by Ben Mezrich
Mulder could see the sincerity in Baxter’s eyes. The kid was nearly floating on the balls of his feet, not an ounce of cynicism in his slender body. As long as he kept his attitude, he’d probably go far in the corporate-industrial world. Great brochure material.
Mulder and Scully thanked him, and together they stepped into Julian Kyle’s office.
“Damn it! Just stay where you are. I’ll get them back on in a second.”
Mulder stood frozen next to Scully in complete darkness, his skin tingling as his pupils tried to dilate. The lights had gone off the second the door had slid shut behind them. He had caught a brief glance of a stocky man in a white lab coat moving toward them across a large, well-appointed office—then everything had gone black. A second later, there had been a loud crash, followed by the sound of breaking glass.
“It’s this new environmentally sensitive system,” the frustrated voice continued from a corner of the room. “It’s all Bill Gates’s fault. He had to go and build that intelligent house, and suddenly every new designer wants to copy his technology. The system is supposed to shut off the lights when you leave the room—not when someone else enters. Hold on, here we go.”
There was a metallic cough, and suddenly a panel of fluorescent lights flickered to life. The office was about thirty feet across, square, with two wide picture windows overlooking the parking lot and the same crimson walls that lined the building’s corridors. There was a glass desk at one end of the airy room, covered with fancy computer equipment and neat little stacks of CD-ROMs. In front of the desk crouched a black leather love seat with high armrests. Directly to the left of the love seat, a display case’s chrome frame lay surrounded by a pile of broken glass. Half-buried in the glass was a shiny plastic rectangle painted in colors running from pink to beige.
“Shit. If it’s broken, I’m going to charge it to the board. This whole reconstruction was their idea. I thought we were doing fine with white walls, doorknobs, and light switches.”
Julian Kyle swept out of the far corner of the room, his white coat flapping behind him. He was built like a fire hydrant, with solid shoulders, stumpy legs, and a cube-shaped head. His silver hair was cropped close to the planes of his skull, and his face was remarkably chiseled and unwrinkled for a man of his age. Sixty-five, Mulder guessed, but it was difficult to be sure. There was a vigorous spring in the doctor’s step as he rushed to the destroyed display case and carefully reached for the large plastic object.
“Can we help?” Scully asked, as both agents moved forward. Kyle shook his head, carefully lifting the object and shaking away the broken glass. Mulder saw that it was some sort of model, made up of different-colored horizontal layers, each a few inches in height.
“An award from the International Burn Victim’s Society,” Kyle explained, reverently checking the model for scratches. “It’s a three-dimensional cross section of an undamaged segment of human skin. See, it’s even got the melanocyte layer—done in bronze leaf.”
Mulder looked more closely at the model as Kyle placed it gently on an empty corner of his glass desk. The cross section was divided into three parts, showing the epidermis at the top, then the thick, beige dermis, and finally the white layer of subcutaneous fat. Tiny blood vessels and twisting branches of nerves curled through the middle section, winding delicately around tubular sweat glands and dark, towering follicles of hair. Mulder was struck by the intricacy of the skin’s structure. He knew skin was an organ—the body’s largest—but he had never considered what that meant. To Mulder, skin was just there. It could be rough or soft, porcelain like Scully’s or stained and creased like the Cancer Man’s.
Kyle noticed Mulder’s focus as he moved to the other side of his desk. “Most people suffer from a misconception when it comes to skin. They assume it’s something static; like a leather coat wrapped around your body to keep your skeleton warm. But nothing could be further from the truth. The skin is an amazing organ. It’s in a constant state of motion; basal cells migrating upward to replace the dying epidermal cells, nerves reacting to inputs from the outside, blood vessels feeding muscles and fat, sweat glands struggling to regulate the body’s temperature as the cells twist and stretch to accommodate movement. Not to mention the constant healing and recovery process, or the battle to stay moist and elastic.”
