by Scott Britz
Waggoner shook his head. “Viruses aren’t really my thing. I’m a molecular biologist. I also have bacteriophage M13, which I use as a vehicle for cloning and mutagenesis studies. But that only infects bacteria. Yolanda Carlson isn’t a bacterium. She’s a mammal. So I think we’re okay there.”
“What are you making mutants of? Cold virus?”
“No. CD54 and sialic acid. I’m using them as decoy receptors to keep the virus from getting into host cells.”
“Thank you. Now was that so hard?”
Waggoner wiggled his nose to adjust his glasses. “Are we done?”
“Not quite. I need you to show me where the virus is stored. That includes viral RNA, DNA clones, and any cell cultures you may be using to grow it.”
He led her to the corner of the lab. “It’s here in this freezer—the one you were going to turn upside down.” When he opened it, she saw a second tier of doors for six separate compartments, each of which was crammed to the hilt with white boxes, frozen media, square plastic trays, tubes of enzymes for cloning, stainless-steel X-ray cassettes, and a hundred or more small plastic racks filled with 1.5 cc plastic, flip-top tubes.
“How do you know where anything is in here?” asked Cricket.
“I just know. I can tell you exactly where every tube is. Pick one.”
“No thanks. I’ll take your word for it.”
“The cell lines are over there, in liquid nitrogen.” He pointed nearby, to a flask-shaped metal container about three feet high. “If you turn that upside down, the liquid nitrogen will run out onto the floor and instantly turn your feet into ice.”
Cricket noted the sample locations on her clipboard. “Thanks for the warning. And thank you for your time, Dr. Waggoner.”
The shimmering electric bass resumed as Cricket closed the door behind her and headed out into the hall. On the other side of campus, Yolanda was fighting for her life. It was already 11:10 a.m.
Eight more floors to go.
Three
WHAT DO YOU WANT MY GODDAMN chair for?” asked Niedermann. The presence of the TV crew in Gifford’s office was annoying enough—cables everywhere, men shouting across the room. Now they were trying to tell him where he could and couldn’t sit.
“We need two chairs exactly alike,” said the stubble-bearded location director. “One for Dr. Gifford and one for Mr. Whitley, the network correspondent. Need ’em both in front of the fireplace, so we can set up the camera angle.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, now.”
Niedermann got out of his comfortably upholstered fauteuil and plopped himself down onto a spindly Windsor chair.
Gifford seemed not to mind, or even to notice, the half dozen men turning his office into Grand Central Station. Since he had come back from the BSL-4 lab, he had been preoccupied. He had skipped breakfast and was just now cutting up an apple because, he said, he was feeling a bit shaky.
“Any news about Yolanda?” asked Niedermann.
Gifford licked the knife he had used to cut the apple and set it down next to a neat stack of slices on a china plate. “No change, I’m afraid.”
“Still no idea what she has?”
Gifford shook his head.
“You know, you don’t look so good yourself,” said Niedermann. “Are you sure you’re up to this satellite interview?”
“Just a headache. I’ll be fine. The stress of all this—Yolanda, the Vector rollout, the constant interviews, Yolanda . . .”
Niedermann felt as if he needed a stiff drink himself. He had eaten half a packet of Tums but his ulcer was still killing him. “This, uh, doctor you’ve got treating Yolanda . . . ,” he said tentatively.
“Cricket?”
“Yes, Dr. Rensselaer-Wright. Are you sure she knows what she’s doing?”
“I’d trust my life to her.” Leaning back in his chair, Gifford massaged the scruff of Hannibal’s neck while waving a slice of apple in front of the dog’s nose. Although Hannibal’s eyes were riveted upon every movement of the apple, not until Gifford signaled with a flick of his wrist did the dog lurch forward to gobble it up. Niedermann was surprised that Hannibal didn’t take a few of Gifford’s fingers with it. “Cricket and I . . . well, I’ll just give it to you straight. I’ve, uh . . . last night I asked her to take over as head of the institute.”
“Jesus Christ! Are you serious?”
