Frameshift

by Robert J. Sawyer

  Bullen was grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you,” he said as the applause finally died down. “Thank you very much. It has been a spectacular year, hasn’t it?”

  More clapping.

  “Our chief financial officer, Garrett Sims, will have a few words to say about that later, but for now, let me take you through our progress of the past year. We’ll start by introducing the auditors…”

  All the usual reports were given, and three motions were brought to the floor—although it was clear that the board of directors had enough proxy votes to pass anything it wished. A few members of the audience asked questions. One young guy was all worked up about the fact that the annual report wasn’t printed on recycled paper. Pierre smiled. The spirit of California radicalism wasn’t dead.

  Bullen returned to the podium. “Of course, the biggest impact on our cash flow has been Senator Patrick Johnston’s bill eleven forty-six, which became law on January first, three years ago. That bill has prevented us from denying policies to those who have genetic tests proving that they have serious disorders, so long as the disorder has not yet manifested itself. California insurance companies had lobbied hard in Sacramento to get that law defeated, and indeed had succeeded in getting Governor Wilson to veto it. But, as you may know, Senator Johnston kept reintroducing it, and Wilson finally signed it.” He looked out at the audience. “That’s the bad news. The good news is that we continue to lobby in Oregon and Washington State to make sure that no similar bills are introduced there. So far, the California law is still the only one of its kind in the nation—and we intend to keep it that way.”

  The audience applauded. Pierre was fuming.

  At the end of the formal presentations, Bullen—whose deep voice was now noticeably hoarse—asked if there was any new business. Pierre nudged Molly, who raised a hand on his behalf; he didn’t want people to see his arm waving wildly like some sixth-grade brownnose. Two other people were recognized first, and then Bullen pointed at Molly.

  She rose briefly. “Actually,” she said loudly, “it’s my husband who wishes to speak.” Slowly, meticulously, Pierre got up, leaning on his cane. He walked over to the microphone set up in the middle of the aisle. His feet were splayed as he moved, and his free arm—the one not holding the cane—was rising and falling at his side. There were gasps from a few people. Someone a few rows back said to his companion that the guy must be drunk. Molly turned around and gave him a withering stare.

  Pierre at last reached the microphone stand. It was too low for him, but he knew he didn’t have the coordination to loosen the milled sleeve that would have let him raise one of the telescoping sections. Still, he grabbed the stand with his left hand to help steady its movements, and leaned hard on his cane with his right.

  “Hello,” he said into the microphone. “I’m not just a stockholder; I’m also a geneticist.” Bullen sat up straight in his chair, perhaps recognizing Pierre’s accent. He motioned to someone offstage. “I heard Mr. Bullen tell you what an evil thing the California anti-genetic-discrimination law is. But it’s not—it’s a wonderful thing. I come from Canada, where we believe that the right to health care is as inalienable as the right to free speech. Senator Johnston’s law recognizes that none of us can control our genetic makeup.”

  He paused to catch his breath—his diaphragm spasmed occasionally. He noticed two security guards had appeared at the side of the theater; both had gun holsters. “I work on the Human Genome Project. We’re sequencing every bit of DNA that makes up a human being. We already know the location of the gene for Huntington’s disease—which is what I have—as well as the locations of the genes for some forms of Alzheimer’s and breast cancer and heart disease. But eventually we’ll know where every gene is, what every gene does. We may very well have that knowledge in the lifetime of many people in this room. Today, there’s only a handful of things we can test genetically for, but tomorrow, we’ll be able to tell who will become obese, who will develop high cholesterol, who will get colon cancer. Then, if it weren’t for laws like Senator Johnston’s, it could be you or your already-born children or grandchildren who would have the safety net pulled out from beneath them, all in the name of profit.” His natural instinct at this moment was to spread his arms imploringly, but he couldn’t do that without losing his balance. “We shouldn’t be fighting to keep other states from adopting laws like the one here in California. Rather, we should be helping them all adopt such principles. We should—”

  Craig Bullen spoke firmly into his own microphone. “Insurance is a business, Dr. Tardivel.”