Mulder lowered himself next to Scully onto the leather two-seater as Kyle took a seat behind the desk, holding his hands out in front of him, palms inward. He wriggled his fingers as if typing on an invisible keyboard. “We never notice our skin until there’s something wrong with it. A cut, a rash—or a burn. Then we realize how important it really is. How much we’d be willing to pay to get it back to normal.”
Mulder nodded, thinking of the building’s front atrium. “Enough to import most of the marble in Italy.”
Kyle laughed. Then his smile turned down at the corners, as he waved his hands at the walls on either side. “And have this entire complex dyed crimson. It had to be the worst decision this new board’s ever made. Yes, we specialize in burn-transplant materials—but do we need the constant, fiery reminder on every wall in this damn complex? Still, they tell me that it impresses our foreign visitors, the corporate honchos from Tokyo, Seoul, and now Beijing.”
“Sounds like business is good,” Scully commented.
“Literally,” Kyle beamed. “Our new product line is helping thousands of people survive transplants that would have seemed pointless just a few years ago. We’ve got new salve bandages, a whole new stock of microscalpels, an innovative new dry-chemical wrap—just to mention a few of our recent breakthroughs.”
Mulder listened to the laundry list in silence. Julian Kyle seemed as enthusiastic about Fibrol as the kid at the front desk was—only Kyle’s fervor had an edge of self-importance to it. It was as if he was telling them that Fibrol had accomplished these things directly because of his efforts.
“Actually,” Scully said, as Kyle’s monologue finally drew to a close, “it’s your company’s past that interests us at the moment. Specifically, an episode in 1984 involving two prisoners at Rikers Island.”
Kyle raised his gray eyebrows. The motion pulled at the taut skin around his jaw, revealing a perfectly centered cleft. His face had an almost military bearing—and Mulder guessed he would have been just as comfortable in fatigues and an army helmet as he was in the white lab coat. “Forgive my surprise, Agent Scully. It’s been a long time since anyone has asked about that. It’s something we’ve put way behind us—ever since Emile’s death.”
The air in the small office had changed, as if the molecules themselves had somehow tightened along with Kyle’s mood. Mulder tried to read the man’s expression, searching for any sense of guilt or signs of hidden knowledge. But the man’s surprise seemed sincere.
“It was an unfortunate incident,” Kyle continued. “And I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell you. Emile Paladin was a very private, controlling man. The experiment was entirely under his control, conducted in his own private clinic a hundred miles upstate. It had something to do with a new transplant procedure—but beyond that, I don’t know any of the details.”
Mulder saw the frustrated lines appear on Scully’s forehead. She had expected a simple answer and, instead, they had run into another wall. Kyle spread his hands out against the desk, continuing in a casual voice. “After the criminal charges were dropped, Paladin announced the experimental procedure an unsalvageable failure and refocused the company toward the development of assistance products, rather than transplant techniques. Barely six months later, he died—but Fibrol continued to grow in the new direction.”
Mulder shifted against the leather couch. Kyle had told them exactly what they already knew from the S&P reports. The blame had been shifted to Fibrol’s founder, and since his death the company had moved in a different direction.
Scully cleared her throat, getting straight to the point. “Dr. Kyle, we have reason to believe that an individual died this morning from compli
cations similar to those that killed the two prisoners. Do you have any idea how that might be possible?”
Kyle stared at her in shock. “Not at all. As I said, Paladin was the only one who knew anything about the experiment, and Paladin died almost fifteen years ago. I can’t imagine how anything so recent could be connected.”
Scully cocked her head. “We read that Paladin died in some sort of accident overseas?”
Kyle nodded. “A hiking accident in Thailand. It was his second home, ever since the Vietnam War. He had been stationed in a MASH unit, and after the incident he had wanted to take some time off in a serene, comfortable place. He had a home outside a little fishing village called Alkut, two hundred miles east of Bangkok. He died while climbing in the mountains around his home.”
“And after his death,” Scully interrupted. “Who inherited control of the company? Did he leave behind any family?”
