“The inhibitor only blocks TEM8 on primates.”
Katrina looked up at him. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. I’ve used three different assays.”
Gilman and McMullan exchanged a glance. “What does that mean?” McMullan asked.
Jason turned to face McMullan. “There are two receptors that anthrax proteins interact with—they are called CMG2 and TEM8. The toxin can get into the cell through either one of these receptors, and it has to get into the cell to kill the cell.
“My lead compound works beautifully in mice. But it failed in monkeys. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out why. Now, I have done some cell-based testing and confirmed that it only blocks one of the receptors in the monkey cells, but it blocks both in mouse cells. From those pieces of data, I can easily conclude that the reason the monkeys died was that they were still vulnerable to an infection. We need to block both receptors to block the complex.”
“What about humans?” Gilman asked.
“It was probably a safe assumption that if it didn’t work in primates, it wouldn’t work in humans either.” He turned to Katrina before adding, “but we don’t have to make that assumption. I have confirmed it. I tested the compound in human cells to see if it would block both receptors. It doesn’t.” Jason turned from Katrina to McMullan, and then to Gilman. “The monkeys have taught us definitively that there’s no way our lead compound will be effective in humans.”
Gilman went pale. For a moment, he stood breathing quick, shallow breaths, until McMullan stepped forward to guide him to a chair next to Katrina’s. Then McMullan sat down as well. “What can you do now?” McMullan’s voice was soft as he asked the question to which he already knew the answer.
“We can redesign the compound,” Jason said. “But not in two days.”
Part II: Redesigned
DECEMBER 25, 2015
12:00 A.M. EST
It was midnight in Washington, D.C. when Gilman placed the video call to his wife. Between midnight and 5:00 a.m. East Coast time, he and his wife shared the intimacies of life-long sweethearts facing the last day of a terminal illness. Every second was more painful than the last, every instant another sliver of borrowed time. Nobody knew when the attack would happen. Or how. Or where.
No longer concerned with the national security he had failed to provide, Gilman’s only thought now was that he should have gone home—and, so be it, to hell with his job—when he still had the chance. But now, all U.S. flights were grounded. So it was Skype that would allow him to talk to his wife, Skype that would allow him to be with his family even if the apocalypse crashed down upon them as they spoke.
At 6:15 a.m., the children began to wake up. It was still the middle of the night in San Diego, and Gilman glanced between the black sky through his hotel room window and the oasis of life projecting from his cell phone. Dawn’s phone jiggled as she trotted to the living room to watch their children dive into the mountain of gifts that was over-the-top lavish this year.
About 8:00 a.m., the children began to ask about breakfast and church. It was Gilman, and not his wife, who explained that this year—this year only—the family would stay home and pray privately rather than attending Christmas mass. He asked his children to pray hard.
After breakfast, Dawn left her phone charging on the kitchen table, propped up against a book so the video could continue to run. Gilman watched his family careen through their daily affairs until he fell back asleep.
It was 2:35 p.m. in San Diego when Gilman woke up. His phone had died. Consumed with an instant feeling of panic, he dug through the clutter in his hotel room until he found his charger, and then stood impatiently by until the phone picked up enough of a charge to be used again. Immediately, he resumed the video call.
His children were in the midst of a lazy Christmas afternoon, seemingly normal except for the fact that Daddy was away. Dawn was preparing dinner for the eight of them, and Gilman once again found himself sad beyond measure that he had not abandoned his duty to the FBI to be home for this day.
As the evening wore on, and the children began winding down, a surreal sense of calm began to creep in, and the nightmare in which he had been living began to feel as if maybe—just maybe—it had been exactly that. A bad dream.
Still, he stayed on the call with his wife after the children were sleeping. When midnight approached once again, and Dawn was dozing off in their bed, Gilman found himself also beginning to relax, as it began to seem more and more likely that the day he had been dreading for months would conclude without incident.
JANUARY 8, 2016
11:24 A.M. PST
Christmas Day came and went without incident. The nation breathed a collective sigh of relief, and the frenzied bicoastal investigation began slowing from its breakneck pace to a manageable one. But Operation Death Row was far from over.
Katrina Stone and her staff were still committed to redesigning the inhibitor of the Death Row Complex, and the turmoil surrounding her laboratory had not waned. On January 8, she was sitting once again at the break room table with McMullan and Gilman, talking them through the latest data updates from her staff, when a voice echoed through the laboratory toward them. “Get your hands off my willie! I have an ID badge!”
The door to the break room burst open and a pudgy man who appeared to be in his late sixties shuffled into the room. The man wore wrinkled slacks and a button down shirt; the buttons did not align correctly with the buttonholes, and one un-tucked shirttail was longer than the other.
Behind him was one of the armed guards on duty. “He’s clean,” the guard said to McMullan and Gilman. “I frisked him.”
“Thanks,” McMullan said, looking amused.
Katrina looked up apologetically but did not speak.