“She hasn’t accepted yet.”
“How could you, Charles? It’s true that Acadia Springs is your bailiwick, but I would have thought you’d consult with us at Eden before making a decision like that. We’re investing a hell of a lot of money here.”
“It could be good for all of us.” Gifford threw a distracted glance at the TV director and his crew. “What, er . . . what did you come to see me about, Jack?”
“Oh, the Lottery.” It was pointless to bring up his real purpose—the proxies. Gifford seemed unable to focus on anything but Yolanda. That, in itself, was curious. Gifford had only met her three months ago. Why should he fall to pieces? “As of eight this morning, we’ve gotten over ten thousand applications. Double what we expected.”
“That’s good.”
“Maybe too good. The Lower Plaza at Rockefeller Center really isn’t designed for a crowd of that size.”
“I’m sure your people can work around that.”
“Phillip Eden thinks we should stop taking any more applications. Just go with the ones we have.”
“If you do, it’ll look like you rigged the Lottery.” Gifford ate another slice of his apple. “Don’t be afraid to let this thing play out. It’ll give the FDA a kick in the ass. The response to the Lottery will prove the strength of the popular demand for the Vector. Even a million applications wouldn’t be too many.”
“I don’t know, Charles. No one’s ever unveiled a drug this way before.”
“No one’s ever had a drug that will change the world like this one.”
There was a knock, and gray-haired Mrs. Walls came in, wearing glasses and a prim skirt suit. “There’s a gentleman to see you. A Dr. Waggoner. He says it’s urgent.”
“Waggoner? Show him in,” said Gifford.
Hannibal whined. Niedermann craned his neck to see a tall, slim figure in a T-shirt and white lab coat shuffling through the door. The man mumbled as he walked, his eyes trained on his own Birkenstocks and the overlong, rumpled cuffs of his khaki pants. It wasn’t clear when he had started speaking—perhaps long ago in the outer waiting room—or whether he was addressing anyone in particular. “Uh, there are things a person doesn’t have to put up with,” the strange figure said. “Not, uh, if you expect to get any work done. Is this a good time for all this government regulatory crap? If you think it is, uh, you can, uh, just kiss the whole pseudoreceptor project good-bye.”
Gifford smiled at the astonishment of the TV crew. “Gentlemen, this is Wig Waggoner, our star molecular biologist. He was a big part of the Methuselah Vector team. Now he’s working on a fascinating project to create decoys to combat viruses. The idea is that you make phony receptors that entrap viruses in the blood and keep them from getting inside the cells and reproducing. I take it you’re having some problems today, Wig?”
“It’s this crazy woman from the CDC. She’s wrecking everything.”
“CDC?”
“She wants the records of every virus that’s ever been worked on. Every animal that’s ever been inoculated. Every scrap of viral DNA, even defectives. I don’t have time for that.”
The amusement fell from Gifford’s eyes. “Could you possibly be talking about Dr. Rensselaer-Wright?”
“I didn’t get her name. I just want her to stay out of my lab.”
Gifford gave Waggoner a long, skeptical stare. Then he bolted to his feet. “Take me to her,” he commanded.
“Now?” asked Niedermann. “You’ve got a l
ive TV interview in forty minutes.”
“I need to know what’s going on.” Gifford looked pale, even anxious.
“I’ll go talk to her,” said Niedermann.
“No. I need to see her. For myself.”
Five minutes later by golf cart, Gifford, Niedermann, and Waggoner had reached the Rensselaer Building. Cricket was no longer on Waggoner’s floor. They found her in the highly restricted production lab for the Methuselah Vector on the floor above. To enter it, all three of them had to put on clean suits, masks, hairnets, bootees, and gloves, then pass through an air lock opened by a scan of Gifford’s badge.
“There she is!” shouted Waggoner, pointing out a petite woman in a yellow clean suit arguing with a group of lab techs.
Gifford rushed toward the confrontation. “What are you doing, Cricket? Why aren’t you with Yolanda?”