“A brother. Andrew Paladin. But although Andrew is the major stockholder, he doesn’t have any involvement with the company. You see, Andrew’s what you’d call a recluse. He served in the Vietnam War about the same time as his brother, and in the early seventies an injury landed him in Emile’s MASH unit in Alkut. After the war he settled in Thailand, and he hasn’t left the country since.”
“Is there some way we can get in touch with him?” Scully asked. “To see if he has any more information on Paladin’s experiment?”
Kyle shrugged. “Not that I know of. He employed a lawyer in Bangkok around the time of his brother’s death, but we haven’t heard from him in more than ten years. From what I understand, nobody is even sure of his current address. But I’d doubt he’d be useful, even if you found him. As I said, Paladin was extremely independent. He kept his work private.”
Kyle crossed his arms against his chest. To him, the interview was ending. But Mulder wasn’t near finished. He leaned close to the desk, abruptly changing tack. “Dr. Kyle, tell us about Antibacterial Compound 1279.”
For the first time in the short interview, Kyle’s calm seemed to break. It was barely perceptible—a tightening of the skin around his eyes—and it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. But Mulder was acutely attuned to the signs of human discomfort—and he knew when someone suddenly found himself unprepared.
“The Dust?” Kyle responded. “I’m amazed you’ve even heard of it. We only received the patent last year. It’s going to be one of our major market leaders within the next decade. Why are you interested in our antibacterial powder? It’s a very recent development—it had nothing at all to do with Emile Paladin’s work.”
Mulder glanced at Scully. He had not mentioned any connection to Paladin’s experiment—Kyle had made the jump himself. Scully followed Mulder’s lead, her voice stiff but nonconfrontational. “Dr. Kyle, yesterday morning we found a sample of your powder in a breakdown lane on the FDR Drive.”
Kyle wrinkled the skin above his eyes. Then he rubbed a hand against his jaw. “That’s certainly strange. None of the New York hospitals are using the Dust yet. Still, I guess it could have come from a shipment between a couple of our clinics. Our largest burn center is twenty miles north of here, and we have a research laboratory down in Hoboken, New Jersey. It’s something I can easily check out.”
Scully nodded—but Mulder wasn’t about to leave it at that. “We’d also like to consider another possibility. Could the Dust have been left behind by a recent transplant patient?”
Kyle stared at him in silence. Then he laughed curtly. “That’s extremely unlikely. In fact, I’d say it’s damn near impossible. The Dust is used only on radical transplant patients. These are not patients who get up and walk around. They can’t even survive transport in ambulances. There’s no way such a patient would be found out of a hospital. Not even for a moment.”
Mulder was surprised by Kyle’s adamant tone. Even if it was unlikely—was it really impossible that a burn clinic might have decided to transport a patient, despite the risks? “Well, perhaps you could show us some data on the powder, to help us understand. Maybe a list of the types of patients you’ve used it on—”
“I’m sorry,” Kyle interrupted, rising from his chair. He was still smiling, but his eyes were now miles away. “But I really need to speak to the board before I can get to any of our records. I don’t mean to be difficult—but this is a very competitive time for our company. I need to go through the proper channels before I release any proprietary information.”
Kyle hadn’t mentioned a search warrant, but it was obvious to Mulder that it would take a warrant to get the information he’d requested. The question was—was Kyle just being a good, loyal employee? Or was there something else going on?
Scully got up from the love seat first, and Mulder followed as Kyle hit an intercom buzzer on his desk, then strolled toward the couch. Mulder was much taller than the doctor—but still, Kyle cut an impressive, intimidating figure. As Kyle showed the two agents to the door, Mulder finally asked the question that had been on his mind since the beginning of the interview. “Dr. Kyle—I hope you don’t mind my asking—but did you serve in the military?”
Scully glanced at Mulder, surprised by the question. But Kyle simply smiled. “For twelve years. I joined up in the mid-fifties. I was promoted to major during Vietnam. It’s where I met Emile Paladin. I served under him in Alkut. It’s where I was first introduced to the art of transplantation. I saw firsthand how important the skin could be—and how easily, and painfully, it could be damaged.”
