Finding Arcadia Page 10

  Only one record, only one birth. Thousands of children are born in the John Radcliffe every year, but the only recorded birth with a digital file prior to 1998 is her brother’s. Yet another coincidence?

  “That can’t be,” he is murmuring.

  “No, clearly it can be,” she counters. “Are you able to tell if these records have been faked? And, if so, by whom?”

  “That’s just it,” Leo replies. “They aren’t fake. These are timestamped medical records. Only back then we weren’t using computers.”

  “So what you’re saying is that they are good fakes?”

  “Extremely good. Unless you really know the system, or asked to compare them with other records from the same time, you would never know they weren’t genuine. Though if you just wanted to create a fake record, you could have inserted them into the patient’s file on basement two.”

  But then the records wouldn’t have been so easy to find online, perhaps encouraging a more thorough investigation of the paper files. “You said they were timestamped,” she asks. “Is there any way of finding out when these records were altered?”

  “Not that I can think of. Though obviously it must have been after we started using computer records in 1998. Whoever did this really knew what he was doing.”

  Or she. Arcadia is about to ask Leo to print a copy of each file when a klaxon’s wail starts to echo through the hospital.

  “Oh great,” Leo grimaces. “Another fire drill.”

  An announcement over the loudspeakers contradicts him within seconds. “This is not a drill,” the calm voice intones. “This is a level three evacuation. All staff, patients, and visitors are required to move to evacuation points A, B, and C. Please follow emergency signs to the nearest exit where you will be directed to a holding station. Patients in need of help should wait in their beds and orderlies will be on hand to assist. Please remain calm.”

  Calmly telling anxious people to remain calm rarely works, but the speaker is just trying to do her job. Perhaps it is a recording. For his part, Leo is logging out of the system and—yes, pausing to delete his browsing history, before shutting down the computer.

  “All right missy,” he stands up, “I think we’d best be moving. Level three means the whole hospital is being evacuated. Must be something bad.”

  “Of course.” She also gets to her feet. “By the way, the paper records you mentioned—they are on basement two in this building?”

  He nods. “If you want to request documents there are forms I can pass you. Takes about a week. But next time, maybe you could try asking nicely?”

  She could try. But she doesn’t have a week. She flashes him a grin as they move towards the exit. “I’ll try.” Then casts a look of horror across her face. “Oh my goodness, I think I left my purse in the bathroom. I’ll just be a moment—you go on ahead.”

  Before he can protest, she dashes back into the hospital towards the stairs. A glance over her shoulder shows that his gallantry lasts only a few seconds before he shrugs and continues down the hallway to the door and safety outside.

  If the evacuation is due to a fire, going down into the basement is foolish but not suicidal. If it houses paper records then there will be a great deal of material to burn, but fires go up more quickly than they go down. Provided there is sufficient oxygen, she should be OK. Yet Leo said the entire hospital was being evacuated. Unless the fire has already taken over much of the facility, that seems like an overreaction. Terrorism?

  A risk she will take. She jogs down two flights of stairs, pausing to let a dwindling number of people climb up past her. One or two look at her curiously, but no one tries to stop her and she finds herself on level B2 almost alone.

  Signs pointing to “Records” lead to a counter and a locked door. As there is no one behind the counter, however, it is easily climbed over and she finds herself at the edge of a room that stretches under much of the hospital building filled with shelves of hanging files organised by surname. It takes only a few minutes to find Hebron, Euphemia.

  The medical record is arranged in reverse chronological order, meaning that the first document is the one certifying her death. A car accident in February 2000. Head trauma, massive internal bleeding, organ failure. Blood type A+. Next of kin: none.

  None?

  The klaxon continues to wail, periodically interrupted by a reprise of the calm voice warning of impending doom and the need to evacuate. Definitely a recording. She hesitates for only a second before thrusting the whole file into her bag and returning to the counter. As she climbs back over it, her phone rings. She looks at the screen—a 1865 number. Oxford?

