Evelyn wiped the tears from her face. “Now is not a good time,” she started to say, but the man interjected.
“This is of vital importance for your daughter’s recovery,” the man said.
Evelyn looked him over. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t place it. It was as if the context was all wrong, and that was preventing her from conjuring the man’s identity from the recesses of her memory, or at least of recalling where she’d seen him before. “Who are you?” she managed.
He extended his hand. “My name is Jim Firth. I’m a biomedical researcher at Descartes University in Paris.”
“Paris?”
“That’s right. News has traveled about the bacteriological infection that your daughter has contracted. As you know, it’s a very serious infection.”
“How…”
Firth’s handsome face widened into a smile. “We get the news over there, too,” he said. “I’m very sorry that you’re going through this. It must be heartbreaking.”
More tears rushed from Evelyn’s eyes. She had no idea what prompted the wave of emotion. Perhaps it was the stranger’s acknowledgment of the burden that she was bearing alone, and it struck a chord someplace in her heart, a place that needed company and sympathy in this horrible time of fear and grief.
She felt a sympathetic hand on her upper arm. “I’m very sorry, Ms. Paulson.” The stranger’s presence felt genuine and comprehending.
“I’m sorry,” Evelyn said. “It’s just that…”
“No need to apologize ma’am. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” Firth took both of her arms in his hands, his grip firm and resolute but in a comforting way. “And I have traveled all the way from Paris because I believe I can help Sarah.”
Evelyn’s eyes widened. She felt disbelief — she had been told numerous times that there was no help available anywhere on the planet — but she also felt hope rise to suspend that disbelief. “How?” she asked.
“As you know, your daughter’s condition is caused by a highly virulent strain of bacteria that is resistant to every medication currently approved for use or drug trials. The bacteria’s outer skin is highly toxic to your daughter’s cells, and she is suffering from acute endotoxic shock.”
Fatigue returned to Evelyn’s eyes. “They keep telling me all of that.”
“There’s no way to kill the bacteria outright without killing your daughter in the process,” Firth continued.
Evelyn turned toward her car. “I know all of this,” she said. “I’m tired and dirty and hungry and I need to get home and change clothes so I can get back to Sarah.”
Firth continued unabated. “My research team has devised a way to stop the bacteria from reproducing inside of Sarah’s body.”
Evelyn stopped and turned around to face Firth, suddenly extremely interested in what he had to say.
“It’s like a sterilization procedure for the bacteria. A vasectomy, to make a coarse analogy,” Firth said. “We’ve found a way to clog up the receptor on the mechanism inside the bacteria that prompts it to divide, which is how it reproduces.”
“But if you don’t kill it, how will that help Sarah?”
Firth smiled. “It’s a beautiful and elegant solution, if you’ll permit me a little pride. The bacteria only live for a few hours. They die of natural causes. Only, with this experimental therapy, they die without reproducing.”
Evelyn’s eyes widened like saucers.
“With time and medical support, her immune system will flush the bacteria’s residue from her body, and she’ll recover.”
Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. “Why hasn’t anyone heard of this before? I mean, where the hell have you been for the last two weeks while we’ve been going through all of this?”
Firth nodded, and a pained look appeared on his face. “Ms. Paulson, I am here at considerable personal risk, and against the direction of my superiors at the university. The therapy is so new that we have not yet had the opportunity to complete the dozens of bureaucratic steps necessary to get it in the hands of the people who need it.” He paused and looked meaningfully into her eyes. “But I saw the report on the news, and I felt that I had to do something to help. I couldn’t live with myself otherwise.”
Evelyn thought of her conversation with the CDC guy, Fred Farnsworth. He had warned her about sketchy pharmaceutical companies approaching her with trial drugs, which were unproven and could be more dangerous than helpful. Farnsworth hadn’t said anything about university researchers, though. Were they in the same category? Would it really be all that reckless to try something that might make the difference for Sarah?
