“The person who built this place was a security freak,” said the broker. “The entire property is fenced in with a twelve foot high commercial grade chain link fence.”
“What was the owner afraid of?” Susan asked.
“The executor of his estate told us he was a Russian gentleman in the import/export business. He wanted to keep out any wildlife that might eat his vegetable and flower gardens.”
“A naturalist,” said Susan as she rolled her eyes.
The broker pressed a remote control device which opened the gates. “Don’t worry, the patrol dogs are gone now.”
After two minutes of driving, the forest gave way to the cleared land, and it started to become evident why the house was called a ‘fixer-upper.’ The expansive lawns were near dead and the shrubbery around the house was so overgrown that it looked like nature was reclaiming the building.
“As you can see, the lawn’s irrigation system hasn’t been working for some time, and a good garden clean-up and trim is necessary,” the broker said.
“You think?” Susan raised her eyebrows.
The house was a very large single-story stucco structure that was built in a 1980s architectural style that can only be described as “early bomb shelter.” The building looked remarkably like a military bunker. All of the corners of the building, and the entrance façade, were broadly rounded in much the same way as the concrete “pill-box” fortifications overlooking the beaches of Normandy.
As Susan looked at the building’s peeling paint and other signs of neglect, she smiled. “Exactly how large is this monstrosity?”
The broker’s brow furrowed. “Actually, there’s more demand than you might think for this particular architectural style. Some people seek this out.”
“Do they bring their orderlies from the sanitarium or are they allowed to come alone?”
The broker ignored the crack and said, “The house is approximately 7000 square feet, not counting the guest house which is 1500 square feet.” She motioned toward another section of the property, and Susan could see that quite a distance from the main house, there was a much smaller bunker that stood guard over what appeared to be disheveled rose gardens.
Opening the front door, the broker said, “You’ll see that the house has good bones. All it needs is a little TLC.”
“Did you say DDT?”
The interior looked as if it hadn’t been painted in twenty-five years. The hard wood floors were badly damaged and there were large water stains on at least ten different areas of the ceiling.
It was obvious to Susan that the house could easily be converted into a satisfactory research facility. There also was a huge basement that could be utilized and the guest house too held promise. Susan said to the broker, “As God awful ugly as this place is, it just might work for my boss. So what’s the price?”
“It’s listed for $1.8 million,” the broker replied.
“What’s the real price?”
“The land alone is worth that.”
Susan’s belly laugh was convincing. “Not in this neighborhood— with its four acre zoning and wetland habitat restrictions. And if someone just wants this place for the land, they’ll have to pay plenty just to ball and chain this architectural abortion and cart away the debris.”
“If you’re not interested, we can just move on. There are other properties I can show you that may be more to your liking.”
“How long has it been on the market?”
“Nine months. Originally it was listed for $2.1 million.”
“I think I can get authorization for $1.1 million. It would be an all-cash deal.”
“That’s ridiculous. The estate will never accept that.”
“Ask them. You and I both know this place can easily sit on the shelf for another two years, and by then it will look even worse. Sell it before the termites carry it away.”
After another two weeks of haggling, a deal was struck at $1.375 million, with a closing to take place in fifteen days. Conversion and repair work was set to begin within two weeks after the closing. Bobby was elated.
Within four months after Bobby’s foundation purchased the property, he and his staff of eight assistants were ready to move in. The interior of the house had been converted into a computer research lab. Between the equipment there and the remote interface to the Tufts computer lab, Bobby had an extraordinary amount of computing power at his disposal. Installing science or medical labs would have been far too costly, so he’d continue to use those at Tufts. For security reasons, the Prides Crossing property had no exterior identification, signs, address or mail delivery, and none of the construction contractors or crew knew who the occupants would be.
Late in the evening of the first day on which the lab became operational, only Susan and Bobby remained on the premises. Bobby sat in front of a bank of three computer key-boards running equipment tests. Susan interrupted him and asked for help with something in the reception area.
After repeated prodding, she prevailed upon him to go with her. “An adjustment is needed,” she said, as she pulled over a tall ladder that was standing in the room and climbed it. “Now hold the ladder steady and don’t look up my dress.”
“You’re wearing pants,” Bobby said.
“I know, but I always wanted to say that.”
Standing atop the ladder, Susan tugged hard on a tarp that Bobby thought was covering a light fixture in the process of being installed. When the tarp fell to the floor, a sign was revealed — The Joseph Manzini Research Laboratory. Bobby beamed. He lifted Susan down from the ladder and hugged her as he twirled her around.
Laughing she said, “Tarzan, put me down before you rupture yourself. Now be honest. Was I being presumptuous with the name? I wanted it to be a surprise gift for you.”
“It’s fantastic. It makes me feel like Joe will be here with us. And it’s a lot better than the name I was thinking of.”
“And what was that?”
“The Alamo.”
