by Clara Ward
He had just made a fool of himself in front of, who, an English post-doc? Had anyone else noticed? Would Nigel Radford even remember the encounter? Why had his mind refused to focus on the puerile poster?
Had someone really ordered Brandenburg’s death?
August 9, 2024 – Bangkok, Thailand
“Alak, I have a question for you.” James held the note upright, still bagged, between his index and ring fingers.
The government man stood silently at the far side of the lab bench and nodded. He was a young, unremarkable bureaucrat of mixed Thai and Chinese ancestry. His face seemed chubby above his narrow shoulders and clinging suit. A navy blue briefcase bag weighed down his left shoulder, creating a disturbing asymmetry. James had never before seen a point to Alak dropping by after each foreign conference. As a scientific liaison, Alak was inadequate to understand the new research findings, as a government minder, he must be bored silly – until now.
James flipped the ziploc with the note back and forth between his fingers, used to the feel of it now, the uncertainty it represented. “I wasn’t sure what to do with this.”
James flipped the bag to a rhythm that might be his heartbeat, ten, twenty, thirty times. Surely an American functionary would have interrupted by now. “I think I’ve figured out what it means, but I need to know.”
“How can I comment until I see what it says?” Alak spoke softly, in a voice like a shrug of the shoulders, but without the shrug.
“But then, or later, you must tell me if you find out.”
“If you want to find out—“
“That’s your business not mine. I wouldn’t ask, unless I needed to know.”
Another thirty heartbeats, James flipped the note between his fingers. He almost hoped Alak would never tell him. Could he satisfy his curiosity and still imagine himself free?
He handed the note to Alak who kept it in the bag, read it, stared at it, then asked calmly, “You think you know what it means?”
“Joseph Brandenburg, who worked with my father, died on June 23 of this year.”
“And D?”
“My best conjecture is Davies.”
At that, Alak’s eyebrows rose, he slid the note into his dark bag. The bag was a hybrid of a purse and a briefcase and might look sporty, if it wasn’t always overfilled. James couldn’t stop staring at it once his note was inside.
“I’ll pass this along.”
“And tell me what you find.”
Alak bobbed his head in either agreement or a pretense of respect. He left, and James missed the feel of the note between his fingers.
January 26, 2025 – Lucerne, Switzerland
On the day Alak confirmed Davies’, now President Davies’, involvement, James gave himself a dot on his calendar. Then he added the new encryption software to his pilot. Alak stood by, but James wouldn’t let anyone else touch the old machine. A later palm pilot series offered half the weight with five times the memory. But his could hold complete genetic profiles for 300 subjects, plus annotations, and it was the physical home of his personal calendar for the last seventeen years, the only other data set he wanted accessible locally at all times.
So when James returned to his latest hotel room, head aching from his presentation and the not quite on-topic questions he’d had to field, he just picked the new note off the beige Berber carpet and pulled out his pilot. As soon as the machine and the new encryption routine were ready, he used the hotel LAN to transcribe, encoded, for Alak:
“Minerva to buy 6Y14P294 rights for D’s scheme.”
He decided the interpretation was too obvious to explain. James hit send and lay back on the tidy hotel bed, sucking in the smell of bleachy over-washing. His right foot thumped against the bed frame; so he thumped his left twice and his right again.
Minerva was a states-based biotech company. 6Y14P294 was the identifier for a bipolar correlate James had patented in 2015. That was the year the WTO Special Conference on Genetics decided no one could patent an actual DNA sequence, but you could patent reading an understood sequence with any known chip, pore, gel, or other techniques. So, effectively, he’d patented the ability to easily scan for that bipolar sequence, but not the exclusive right to interpret it when looking at a patient’s full genome.
Financially, it had not been one of his hotter discoveries. When the new laws triggered a clinical diagnostic gold rush, James was well positioned to specify several recently interpreted sequences. His current Thai biotech empire was built on past patents for single recessive depression, addiction susceptibility, and immune system irregularities. They sold test kits to medical providers and took samples by mail from concerned parents or spouses who didn’t want to involve their national health systems. The bipolar correlate wasn’t something anyone tested for separately, and it wasn’t needed to rapidly screen a large population. It was just one of several sequences that increased a person’s risk for bipolar disorder. What would it have to do with the “schemes” of a new American President, particularly one who killed Brandenburg?
James needed to arrange an exchange for more psychiatric population samples. He’d noticed a couple of open-minded types at his talk today. Maybe one of them would like to collect some patient samples for a collaborative arrangement. If there was a reason the Americans wanted those rights, James should be able to discover it in lab.
Approaching new people was asking a lot of himself right after a talk, but he tucked both feet against the bed frame and pulled himself up.
Downstairs he drifted for half an hour, listening, planning an approach. Just as he was about to corner a junior professor from Bulgaria, he saw Nigel Radford hovering by his new poster. James had read it earlier. It analyzed immune system peculiarities in subjects with various affective disorders, and seemed cleanly done, if a bit basic. James knew exactly how he could test his pseudomonas spliced retrovirus idea and use the gamma globulin interference to rebalance immune responses in one of the psychotic sub-populations Nigel studied. But he didn’t want to discuss the idea with Nigel. Not only was he embarrassed from their first encounter, but he knew the English followed America’s lead in not working with him or Thailand, so there was really no point.
