.

  Maybe Tucker would have better luck with him. It might be a guy thing.

  Since approximately 40 patients waited to be seen, I didn't have the time or the nerve to try quizzing anyone else until lunchtime, when I lined up at the cafeteria for what smelled like fish and boiled peas.

  Samira, the medical student, stood ahead of me in line. "How is your first day going?"

  "Oh, it's interesting." I grabbed my plastic tray and a fork and took a deep breath of steamy air. "I have one awkward question, and I apologize if I'm not asking right. Did you hear about the government killing members of Hasm in retaliation for the tourist bus IED two days ago?"

  "The terrorists?" she said, setting a napkin beside a knife and fork on her own tray.

  "Um, are they terrorists?"

  "They’re all terrorists."

  "Do you know Hasm?"

  She swivelled her entire body to face me as her dark eyes bored into mine. "Excuse me. Do you think I’m a terrorist?"

  "Of course not."

  Even though a woman in a white uniform asked us what we wanted from behind the steel counter, Samira refused to answer. She kept watching me.

  "I'm so sorry if I said it wrong. It's my first day. I definitely don't think you're a terrorist or anything like that. Please."

  Samira kept staring at me until I was the one who looked away.

  13

  Any luck talking about the IED? I texted Tucker as I headed back to the ER, sans lunch. That exchange with Samira had ripped away my appetite.

  Some.

  With Rudy? I couldn't help asking

  No, with some other guys. You?

  Ha. I sent him a gif of Eddie Murphy locking his lips and waving 'bye.

  My next patient was a woman with heavy and continuous periods. In Canada, the nurses might take bets on her hemoglobin. The lowest I've ever encountered was 60, which made them scoff. One nurse had seen one as low as 32.

  This woman looked pale and tired and said she could barely walk, but no one joked about hemoglobin. I placed my orders (successfully!), and a lab tech came to draw the blood.

  I saw a man with an ear infection that had ruptured his eardrum, a child with a large left lower pneumonia, and a guy with such a bad nosebleed that he'd bled through someone else's attempts at anterior packing. The staff doctor ended up installing two Foley catheters.

  The last one made my hands shake. Blood everywhere. The patient was a construction worker already known to have hepatitis C. There wasn't any protective gear on hand, not even gloves, and the staff doctor had pushed me aside to deal with it.

  I belatedly realized that Canadians took their health for granted. Most people rushing to the ER's in London, Ontario or Montreal, Quebec have sore throats, colds, coughs, maybe a fracture. Most of them are quick to see and let go.

  At this hospital, everyone was sick, even on the walk-in side. They didn't come unless they meant it.

  "Go to lunch," said the staff, stripping off his gloves.

  "I'm okay," I said. I felt a bit queasy anyway.

  "Go to lunch," he repeated, and I went, texting Tucker to see if he was free. He was in acute care, seeing ambulance patients, so we might not cross paths at all.

  I kept an eye out for the doctor with the broken nose, but I didn't spot any silver glasses. Maybe he wasn't scheduled to work, or maybe he'd needed some time off. I could understand either way.

  In the still-steamy cafeteria, I grabbed an egg sandwich. Not my first choice, but I didn't want to line up again, and I couldn't survive the rest of my shift on a salad. I found an empty two-seater table by the window. The chocolate milk tasted a little different, but it quenched my thirst and boosted my energy.

  Tucker slid into the black plastic seat across from me, beaming. "Hey, stranger."

  "Good day?" I felt soul-crushed, but he looked exhilarated.

  He leaned forward to brush a crumb off the corner of my mouth, and to whisper, "I helped deliver a baby! I mean, the social issues were tough because it was an unwed teen mother who'd denied her pregnancy, and she had FGM—"

  "Female genital mutilation?"

  "Right. I didn't realize how common it was in Egypt. Everyone else was surprised that I hadn't seen it before. I wasn't sure how to handle the delivery, so they helped me out."

  I pressed my fist to my chest. That poor teenager. "I'm taking it was more than a clitoridectomy."

  Tucker glanced from side to side to check if anyone was listening. "Tell you about it later."

  "Right. Okay." We certainly weren't in Kansas anymore. "Grabbing lunch?"

  He lowered his voice even more. "I'll get it after. Two things. I think I figured out what happened with Dr. Ahmed. The pathology resident."

  The poor doctor with the broken nose. "You did? While you were delivering a baby?"

  He waved his hand. "Not exactly. I was already texting people, asking questions."

  Ah. The mysterious texts from last night when he tried to distract me by babbling about a quadfecta. At least he hadn't latched on a luscious belly dancer. Yet. "Okay. What was it?"