  Pierre started at the use of his name. The cat was clearly out of the bag.

  “Yes, but—”

  “And these good people”—he spread his arms, and Pierre wondered for a moment if Bullen was mocking the gesture he’d been unable to make himself—“have rights, too. The right to see their hard-earned money work for them. The right to profit from the sweat of their brows. They invest their money here, in this company, to give themselves financial security—the security to retire comfortably, the security to weather uncertain times. You identified yourself as a geneticist, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why don’t you also tell these good people that you’re also a policyholder? Why don’t you tell them that you applied for insurance on the day after Senator Johnston’s bill became law? Why don’t you tell them about the thousands of dollars in claims you’ve already submitted to this company, for everything from drugs to help contain your chorea, to the cost of that cane you’re holding? You are a burden, sir—a burden on every person in this room. Providing coverage for you represents state-imposed charity on our part.”

  “But I’m—”

  “And there is a place for charity, I certainly agree. Doubtless it would surprise you, Dr. Tardivel, to know that I personally, from my own pocket, donated ten thousand dollars last year to an AIDS hospice here in San Francisco. But our largesse must know reasonable bounds. Medical services cost money. Your vaunted Canadian socialized health-care system may well collapse as costs spiral ever upward.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Now please, sir, you’ve had your say. Please sit down.”

  “But you’re trying to—”

  A deep-voiced man shouted from the rear: “Sit down, Frenchie!”

  “Go back home if you don’t like it here,” yelled a woman.

  “Une minute!” said Pierre.

  “Cancel your policy!” shouted another man. “Stop sucking us dry!”

  “You people don’t understand,” said Pierre. “It’s—”

  One fellow began to boo. He was soon joined by several more. Someone tossed a wadded-up copy of the agenda at Pierre. Bullen motioned with two crooked fingers at his security men, who started to move forward. Pierre exhaled noisily and made his slow, painful way back to his seat. Molly patted him on the arm as he sat down.

  “You got a lot of nerve, buddy,” said a fellow with a comb-over in the row behind them, leaning forward.

  Molly, who had been detecting some thoughts from this man and his wife throughout the evening, wheeled around and snapped, “And you’re having an affair with your secretary Rebecca.”

  The man’s mouth dropped open and he began to splutter. His wife immediately laid into him.

  Molly turned back to Pierre. “Let’s go, honey. There’s no point in staying any longer.”

  Pierre nodded and began the slow process of getting to his feet again. Bullen pressed on with the meeting. “My apologies for that unfortunate display. Now, ladies and gentlemen, as we do every year, we’ll close with a few words from the company’s founder, Mr. Abraham Danielson.”

  Pierre was halfway out into the aisle now. Onstage, a completely bald octogenarian rose from the long mahogany table and began his own slow journey across the stage to the podium. Molly was gathering up her purse. She looked up, and—

  Oh my God!

  That face—those cruel, dark eyes…

 
; He’d been wearing a watch cap when she’d last seen him, his ears pressed flat against his head, his baldness concealed, but that was him, no doubt about it—

  “Pierre, wait!” Her husband turned to look at her. Molly’s jaw was hanging open.

  “I founded this company forty-eight years ago,” said Abraham Danielson, his reedy voice tinged by an Eastern European accent. “At that time—”

  “It’s him,” said Molly in a low voice to Pierre, who was now lowering himself back into his seat. “It’s him—it’s the man I saw torturing the dying cat!”

  “Are you sure?” whispered Pierre.

  Molly nodded vigorously. “It’s him!”

  Pierre squinted to see the guy better: thick necked, bald. Sure, all old geezers looked somewhat alike, but this guy bore more than a passing resemblance to Burian Klimus, although Klimus didn’t have flapping ears like that. In fact, who he really looked like was—

  Jesus, he was the spitting image of John Demjanjuk.