  Ascending the stairs two at a time, she accepts the call.

  “Hello? Is that a Miss Arcadia?” The voice is that of an elderly man. Well-educated, likely public-schooled.

  She covers her other ear with her hand to hear over the klaxon. With a fraction of a delay, the same noise can be heard on the other end of the line. Also inside the hospital.

  “Yes,” she replies, reaching the top of the stairs. “And to whom am I speaking?”

  “My name is Dr. Bell. I’m terribly sorry, but I think I need your help.” A quaver in the voice indicates anxiety, though a doctor’s bedside manner is struggling to mask it.

  She is nearly at the exit. “Don’t you think you might want to phone the police or the fire department?”

  “Under normal circumstances that would probably be the case. But I was given very explicit instructions.”

  She pauses, able to see daylight through the door ahead. Crowds of people are gathering outside the hospital, the klaxon now accompanied by the wail of emergency vehicle sirens.

  “Go on.”

  The old man coughs. “You see, I think I was drugged. When I woke up, there was a note with your number on it. The note said to call you.”

  “Sir, perhaps we might talk about this outside the building? The hospital is being evacuated, as you can hear.”

  “Yes, well I fear that I might be the cause of all that bother.” The slight tremor is now supplemented by a tone of—embarrassment? “You see, the note was taped to some kind of device that was attached to me while I was unconscious. I’m no expert in these things, but I do rather suspect it might be a bomb of some sort.”

  She does not know this man and owes him nothing. But the second time that someone has awoken with a device strapped to them and a note to call her is more than a coincidence. Who even knew she was in Oxford? Puzzle that out later.

  “Where are you?”

  “My office is on the fifth floor of the main building. Room 5807.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  The klaxon now sounds through almost empty corridors. Those able to move have left, while others have been wheeled out in their beds. She does not pass the intensive care unit, but that would be where the most difficult decisions are being made—patients in mid-surgery, or attached to machines that keep them alive but cannot be moved to safety.

  Safety from what? To evacuate an entire hospital there must have been a credible threat of a catastrophe. More than playdough.

  Since it appears not to be a fire, upon returning to the main building she takes the elevator to the fifth floor. Room 5807 is in the Department of Clinical Medicine, towards the end of a long corridor of offices. There are no patients on this level and it is deserted. When she knocks on the frosted glass—Dr. Joseph Bell, BM BCh, DPhil, FRCP—a frail voice invites her to open the door.

  “I hope you will not be offended if I don’t stand up,” the old man, Dr. Bell, says, “but I appear to have gotten myself into something of a pickle.”

  She takes in the room quickly. Small office, neatly kept. An organised, perhaps obsessive man occupies it—two pairs of identical pens and pencils, well-sharpened, sit precisely on the desk next to a high-end laptop. Books line one wall, topics ranging from dictionaries to epigenetics, interspersed with occasional works of fiction—Brave New World, The Boys from Brazil. The other wall holds d
egrees and certificates signifying various honours.

  The room’s sole occupant sits in a swivel chair, turning slightly to face her. Late fifties, thinning hair, jacket with leather elbow patches; his grey eyes meet hers, eyebrows rising in—resignation?

  A piece of paper sits on the desk next to the phone with her number printed on it. “Call Arcadia,” the note reads in the same calligraphic font, “and wish her luck.”

  “Miss Arcadia, I presume?” he says.

  “Indeed,” she replies. “Now what have you got yourself into here?”

  “Well I don’t quite know, I’m afraid. But it does all seem a tad dangerous.”

  The device strapped to his chest resembles the one attached to Henry the previous Sunday. A metal box with canvas straps, wires sewn into the canvas. This box is larger, however, and the clips that secure it are copper. The smell is different also, like motor oil.

  The engraving on the outside is the same, however:

  To Arcadia, with Love.

  A red glow through vents on the side once again points to a power source and a timer.

