Miracle Man

by William R. Leibowitz

  “Anti-trust. For what?” asked Anthony Bello with a throaty laugh. He was the youngest executive present. His lack of understanding of the pharmaceuticals business wasn’t a concern to the venture capital company he worked for who appointed him CEO when it seized control of venerable Meyer Bessel Laboratories in a leveraged buyout. Once a profitable and stable company with large cash reserves that had helped fund its research into new drugs, Meyer Bessel now struggled to survive under a mountain of junk bond debt. Bello’s greased black hair was combed straight back from his forehead, which only served to draw attention to his rodent like eyes and the prominent mole on his unusually pointy nose.

  Lincoln Raynor’s diamond and gold Asprey cufflinks sparkled in the light of the chandeliers as he raised his arms for emphasis. “Austin’s discriminatory. He won’t do business with any of us. He’ll only deal with the generic guys, and he’s controlling the retail prices of his drugs—keeping them artificially low. We can build a case around that.”

  “Sounds like a bullshit claim,” Bello said smiling. “It will never fly.”

  “It doesn’t have to go the distance,” Raynor said. “All we need to do is hassle Austin, distract him, cost his foundation a fortune in legal fees, slow him down. We’ll make him pay attention to us and he’ll understand he has to play ball. It’s time he got a dose of reality.”

  Several of the assembled began to shift uneasily in their chairs. Charles Farner, CEO of Kenderson Cooper, slowly navigated his obese body to the liquor cart. Dropping two ice cubes into a tall water glass and filling it almost to the top with scotch, a hoarse voice emanated from his blowfish like head, “We can’t count on the Justice Department. Austin’s pretty damn popular. But more importantly, we have to be careful about giving Justice an excuse to nose around our business.”

  Raynor grimaced. “Come on Charley, don’t be afraid of your own shadow. We’re the ones who’ve lined pockets in D.C. for years. Washington needs us and they know they’ll never get a dime from Austin.”

  McAlister interrupted, “Let’s not get bogged down, gentlemen. Antitrust is one idea and it’s certainly worth pursuing. Who else has a suggestion?”

  Bello spoke up. “I’ll have my company use its FDA connections to object to the speed at which they approve Austin’s new meds. They fast-track everything for him. We’ll slow that down. The longer we can keep his stuff off the market, the more time we have to sell ours before he makes it obsolete.”

  Jessup Halsey stood up abruptly and cocked his head as if he had just had an epiphany. Enlightened after having had more time to reflect on the decreasing value of his stock options, he declared enthusiastically, “Good point. Every month of delay, can mean hundreds of millions for us.”

  McAlister interjected, “Ultimately, public perception is crucial. So I’ve met with one of our strategic ad agencies about starting a ‘dis-information’ campaign to plant doubts in the public’s mind about Austin’s discoveries. We’ll make them realize they need to be cautious about embracing his stuff and abandoning our ‘tried and true.’ The thrust will be that progress takes time. Short cuts are dangerous. If it’s too good to be true, then it’s not true. We’ll focus on horror photos of Thalidomide babies and other nightmares caused by ‘miracle drugs.’ And to bolster it, we’ll create ‘adverse reaction’ reports to arouse suspicions about his meds and the quality of their manufacture. The script is being written by our best guys. Our internet team will go viral with this and get massive coverage. You can bet the news outlets will jump on it—they’re always looking for something controversial to talk about. We can do some real damage. Our PR people know the drill. It will be like taking candy from a baby, because Austin won’t interact with the media to defend himself.”

  “Brillant,” Raynor said. “That’s what we need to do. Undermine his credibility. Destroy his sainthood. One of us should get an investigation going into his personal life. There has to be some dirt somewhere.”

  Fritz Obermeir, the seventy-three year old CEO of Teifling Pharmaceuticals, stood up with difficulty using his cane for support, his tall thin body bent by severe arthritis. With his crooked finger pointing accusingly at those seated, he shook his leathery head, “Are you all crazy? This is disgraceful. Austin is a godsend. He’s changing the world. He’s doing what nobody else can do. Is our greed so great that we sink to this level?”

  McAlister smacked the table loudly. He stood up and walked slowly to his massive desk, the same one that had once belonged to the robber baron who built “Lands End.” He opened the lower left drawer and removed a large wooden box that was decorated with elaborate marquetry. Reverently carrying the box over to the conference table at which the CEOs were seated, he placed it on the table next to his chair and opened the Davidoff humidor with a flourish. “Who would like a Cuban? These are rather special. Not just Cohibas, but Cohibas produced by Habanor S.A. at the El Laguito factory itself. The same place where Fidel’s personal cigars have been made for decades.”

  The faces around the table lit up. One by one, they filed over to McAlister. Eventually, even Obermeir came by. McAlister delicately removed the cigars from the humidor, and presented them individually to each executive. As the cigar cutter was passed from one CEO to the next, the end of each esteemed stogy was cut with appropriate deliberation. McAlister summoned the butler to light the cigars and distribute ashtrays to each of the assembled. The butler poured each man a snifter full of 1949 Hugo Armagnac, which McAlister advised was the perfect accompaniment to the Cohibas. By the time they all finished expounding upon the quality of the cigars and liquor, the better part of an hour had passed. Now comfortably ensconced on the library’s well worn leather club chairs and sofa, no one remembered what Fritz Obermeir had said.