  “Holy God,” said Pierre. He sagged back in his chair, as if someone had knocked the wind out of him. “Holy God,” he said again. “Molly—it’s Ivan Marchenko!”

  “But—but when I saw him that morning in San Francisco, he swore at me in Russian, not Ukrainian.”

  “Lots of people speak Russian in the Ukraine,” said Pierre. He shook his head back and forth. It all made sense. What better job for an out-of-work Nazi than being an actuary? He’d spent the war years dividing people into good and bad classes—Aryan, Jew; master, slave—and now he’d found a way to continue doing that. And the murders, conducted by neo-Nazis led by a man they called Grozny. How many people needed to be eliminated to ensure Condor’s obscene profits? Whatever the figure, it was chump change compared to the number Marchenko had killed half a century before.

  If only he had a camera—if only he could show Avi Meyer what this fucking goddamned son-of-a-bitch asshole looked like—

  They got up to leave again, Pierre moving as fast as he possibly could. They made it to the elevator lobby. Molly pressed the call button. As they waited, a large black man in a tweed jacket came out after them. “Wait!” he called. He had a big leather bag hanging from his shoulder.

  Molly looked up at the row of illuminated digits above each of the four doors. The closest elevator was still eight floors away.

  “Wait!” said the man again, jogging up to close the distance. “Dr. Tardivel, I want to have a word with you.”

  Molly moved close to her husband. “He said everything he had to say back there.”

  The black man shook his head. He was in his early forties, with a dusting of snow throughout his close-cropped hair. “I don’t think so. I think he’s got a hell of a lot more to say.” He looked directly at Pierre. “Don’t you?”

  Pierre’s legs were trying to walk out from underneath him. “Well…”

  “What business is it of yours?” said Molly, cutting Pierre off. The elevator had arrived and the doors slid open.

  The black man reached into his jacket. For a horrible moment, Pierre thought he was going for a gun. But all he pulled out was a slim, much-worn leather business-card case. He handed a card to Molly. “I’m Barnaby Lincoln,” he said. “I’m a business writer for the San Francisco Chronicle.”

  “What do—?” began Pierre.

  “I’m covering the shareholders’ meeting. But there’s a better story in what you were saying.”

  “They can’t see the future—can’t see where it’s all going,” said Pierre.

  “Exactly,” said Lincoln. “I’ve been covering insurance stories for years; all these guys are out of control. There needs to be federal legislation preventing the use of genetic profiles in determining insurance eligibility everywhere.”

  Pierre was intrigued. Ivan Marchenko had been free for fifty years now; a few minutes more wouldn’t matter. “D’accord,” said Pierre.

  “Can we go somewhere for coffee?”

  “All right,” said Pierre. “But before we do, I need you to do me a favor. I need a photo of Abraham Danielson.”

  Lincoln frowned. “The old man doesn’t like having his picture taken. We don’t even have a file photo of him at the Chronicle.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Pierre. “Do you have a telephoto lens here? Surely you could snap off a shot from the back of the room. I need a good, clean head-and-shoulders picture of him.”

  “What for?”

  Pierre was quiet for a moment. “I can’t tell you now, but if you take the photo, and get me some prints of it right away, I promise you’ll be the person I call first when”—he knew the appropriate metaphor in French, but had to rack his brain for a moment to come up with the English equivalent—“when the story breaks.”

  Lincoln shrugged. “Wait here,” he said. He went back into the auditorium. As the door opened, Pierre recognized Craig Bullen’s voice coming over the speakers. So much the better: Abraham Danielson had clearly sat back down and would hardly be on guard against his picture being taken now. Lincoln returned a few minutes later. “Got it,” he said.

  “Good,” said Pierre. “Let’s get out of here.”

  C h a p t e r

  38

  “Avi Meyer,” said a familiar Chicago-accented voice.

  “Avi, it’s Pierre Tardivel at LBNL.” He hit the transmit button on his fax machine.

  “Hey, Pierre. What’s new with Klimus?”

