by Jeff Buick
“Well, thank you,” Flath said. “How can I help you, Mr. Rothery?”
“How are things going on approving Zancor?”
“I have a problem with that, Mr. Rothery. I’ve already discussed this with Tony Warner.”
“What problem?” Rothery asked. The ice in his voice could have frozen the fiber-optic cable that connected the two men.
“Well, there are side effects to the drug that concern me. I’m not going to get technical with you, sir, but they can be quite serious at times.”
“Bruce Andrews at Veritas has indicated that many of the drugs the FDA has approved have serious side effects. Is that true?”
“Well, yes, I suppose. But we measure things by evaluating the benefits of the drug as they relate to the downside. Zancor is, in my opinion, not worthy of FDA approval. The benefits don’t outweigh the corresponding side effects.”
“Listen to me very closely, Barry. Unless Zancor kills people outright, the benefits now far outweigh whatever the side effects are. This drug is necessary to stop the spread of a hemorrhagic virus that could be released in two days. I want the approval, Barry, and I want it today.”
“This is highly irregular, Mr. Rothery,” Flath said. “I’m not used to being threatened.”
“Well, Barry, get used to it. If you don’t approve Zancor and people start to die because the cure is tied up in red tape, I’ll make sure the entire world knows it was you who refused to okay the drug that could have stopped the virus in its tracks.You will be the most hated man in America, and a hero to al-Qaeda.”
“These threats are not necessary, Mr. Rothery.”
“Then what is?”
“I’m just concerned that once I approve this drug, it will become a household name and some people will suffer. I’m not kidding when I say there is a real downside to this medication. And if this hits the shelves, it will be widely used.”
“So just pull the approval down the road. You guys recall drugs all the time.”
“Recalls are not that simple, Mr. Rothery. “We need definitive proof that a drug is dangerous. And with the side effects that Zancor causes, that may be hard to prove.”
“Jesus, Barry, you’re all over the map. First you say it’s dangerous, now you tell me you won’t be able to prove it’s dangerous.”
“If you have the time, I can explain it to you, but it’s complicated. Zancor is an antiviral medicine, and patients only take the meds when they’re sick or have an infection. It’s like Cipro, the Bayer Pharmaceuticals antibacterial drug that was so effective against the anthrax scare of 2003. Three hundred million people have taken Cipro, but none of those users have taken the drug long-term. So does Cipro have a downside? We don’t think so, but without a test group who are on the meds for a long time, it’s difficult to say. And that’s the problem we’ll run into with Zancor, except we know it has some ugly side effects.”
“I appreciate the explanation, Mr. Flath, but I’m running out of time. I have a press conference set for just after nine o’clock this morning. That’s in about ten minutes. I need an answer right now.”
There was dead air on the phone for at least thirty seconds. Finally, Barry Flath said, “All right, Mr. Rothery, you’ve got your approval. I’ll have the paperwork completed and sent over to Veritas by noon today.”
“Thank you, Barry. And could you please send a copy of that approval to my office as well?”
“Yes, sir.” The line died a quick death.
Rothery punched the intercom button again. “Are the guys from Veritas here?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Rothery.”
“I’ll be right out. Call down and let the press know we’re on our way.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rothery tidied up his desk, which entailed pushing one piece of paper to the side. He stared at the polished wood, then around the office. He had worked so hard for so long to achieve this position. And now he had proved to the nation that when the forest was on fire, he was the guy to douse it. He had put together a cohesive team that had checked their egos at the door and brought the resources of their respective agencies to the table. Through interagency cooperation on the highest level, they had found the source of the virus and had stimulated the private sector to find a cure. Christ, he couldn’t have orchestrated a better outcome if he had tried. He checked his watch. Nine o’clock. Time to face the press.
He met Bruce Andrews and Dr. Chiang Wai in the reception area and the three of them proceeded down to the pressrelease room. Andrews just nodded that he understood when informed that FDA approval was immediately forthcoming on the new drug.
“That’s good news, Mr. Under Secretary,” Andrews said. “We’ll begin production without delay.”
“Excellent. Coordinate the release of the drugs through Tony Warner over at NSA. They’ve got a great network in place. Let’s make use of it. You can bill his agency for the cost of the drugs, and I’ll have him forward that to the appropriate department afterward.”
“Yes, sir,” Andrews said. They reached the elevator, and as they waited for it to arrive on their floor, Andrews asked, “What are we going to say at the press conference?”
Rothery smiled. “You and Dr. Wai are going to tell the nation that you’ve beat this thing. You’ve discovered a cure, and that the threat from the virus is almost nonexistent. You may want to mention what some of the early symptoms are, in case the terrorists manage to release the virus. That way anyone who is infected can get to the nearest medical center quickly.”
“I understand,” Andrews said.