  He beckoned for me to lean forward and practically pressed his lips against my ear. "Did you know how doctors are treated in Egypt?"<
br />
  I shook my head.

  "They went on strike in 2012. A police officer hit a physician who refused to falsify a medical report for him."

  I jerked away from Tucker so fast that I almost rammed his nose. "Oh, my God. That's not—how could—"

  In my mind's eye, I replayed the backs of two police officers casually walking away from cubicle number 5.

  Tucker nodded at me. "You know what I'm saying. Police hit two other doctors in separate incidents. Plus physicians are working with unsterilized surgical equipment, without proper gloves. It's dangerous even if you're not assaulted."

  I shuddered, remembering my nosebleed patient this morning.

  "When they tell people to bring their own needles or cast material, the patients attack them too. Someone hit a female doctor and broke her jaw." Tucker gritted his teeth. "They're saying Dr. Ahmed was lucky that it was only a broken nose." He flashed me his phone. "You see this hospital bed?"

  "What is that?" I recoiled from the photo. If I were a patient, I wouldn't even want to step on the dirty floor while wearing hip waders and a HAZMAT suit, let alone lie on that filthy mattress split down the middle, while paint and plaster flaked into my mouth.

  Tucker wasn't done. "And it's only getting worse. Do you know how much each country's supposed to spend on health care?"

  This, I knew from election debates in Canada. "We spend about 10 percent of our Gross National Product on health care, which is why they keep trying to cut it, but that's not possible with an aging population, more tests and treatment, and more technology."

  Tucker sighed. "Last I saw was 11.7 percent in Canada. The U.S. is 17.7 percent. You know how much Egypt spends? They claim 3 to 5 percent, but my friends say that includes water and roads. So, like, when the nurses went on strike, they forced doctors to do the nursing jobs, and brought in nursing students. It's a hellhole."

  Good God. I crumbled up my sandwich wrap, remembering all the Egyptian doctors and pharmacists who'd taught Tucker Arabic at McGill. "That must be why everyone wants to leave."

  He nodded. "Half have left already, which makes it even worse for the ones who stay. It's dangerous here. Every day is like a war."

  "I had no idea." I sat for a minute, stunned.

  "I know. It's a lot. Sorry. I've got to get back and help, but first, I need to show you this." He flashed a pencil drawing at me. It took me a second to register what he'd done.

  He'd drawn a portrait of the man who'd come out of the bathroom with Gizelda Becker.

  It took my breath away. Tucker was good. Gifted, even. He'd once drawn a picture of me, and it was one of the things that had won my heart, even though we didn't discuss it.

  "Amazing. Looks just like him."

  Tucker grinned. "I snapped a picture of it and posted it on social media. My buddies will get the word out online."

  "And you think they'll be able to find him in a city of 10 or 20 million people?"

  Tucker shrugged. "Well. I am that good."

  I grimaced before I laughed.

  "He's also five foot eight, 150 pounds, and smells like Boss cologne."

  "You have a better nose than me. Well, it's worth a try. Didn't people stalk a celebrity through Twitter?"

  Tucker nodded. "Yeah. One of my friends told me there's an app we can use too."

  "Freaky." There are apps for everything. "Okay, well, I've read The Circle. I hope things don't get too creepy."

  He raised his eyebrows. Evidently our friend Tori hadn't persuaded him to read that book. "When have I ever been creepy?"

  Part of being a good girlfriend is knowing when to smile reassuringly. "Rarely."

  He caught my tone, but shrugged it off. "I gotta get something to eat before I fall over. You here for another ten?"

  I checked my watch. "I'd better go. Love you."

  He arched his eyebrows. "Not as much as I love you."

  I heard a woman giggle behind us. It turned out to be a short, round-faced cleaner. I smiled back at her before I made a phone call to chase my own leads. I love Tucker, but a woman's got to solve her own cases.

  14

  One lead panned out immediately. That afternoon, Noeline Momberg and her kids stopped by our hospital with free coffee and pastries for everyone. I generally don't drink coffee, but I washed my hands in the cramped medication room and scooped up what looked like a shiny donut hole.

  "They're called zalabyas," Noeline told me, slapping Jaco's hands away from them. "We have to celebrate the fact that Papa's eyes are getting better."

  "'Almost there,' right Mama? That's what Papa said." Fleur clapped her hands.

  "Did the surgery go well, then?" I asked Noeline. I'd read that with penetrating injuries, like the metal in Frederik's right eye, only one fifth of patients ended up with better than 20/200 vision. Huge problem for a truck driver.

  Noeline compressed her lips before she said, too loudly, "Coming along nicely. Every day is better. Please, have another zalabya."

  I slipped one to Jaco, who split it with Fleur.