  “Nothing, but—”

  “We don’t have anything new, either. I’ve got an agent in Kiev, working on digging up records of his time in a displaced-persons camp, but—”

  “No, no, no,” said Pierre. “Klimus isn’t Ivan Marchenko.”

  “What?”

  “I was wrong. He’s not Marchenko.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Damn it, Pierre, we’ve spent months following this up on your insistence—”

  “I’ve seen Marchenko. Face-to-face.”

  “In Berkeley?”

  “No, in San Francisco. And Molly saw him on a street wearing a trench coat.”

  “What is this? The new version of Elvis sightings?” Avi breathed out loudly. His tone conveyed that he was regretting ever getting involved with an amateur sleuth. “Damn it, Pierre, who are you going to finger next? Ross Perot? He’s got jug ears, after all. Or Patrick Stewart? There’s a suspicious-looking bald guy. Or the pope? Fucking guy’s got an Eastern European accent, and—”

  “I’m serious, Avi. I’ve seen him. He’s using the name Abraham Danielson now. He was the founder of a company called Condor Health Insurance.”

  Keyclicks in the background. “We’ve got no open file on a guy with that name, and—Condor? Aren’t those the people who have that abortion policy you don’t like? Goddamn it, Pierre, I told you not to fuck with Justice. I could have you jailed for this. First you sic us on your boss ’cause he’s pissed you off somehow; now you try to get us to hound the guy whose company offends your delicate sensibilities—”

  “No, I tell you I’ve got him this time.”

  “Sure you have.”

  “Really, damn it. This guy is a monster—”

  “Because he encourages abortions.”

  “Because he’s Ivan Grozny. Because he runs the Millennial Reich. And because he’s ordered the executions of thousands of people here in California.”

  “Can you prove that? Can you prove one word of that? Because if you can’t—”

  “Check your fax machine, Avi.”

  “What? Oh…Just a sec.” Pierre could hear Avi setting down the handset and moving about the office. A moment later the phone was picked back up. “Where’d you get this picture?”

  “A reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle took it.”

  “That’s—what was the name you said?—Abraham Danielson?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Shit, he does look like Marchenko.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Pierre with satisfaction
.

  “I’ll have my assistant dig up his immigration papers; that could take a couple of weeks. But if this doesn’t pan out, Pierre—”

  “I know, I know. Anne Murray time.”

  Amanda still hadn’t said anything aloud, although, according to Molly, she could mentally articulate several hundred words—many more than she’d yet to learn in American Sign Language.

  Saturday afternoon meant it was time for Klimus’s weekly visit. The old man arrived at 3:00 P.M. He brought no gift for Amanda—he never did—but, as usual, he did have a small notebook in his breast pocket. He sat back on the couch, making notes about Amanda’s behavior and her ability to communicate with her hands. Throughout it all, Molly had to keep Amanda far out of her zone: Amanda understood that unless she was close to her mother, her mother couldn’t hear her thoughts, but she didn’t yet understand that this ability was a secret, and so Molly simply kept her distance, hoping that nothing in Amanda’s behavior would give it away to Klimus.

  After two hours of this, Klimus got up to leave, but Molly sat down next to him on the couch. “Please stay,” she said.

  Klimus looked surprised. He’d grown accustomed to Molly and Pierre’s hostility.

  “What for?” he asked.

  “Just to talk,” said Molly, inching even closer to him.

  “About what?”

  “Oh, this and that. Stuff. We don’t really know each other that well, and, well, if you are going to be part of the family, I figured we should—”

  “I’m a very busy man,” said Klimus.

  But Pierre sat down as well, in a chair facing the couch. “We’ve got more coffee on. It won’t be a minute.”

  Klimus exhaled and spread his arms. “Very well.”

  Amanda toddled over to her mother and started to climb into her lap, but Molly blocked Amanda’s way. “Go over to your father,” she said. Amanda looked at the distance, obviously thinking the lap at hand was just as good, but then seemed to shrug slightly, and made her way across to Pierre, who lifted her up into his lap.