The elevator doors opened and the three men moved inside. The doors closed and the elevator headed down to the main floor to where the press waited. An entire nation waited for the elevator. They waited by their television sets to hear what J.D. Rothery had to say. And today, the American people had some good news coming their way.
59
The news conference was a highly anticipated event. Rothery had readied the media and the American people for news of some substance. The cat was long since out of the bag, and it was common knowledge that an unknown terrorist cell, with suspected ties to al-Qaeda, had a deadly virus they were threatening to unleash on the United States.
Gordon and Jennifer were seated in the restaurant at the Fairfield Inn watching CNN, and when the Under Secretary of the Department of Homeland Defense strode into the press room and took the podium, the restaurant manager turned up the volume. A hush fell over the diners as Rothery shuffled a couple of papers about.
“What do you think he’s going to say?” Gordon asked Jennifer, stirring some cream into his coffee.
She shrugged. “They’re dealing with a hemorrhagic virus, Gordon. I’d be surprised if they’ve made any headway.”
“We have some good news to report this morning,” Rothery said, looking up from his notes into the camera. “This morning at 0630 hours, a task force consisting of FBI agents and Orlando Police Department SWAT teams raided an industrial bay near the Orlando International Airport. Inside the building was a fully functional laboratory, designed to produce the hemorrhagic virus that has been threatening our country. The building, identified as a target due to the large number of highly sophisticated HEPA filters that were found on-site, is owned by an American citizen, Ismail Zehaden, who showed up at the lab just as the raid was about to begin. Mr. Zehaden was captured inside the building, and when he tried to grab a container that police suspected may contain the virus, he was shot and killed.
“The lab and the surrounding buildings are under a strict quarantine at this time, and members of the Centers for Disease Control are assessing the situation. We are quite sure of one thing at this time. We have shut down the production facilities for the virus.” Rothery shifted his papers, then continued. “But that does not mean that this threat is not still very real. It is. There remains the possibility that the terrorists have moved some of the virus from the lab and may be prepared to use it against us. We cannot ignore this threat. It is very real.<
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“To that end, I have additional good news.” He turned and motioned to someone off camera. “Our task force enlisted not only the resources of the various government agencies with research-and-development capabilities, but also those companies in the private sector with similar resources. Many of the major pharmaceutical companies agreed to help and created research teams specifically geared to finding a drug that would combat the virus. One of these companies was successful.”
The camera widened a bit and the two men who had been just off to Rothery’s left moved onto the podium and came into view: Bruce Andrews and a slender man of Chinese descent dressed in a three-piece suit.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jennifer said, her hand, holding a teacup, stopping in midair. “Look who it is.”
“I’m joined this morning by the CEO of Veritas Pharmaceutical, Bruce Andrews, and one of his research scientists, Dr. Chiang Wai. Veritas Pharmaceutical has discovered a drug that can penetrate the virus and kill it. I’m going to leave the technical details to the scientists to explain, but the bottom line is this: These men and their team at Veritas have in a very short period of time and under incredible pressure created a drug capable of stopping the virus even after the victim has been infected. They have created a drug that will save lives, countless lives.”
He moved aside and Bruce Andrews stepped up to the microphone. He waited for the clapping to stop, then said, “I’m not the technical expert here, but my English is a little better than Dr. Wai’s, so I’ll try to explain the best I can. Initially, we had to concentrate on one of three distinct methods of attacking the virus: inhibiting viral attachment and entry, stopping the virus from uncoating or inhibiting the viral genome replication. We chose to use the genome replication method…”
“No way,” Jennifer said, shaking her head. “Absolutely no way.”
Gordon looked away from the television set, where Andrews was now using layman’s terms to explain the process they had used to defeat the virus.“What do you mean, no way?” he asked.
“There is no way on earth that they found a method of inhibiting the genome replication of a hemorrhagic virus in one week. Not one chance in a million.”
“What are you saying?” Gordon asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said, setting her teacup on the table and listening to the rest of Andrews’s monologue. When he had finished, she took a couple sips of tea. “You have problems in Montana with beetles killing the Ponderosa pines, don’t you?”
“Sure. Pine beetles. It’s a huge problem.”
“Okay, then, here’s an analogy. Pine beetles attack your forest, threatening to destroy three million acres of healthy pines. The forestry service panics, calls every company that produces pesticides, and asks them to concentrate on developing a spray that will kill the beetle and not harm the trees. They’ve got one week to find the answer. And guess what? One of the companies comes through. They have the answer to a problem that has eluded every research team at every pesticide company for years. The pine beetle problem is solved overnight. What are the chances?”
“Zero,” Gordon said, nodding. “Good analogy.”
“There’s no way in hell Andrews came up with that drug in that short a time period. No way.” She stopped and stared at the television as Dr. Chiang Wai spoke in halting English. “I know that man,” she said. “But from where?”
“That’s probably not unusual,” Gordon said. “You and he work at the same company.”
