by Robin Cook
Marshaling her strength, Cathryn began to talk. She hadn’t planned what she was going to say. It just came out. She talked about God and death in a way that surprised her because she wasn’t religious in the traditional sense. She’d been brought up a Catholic and had even talked briefly of becoming a nun when she was ten. But during college she had rebelled against the ritual of the Church and had become an agnostic of sorts, not bothering to examine her beliefs. Yet she must have made sense because Marge responded; whether it was to the content or just the human companionship, Cathryn didn’t know. But Marge calmed down and even managed a weak smile.
“I’ve got to go,” said Cathryn finally. “I’ve got to meet Michelle. But I’ll be back and I’ll call tonight, I promise.” Marge nodded and kissed Cathryn before going back in with her son. Cathryn stepped out into the hall. She stood by the door breathing rapidly. The hospital had lived up to her fears after all.
“It doesn’t seem to me that we have a whole lot of choice,” said Ellen as she put her coffee mug on the counter. She was sitting on a laboratory stool, looking down at Charles who was slumped in his chair before his desk. “It’s a shame to have to slow down on our work at this point, but what can we do? Maybe we should have kept Morrison informed of our progress.”
“No,” said Charles. His elbows were on the desk, his face in his hands, his coffee untouched. “If we’d done that he would have stopped us a dozen times to write some goddamned paper. We’d be years behind.”
“That’s the only way this could have been avoided,” said Ellen. She reached out and put her hand on Charles’s arm. Perhaps more than anyone, she realized how difficult this was for him. He detested any interference with his work, particularly an administrative interference. “But you’re right. If they had known what we were doing, they would have been in here every day.” She kept her hand on his arm. “It will be all right. We’ll just slow down a little.”
Charles looked up into Ellen’s eyes, which were so dark that the pupils merged with the irises. He was acutely aware of her hand. Since their affair she’d scrupulously avoided touching him. Now in the same morning she’d accused him of insensitivity and held his arm: such confusing signals. “This Canceran nonsense is going to take some time,” he said. “Six months to a year, and that’s only if everything goes very smoothly.”
“Why not do Canceran and our own work?” said Ellen. “We can extend our hours, work nights. I’ll be willing to do it for you.”
Charles stood up. Work nights? He looked at this woman whom he vaguely remembered sleeping with; it seemed so long ago. Her skin had been that same olive color as Elizabeth’s and Michelle’s. Although he had been physically attracted to Ellen, it had never seemed right with her; they were partners, coworkers, colleagues, not lovers. It had been an awkward affair; their lovemaking clumsy, like adolescents. Cathryn wasn’t as beautiful as Ellen but from the beginning it was more comfortable, more fulfilling.
“I’ve got a better idea,” said Charles. “Why don’t I go over Morrison’s head to the director and just lay the cards on the table, explain that it’s infinitely more important for us to stay with our own work.”
“I can’t imagine it will help,” cautioned Ellen. “Morrison told you the decision came from the board of directors. Dr. Ibanez is not going to reverse that. I think you’re just asking for trouble.”
“And I think it’s worth the risk. Help me get the lab books together. I’ll show him what we’ve been doing.”
Ellen slid off her stool and walked toward the door to the hall.
“Ellen?” called Charles, surprised by her actions.
She didn’t stop. “Just do what you want, Charles. You always do anyway.” The door closed behind her.
Charles’s first impulse was to go after her. But the impulse cooled quickly. He’d expected her support. Besides, he had more important things to do than worry about Ellen’s moods and behavior. Angrily, he put her out of his mind and concentrated on getting the main protocol book from his desk and the most recent data books from the workbench. Rehearsing what he would say, Charles headed back up the fire stairs.
The row of administrative secretaries warily monitored his progress down the hall. The entire group knew that he had been ordered to take over the Canceran study and that he wasn’t happy with the idea.
Charles ignored the stares although he felt like a wolf in a chicken coop as he approached Dr. Carlos Ibanez’s secretary, Miss Veronica Evans. Befitting her status, her area was separated from the rest of the room with paneled dividers. She’d been at the Weinburger even longer than Ibanez. She was a well-groomed woman of hefty proportions and indeterminate late middle age.
