The Magic Bullet

by Harry Stein

  “Funny, I was going to say the same thing to you.”

  As soon as she’d disappeared into the bar, he jerked around, scanning the busy street. Nothing—but how would he know otherwise?

  It was early evening now. This was a hip area, lots of nice shops and good restaurants. Couples fresh from work were everywhere; the men with loosened ties, many of the women having exchanged their work shoes for comfortable running shoes. Without thinking about it, he darted into a bookstore.

  At least he’d be safe here. But abruptly he thought of Georgi Markov, the Bulgarian dissident murdered by the KGB in London. He’d read a good deal on the case: how they’d stuck him at a bus stop with the point of an umbrella, using a plant lectin called ricin, almost undetectable by traditional forensic techniques. What, he wondered, had they used on Reston?

  What had Atlas fed him?

  It could have been anything. Toxins distilled from near-extinct Amazonian plants, retrieved by botanists contracted by the ACF to scavenge for new anticancer drugs. Materials so rare and poisonous that millionths of a microgram could kill, and yet leave no apparent trace. He knew full well higher-ups at the ACF had readier access to such compounds than any intelligence branch of any government on earth.

  Logan walked quickly from the shop. His car was still in the underground garage by the National Archives. When the cabbie dropped him at the entrance, he ran to it without looking back.

  Seated behind the wheel, he tried to collect himself. This was crazy, he wasn’t doing himself any good.

  Maybe it was simply his state of mind, but suddenly he knew what he had to do.

  It took him no more than twenty minutes to reach Seth Shein’s home in Arlington. Pulling up before the large Tudor, he saw Shein’s red Range Rover at the head of the driveway. The car, seemingly so out of character, was a source of immense pride to the senior man.

  Heading up the walk, Logan knew he still wasn’t thinking clearly. What did he expect to come of this? An honest explanation? Reassurance of some kind?

  He was still considering when Alice Shein opened the door. He saw her shocked dismay. “Seth,” she shouted. “Seth, come here!”

  “What the hell is it?” Logan heard him shout back. “I’m busy.”

  A moment later he appeared at the door in baggy trousers and a work shirt, hammer in hand. Seeing Logan, he recoiled—but recovered immediately. “Logan, you look like shit.”

  Just for an instant, the younger man was overwhelmed by doubt. “I need to know what’s going on,” he said, fighting for control.

  “With you?” Shein replied. “Not much, from the looks of it.” He looked his visitor over contemptuously. “Don’t think I’m gonna ask you in. No one invited you here.”

  Defiantly, Logan elbowed past him into the house, then wheeled on him. “What happened to Reston?”

  “You’re trespassing, Logan,” Shein said mildly. “And you still look like shit.”

  “What happened to Reston? What’d they give to him?”

  “Reston finally figured out what a nothing he was and did something about it. End of story.” He snorted. “We’re all better off without him, including him.”

  “Why’re they killing my lab animals?”

  “Killing your lab animals?” Shein laughed out loud. “You got it wrong, Logan—you killed those animals. What the hell’s happening to your mind, you’re embarrassing yourself!”

  Logan’s response was spontaneous, almost primal. “You motherfucker!” he shouted. “You say you’re interested in helping people! You don’t give a fuck about anyone but yourself!”

  “So what? Look at you—obviously, you don’t even give a fuck about that.”

  The sight of Shein standing there with that smug smile was too much; abruptly, Logan snapped. Knocking the hammer from his hand, he slammed Shein against the open front door. “You bastard,” said Logan, breathing hard. “You wreck people’s lives and don’t give it a second thought!”

  Pinned tight against the door, Shein was still smiling. “Untrue. I only wreck ’em if it’s the most attractive alternative.” He looked into his eyes. “What are you gonna do, Logan, beat me up? That’s your whole problem, you’re outta control. You’re worse than just a loser, you’re a crybaby.”

  Logan’s fingers dug into Shein’s arms as he tightened his grip. Shein winced—but his voice didn’t waver. “Accept it, Logan, you just weren’t good enough.”