  Framed by the library’s imposing fireplace, McAlister spoke as if Obermeir had never uttered a word. “Gentlemen, I love our industry and I know you do too. I’ve given my life to it. I started out as a stock boy at a warehouse loading dock when I was seventeen. And now, Austin is destroying our business. Nobody knows who this guy is or where he came from. Some say he’s a mutant. For all we know, he’s an alien. But who cares? He’s going to cost a million people their jobs and destroy the nest-eggs of tens of millions of our shareholders. If he keeps going on like he has—the only thing left for us to manufacture will be tampons and laxatives. So we have to confront realities. We’ve been entrusted to run our companies and to do what’s best for our shareholders. That’s our job and we’re paid well to do it. Austin’s our competitor and we have to beat him. It’s really no more complicated than that. I hope I have your support.”

  With the exception of Obermeir, all of the CEOs present agreed that Robert James Austin was the enemy and the enemy had to be stopped.

  41

  After his discussion with Susan, Bobby settled back into his lab research with a new resolve that was born out of acceptance. He now understood that he was in an active conflict with a powerful force of indeterminate origins that sought to oppose him. He accepted that his death or insanity might be the outcome of this struggle. Rather than weaken him, these realizations imbued him with a heightened sense of defiance. For Bobby, now more than ever, it was all about keeping his wits and level of concentration for as long as he could, and accomplishing his goals.

  In a constant state of intellectual preoccupation, he was operating on a cognitive plane that was largely removed from normal consciousness. His trances became more frequent and prolonged. He often didn’t seem present. He would hold staff meetings with his lab assistants at which he would perfunctorily outline their assignments, and it was as if only a portion of him was actually in the room interacting with them.

  One afternoon, Susan brought Bobby’s favorite lunch into his office. As she sprinkled grated parmesan cheese on his spaghetti Bolognese, just the way he liked it, she said, “So where’s the real Bobby Austin? Will he ever come
back?”

  Bobby smiled. “I’ve just been working really hard. I’m going to crack this thing. I think I found an angle.”

  “I hope so. Because sometimes I feel like I’m watching ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers.’ I’m thinking about bringing in a bunch of bimbos to gauge how you react. You know— to see if you are really you.”

  “And if I don’t pass the test, because maybe I’m not in the mood to play with the ladies at that particular moment?”

  “That would be unfortunate, Bobby, because I’d have to pour gasoline all over you and light you up. The test gets administered only once,” she said, smiling.

  He nodded. “That’s sweet. I’ll try not to screw up.”

  Bobby decided that the problem with prior attempts at formulating a malaria vaccine was that the battle wasn’t being initiated soon enough—the parasite wasn’t being engaged at the outset of its intrusion into the human body. The human antibodies needed to attack the parasite before it had time to propagate in the red blood cells and liver — because once that occurred it was too late.

  To accomplish his goal, Bobby concluded that the body’s defensive action must start as soon as the protozoa are inserted into the body as part of the mosquito’s saliva. The way to do this, he hypothesized, was to create a vaccine that consisted of a genetically programmed virus that would immediately detect the presence of two things: mosquito saliva and the nucleic acids of the protozoan parasite. If that were done, and if the virus was also engineered to strengthen the antibodies’ already existing ability to destroy the parasite, then the human body would be protected no matter how often the patient was bitten by infected mosquitoes. Bobby’s virus would reproduce continually in the human body so that it was always present and ready.

  When his computer analysis confirmed the feasibility of his hypothesis, Bobby designed the lab experiments that would be necessary. This began a marathon effort at the Tufts biology, chemistry and medical labs. So many experiments had to be run that Bobby quadrupled his lab staff to thirty-two.

  42

  Arriving at the Prides Crossing facility late one morning, Bobby made his way through reception and the busy “bull-pen” area filled with the work stations of staff members with whom he exchanged quick ‘hellos.’ He unlocked his private office and closed the door behind him. Silently stepping forward from a dark corner of the office, a large Black man pointed his Beretta M9 at Bobby, aimed directly at his head and pulled the trigger twice.

  In an instant, Bobby felt all the blood in his head drain as the bottom fell out of his stomach and his bladder started to give way.

  “Bang, bang, you’re dead,” the assailant said.

  “What the fuck?” Bobby shouted, realizing that he still was in one piece.

  “I just saved your life. Isn’t ‘thank you’ in your vocabulary?”

  “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”

  The man reached into his right chest pocket and pulled out a worn leather billfold. He flipped it open. The photo matched his face and identified him as Calvin Perrone, Central Intelligence Agency.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Austin.”

  Still shaken, Bobby replied, “How did you find me? This location is top secret and this place is totally wired.”

  “Yeah, I can see. Very impressive. Let’s take a walk.” Perrone grasped Bobby’s forearm firmly with one hand as he opened the door with the other. Walking briskly he ushered Bobby past his staff and out the front door.