“Oh, Jesus, Katrina,” the elderly man began and then stopped when his eyes fell upon the cookie jar next to the coffee pot. He reached in and pulled out a large handful of broken cookies, which he shoved absently into his mouth before continuing to speak. “This is ridiculous! I can’t even do my work anymore!” The pronunciation of the word “can’t” was forceful enough to send a fragment of cookie flying out of his mouth and onto the floor in front of him. Noticing the fallen morsel, the man paused to reach down and pick it up. He shoved it back into his mouth and continued. “Please tell me this is almost over!” Another chunk of cookie escaped on the word “please,” but this one stayed on the ground. McMullan and Gilman pulled their eyes away from it to exchange an amused glance.
“Richard, I’m doing everything I can to make this all go away,” Katrina said. “We have figured out what was wrong with the compound, and we think we know how to correct it.”
“Do it, then,” he responded. “I’m not running a circus here, and I’m not the least bit amused by all of this. I’m fending off negative press every day. So when this is all over, there had better be some payoff in the way of good publication to compensate for the damage you’ve done to our department’s reputation. Science or Nature. I’ll accept nothing less.”
He reached and grabbed another handful of cookies, then shoved them in to join the partially chewed previous batch. He then turned and left the room, shoving his hand down the back of his pants to scratch an unmentionable itch as he went. The two agents looked at one another again and then both burst out laughing.
“Who was that clown?” McMullan finally asked when he was able to speak.
“That’s the chair of the biology department,” Katrina answered.
“What a wing nut!”
Katrina’s frustration dissipated slightly and she allowed herself a giggle. “The truth is, he’s a genius,” she said. “Molecular cardiology is his specialty, and he has made some of the largest advances in the field. But yeah, in the tradition of many true geniuses, he’s a bit socially inept.”
“I don’t get it,” McMullan said. “You’re not that clueless!”
“Oh, thanks, Sean!” Katrina laughed. “Well, the trut
h is, I work very hard, but I certainly don’t have his level of scientific brilliance either. Richard is on the same plane as Einstein. A man who, by the way, was a kleptomaniac, was known for forgetting to wear socks, and often forgot where he was entirely.”
JANUARY 15, 2016
5:37 P.M. PST
As the second full week of January was wrapping up, Roger Gilman sat in his office adjacent to Stone’s laboratory. It was Friday evening. Gilman glanced up from his paperwork to polish off a long-forgotten doughnut with the last cold bit of his coffee from the morning. He grimaced. Then he dropped the document he had been reading into the wastebasket by his desk before grabbing his coat to leave.
Gilman glanced out the window and then tossed the coat back onto his chair in disgust. Even in January, San Diego was too warm for a jacket. The fact that he was trapped in one eternal season seemed fitting for this endless assignment. He stepped out of the office to pass through the lab on his way out.
Katrina Stone was alone at a computer, using a mouse to scroll through something. The connected printer was spitting out page after page.
Gilman approached her. “You know what I still can’t figure out?”
“What?”
“I still can’t figure out how your unpublished data could be so closely linked to the activated anthrax strain with no prior knowledge of it.”
Katrina stopped working and glared at him. “Agent Gilman, what exactly are you implying?”
“Nothing, nothing. It’s just that there are scientists out there who wonder if you engineered the Death Row strain. Maybe even sent it off to San Quentin to make sure it would work. Of course, I would never believe that of you. But, wow”—he sucked air between his teeth dramatically and gestured sweepingly in all directions—“you sure do seem to have made out like a bandit with all this. Shiny new lab, plenty of money to do your work. Not to mention you seem to be some kind of a hero for all this. I hear you’ve even been invited to speak at the upcoming biotechnology convention? Must be nice.
“I might not mind any of that so much, given that there conveniently doesn’t seem to be any real threat after all, except for the fact that I’m still stuck here on an assignment I never wanted while you wrap up whatever you’re doing for apparently no reason. So do me a favor, will you? Hurry the hell up.”
Katrina had not responded but her breathing was quickening. She now turned from her work and strode quickly toward him. Inches from his face, she looked defiantly into his eyes. “Use your brain for just a minute here, genius. If I wanted to kill a prisoner it would be Lawrence Naden. You know who he is, right? I certainly hope so, or else the FBI has been crawling up my ass for the last three months for no reason.
“And if I wanted to kill Lawrence Naden, I wouldn’t do it with something that is uniquely traceable to myself. I’d just send Naden some cyanide in a Ziplock bag labeled ‘Free Cocaine.’ Now, if you don’t have any other ground breaking hypotheses for me, I’m excusing myself from this conversation.”
Katrina turned to leave, and then turned back around. “And by the way, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I have hardly made friends around here and I’m certainly no hero. You recently heard a conversation I had with the chair of my department. Yeah, that guy yelling at me with the cookies flying out of his mouth? He’s my boss. And he’s mad as hell.
“Richard and the rest of the faculty are holding me personally responsible for obstructing their work—as if I have any control over the military presence and press, which nobody at the FBI seems able to do anything about either. You guys can make someone disappear, but you can’t make a news van use a different street—which means you have less power to facilitate this work than Cal Trans. So what are you even doing here? You don’t seem to be helping things much.