  “You fucker. You know damn well that Compound J works!”

  “My God,” taunted Shein, “I never thought my judgment could be so off—you’re pathetic.”

  “Why else are you still interested? Why else was Stillman after Reston about it?”

  “You’re outta your head, Logan, you’re a fuckin’ maniac.”

  Logan shook him violently. “Tell me, goddamn you!”

  “Let go of me,” he shouted.

  Logan did so.

  “Good,” said Shein, rubbing his upper arm. “Now get the hell outta here and crawl back in your hole. I got a kitchen cabinet to fix.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me the truth!”

  “Alice,” he suddenly called out.

  Looking up, Logan saw Mrs. Shein standing at the top of the staircase, terrified.

  “Call the cops,” instructed Shein. “No, make it the federal marshals … tell ‘em we got a psycho here threatening a guy with security clearance.”

  Quickly, Alice darted into another room.

  “I swear,” said Logan softly, “you’re not going to get away with this.”

  “Of course I will. Some of us are just winners.”

  Suddenly, Logan lashed out with his fist, hitting him square in the face. Shein crumpled to the floor, a thin stream of blood trickling from his nose.

  “Nice,” said Shein, wiping his nose deliberately with his sleeve, “a sucker punch. You’re as honest in a fight as you are in the lab.” He called again to his wife. “Tell ’em to hurry. Also that he’s driving a beat-up white Ford—a real piece of crap.”

  Turning, totally spent, Logan walked quickly out the door.

  Shein remained on the floor, watching Logan drive off.

  But now, staggering to his feet, he headed for his office. Did he have the home number of the ACF pharmacist in his address book?

  Yes, there it was! Seizing the phone, Shein punched it in.

  Someone was following him—he was sure of it! For nearly fifty miles, from the start of the New Jersey Turnpike leaving Delaware to beyond Trenton, the headlights remained constantly at the same distance behind him; switching lanes as he did, seeming to mirror his every change of speed.

  Pulling off at a rest stop, he did not leave the car—just sat and waited, staring into his rearview mirror, the exit ramp in full view behind him. Nothing—just a steady flow of cars driving up to the pumps and then off into the night. After ten minutes, he eased back onto the turnpike.

  He snapped on the radio. Listening—even to a late-night talk-radio crazy going on about the JFK assassination—steadied his nerves. It at least provided the illusion he wasn’t entirely alone.

  Then, suddenly, just outside of New Brunswick, it was back. Or—he couldn’t be sure—maybe this was a different car. This one stayed with him for ten minutes, fifteen. But when he slowed down to take the exit, it zoomed right past him, a boxy Volvo wagon. A family car.

  Had his eyes been playing tricks on him? Or—worse—was it his mind?

  It occurred to him, an oddly comforting thought, that he’d had only four or five hours’ sleep over the past two days; his perceptions might be off simply as a physiological result. Thinking about it, he was hit by a wave of exhaustion.

  Briefly, he considered spending the rest of the night at a motel. But, no, he was no more than an hour and a half from the city. And—if they were out there—why make it easier on them?

  He traveled the rest of the way in the right-hand lane, at a steady fifty-five. Dropping off the car at the lot, he caught
a cab and made it home by 1:30 A.M.

  The flashing red light at his bedside indicated he had only one message. He was not surprised it was from Perez.

  “Hey, Logan, what are you doing to me, man? Lemme hear from you as soon as you get back. Immediately! I don’t care how late!”

  Kicking off his shoes, Logan collapsed on the bed. What time is it in Italy? he wondered. But before he’d even done the math, he was asleep.

  At that moment, Seth Shein was wide awake, his every sense on full alert. His eye moved from one to another of the four files open before him on his desk at the ACF, each distinctly labeled in black marker: RHOME, KOBER, WILLIAMS, DIETZ.

  Again, he picked up the Dietz autopsy report, almost identical to those of Williams and Rhome: “Fulminent hepatic necrosis … pleural effusion … question of pericardial tamponade.” Each of these women had gone from apparent good health to total physiological decompensation and death in a matter of a few hours; their livers shut down, their lungs no longer performing, their hearts weakened beyond hope.