  Samira entered the med room, surveyed the treats now displayed on the counter between the sink and ice dispenser, and poured herself a coffee. "They're also called loukmet el-qadi."

  "I'll never remember that," I admitted, trying to act normal around her.

  "It means ‘the judge’s food,’" said Samira, biting into one and smiling. "Thank you, madam. Medicine is a thankless job. And many of us are hungry."

  Thankless? Hungry? In addition to getting beaten up and having your nose or jaw broken? The day just kept getting better.

  I followed the Momberg family out of the med room while more doctors and nurses flocked toward the food. "Noeline, if there's anything we can do, please let us know. Don't feel like you need to bring us anything—"

  "It's all from Ms. Becker. She asked us to bring it. She was supposed to meet us here." Noeline squirted hand sanitizer on Fleur and Jaco's hands.

  "Ms. Becker?" I repeated. So they had become friends after all.

  "I do apologize for my tardiness," called Gizelda Becker, crossing toward us from the nursing station. "How abominable of me to let you carry everything when you have two little children."

  "You have so many things on your plate," said Noeline, although her lips seemed to turn down at the corners in agreement. "I have to get back to my husband now, but Jaco wanted to say hello to Dr. Tucker first."

  The children waved and chewed, and even the exhausted staff smiled at their little faces. This wasn't a pediatric hospital, so cuteness made a welcome change.

  Ms. Becker said, "I should let you get back to your work, and I do want to see Dr. Tucker."

  "Absolutely. You'll find him on the acute side. How are you doing?" I didn't want to intrude on her grief.

  She shook her head, her eyes unfocused. "I haven't had time to dwell on it. My brother keeps me hopping now that he's the only elephant."

  I blinked at her.

  "I'm sorry, I've been running everywhere since Wednesday. I'm not making sense." She passed a hand over her eyes. "We have a saying. 'When two elephants meet on a narrow bridge, they get nowhere until one of them backs down or lies down.'"

  "I see." I did, actually. The bridge wouldn't magically expand for two pachyderms. One elephant had to go. Now that Phillip Becker had shuffled off this mortal coil, Luke would take over the bridge and boss his sister around.

  "Before you go." My face flared red, but I pressed onward. "I heard that you and your father spoke often, and sometimes you would take notes."

  "Where did you hear that?" She eyed me in a way that reminded me of a bald eagle: attentive, almost piercing.

  I met her gaze, trying not to resemble a delicious herring or whatever eagles eat. "The other people on your tour group noticed your little red book."

  She nodded slowly. "The Mombergs, of course. I see."

  I willed the blush out of my cheeks. "Would you be willing to share your notes with us?"

  "There's nothing in them. My fat
her loved to talk, and he was accustomed to an audience, whether it was his secretary, some coworkers, or his family."

  "Even so, Ms. Becker—"

  "Gizelda, please."

  My cheeks heated up even more. "Gizelda, sharing the notes could be a way of keeping your father's memory alive. I feel like I barely got to know him before he died. Sir William Osler said something like, 'Ask not what illness has the person, ask what person has the illness.'"

  "Did he, now? Who is Sir William Osler?"

  "He was a famous Canadian physician." I left out the dark side of Osler, namely "pimping." In medicine, that means questioning a learner to the point of ridicule. An observer wrote in 1916: Rounded with Osler today. Riddles house officers with questions. Like a Gatling gun. Welch says students call it ‘pimping.’ Delightful.

  After a long moment, she shook her head. "The notes won't help you, Dr. Sze."

  "Hope." I offered her my most charming smile.

  Gizelda Becker gazed at me and pressed her lips together into a thin, bloodless line.

  Hope is the thing with feathers

  That perches in the soul …

  Gizelda shook her head before her phone binged in her purse. She ignored it. "You're a very persistent girl. Woman. Person."

  "Thank you." I tried to scrape the question mark out of my voice. This didn't sound promising, Emily Dickinson notwithstanding.

  "I appreciate your help here. You tried to save my father's life, and I think you and Dr. Tucker mean well. I should tell you, however … " She paused. Her phone dinged again. She touched her purse, distracted.

  I glanced at her purse myself. Who was trying to reach her? Probably Luke, but maybe it was the man with the cobra bag. C'mon, answer it. Let me see your lock screen.

  Her fingers lingered on the zipper.

  The phone started to ring with a loud, old school peal that reminded me of my grandma's house.

  "I don't mind reading your notes, even if you think there's nothing in it." I raised my voice to be heard above the ring. "Sometimes it's comforting to share the words of your loved ones after they're gone."

  She shook her head. "No, that's not it. You don't need to hear about Lord Carnarvon, or Osiris, or any of this."