Cricket barely looked up from the clipboard she held propped against her midriff. “I can’t treat Yolanda if I don’t know what she has. It’ll take Fort Detrick until tomorrow to run analysis on the blood sample I shipped. There’s no time. I need to narrow down the list of suspects. That means an immediate inventory of every potentially infectious virus being worked on or stored at this institute.”
“This is ridiculous. Yolanda never set foot in this building, or any other lab.”
“This is no community-acquired virus we’re dealing with, Charles. This is something so unusual as to lie outside of normal experience. It had to have come from one of these labs.”
Gifford took Cricket by the arm and yanked her away from the group of techs. “This behavior is the exact opposite of what I expected from you,” he said, lowering his voice. “I thought you could handle this matter discreetly.”
“Where do you store the stocks for the Methuselah Vector?”
Gifford stiffened. “They’re locked in a security-alarmed storeroom here in the production lab.”
“I need to check them against the inventory logs.”
“The hell you do,” Niedermann blurted out. There was no way he would let this woman go anywhere near the crown jewels. “We’ve spent over twenty million dollars harvesting and purifying these stocks. If you so much as breathed onto them, they would be ruined. Why don’t you just focus on your patient, Doctor? The Methuselah Vector is none of your business.”
Cricket laid her clipboard against her chest. Her voice was soft, even mockingly sweet. But her look wore daggers. “You had your way with USAMRIID, Mr. Niedermann. This is what you asked for. Want to make another phone call now?”
“I don’t have to. I can have campus security throw you off the premises.”
“Actually, you can’t. By my authority with CDC, I can declare this a biological emergency,” she announced, raising her voice to include everyone in the room. “That means I’m giving the orders, Mr. Niedermann. I can place the whole campus under quarantine.”
Niedermann was aghast. “You wouldn’t dare. There are massive preparations under way for Friday’s Lottery. Millions of dollars are at stake.”
“It’s a question of public safety,” replied Cricket.
“What’s the matter with you, Cricket?” said Gifford. “Why are you being so hostile? Have you forgotten what I offered you?”
“We have very few effective treatments for viruses like Yolanda has. The key to stopping an outbreak is to identify the source and prevent new infections. We need to isolate those at risk and start early treatment.”
“Nonsense!” sputtered Niedermann. “You don’t even have proof that there is a virus.”
“I know one when I see one,” Cricket said, addressing Gifford and not Niedermann. Then, turning to Niedermann, she sharpened her voice. “Will you order your people to cooperate or not?”
Niedermann looked to Gifford. The great doctor seemed shell-shocked. “Do what you will,” Niedermann snapped.
“I need access to this locked storeroom.”
“You already have it,” grumbled Gifford. “Your ID badge will let you in. I freely gave you that.”
“And I want you to order this man, Waggoner, to assist me. He knows everything that goes on here. What’s more, he has the equipment to do a molecular analysis of Yolanda’s blood. I don’t want to have to wait for USAMRIID.”
Niedermann snapped his fingers. “Waggoner, do it.”
“I object!” Waggoner had already started to slink toward the exit.
“Objection noted,” said Niedermann. “Do it anyway. Now—do you have any further demands, Dr. Rensselaer-Wright?”
“Not at the moment.”
From Gifford came a befuddled sigh. “Cricket, I gave you my trust. Why are you treating me like this?”
“It’s not personal, Charles. I can’t fight a disease if I don’t know what it is.”
Niedermann glanced at his wristwatch, a sapphire Vacheron Constantin. “Time to go, Charles. You have a live satellite interview in ten minutes.”
“All right,” muttered Gifford.
Niedermann waited until Gifford had taken a couple of steps toward the door, then spoke as if in afterthought. “Why don’t you go ahead? I’d, uh, like to stay and talk to Dr. Rensselaer-Wright for a moment.”
Gifford hesitated, shrugged, and then went on his way toward the changing room. Niedermann waited until Gifford was out of earshot, then asked in a confidential voice, “Can we go somewhere private, Doctor?”
“I’m rather busy, Mr. Niedermann.”