39
The previous work Bobby had done was in the autoimmune, neuro-muscular and genetic areas. Now Bobby was turning his attention to bacterial, viral and parasitic diseases, a completely different scenario in which, rather than the body itself malfunctioning, the body comes under attack from an external force. The disease that Bobby initially set his sites on—malaria— afflicts five hundred million people annually and kills three million a year, the majority of whom are young children, one of whom dies every thirty seconds. Malaria is caused by a protozoan parasite which is injected into its victims by female Anopheles mosquitoes. What Bobby learned is that this protozoa has an extraordinary ability to evade the immune system of the human body. Because of this, vaccines to prevent malaria have been unsuccessful, and while there are some anti-malarial drugs, the protozoa is also expert at evolving to be resistant to them.
Immersing himself in his research, Bobby began to ask himself questions that never had occurred to him in his prior work where no external force was attacking the human body. How strange it is, thought Bobby, that a one cell organism, among the most primitive of all living things, has the capability to defeat the most complex and sophisticated life-form. An organism as simple as protozoa has killed more than half a billion people in the twentieth century alone, and defied two hundred years of active human endeavor to outwit it. How could an inconsequential microbe be so adaptive and resilient that the human body becomes nothing more than a vessel to be exploited and pillaged? What powers this protozoa? What gives it the ability to endlessly change, evolve and mutate so that it can defeat its human hosts?
Bobby knew that wars aren’t won by foot soldiers alone. It takes commanders, generals —the strategists and tacticians that direct the rank and file. So—who is the commander of this parasite? Bobby wondered. What force empowers this to happ
en? The more Bobby thought about this, the worse his nightmares became. He continued to research tirelessly and run endless numbers of experiments. But they were going nowhere. As the months went by, he was certain that he felt the force of resistance at every turn. He believed he was being opposed, actively blocked. He was being check-mated by day and night-mared at night. He became increasingly convinced that he was in a battle with an active opponent. Susan noticed a change in his behavior. He was becoming moody, withdrawn, more reclusive and depressed. He began to disappear during the day for long stretches of time.
She confronted him. “Bobby, where have you been?”
“The beach,” he replied.
“At this time of year?”
“It’s the best time. The beach is empty. It’s beautiful and solitary.”
“You’ve been taking quite a few breaks from working.”
“I work on the beach.”
“With no computers?”
Bobby waved his hand. “Thinking. I’ve just been thinking. Sometimes you have to get a distance away from something to really see it clearly. I’ve been too myopic and it hasn’t been working. I’m just not getting to the core of the problem. I’ve been losing, Susan. Getting my ass kicked, to be frank.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have to break through a barrier that’s been erected or I’ll never cure this disease. Everything I’m trying isn’t working. I’m up against a very powerful force.”
Susan’s eyebrows rose as she looked at him. “What are you talking about Bobby?”
“Forget it. You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“Well, don’t let that stop you at this late date.”
Bobby’s demeanor didn’t lighten with Susan’s crack. “I’ve come to some conclusions. Certain things have become very clear to me now.”
“Like?”
“Like this is a dangerous universe. Like there are forces of real evil out there—and I’m not talking about people or governments. Like diseases aren’t accidents and everything isn’t explainable by natural scientific phenomena.”
“What are you talking about Bobby?”
“The universe isn’t benign or neutral. It’s not just about science and rationality. Everything has its reciprocal, it’s opposite. There are forces that define our reality and they’re in opposition. There’s a reason why a one-cell parasite can’t be stopped from killing a child every thirty seconds. There’s a reason why the immune system of the most complex, advanced and highly evolved organism on earth—a human being’s body—can’t successfully fight-off a protozoa. There’s a reason why that one-celled organism can mutate endlessly like a magician to defeat drugs as quickly as they’re invented.”
“And that reason is?”
Bobby’s voice rose with his increasing agitation. “Because there’s a powerful force of negativity and destruction out there —-a supreme evil—it’s empowering all of this to happen, Susan. It’s no accident and it’s not just science. I think I’ve been feeling this force in my nightmares my whole life. One day, it will destroy me. It will take me out. I know it.” His face blushed red and he looked flustered.
Susan exhaled loudly and shook her head. “I have to tell you, Bobby —-that sounds really bizarre and paranoid.”
Bobby avoided eye contact. “Well, I’m sorry but that’s what I think. I began to feel this—to get a glint of it—about five years ago. And as I’ve continued to work on this new research, it’s become clear to me. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think so.”
Susan couldn’t recall ever seeing him so unnerved. “Bobby, do you believe in God?”
After a moment of silence Bobby replied, “I don’t know why —but I do. What about you?”
“Off and on. When I was a little kid I did because that’s what I was taught. Then when I got older and I would go to church with my parents, I would see girls there that I was attracted to. I would try to keep from blushing when I said hello to them. I blamed God for that, for making me different. And then, when I was being abused by that loser I was living with and he almost killed my son, I hated God for not protecting us. I decided he didn’t exist at all. It was just one big lie as far as I was concerned. But I believe in God now, very much so.”