Firth’s eyes moved back and forth between hers, as if he were reading her thoughts. “There is some risk involved,” he said. “We know of no adverse side effects right now, but we’ve only tested this drug in the lab. We haven’t had the chance to put together the millions of dollars necessary for extended human trials. So there are things we don’t know about the way the drug will interact with your daughter’s immune system.”
Evelyn nodded. Farnsworth, the CDC guy, had told her that was often the case with new medications.
“But in my view,” Jim Firth continued, “those risks are minor compared to what this infection will do to your daughter if it continues unabated. And that’s why I’ve flown from Paris to talk with you.”
Evelyn assessed him. Hope battled wariness in her mind. Hope won. “So you brought the drug with you?”
Firth pointed over his shoulder. “In my rental.”
There was no decision, really. Evelyn could sit idly by while Sarah wasted away, or she could take a risk that might just help her little girl turn the corner. She thought of that vision in her head, the one she’d permitted herself to hope for during Sarah’s brief upswing, of holding her little girl’s hand while they journeyed together from the hospital and into the rest of their lives.
Evelyn had only one question. “Can we do it right now?”
Part II
31
Viktor Kohlhaas looked at the clock that Mathias had given him. Tuesday, February 24, the ornate gilded face told him. Eight in the morning. It had been a single long, nightmarish day since he’d first seen the horrifyingly grisly photos of his dead son.
Kohlhaas suspected that the episode might have broken him. But emotions took a long time to manifest themselves in Kohlhaas’ life. He was cool, calculating, hyper-rational, maybe even pathologically so, if he were to believe Mariete. But he dealt with pain and suffering in his own way. And he was well practiced. One couldn’t have survived a childhood like his without developing a robust, layered defense against the indifferent vicissitudes of the world.
But Mathias. Goddammit, Mathias. Theirs was a binary orbit, two large, bright stars locked in a death dance that neither would survive unscathed.
Comply. The message carved on his son’s hairless chest could have but a single recipient. And Kohlhaas suspected it was the inchoate knowledge that his own unfettered drive and stalwart stoicism in the face of extremely credible threats against his life and family that would ultimately bring him to his knees.
So in the meantime, while he waited for the grief and guilt to splinter the foundations of him, he worked.
“Mr. Barnes to see you, sir,” his secretary’s voice said, her head poked in the doorway. Kohlhaas nodded, and she showed the heavyset security man into Kohlhaas’ office.
“How are you holding up?” Barnes asked.
Kohlhaas bristled momentarily at the collegial familiarity, the implication of Kohlhaas’ mere humanity evident in his subordinate’s question. He knew Barnes, and he knew Barnes had asked the question both because he was concerned, and because he wanted to level the playing field. He acknowledged Barnes’ question with a nod and nothing else.
“You’ve got something?” Kohlhaas asked, moving along to the point of the meeting.
“From a security standpoint, the secondary production facility is ready. It is as secure
as I can make it, and I’ve accepted inputs from the outside consultants you asked for. Some of those inputs were actually very good, and while my pride resisted asking for help, I think we’re going to be more secure because of them.”
Kohlhaas’ eyebrows arched slightly, his surprise evident at Barnes’ admission. He wondered what motivated it, because it wasn’t necessary. Barnes could simply have stated his opinion that the secure manufacturing facility, tucked in the bowels of a disused quarry, was ready to go. Barnes was either attempting to lower Kohlhaas’ opinion of Barnes’ expertise, which Kohlhaas viewed as unlikely, or to elevate Kohlhaas’ opinion of the contractors Barnes had hired. He wondered why, but set the question aside for the moment. Barnes was droning on in his disagreeably nasal tone.
“We’ve made headway examining the inconsistencies in employee statements. I’ve asked the contractors to sit in on those sessions, and again they’ve had useful inputs.”
“And?” Kohlhaas didn’t need an “I’m working hard” report from Barnes. He needed to hear about results.
“No smoking guns yet,” Barnes said, picking dandruff from his lapel as he spoke. “But we have noted that one of the people with inconsistencies in their accounting of the past few days’ events is also someone with access to every level of security at Synergique.”