At that same moment, Nigel spotted James and waved for him to come over. Enduring embarrassment like heartburn, James walked toward him. Nigel smiled brightly. He wore a peppery red sweater and his acne had cleared significantly since the last conference.
“How’re you doing, Dr. Morton? I hope it wasn’t my poster that made you ill last time.”
James tried to laugh, guessing he was supposed to. “If so, this one’s safer. I read it this morning with no ill effects.”
Nigel nodded. Now what does he think?
“Actually, your work is quite good.” James made a quick decision to give away his pseudomonas insight, demonstrate a bit of cleverness this time. “In your analysis you mention several drawbacks to gene therapies targeting the immune system, but have you considered using part of the pseudomonas genome, spliced into a safer carrier virus, to alter gamma globulin production in this sub-population?” James pointed to the poster to show just which group he meant.
Nigel seemed stunned for a moment. James was used to such reactions when he tossed out ideas this way. He couldn’t help judging people by their recovery time, and Nigel made a quick recovery.
“Linsky’s talk in Zurich! You’re working from their problems with gamma globulin, but does anyone know which sequence triggers that?” Nigel’s mind raced forward loudly, mapping out steps he’d take to identify the sequence and test its usefulness. His enthusiasm was magnetic and drew James to tell him more.
“I have a suspicion,” James said, and he pulled out his pilot to explain.
Several minutes later, James had a chance to test his own recovery speed after an unexpected suggestion. “You’re part of the Academie Suisse, aren’t you? They’re funding my current study of schizophrenics, and I could send you samples without violating confidentialit
y. You could test the pseudomonas splice yourself, at least in culture.”
James was officially part of the Academie Suisse, as were most of the speakers at this conference. But he’d always considered it a token position within a grant writing agency. He knew why the U.S., Thailand, and to some extent China preferred genetics conferences held in Switzerland. He wasn’t sure how many Swiss understood the triangle balancing the three countries, but he knew they kept certain hotel staff suitably discreet, and of course, the directors of the Academie Suisse.
Nigel’s mind was now loud with ideas for new experiments. In the mix James heard, In five minutes he shared more insight than my advisor has all year.
James sighed, wondering if Nigel’s advisor was just aloof, or if he was consciously protecting unpublished ideas from broadcast. But if he knew, why send Nigel here without protecting his thoughts? James wanted to wash his hands, feeling grimy for the ideas he could steal, even though he knew he wouldn’t do it. Still, he couldn’t give up the offered samples.
“If you want, we could write up a research agreement. Over coffee?”
Yes! James heard it like a shout, and wondered if there were any other telepaths in the room who might notice. He ushered Nigel out and into the lobby coffee shop.
The shop only had windows on one wall, but there were plants scattered along two others, as if to imply the room had enough natural light. Each table had a bulb shaped vase with white flowers overshadowed by blocky, wooden salt and pepper shakers. James chose a table on a wall, far from other diners. He sat with his back to a large fern, leaving Nigel a seat by an azalea.
Nigel perched on his seat without looking around. He’s a name; he’s sharp; and since it’s mostly my research, I might get to be first author. I wonder how I’ll mention that? This pseudomonas idea is brilliant. We could write that part up separately and I could be second author. If it works . . .
Nigel’s mind ran on to possible applications for techniques that, if they worked, would take years to test. But he was young, and he wasn’t blathering on out loud. James tried to remember when he’d last run with a new idea and imagined outlandish possibilities.
Last year he’d found an enzyme that could break the telepathy sequence, altering protein production to both disable telepathy and create mildly toxic byproducts. There was a moment when he felt pumped with his own discovery, floating almost godlike with the power of what he knew. But then his fingers had tapped hard for weeks, on the keyboard or just letting off steam as he imagined possible vectors and designed adaptable counter-measures. Who could he tell? Only Alak, and that with misgivings. But he’d decided years ago that anything he discovered working alone in Thailand must be far enough behind China and the U.S. that it would only be valuable defensively.
Nigel was still noisily thinking about future immune applications when a tiny blond waitress leaned over their table. Nigel’s mind, without losing volume announced, What amazing breasts!
James couldn’t help but look. The woman’s breasts were quite large, especially compared to the rest of her body, which was petite and tightly wrapped in a peach and turquoise polka-dotted, rather short waitress dress. The dress bothered James, and the waitress was not his type, too frail and angular. But with Nigel’s mind shouting out, If I could touch those breasts, I bet they wouldn’t even fit in my hands, James couldn’t help but think about touching and what it would be like to seduce the waitress hearing her every thought. That idea led quickly to high school memories that kept him safely away from such women.
He focused on the waitress who observed the direction of Nigel’s gaze and thought, Little boy, I hope you’re the one leaving the tip, as she asked, “Can I take your order?”