“And you know what else? You’re not the only one stuck here, asshole. I’m working myself into the ground over what should have been my holiday season. My entire staff, in fact, has given selflessly to make this project work because you guys seemed to think the country was depending on us. You came to me about this, remember? I’m doing this because you have asked me for help to do work that the government will never let me publish.
“In academic science—which is what I normally do here—the rule is ‘publish or perish.’ If we don’t publish work, it’s as if we never did it. You heard Richard. Science or Nature—the two top journals. But I can’t publish my work on the Death Row inhibitors.
“So everything I’m doing right now is for absolutely nothing as far as my career is concerned. All of my current government funding is only temporary, and the plug can be pulled at any time. And since I’ve pissed off the entire biology department, they’ll never float me. So great, I have a nice new shiny lab, but if I can’t get a grant after all this is over, it’s going to go to someone else while I end up unemployed.
“The sad thing is, I almost needed for there to be another terror attack to justify how I’ve spent the last three months. How sick is that?
“Taking this project has all but ruined me. I’m thirty-four years old. I still have a very long way to go. So you know what I’m going to do now? I’m going to drink. And you’re not invited, fucko.”
Katrina turned to grab her purse and keys from her office before storming out of the lab and slamming the door behind her. The printer was still whirring next to Gilman.
5:42 P.M. PST
Katrina was muttering under her breath as she walked briskly toward the parking lot. After a few moments to think, she pulled her cell phone from her purse to call Sean McMullan.
McMullan sounded out of breath when he answered the phone.
“Sean, it’s Katrina.”
“Hey! What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you and I don’t want Roger Gilman to be there. Where are you?”
“I’m at the gym.”
“Which one?”
“Uh, it’s the Fitness Land on the corner of Eighth and E, downtown.”
“I’ll be there in twenty,” she said and hung up.
She found him at the free weights, bench-pressing what looked to be an enormous load. It was the first time Katrina had seen Sean McMullan outside of a work environment.
McMullan’s long athletic shorts revealed calves that were toned and tan. He was wearing a gray T-shirt that read “USMC” across the chest in large navy blue lettering. McMullan’s muscular left forearm was covered with a faded tattoo that read “Semper Fi.” Katrina briefly remembered the first time she had met McMullan in her office, when she had noticed a tiny fraction of the tattoo below his shirt cuff.
“Want to take a walk?” she asked.
Resigned to the fact that his workout was cut short, McMullan reached into his gym bag and pulled on a sweatshirt. Then he and Katrina headed west into the Gaslamp Quarter.
“So, what’s on your mind?” McMullan asked casually.
“Gilman,” Katrina answered.
McMullan chuckled. “Heh, you sure I should hear this?”
“What is his problem? I see how he acts toward you, and everyone else for that matter. He’s not an asshole to anyone but me. Obviously, I’ve done something to offend him.
“Truth be told, I don’t really care if the dude likes me or not. But he’s interfering with my ability to do my job when he comes into my lab and my office flinging accusations at me. I thought talking to you about it might help me to figure out how to deal with the jerk before I accidentally kill him.”
Between Eighth and Fifth Streets, the downtown area became noticeably brighter and livelier as McMullan and Katrina approached the buzz of Friday night activity. Well-dressed couples zigzagged along Fifth Avenue between the more scantily clad groups of twenty-somethings. Bars and restaurants overflowed; at the entrances to some, the lines stretched through the doors and down the sidewalk. Pedestrians swerved around each other on both sides of the street, stepping out into the street to bypass the crowds outside of the busier establishments.
T
he scientist and the FBI agent crossed Fifth Avenue and waited for the signal to cross E street. “Well, Roger is very conservative,” McMullan offered.
“And what am I, some kind of hippie? I own a gun, I know how to use it, and my ex was a jarhead and an active member of the NRA!” She laughed.
“Well, fair enough,” McMullan said. “But still, your work… you represent… change. Something Roger doesn’t do well with. I think if it was up to him, we’d still be in one-room schoolhouses… What in the world is that?” McMullan pointing one block westward to where E street abruptly came to an end.
Katrina smiled. “That’s Horton Plaza. I know… it looks like something out of an Escher print. But it’s actually just a mall. You ought to check it out sometime—there are all these whacky levels that don’t really match up with each other, and escalators only going one direction without a corresponding escalator going the other direction. So you can see the store you want to go to, but you have to travel around a little bit in order to figure out how to get there. Unless you want to run up the down escalator or down the up escalator, which my daughter likes to do.” She giggled. “Lexi calls Horton Plaza the Yuppie Ant Farm.”
At that moment, a security guard was making his rounds inside Horton Plaza. As he rounded a corner, a young woman came into his view and his pace quickened. “Excuse me, miss! You’re going to have to get down from there!”
The teenager was standing on a bench along the mall’s uppermost walkway and leaning precariously over the balcony, the protective stucco wall only reaching to her knees. Below her was a several-story drop to ground level, where shoppers milled about the numerous kiosks in the center of the mall. She was taking a photograph with her cell phone.
The Death Row Complex (The Katrina Stone Novels Book 2) Page 11