  “You have no idea how this came to be attached to you?” she asks. The fact that the clips are made of conductive material means that the chances of the device being booby-trapped are far higher.

  The old man shakes his head in bafflement, stopping when he notices that it causes the device to shift position.

  “Or why you were told to phone me?”

  He shakes his head more gently. “I’m afraid I don’t even know who you are. Are you a school student? I don’t recognise the uniform.”

  “I’m a student somewhere else. Just visiting for the day.”

  “Miss Arcadia, now that we’ve met, I must say that regret involving you at all. In fact, perhaps it would be best if you left and I took your advice about calling the fire department. They might know what to do.”

  He is slowly turning the chair back towards his desk phone when a burst of music emerges from the box on his chest. It takes a few seconds to recognise it as La Cucaracha!, the Mexican folk song sometimes used as a ringtone. After playing four bars, there is a sustained beep and then quiet. Through the vents, the light that had been steady now starts to blink. A timer counting down.

  “Well, Dr. Bell,” she says, opening her bag to remove her Swiss Army knife. “It seems that we are both now in something of a pickle.”

  Outside, the klaxon continues to wail.

  7

  TOCK

  She turns the screws as quickly as she can without moving the device. Same design, slightly larger. Four screws again. Perhaps fifteen seconds per screw. One minute, maybe less.

  Her hands are beginning to sweat by the time she removes the metal panel. She almost drops the Swiss Army knife, catching it with her free hand. She places it on the desk next to the screws, turning the panel over to look for instructions.

  Dr. Bell is regarding her with a curious expression. “You’ve done this before?” he asks.

  “Once.” This time the instructions are printed on paper rather than engraved. Good, for the text is longer.

  The device itself is also more elaborate. Several sticks of a dark clayey material are attached to a timer and a mobile phone. It was the phone that rang, presumably triggering the timer to start. It now registers two minutes and sixteen seconds. Fifteen. No loose wires to cut. It is the clayey substance that gives off the oily smell.

  “What does it say?” asks Dr. Bell.

  “It says we don’t have much time.”

  She reads the message taped inside the panel.

  Dear Arcadia,

  Here we are again! This time the stakes are a little higher, as there is enough C-4 here to bring down most of the building. There’s just time to tell you a story. I call it “Fun with Dick and Jane and a Bomb”.

  M has planted a bomb that will detonate at one and only one of the following times:

  ◆ 2:00pm, 2:30pm

  ◆ 3:10pm, 3:30pm, 3:40pm

  ◆ 4:20pm, 4:50pm

  ◆ 5:00pm, 5:10pm, 5:20pm

  M shows this list to Dick and Jane. She then whispers to Dick the hour at which the bomb will detonate, and quietly tells Jane the minute at which it will detonate.

  Dick says: “Boo! I don’t know when the bomb will detonate—but at least I know that Jane doesn’t know either.”

  Then Jane shouts: “Eureka! I didn’t know when the bomb would detonate, but I do now.”

  And Dick cries out: “Aha! Now I also know when the bomb will detonate.”

  Enter the three digits of the correct time into the phone and press “send”. Congratulations: you have disarmed the bomb! (Enter anything else and, well, oops!)

  Cheerio,

  M

  One minute, fifty seconds.

  C-4 is a high-yield plastic explosive. Hard to evaluate the threat, but it looks real enough.

  Another logic puzzle, but there is not enough information. There are known unknowns—things you know that you do not know—and unknown unknowns—things you don’t know that you don’t know. But how do you know what someone else doesn’t know?

  Dr. Bell is craning his neck to look at the text. “Perhaps I can help?”

  No time. How do you know what someone else does not know? Because if they did know, they would act.

  Dick knows only the hour at which the bomb goes off; Jane knows only the minute. He doesn’t know the time. But for him to be certain that Jane cannot know, then the time must not be one of the possibilities with a unique number of minutes—because if Jane knew that the number of minutes was forty, she would also know that the time had to be 3:40pm; if the number of minutes was fifty, it would be 4:50pm. For Dick to be certain that this is impossible, to exclude them completely, the hour cannot be three or four.