  “I didn’t feel any security guards tackle me. Did I miss something?” He led Bobby to Bobby’s car. “Get in and start it up.”

  Bobby’s brow furrowed as his eyes narrowed, but he did what he was told. Perrone gave one hard clap of his hands next to Bobby’s left ear as he shouted, “BOOM.”

  Bobby’s face contorted in pain. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  “I saved your life again. Get out and look under the car near the exhaust.”

  Bobby got on his hands and knees and peered at the underside of the car. He looked up at Perrone blankly. “You don’t see it, Doctor, do you? Here,” Perrone said as he detached the magnetized bomb that had been affixed to the car. “Let’s see if you can find the bomb that’s been planted outside your office—it would take out half the building.” Bobby couldn’t find it but Perrone did, of course.

  “Can you offer me a cup of coffee now that I’ve saved your life three times in fifteen minutes?”

  “There’s a coffee machine in the kitchen,” Bobby said sheepishly.

  Bobby led Perrone to the kitchen. Perrone poured himself a cup of coffee and opened the refrigerator to get the milk. “Whose sandwich is that?” asked Perrone, as he pointed to the one which was wrapped up in white deli paper, with the initials ‘RA’ scrawled on it in thick black marker ink.

  “Mine.”

  Perrone laughed. “Lots of secrets in this joint, that’s for sure. Now let’s see if your lunch is going to be nice and fresh.” Perrone took the sandwich out of the refrigerator and unwrapped it. He removed the bread and several slices of the turkey from each half of the sandwich. He then lifted the swiss cheese slice on each side of the sandwich to reveal a small slip of paper on which the words, “You’ve been poisioned” were neatly printed.

  Bobby just shook his head in disbelief. Perrone motioned toward Bobby’s office and Bobby followed him there.

  Now behind closed doors, Bobby asked, “So what’s this all about?”

  “Everybody loves you, Dr. Austin, but not everybody loves you.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Bobby asked.

  “Do you know that you’re always in the Top Ten?”

  “Top Ten of what?”

  Perrone grinned. “The Top Ten of Americans that crazies want to assassinate. After your double Nobel trick a few years ago, you made the Top Five for a few weeks. Are you planning to cure any more diseases?”

  “I’m trying,” replied Bobby.

  “Good. Then you’ll have a shot at the top spot. That’ll take the pressure off the president.”

  “You’re crazy. I think this is just a bunch of spook mumbo jumbo.”

  Perrone stepped aggressively forward, his face just inches from Bobby’s. “What did you call me?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” said Bobby. “I meant ‘spook’ —like in CIA guys being called spooks—any CIA guys.”

  Perrone continued to glare at Bobby, his body tense as if ready to pounce. He then broke into a broad smile. “I know that—I was just busting your balls.” He gave Bobby a playful punch in the shoulder that Bobby thought was a lot harder than necessary.

  Perrone asked, “You think I’m making this stuff up?” He pulled out a laptop from his attaché case which he had stowed in Bobby’s office while he was waiting to “kill him.” “Here, I can access this stuff easily since my computer is pre-loaded for the sites. Enjoy reading. If you need a translation on any of the chatter, just press this button and it will put it in English for you.”

  Bobby’s mouth went dry as he read.

  Perrone’s tone turned serious. “So Doctor, you need real security, because you obviously don’t have any currently. And if you think nobody else can find this facility, you’re wrong. Obviously, my agents had no difficulty in planting the fake bombs and poison, just as I had no difficulty in gaining access to your office so I could shoot you.”

  Shaking his head, Bobby replied, “Well, you’re the CIA so you have the expertise to do all that, but the crazies on the internet don’t.”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t count on that. These fanatics can have sophisticated resources.”

  Bobby’s eyebrows raised as he stared at Perrone. “And why is the CIA wanting to help me?”

  “You’re a hot topic in Washington, Doctor. You’re a
national asset.”

  “I see,” said Bobby. “So it’s bad for business if I get snuffed out on the current administration’s watch.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Doctor. It would be bad for any administration. You’re one of the few that cross party lines.”

  Bobby wanted to keep government meddling to a minimum, so the arrangement he made with Perrone was that the CIA technicians would design a state of the art security system for the lab, but it would be installed and monitored by a private security firm that Bobby would select from a list of recommendations. Additionally, the lab would engage a security service to patrol the premises with bomb sniffing dogs.

  “So with this system, I’ll have nothing to worry about, right?” Bobby asked Perrone.

  “I didn’t say that, Doctor. This system will protect you against the ninety-five percent. There’s no protection that this facility could realistically have that would protect against the other five percent.”

  “And who is the ‘other five percent?’”

  Perrone smiled. “Well, my boys, of course. And the other really good government operatives—ours or overseas. But we’re all on your side. As far as the private sector goes—there are very few outfits that have the necessary expertise. But there are some for hire that can be formidable. Unless you want us on the premises at all times, there’s nothing you can do about that.”

  “Thanks for the offer, Calvin. I’ll take my chances with the five percent.”