“Just coffee,” said James.
“Coffee,” said Nigel, managing to look up from the cleavage.
As the waitress walked away, James searched for and found the necessary Academie Suisse collaboration agreement. He turned his pilot so Nigel could see and asked, “The schizophrenia study is under your name?”
They talked details and Nigel’s thoughts quieted down. With only one serving of coffee they completed and submitted their request. James only half believed anything would come of it. But so long as Nigel kept his mind on science, James enjoyed talking to him, hearing both verbal and mental enthusiasm for his work.
“Your advisor must be somewhat supportive, to send you to this conference,” James said as they were leaving.
“Oh no, he was dead set against it. But I had my new poster ready, frequent flier miles banked, and the Acadamie grant that got me invited.” So what could he do? Nigel added in his thoughts.
What indeed, thought James, and hoped their agreement wouldn’t get the kid in trouble.
March 23, 2005 – Bangkok, Thailand
James scanned the offer again, noting how average it seemed. A brown clad courier had brought it to the lab door and waited in the bright, white hallway while James signed a receipt. It interrupted his day, but in a perfectly normal way.
Alone again in his lab, James sat forward on a hard chair, he centered the papers on the heavy blotter that lay centered on his metal desk. The terms looked standard, his patent lawyer could verify that. The money was good, but not amazing. The bipolar sequence they wanted exclusive rights to was significant, but not groundbreaking.
The courier’s delivery would have been just one more annoying interruption if some anonymous informant hadn’t warned him to expect it.
James tapped the offer papers back into their envelope. He set the envelope squarely atop his pile of new mail and sent Alak a brief email. Then he rattled around his lab, bouncing between his six private work spaces, each set of equipment its own shiny metal island in a sea of white and blue sound absorbing tiles. Running three state of the art computers at once, he tried a variety of new analysis routines against his bipolar data, but came up with no statistically significant results. Insufficient sample size. Not enough affected phenotypes.
James tapped his fingers hard against the counter, then swung back around to a computer and tapped his fingers equally hard while typing.
It was only an hour later when another courier, this one wearing teal, delivered the samples Nigel Radford had promised. James couldn’t believe his luck, couldn’t believe the deal went through.
He opened the box carefully, using no sharp objects, even preserving the shipping labels. He saw the sample boxes he’d been promised and his fingers twitched, but he forced himself to read the enclosed letter first. As he’d suspected, Nigel had been pressured out of the collaboration, and yet, here were the promised samples. The last paragraph of the letter explained:
“I hope to have a lab of my own soon, in which I will be able to honor my own commitments and conduct my research as I see fit. Based on my personal interpretation of the agreement we signed in Lucerne, I am sending you this set of samples. I think the mechanism you suggested for immune system correction is very promising, and I hope you will be able to pursue your ideas even if I cannot.”
James felt very old, because the letter sounded so young. Could Nigel really be that naïve? Did he think he’d have freedom in a lab of his own? Then James looked around his lab. He looked from left to right, and then from right to left. He looked at the box of samples and put the first one into the sequencer.
Chapter 5
March 29, 2025 – Berkeley, USA
Sarah had the urge to bolt and run as she turned onto the private drive. How had she agreed to introduce the Chens to her aunt? She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the others were still following. Lisa and Howard had flown into San Francisco, and Rob had driven them out to Berkeley. Sarah had driven Mei Mei from Sacramento. For some reason, they all wanted to be there to find out if Sarah’s aunt was like them, and they felt better arriving together. Sarah just wanted it to be over. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and felt underdressed next to Mei Mei’s tailored dress and jacket. Even taking strangers to meet her relatives, she felt li
ke the unwanted guest at a party.
“I see the house,” said Mei Mei. “It’s just like in the book, a stone castle on a hill.”
Sarah’s excuse to her aunt for bringing the Chens was that Mei Mei was a great admirer of the architect William Jones. Aunt Jane’s house had been the last design completed by Jones before he died, and it featured prominently in a book Sarah had given Mei Mei to study. Perched on a large lot in the Berkeley Hills, the house stood like a modest medieval keep, complete with a tower and a stone wall surrounding the garden. In the wall were spy holes she’d peeked through as a child. Honeysuckle grew over the stones and along the heavy arch where the driveway ended. Later in the year, the air would be full of sweet honeysuckle and rose, but today it just smelled wet. The flagstone walk was slippery with last night’s rain. Sarah slouched like a country cousin on a required visit, but the Chens kept their heads high as they approached the heavy oak front door.
Sarah tapped the doorknocker, knowing it was useless to knock bare handed on the thick door. She stepped back a little and then felt warm, dry air as the door began to open. Her Aunt was wearing a cashmere cardigan over a calico dress, her face tan and wrinkled, framed by chestnut curls worn short.
“Hi, Aunt Jane.”
“Sarah.” Her aunt smiled tightly and pulled the door wide. Sarah stepped through and over to her aunt’s side, not wanting to let the warm air out while she made introductions. The Chens followed her in, but everyone still stood with the door open as Sarah named and gestured to each.
