Confident she was alone, Samira walked in the direction of the operating suite while trying to keep the sound of her heels striking the composite floor to a minimum. The lighting was dim but adequate. Passing through the outer double doors, she made certain the surgical lounge was empty. She knew that it was occasionally used during the evening, and that the night-shift staff used it to take breaks and catch some TV, even though officially it was off-limits. She moved on to the double doors to the OR suite itself and cracked them. Unfortunately, the hinges complained with a screeching noise, making Samira cringe. She could feel her heart throbbing in her chest and could hear it in her ears. After pausing for a few seconds to check for any kind of response to the sound of the doors, Samira stepped into the operating suite itself. When the same screech occurred as the door closed, she cringed again. But the earlier tomblike silence immediately descended like a heavy blanket.

Samira was eager to get this portion of the task over with. She could now feel perspiration on her face despite the OR’s being over-air-conditioned. She was not fond of feeling anxious, and because of the long-term duplicitous life she’d led as a teenager with her parents, she’d felt it all too often.

Once in the OR and confident she was alone, Samira made quick work of getting the syringe full of succinylcholine. The only potential problem was that in her haste she nearly dropped the glass bottle containing the paralyzing drug. If it had broken, hitting against the hard floor, it would have been a calamity, since she would have hesitated cleaning it up. Each sliver of glass would have been the equivalent of a curare poison dart in the jungles of Peru. It wasn’t lost on her how ironic it would be if she’d end up being found dead in the OR in the morning.

It was with great relief that Samira retraced her steps back to the stairwell. With this portion of the assignment out of the way, she thought she was home free, but little did she know.

Descending two floors, she checked the time. It was a tad past eight. Her only concern at that point was Mrs. Benfatti, whom she had met that afternoon. Would she still be visiting? On the positive side, it was the night of Herbert Benfatti’s surgery, and the chances were he was still feeling the results of the anesthesia, meaning he’d probably be seriously sleepy or sleeping. The only way to find out was to check.

Opening the third-floor stairway door, Samira glanced up and down the corridor. Two nurses could be seen in the brightly lit nurses’ station, which meant the other two were either off in patient rooms or taking a break. There was no way Samira could know.