  But what about Kober? She’d had the same initial positive reaction to the drug as the others. Why in her case had there been no comparable devastation afterward?

  He chuckled to himself. In a way, it was too bad she hadn’t died—that way he’d have an autopsy report on her for comparative purposes.

  Already, he’d carefully examined all the women’s treatment schedules. They’d been close to identical. Kober had not missed any treatments, as one line of inquiry had led him to speculate; nor had her dosage ever been even marginally reduced. Like the others, she’d received her full complement of Compound J—two grams’ worth, every other week for over four months.

  Idly, he flipped through the Kober file; then, for the third time, pulled out her CAT scan.

  He held the film over his head so it was illuminated by the overhead light. There were eight pictures, each representing a slice of the patient’s body at a different level. The liver, homogeneous, took up almost one entire picture; in the next, he once again noted the upper pole of the left kidney, the kidney hilum, the indentation in it where the blood vessels enter and exit. Then … wait a minute, what was this? Where was the upper pole of the right kidney?

  Quickly, he turned to the notes on her initial examination. Here was confirmation: this woman has only one kidney!

  Shein laid the file aside and leaned back in his chair. On the face of it, this made no sense at all. In fact, it was backward. Like many drugs, Compound J was eliminated via the kidneys. Lacking a kidney, she’d have had more drug in her body than the others, not less. Given the drug’s established toxicity, she should’ve gotten sick and died sooner!

  He cupped his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. This was always the part where it got to be fun.

  He didn’t quite have it yet, but it was coming.

  Logan awoke with a jolt, the telephone jangling in his ear. The room was still semi-dark. He fumbled for the receiver.

  “Christ, Ruben, gimme a break. What time is it?”

  But on the other end there was only silence.

  “Ruben?”

  He heard the click as someone hung up.

  Instantly, the drowsiness was gone. He dialed Perez’s number—and woke him.

  “Dan?” he asked, his voice heavy with sleep. “You just got back?”

  “Late last night.”

  “Why the hell you calling me now?”

  “Ruben, listen to me. Something’s going on.” Suddenly, he thought better of it: what if his phone was tapped? “Wait, just stay there.”

  “Where am I going?” asked Perez wearily.

  Logan slammed down the phone and, wild-eyed, throwing some clothes into an overnight bag, dashed out the door.

  “Ruben?” he said, ten minutes later, into the receiver of a pay phone.

  “Logan, you’re totally fuckin’ up my life.”

  “Stay there. I’m coming over!”

  He caught the uptown A train at Canal Street and, sitting among the earliest of the morning commuters, hid behind an open New York Times. At this hour, the trip took less than half an hour. It was not yet seven when he pressed the buzzer in Perez’s building—and woke him again.

  “Look, Ruben, I’m sorry,” he said, facing him across his tiny living room. “I know this is tough on you.”

  In the far corner, the rats scurried in their cages; the tumors, induced a week earlier, were visible even from where Logan sat. In a few days, they’d begin dosing them with the drug.

  Perez, in a bathrobe, leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his eyes with both hands. “What is it now?”

  Briefly, in broad strokes, Logan told him about his experiences in Washington.

  His friend took it in soberly, aware of the sharp decline of Logan’s emotional state in just two days.

  “Listen, Dan,” he said softly when he was through, “I just want you to think about what you’re saying to me. Really think about it.” He paused, groping for the right words. “Look, I hear you. I know what the girlfriend told you must’ve been pretty scary. But think about where she’s coming from, all right? The guy she loved just killed himself.”

  Logan shook his head emphatically. “No. It isn’t that. You don’t know these people, Ruben.”

  “It’s the fuckin’ ACF, Dan! They don’t DO this kind of thing.” He threw out his arms imploringly. “Don’t you know what you did, man, you decked Seth Shein!”

  “He’s part of it. He’s as bad as any of them.”

  Perez sighed. This guy needed help, and he was no shrink. “Look,” he said, rising to his feet, “I gotta get ready for work. You do too.”