“I’d like to see the director,” said Charles in a no-nonsense voice.
“Do you have an appointment?” No one intimidated Miss Evans.
“Just tell him I’m here,” said Charles.
“I’m afraid . . .” began Miss Evans.
“If you don’t tell him I’m here, I’m going to barge right in.” Charles’s voice was stiffly controlled.
Marshaling one of her famous, disdainful expressions, Miss Evans reluctantly got up and disappeared within the inner office. When she reappeared, she merely held the door ajar and motioned Charles inside.
Ibanez’s office was a large, corner room that faced south and east. Besides the Boston University campus, part of the Boston skyline could be seen across the partially frozen Charles River. Ibanez was seated at a monstrous, antique Spanish desk. The view was at his back. Seated in front of the desk was Dr. Thomas Brighton.
Laughing at some conversational point made before Charles arrived, Dr. Carlos Ibanez gestured with the long, thin cigar he was smoking for Charles to take a chair. A halo of gray smoke hung above the director’s head like a rain cloud over a tropic island. He was a small man in his early sixties, given to sudden rapid movements, particularly of his hands. His perpetually tanned face was framed by silver hair and a silver goatee. His voice was surprisingly robust.
Charles sat, disturbed by Dr. Brighton’s presence. On one hand, he was furious with the man, both on professional and personal grounds. On the other, he felt sorry for the doctor, having to face up to a scandal and the sudden dissolution of his life.
Dr. Brighton gave Charles a rapid but unmistakably disdainful glance before turning back to Dr. Ibanez. That single look was enough to undermine Charles’s empathy. Charles studied Brighton’s profile. As far as Charles was concerned, he was young: thirty-one years old. And he appeared younger than that: blond and handsome in an effete Ivy League sort of way.
“Ah, Charles,” said Ibanez with some embarrassment. “I was just saying good-bye to Thomas. It’s a shame that in his zeal to finish the Canceran project he acted foolishly.”
“Foolishly,” Charles burst out. “Criminally would be more accurate.” Thomas flushed.
“Now, Charles, his motives were of the best. We know he did not mean to embarrass the institute. The real criminal is the person who leaked this information to the press, and we have every intention of finding him and punishing him severely.”
“And Dr. Brighton?” asked Charles as if the man were not in the room. “Are you condoning what he did?”
“Of course not,” said Ibanez. “But the disgrace he has suffered at the hands of the press seems punishment enough. It will be hard for him to get a job worthy of his talents for the next few years. The Weinburger certainly can’t finance his career any longer. In fact, I was just telling him about an internal medical group in Florida in which I’m quite sure we can get him a position.”
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“Well,” said Dr. Ibanez, getting to his feet and coming around his desk. Brighton stood up as Dr. Ibanez approached him. Dr. Ibanez put his arm on Brighton’s shoulder and walked him to the door, ignoring Charles.
“I’d appreciate any help you can give me,” said Brighton.
“I hope you understand the reasons behind making you
leave the institute so quickly,” said Ibanez.
“Of course,” returned Brighton. “Once the press gets onto something like this, they want to suck it dry. Don’t worry about me, I’m glad to get out of the spotlight for a while.”
Closing the door behind Brighton, Ibanez came back to his desk and sat down. His mood had abruptly switched to tired irritation. “Actually there are two people I’d like to strangle. The person from here who leaked the story and the reporter that wrote it. The press has a habit of blowing things out of proportion and this is a good example. Front page New York Times! Absurd!”
“It seems to me,” said Charles, “that you’re blaming the wrong people. After all, this is a ‘moral issue,’ not just an inconvenience.”
Dr. Ibanez eyed Charles across the expanse of his desk. “Dr. Brighton should not have done what he did, but the moral issue does not bother me as much as the potential damage to the institute and to the drug, Canceran. That would change this from a minor affair to a major catastrophe.”