“I apologize for pulling rank on you this morning. It was a bit of a stunt, I confess. A crude way of letting you know that I’m a man with a certain amount of power. But I can help you as easily as harm. Please indulge me. I won’t take but a moment.”
Cricket sighed, but followed as Niedermann led her the same way Gifford had gone, toward the changing room. The brightly lit, locker-lined room was already empty. Gifford’s mask and jumpsuit lay in a heap on the central bench.
Niedermann pulled off his own face mask. “I’m aware that there’s been a miscarriage of justice regarding the patent on the Methuselah Vector.” He waited for Cricket to respond, but she said nothing. Her peculiarly violet-colored eyes simply challenged him to go on. “Your father was a codiscoverer of the aetatin gene, which is at the core of the Vector. Many believe that he was the primary discoverer—that, uh, Dr. Gifford had only a supportive role in the original research.”
“My father never claimed that.”
“Yes, he was most remarkable for his modesty.” Niedermann wondered whether Cricket was really as smart as people said she was. He was clearly giving her an opening to make a claim. Yet she let the pitch whiz by without a swing. “With the Methuselah Vector poised to reap untold billions in profits, you must have given some thought to, uh, your family’s position.”
“Position?”
“As to your rightful share.”
“No, Mr. Niedermann. I haven’t considered that at all.”
“Honestly?” Niedermann was irked by the combativeness of her stare. Wasn’t he trying to play nice with her? “Well, perhaps you should consider it now.”
“My father’s discovery was very basic. It was Charles Gifford who found a way to turn it into a working drug. The patent is his. You of all people should know that. Isn’t it your job to protect his interests?”
“I am doing just that.”
“Oh? How?”
“The same party who, uh, defrauded you and your father of a claim to the patent has also cheated Dr. Gifford of his, uh . . . just deserts. I aim to rectify that. I can be a friend to both of you.”
“A friend? To me?”
“If you’ll allow me.”
Cricket laughed—a coquettish, college girl’s laugh. “What do you want, Mr. Niedermann?”
“The present management of Eden Pharmaceuticals is outmoded. The real profit potential of the Methuselah
Vector has scarcely been recognized. New leadership is needed. Now, it so happens that Dr. Gifford is in a position to effect just such a change of leadership. He can make it a fact with a stroke of the pen. But he’s wavering. He needs . . . encouragement.”
“From me?”
“Exactly.”
With a sweep of her index finger she pulled down her mask. The slight craquelure of her lips showed that she wore no makeup; yet their natural vermilion struck him as rare and beautiful, needing no enhancement. “You’ve come to the wrong person. Until yesterday, Charles and I hadn’t spoken in five years.”
“You have more power than you know, Doctor . . . er, may I call you Cricket?”
“No.”
Niedermann’s cheeks burned as if she had slapped him. “Let me come to the point, then, Dr. Rensselaer-Wright,” he said stiffly. “I need Charles Gifford’s signature on a proxy ballot. It will enable me to take control of Eden Pharmaceuticals. Get it for me, and the day I take office I will order legal staff to file an amended declaration with the US Patent Office, naming your father as a coinventor of the Methuselah Vector. In lieu of royalties, assuming that you are his sole heir, I’ll award you ten percent of the voting shares in the company. The value of those shares—as of the opening of the New York Stock Exchange this morning—would be a little over five billion dollars.”
“And would I have to let you to call me Cricket, then?”
He could have punched her in the face. He glared at her, speechless, his hands clenched at his sides. Don’t let her get to you. She’s playing a game of her own. “You’re not taking this seriously, Dr. Rensselaer-Wright. I’m quite in earnest. The profits from the Methuselah Vector will be incalculable.”
“I don’t want any profits from the Methuselah Vector. It’s my opinion—as it was my father’s opinion, also—that the Methuselah Vector, once it is proven safe, should be given freely to the world.”
Niedermann forced a laugh. “Dr. Gifford said the same thing at one time. You’d be surprised how quickly you can change your mind once you see the size of the check.”