  “I don’t think so, Ruben. Not today.”

  “Jesus, Logan, you need this job! Even Severson can run outta patience.”

  “I know.” But Logan remained where he was. “Would you mind if I stayed here? Just for a few days?”

  Perez disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a key. He tossed it to Logan. “Your funeral. What’re you gonna do for clothes?”

  Logan nodded at the overnight bag. “But I was kind of rushed. I only brought a couple of things.”

  “Man, don’t you got any other friends?” He shook his head wearily. “Gimme the key to your place, I’ll pick up some stuff for you after work.”

  Perez had been gone a half hour before Logan focused on it. Rummaging in his jacket pocket, he was unable to find the crumpled scrap of paper on which he’d written the day before. But there it was in the phone book: Forcheim G. 802 W. 190th St. Not many blocks away.

  Logan showered and pulled on the clothes he’d brought in his overnight bag—jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. They would have to do.

  He decided to walk, down Broadway and up a long, curving hill. The building was perhaps twelve stories high, opposite an old age home. The names on the panel in the entryway reflected the changing face of the neighborhood, a near equal mix of German-Jewish and Hispanic, with a couple of Russian names as well.

  Forcheim. Apt. 3C. He pushed the buzzer and waited.

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. Forcheim?”

  “Yes?”

  What now? “My name is Dr. Daniel Logan. I know this might sound strange, but I’m looking for—”

  “Pardon?”

  Feeling incredibly foolish, he began shouting. “I’m trying to find out about a man named Nakano—”

  He heard the slight click that signaled she’d snapped off the intercom. “Shit,” he muttered, and pressed the buzzer again. No response. He pressed again. And again.

  A resident of the building, seeing him standing there, muttering to himself, inserted her key and hurried quickly through the plate glass door, taking care he wasn’t able to follow.

  “Damn it,” he said, aloud, and was about to turn away, when through the glass he saw the elevator door in the lobby open.

  Coming toward him was a woman—probably in her mid-sixties, wearing a baggy housedress, but possessing one of the m
ost beautiful faces he’d ever seen: jet-black hair, lustrous skin, dark eyes slightly crescent shaped. As she got closer, he saw the eyes were astonishingly bright.

  He knew it even before she opened the door. “He was my father.”

  Twenty minutes later, he sat on her faded couch, a cup of tea on the low table before him, as she wound up her story. It seems she was less than a year old when she came to America with her aunt and uncle, her mother’s younger brother. The plan was that eventually her own parents would join them. “But my mother’s parents, my grandparents, were too old to leave, they didn’t want to. Someone had to stay with them, and I suppose everyone thought because my father was not Jewish …”

  “It would be safe.”

  “I don’t think anyone had any idea then how bad it would get.” Momentarily, she looked as if she might cry. “I was lucky, actually. I had my aunt and uncle. They adopted me. I was never alone. My aunt just died last year. I took care of her.”

  Logan glanced about the room, busy with colorful fabrics, plants, framed photos. His gaze fixed on the small portrait in a wrought iron frame on the window ledge beside him. It showed a youngish Oriental man wearing black-rimmed glasses and a serious expression. “This is him?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “But I have others where he doesn’t look so stern—one where he’s playing with me. When it became clear they weren’t getting out, they sent us an album.”

  “He was a very gifted man,” said Logan, trying to nudge the subject in another direction, “a very great scientist.”

  “Would you like to see it?”

  “Of course.”

  “I keep it right here.” She reached into a shelf beside her and withdrew an album with a faded fabric cover. “This is how they used to make them then, to last.”

  Opening it, Logan was instantly transported to another time, the Frankfurt of pre-Hitler Germany. That vanished world was the backdrop of many of the black-and-white pictures, carefully mounted and labeled in an elegant hand; elegant little shops and well-tended parks and peaceful streets. But, above all, he picked up a sense of the young family in the foreground. Mikio Nakano, usually in a business suit, but occasionally showing a mischievous or even a silly side; the woman before him, as a chubby infant; her darkly pretty young mother.