“I just don’t think that professional integrity is a minor affair,” said Charles.
“I hope you’re not lecturing me, Dr. Martel. Let me tell you something. Dr. Brighton was not motivated by any evil intent. He believed in Canceran and wanted to speed up its availability to the public. His fraud was the result of youthful impatience, which we’ve all been guilty of in one degree or another. Unfortunately in this case his enthusiasm got out of hand with the result being we’ve lost a very talented man, a phenomenal money raiser.”
Charles moved to the edge of his seat. For him the issue was crystal clear and he was astounded that he and Ibanez could view the event from such fundamentally different perspectives. On the verge of unleashing a diatribe on the difference between right and wrong, Charles was interrupted by Miss Evans.
“Dr. Ibanez,” called Miss Evans from the doorway. “You told me to tell you the moment Mr. Bellman arrived. He’s here.”
“Send him in!” shouted Ibanez, leaping to his feet like a boxer at the sound of the bell.
Jules Bellman, the institute’s public relations man, came through the door like a puppy with his tail between his legs. “I didn’t know about the Times until this morning,” he squeaked. “I don’t know how it happened, but it didn’t come from anyone in my office. Unfortunately a great number of people knew.”
“My assistant said it was the gossip of the institute,” said Charles, coming to Bellman’s rescue. “I think I was the only one who didn’t know anything about it.”
Ibanez glowered for another moment. “Well, I want the leak found.” He didn’t ask the P.R. man to sit down.
“Absolutely,” said Bellman, his voice stronger. “I already think I know who was responsible.”
“Oh?” said Ibanez, his eyebrows raising.
“The animal keeper who reported to you about Brighton originally. I heard that he was pissed that he didn’t get a bonus.”
“Christ! Everybody wants a medal for doing their job,” said Ibanez. “Keep at it until you’re sure. Now we have to talk about the press. Here’s how I want you to handle it. Schedule a conference. Acknowledge that errors were found in the Canceran experimental protocol due to a severe time constraint, but don’t admit to any fraud. Just say that mistakes were uncovered by the usual supervisory process that the administration routinely follows, and that Dr. Brighton has been granted an unspecified leave of absence. Say that he has been under great pressure to speed the delivery of the drug to the public. Above all, emphasize that Canceran is the most promising anticancer drug to come along in a long time. Then emphasize that the error here was Brighton’s and that the Weinburger Institute still has full confidence in Canceran. And the way you’re going to do this is by announcing that we are putting our most renowned scientist on the project, Dr. Charles Martel.”
“Dr. Ibanez,” began Charles, “I . . .”
“Just a minute, Charles,” interrupted Ibanez. “Let me get rid of Jules here. Now you think you’ve got all that, Jules?”
“Dr. Ibanez,” Charles broke in. “I really want to say something.”
“In a minute, Charles. Listen, Jules, I want you to make Charles here sound like Louis Pasteur reincarnated, understand?”
“You got it,” said Bellman excitedly. “Now, Dr. Martel. Can you tell me your latest publications.”
“Goddammit,” shouted Charles, slamming his lab books down on Ibanez’s desk. “This is a ridiculous conversation. You know I haven’t published anything recently, mostly because I didn’t want to take the time. But papers or no papers, I’ve been making extraordinary progress. And it’s all here in these books. Let me show you something.”
Charles reached over to open one of the lab books but Dr. Ibanez restrained his arm. “Charles, calm down. You’re not on trial here, for God’s sake. Actually it’s probably better you haven’t published. Right now interest as well as funding for immunological cancer research has slackened. It probably wouldn’t be good for Jules to have to admit you’ve been working exclusively in this area because the press might suggest you were unqualified to take over Canceran.”
“Give me strength,” groaned Charles to himself through clenched teeth. He stared at Ibanez, breathing heavily. “Let me tell you something! The whole medical community is approaching cancer from the wrong perspective. All this work on chemotherapeutic agents like Canceran is only for palliative purposes. A real cure can only come from better understanding of the chemical communication among cells of which the immune system is a direct descendant. Immunology is the answer!” Charles’s voice had built to a crescendo, and the last sentence held the fervor of a religious fanatic.