“And why’s that?” asked Bobby.
“Because after I met Anna, I knew God sent her to me. I’m sure of that. He delivered us. She was his angel.”
Bobby rubbed his right temple. “Well, unfortunately, God has some serious adversaries. In this universe, everything has its polar opposite. If you believe in good, you can’t deny the existence of evil, and evil is not passive.”
Susan placed her hands firmly on Bobby’s shoulders and looked directly into his eyes as she said softly, “Bobby, I don’t know. Maybe you’re right or maybe you’re just plain nuts. But either way, you’re the best shot we have. So please — give the beach a rest and get back to the lab. Whatever it is that you think is out there—beat it.”
40
Staring at the multiple video monitors in front of him, Colum McAlister sat on the edge of his chair in the private den that was accessible only through hidden panels in the wall of his library. He played the video again and smiled. The deputy commissioner of the Food and Drug Administration had surprising stamina for a man of his age, but in all fairness, a good deal of the credit had to go to the two young latex clad women that McAlister had provided for that particular evening’s entertainment at “Lands End,” his remote Adirondack estate. Carefully removing the disc from the security surveillance recorder that was connected to cameras hidden throughout the house, McAlister placed it in his safe with the other discs in his alphabetical file. Here, in the wilderness of northern New York State on a private peninsula that jutted into Saranac Lake, McAlister had the perfect setting to ply his trade of influence peddling and corporate blackmail. Once the luxury “camp” retreat of a late nineteenth century robber baron, “Lands End” now served McAlister well as the playing stage for what he liked to call, “situations of delicacy.” And tomorrow, the estate would host the CEOs of the five other leading pharmaceutical companies whom McAlister had invited to discuss matters of common interest. Each would arrive at their appointed times in their corporate helicopters. The invitation itself and all other communications related to the event were oral and innocuous. McAlister was meticulous in avoiding paper trails and telephone discussions which could be used for evidentiary purposes.
By 12:30 the next afternoon, all the CEOs had arrived at the estate and were walking its grounds marveling at the vistas. Far above them, McAlister stood unseen in the circular celestial observatory which was located in the main house’s watchtower. This striking architectural feature provided him with a 360-degree panorama of the entire property and its surroundings. McAlister peered down at his guests. Martin Turnbull was at his side.
“Should we have an idiot roll-call, Marty? Look at them. A bunch of pompous dopes. If Milken hadn’t been busted and we could have kept the reins tight on the Justice Department, I could’ve bought half those companies.”
“Keep it cordial, Colum. No recriminations. They’re here for a purpose. They came a long way at your personal invitation. That says a lot.”
McAlister glared at Turnbull. “No need to lecture me, Marty.”
A butler whose jacket bore a gold embroidered “Lands End” monogram, directed the CEOs into one of the more intimate dining rooms of the colossal log house. After they had been served their beverage of choice and had been kept waiting for what McAlister deemed to be an appropriate period of time, he seemed to materialize out of nowhere, greeting each of the executives by their first names. Holding up a tumbler filled with his favorite single batch bourbon, he looked at his guests and made a mental note as to which of them was drinking Chardonnay, which he felt was for women and sissies. In his most affable voice, McAl
ister said, “Thank you all for making time in your busy schedules to attend today. I toast to our unity of purpose and the future prosperity we will have if we work together toward a common goal.”
Lunch consisted of an elaborate buffet, but after barely thirty minutes, McAlister gave the nod that signaled the staff to clear the dining table. Most of the guests still had half their food on their plates. They were shepherded into the library, a two story masterpiece of “twig-and-branch” craftwork, with a soaring native stone fireplace. Once they all were seated around the conference table, McAlister started the meeting.
“There are several subjects which I’d like to discuss today and, of course, the floor is open to all of you to bring up anything you wish, but frankly the matter that I think is of the greatest concern is Robert Austin.”
“What do you mean by that?” Jessup Halsey asked, the seventy-four year old CEO of Veranicus Pharmaceuticals.
“Austin is single handedly ruining our business and we all need to get pro-active to do something about it.”
Halsey shook his head, his sparse but still graceful silver hair curling down to his right eye like a septuagenarian superman. “I don’t see what we can do. The man’s a genius. He’s making discoveries. What’s there to say?”
McAlister smiled condescendingly. “Jessup, that’s a passive attitude to take about a guy who’s making your stock options worthless. Does anyone else here have any opinions?”
“Colum, I completely agree with you,” said Lincoln Raynor, a fifty year old Philadelphia patrician whose grandfather founded Tyer Drun. As tan and polished as a middle-aged GQ model in his impeccable Paul Stuart pin stripe suit, he said, “We can’t sit by idly and let this character destroy our companies. I’ve already spoken to our outside counsel about the feasibility of filing an anti-trust complaint against him.”
Miracle Man Page 18