Kohlhaas felt a constriction in his chest. Dear God, not this. He shook his head slowly, tiredness in his eyes, anger and disappointment settling on his face.
“I’m afraid so,” Barnes said. “Albert LeBeque.”
Kohlhaas exhaled, sat back in his chair, and turned absently to view the large painting — an original, worth what his most highly-paid employee made in a year — while he contemplated the bad news. “You’re sure?”
Barnes shook his head. “I’m not certain about LeBeque’s complicity in anything untoward,” he said. “But I am sure that he recollected the timeline of the past few days inconsistently between interviews, and he had extended periods of time alone inside the deepest layers of security at Synergique.”
Kohlhaas frowned. “He’s the chief scientist. Of course he was in the secure areas.”
Barnes nodded. “But he violated protocol by being there alone.”
“He was working ridiculous hours, on my orders.”
“The fact remains,” Barnes said, “that he was not compliant with established security procedures. He should have kept another staff member with him while he worked.”
Kohlhaas shook his head, mouth slightly agape.
“Security isn’t supposed to be convenient,” Barnes reminded him. “The procedures aren’t established for our personal comfort. They exist for one reason only.”
Kohlhaas nodded his understanding. “But you have no direct evidence against him?”
Barnes hesitated, drew a breath, then spoke. “I’m obligated to report that LeBeque spoke with a colleague at Prizer by phone on two occasions.”
Kohlhaas exhaled again. It didn’t look good. “Is there any plausible explanation that doesn’t involve a security breach?”
Barnes nodded. “Of course. Scientists confer with each other all the time, I would imagine. And LeBeque was working on a difficult problem.” He scratched his massive, flab-ridden jowls. “I just can’t guarantee that this contact was benign.”
Kohlhaas slumped in his chair. If LeBeque was selling secrets, Synergique was dead in the water. It was over. Everything he had worked for, everything that he had sacrificed, would go up in smoke. “There couldn’t be a more damaging source for the breach.”
Barnes nodded. “I’m aware of LeBeque’s role here,” he said. “It is unfortunate, but it’s also how these things often work. He’s not stupid or blind, and he knows that his knowledge is worth a fortune. Maybe he decided to cash in early. But I think we should consider making a move to isolate him from the critical portions of our operation.”
Kohlhaas sat up. “Albert LeBeque is the critical portion of our operation,” he said. “There is no operation without him.”
Barnes nodded. “An unfortunate set of circumstances, and a risk I advised against taking, if you’ll recall.”
Kohlhaas threw a baleful look at the fat security man. “There were no options, and you know it,” he said.
“At any rate,” Barnes said, rising, “I need to get back to work. I have a meeting with the consultants in a few minutes. And I know you have a difficult decision to weigh. I’m sorry for the bad news.”
“Wait,” Kohlhaas said, arriving at his decision just as Barnes’ fat body neared the office door. “The operation continues as before,” Kohlhaas declared as Barnes turned around. “But I want you to put a security man on LeBeque twenty-four-seven. Tell Albert it’s for his protection, due to credible threats. Report to me twice daily on his activities. And keep looking at everything and everyone else. If Albert is clean, I don’t want us to be distracted by him and miss the real culprit.”
Barnes nodded his understanding and left.
Kohlhaas leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands behind his head, contemplating his relationship with Albert LeBeque. Was LeBeque capable of such subversion? Was he capable of allying with people who butchered people’s families?
He knew the answer. Anyone would be capable of such things, subject to the right pressures. And there was so much money on the table. If Albert were offered a significant slice of it from one of the competing pharmaceutical companies, it would certainly be hard to say no.
He pressed the button on his phone, and his secretary answered. “Bring me Albert LeBeque’s employee folder, please,” he said.
She walked in moments later with a blue folder, the name Albert LeBeque written on the folder’s label in the secretary’s neat scrawl. Kohlhaas flipped through the pages.
LeBeque was well compensated. His salary afforded him an extremely comfortable lifestyle, even in one of the world’s most expensive cities. LeBeque wasn’t going hungry, but perhaps he was hungry for more. Perhaps he had begun to believe his own press clippings, and felt that he was worthy of more than just his salary.