Bellman looked down and shuffled his feet. Ibanez took a long drag on his cigar, blowing the smoke in a long, thin stream.
“Well,” said Dr. Ibanez, breaking the embarrassing silence. “That’s an interesting point, Charles, but I’m afraid not everybody would agree with you. The fact of the matter is that while there is plenty of funding for chemotherapy research, there is very little for immunological studies . . .”
“That’s because chemotherapy agents like Canceran can be patented whereas immunological processes, for the most part, cannot be,” said Charles, impulsively interrupting Dr. Ibanez.
“It seems to me,” said Ibanez, “that the old phrase, ‘don’t bite the hand that feeds you,’ applies here. The cancer community has supported you, Dr. Martel.”
“And I’m thankful,” said Charles. “I’m not a rebel or a revolutionary. Far from it. All I want is to be left alone to do my work. In fact, that’s why I came up here in the first place: to tell you that I don’t feel capable of taking on the Canceran project.”
“Nonsense!” said Ibanez. “You’re more than capable. Obviously the board of directors thinks so.”
“I’m not talking about my intellectual capabilities,” snapped Charles. “I’m talking about my lack of interest. I don’t believe in Canceran and the approach to cancer it represents.”
“Dr. Martel,” said Dr. Ibanez slowly, his eyes boring into Charles’s face. “Are you aware that we are in the midst of a crisis? Are you going to sit there and tell me you cannot help because of a lack of interest? What do you think I’m running here, a federally endowed college? If we lose the grant for Canceran the whole institute is in financial jeopardy. You’re the only person who is not already working under a National Cancer Institute grant and whose stature in the research community is such that this whole unfortunate brouhaha will be defused when you take over.”
“But I’m at a critical point in my own research,” pleaded Charles. “I know I haven’t published and I know that I’ve been somewhat secretive. Maybe that was wrong. But I’ve been getting results and I think I have made an astounding breakthrough. It’s right here.” Charles tapped the cover of one of his lab books. “Listen, I can take a cancer cell, any cancer cell, and isolate the chemical difference between that cell and a normal cell from the same individual.”
“In what animals?” asked Dr. Ibanez.
“Mice, rats, and monkeys,” said Charles.
“What about humans?” asked Dr. Ibanez.
“I haven’t tried it yet, but I’m sure it will work. It’s worked flawlessly in all the species I’ve tried.”
“Is this chemical difference antigenic in the host animal?”
“It should be. In all cases the protein seems to be sufficiently different to be antigenic but unfortunately I have not yet been able to sensitize a cancerous animal. There seems to be some kind of blocking mechanism or what I call a blocking factor. And that’s where I am in my work, trying to isolate this blocking factor. Once I do, I intend to use the hybridoma technique to make an antibody to the blocking factor. If I can eliminate the blocking factor, I’m hoping the animal will then respond immunologically to its tumor.”
“Whew!” whistled Bellman, not sure what to write in his pad.
“The most exciting thing,” said Charles with enthusiasm, “is that it all makes scientific sense. Cancer today is a vestigial aspect of an ancient system whereby organisms could accept new cellular components.”
“I give up,” said Bellman. He closed his pad with a snap.
“What you are also saying, Dr. Martel,” said Dr. Ibanez, “is that you have a long way to go in this work of yours.”
“Absolutely,” said Charles. “But the pace has been quickening.”
“But there’s no reason, except your preference, that you couldn’t put this work aside for a period of time.”
“Only that it appears so promising. If it turns out to be as fruitful as I expect, then it would be tragic, if not criminal, not to have it available as soon as possible.”
“But it is only in your opinion that it appears so promising. I must admit it sounds interesting and I can assure you the Weinburger will support you as it has in the past. But first you are going to have to help the Weinburger. Your own interests must be postponed; you must take over the Canceran project immediately. If you refuse, Dr. Martel, you will have to take your research elsewhere. I want no more discussion. The issue is closed.”