  But how does that help Jane get the correct answer?

  “Is everything all right, Miss Arcadia?” Dr. Bell asks. A scowl silences him.

  One minute, twelve seconds.

  Eliminating the hour being three or four leaves five possible answers:

  ◆ 2:00pm, 2:30pm

  ◆ 5:00pm, 5:10pm, 5:20pm

  Jane knows the number of minutes. If she can now work out the answer—“I didn’t know then, but I do now”—then that number cannot be zero or she still would not know whether it was 2pm or 5pm. So those two times can also be ruled out, leaving three possibilities:

  ◆ 2:30pm

  ◆ 5:10pm, 5:20pm

  The correct answer will turn off the device. The wrong answer: “Oops.” She is beginning to dislike this “M” person. If Jane is so smart why doesn’t she disarm the bloody bomb herself.

  Forty-two seconds.

  “Aha!” Dick cries. Why? He can now work out the time. He has known the hour all along, so assuming he has reached a similar conclusion, then for him to know the answer it must be—

  She enters “230” into the phone and presses “send”. Exhales.

  Network error. Message not sent.

  The phone display shows that network coverage has been lost. The timer continues its descent towards zero.

  Twenty-three seconds.

  The swivel chair has wheels. “Dr. Bell.” She moves to stand behind him. “I’ll need to move you nearer to the window.”

  “Why?” he asks, then answers his own question: “Oh, better phone reception. Of course.”

  She pushes the chair until his feet touch the wall, being careful not to move so quickly that he is tipped out of the chair. A bar of phone coverage reappears on the screen.

  Resend?

  “Yes, please,” she whispers, pressing the green “send” button a second time.

  There is a moment’s pause, then La Cucaracha! plays once again on the phone. The timer beeps again also and then stops—at eight seconds.

  The alarms outside continue; in the room there is silence. She leans back against the desk.

  At length, Dr. Bell clears his throat. “I take it, from our continued existence, that you were suc
cessful in your endeavour?”

  “Yes,” she replies, “it would seem so.”

  “You were rather engrossed in the challenge, but may I have a closer look at the paper that was inside this infernal contraption?”

  She passes it to him.

  “How intriguing,” he says, studying it. “I believe this is what’s called an ‘impossible puzzle’—so named because it appears to lack sufficient information for a solution. They can be quite tricky.” He frowns, shifting his head back so that he can look through the reading lenses in his bifocal glasses. “Of course in this case, the instructions are merely to enter the correct time.” He looks at his watch, a hand-wound timepiece with a worn leather strap. “By my watch it’s just gone half-past two. Was that the answer?”

  Something between a laugh and a cough escapes her lips. The combination of humour and ingenuity is impressive, but if the clayey material really is C-4 then this was far beyond a joke. Even if the bomb were fake, causing the evacuation of a hospital meant risks to the patients also.

  “In any case,” Dr. Bell continues, “I think I can now take off this blasted thing.” He reaches around to undo the copper clips, gingerly standing up and placing the device on the chair.

  “Do you have any idea who put it on you?” she asks.

  “None whatsoever.” He straightens his jacket, looking at the device and then at her. For someone who has almost been killed, he is remarkably calm. “One moment I was having my morning tea, the next I awoke with a crushing headache to find this strapped to me and the hospital being evacuated. Indeed, it seems that it is you who is more familiar with such situations. You said you had come across something like this before?”

  “At my school, though that was more of a practical joke—with no real bomb.”

  “A strange idea of a joke. Have you any idea who might be behind it?”

  She studies him carefully. There must be some reason why he was chosen for this role. “Not yet,” she confesses at last. “But I believe it could be a teenage girl. All I know about her is that she’s dangerous and has some kind of obsession with me.”