Kohlhaas had the nagging feeling that he was forgetting something. He couldn’t quite figure out what it was. He flipped the pages of LeBeque’s employee dossier, scanning for relevant information, still bothered by his inability to recall the important tidbit he wanted from his memory.
Kohlhaas finally found it. Partner. Albert LeBeque wasn’t an employee. He was a goddamned partner. He had equity in Synergique. He owned a significant number of Synergique’s shares. They were preferred, protected shares, and Synergique wasn’t a public company, which meant that LeBeque’s net worth could never be diluted without first giving him the option to cash out.
The upshot was that if Synergique brought to market the world’s first cure for pandrug resistant bacteriological infections, Albert LeBeque would be an exceptionally rich man. So why would he ever do anything to harm Synergique’s chances of being first to market the drug? Were the big boys in the pharma business offering him that big a payoff?
It would have to be a gigantic payoff, Kohlhaas reasoned. In the multiple tens of millions.
Unless LeBeque wasn’t entirely confident in the outcome, and was hedging his bets. That was a very real possibility, Kohlhaas realized. Their results were far from guaranteed, even a month ago. They knew they were onto something, but if LeBeque wasn’t convinced it would go all the way, he might be tempted to sell a trade secret or two. It was possible LeBeque was playing both sides.
But, Kohlhaas reminded himself, there was little more than circumstantial evidence that LeBeque was anything other than the star player on an all-star team. Barnes had found nothing definitive.
But imagine for a second that LeBeque is crooked, Kohlhaas thought. What would his next move be?
It wasn’t inconceivable that, if Synergique’s drug hit the market at the same time a pandrug epidemic seized the collective consciousness, LeBeque could become a billionaire. Hell, in that regard, LeBeque and Kohlhaas we
re inextricably aligned. Kohlhaas was certainly after the same prize. And it was highly unlikely that any of the Big Pharma players had reached that deeply into their pockets to pull LeBeque away. The upside was just too big for anyone to walk away from, and LeBeque’s price would be too high for anyone to pay.
Kohlhaas smiled. He felt confident that LeBeque would stay the course. Even if the scientist was selling secrets, he wouldn’t likely sell the farm. It was in LeBeque’s own best interest to successfully navigate the patent process in order to sew up billions in downstream revenue. Hell, LeBeque might even be a solid candidate for the Nobel Prize.
It would be interesting to see how things unfolded, Kohlhaas decided.
His phone rang. Not his office phone, but the cheap disposable Nokia in his desk drawer. This week’s burner.
He checked the number in the caller ID window. It was a number he recognized. “Hello, Jim,” Kohlhaas said. “What is it, two a.m. there?”
“It is indeed,” Jim Firth said, his voice crackling over the international connection. “But I have news I think you’ll want to hear.”
“I’m ready,” Kohlhaas said, bracing himself.
“It’s a go,” Firth said. “We administered the drug four hours ago. A nine-year-old girl. Viktor, she’s responding. Her vitals are up.”
“Are you certain?” Kohlhaas asked, afraid to believe the good news.
“Positive. The girl’s doctors are calling it a miracle. Congratulations, Viktor. You’ve invented the next miracle drug.”
32
Nora’s alarm clanged rudely, jarring Kittredge from a terrible dream. He couldn’t recall its details, but he awoke fearful and sweaty, his heart pounding.
Nora apologized for the early start to their day, then went to the hotel bathroom to get ready for work.
Kittredge felt the familiar tremors and climbed unsteadily out of bed. The covers ruffled as he did so, wafting Nora’s sweet scent. It was vaguely masculine, which might have been why he found himself attracted to her, he reflected. He still had a thing for men, but he could no longer justifiably categorize himself as a homosexual man prone to occasional hetero dabbling. He was bisexual, capable of meaningful relationships with both sexes. It was obvious, but it still felt like a strange revelation, and made him feel somewhat alienated from himself.
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