There was a near fanatic’s determination in Kyle’s eyes. Mulder had no doubt that Kyle would do anything necessary to protect Fibrol from danger—real or perceived.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,” Kyle continued, as he put his palm against the plate next to the door. “Mr. Baxter will show you back to your car. I’ll be in touch if I find any more information for you.”
The door hissed open, and Mulder and Scully were once again face-to-face with Dick Baxter. They followed the smiling young man back through the network of crimson hallways.
It wasn’t until they were back in the privacy of their rental Chevrolet that Mulder finally told Scully what he was thinking. “Kyle knows something. About the red powder—and about Paladin’s experiment. We need to keep digging.”
Scully was momentarily silent, her hands on the dashboard in front of her. Finally, she shrugged. “It won’t be easy. Emile Paladin died nearly fifteen years ago. According to Kyle, he took the secrets of his experiment with him.”
Mulder wasn’t going to accept anything Kyle had said at face value. Paladin might have died years ago—but his experiment was more than history. It was somehow involved in the Stanton case. “And what about the red powder? And the link to the John Doe?”
“I thought Kyle was pretty convincing. It could have fallen out of a shipment of medical supplies. The link with the John Doe is still unproven.”
Mulder turned the ignition, and the car kicked to life. “Fibrol’s involved; the MRI pictures don’t lie. Stanton was another victim of Emile Paladin’s transplantation experiment. And if Kyle can’t tell us how that’s possible—then we’ve got to find someone who can.”
He could see that Scully was thinking along the same lines. As they were waved through the first security checkpoint at the edge of the parking lot, she put words to his thoughts. “Andrew Paladin. The recluse brother. He might have been the last person to speak to Emile Paladin before he died.”
Mulder nodded, glancing at the boxlike complex shrinking rapidly in the Chevy’s rearview mirror. They could spend weeks, even months, trying to crack through Fibrol’s nondescript facade; but Mulder had a strong feeling that the answers they were looking for lay all the way on the other side of the world.
13
Left alone in his windowless office, Julian Kyle placed both hands flat on the cold surface of his glass desk, staring intently at the two imprints in the leather couch across from him. He wondered how many millions of plate-shaped epidermal cells res
ted in the microscopic canyons in the leather, how many millions of infinitesimal, cellular reminders of the FBI agents floated in the invisible drafts of air. He thought about Agent Mulder’s dark, intelligent eyes, and Scully’s determined, penetrating voice. He thought about the questions they had asked—and their reactions to his answers.
Kyle considered himself good at reading people—but the two agents were a mystery. Their texture was all wrong. They did not seem like the carbon-copy intelligence officers Kyle had dealt with many times in his career. They were smart, and they would not give up easily.
Kyle thought for a long moment, then reached beneath his desk and hit a small button located just above his knees. A few seconds later the door to his office slid open.
He watched as the tall young man with slicked-back sable hair slid into the room and tossed himself onto the couch, his long legs hooked nonchalantly over one of the armrests. The man’s narrow eyes flickered playfully toward the shattered display case beside the desk, a smirk settling on his lips. “Having a bad day, Uncle Julian?”
Kyle grimaced as the man’s heavy Thai accent trickled into his ears. He hated the artificial familiarity. He had watched the young man grow up—but thankfully, there was no physical relationship between them. Kyle considered himself a religious, moral man. This man was something altogether different. Warped. Perverted. Dangerous. All of his father’s sins—without any of his father’s virtues.
“We have a problem, Quo Tien,” Kyle responded, keeping the conversation as short as possible. “The situation has not yet been contained.”
The young man raised an eyebrow. Then he stretched his arms above his head. Kyle could see the sinewy muscles stretching beneath Quo Tien’s caramel skin. An involuntary shudder moved through Kyle’s shoulders. He had served in Vietnam, had known many dangerous men; but the Amerasian man truly terrified him. He knew the pleasure Quo Tien took in his work, the sheer, almost sexual enthusiasm that accompanied his acts of silent violence. For years, he had witnessed the limitless exploitation of the child’s perverse appetite.