“It’s a huge company, Gordon. And I’ve only seen him once or twice.” She racked her brain, trying to dredge up the memory. It wouldn’t come. “Damn it, I can’t remember.”
“Not a big deal,” Gordon said. “So what does all this mean, these totally unrealistic time frames?”
“I would say that Veritas already had the drug. In fact, that makes perfect sense. Andrews wouldn’t release the drug to the market without FDA approval, and that takes time. It takes years. Which means Veritas had a drug in the pipeline, already in for NDA.”
“What’s NDA?” Gordon asked.
“New Drug Application. It’s the big hurdle with the FDA. They demand positive Phase III trials and make you jump through a number of very difficult hoops before they issue their approval on an NDA.”
“So you’re saying Veritas already had this drug in its arsenal. ‘All dressed up and nowhere to go’ sort of thing.”
“Yeah,” Jennifer said slowly. Then she snapped her fingers and said, “I know where I saw that researcher. He was at the White Oak facility back in late August when I got called out to check over some erroneous results in the lab. It was at the entrance to the brain chip lab. He was arguing with one of the moving men.” The color drained from her face and she stared at Gordon, her mouth open.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She tried to speak, but nothing came. She picked up a glass of water and drank almost half of it. “Gordon, when I was in the lab the night I saw Dr. Wai-or whatever his name is-there was a moving crew there.”
“Right. You said Wai was arguing with one of them.”
“I didn’t hear what he was saying, but I did see what they were moving.”
“What?” Gordon asked.
“High-efficiency HEPA filters.”
Gordon leaned back in his chair. “Like the ones they found this morning at the lab in Orlando?”
She nodded. “Probably. I can’t say for sure. But I can certainly tell you that something isn’t adding up here. Andrews has a drug ready for NDA approval that is capable of killing a virus that appears at just the right moment. And the task force locates the lab in the nick of time. How? How did they find the lab? It could have been anywhere on the planet, and they’ve only got a few days to sort through hundreds of thousands of tips from every person who thought they saw something unusual. Yet they key in on the right one and find the lab. What are the chances?”
“Pretty slim,” Gordon agreed.
“And then we’ve got extremely high-end HEPA filtration systems being moved out of White Oak while the clandestine lab was uncovered due to someone noticing high-efficiency HEPA filters in some obscure warehouse in Orlando. Christ, this is something out of a James Bond movie.”
“What are you suggesting?” Gordon asked, leaning forward.
Jennifer shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m suggesting, Gordon. Just that something is all wrong here. Things are too perfect.” She leaned forward and cupped her head in her hands, staring at the table.“I’ve got to think, put this all together.”
Gordon watched her as she sat unmoving, her eyes closed and her fingers gently rubbing her temples. What is going through that mind? he wondered. She was a brilliant woman in more than just the sciences, and he felt almost privileged at times to have become a part of her life. She was intimate in bed, very giving. And to him, that was not out of context. Her very being was dedicated not to Jennifer Pearce but to the betterment of the world she touched. And that touch was far-reaching. Her work in pharmaceuticals was an extension of her desire to make the planet a more livable place. He liked that side of her character.
The television was still focused on the virus scare, and with Jennifer deep in thought he reverted his attention back to the screen. A reporter was standing on the doorstep of an elegant home, interviewing a hysterical woman. The small printing at the bottom of the screen indicated that the woman was Ismail Zehaden’s widow. She was being supported by two other women as she alternated between sobbing and yelling.
“My husband was no terrorist,” she said. “He was a good American. A businessman who had done very well. He disliked some of the American foreign policy, but that was his right.”
“But the lab was discovered in a building your husband owns,” said the reporter, an attractive redhead in her late twenties.
“Ismail bought that warehouse as a storage facility. He was getting quotes from contractors on renovating it so he could move some of the raw materials he needed for his factory to anothe
r site. That warehouse was empty. It has been empty since he bought it.”
The reporter ignored any line of questioning that may have come from that statement and pressed ahead. “Your husband made frequent trips back to the Mideast,” she said. “Can you explain what those trips were for?”
“He had many friends and some family back in Iran. There are no laws saying my husband cannot visit his family and friends,” she snapped, obviously irritated with the direction the interview was going.
“Unless those friends are al-Qaeda,” the reporter said, sticking the microphone back in the widow’s face.
“You heartless bitch,” she said as she turned and retreated into the house. She slammed the door and the camera focused on the reporter.
“Ismail Zehaden’s widow, not denying that her husband was traveling back to Iran to connect with other al-Qaeda factions…”
Gordon shook his head and looked back to Jennifer. She was sitting upright, also watching the television. “Not a very good reporter,” he said.
“No, she treated that woman despicably. I hope the network gets sued.” She took a sip of cold tea and said, “I think the answer is at White Oak, Gordon. We have to get inside the lab where I saw Dr. Wai. We need to know what was in there.”
Gordon looked puzzled. “I thought you said it was the brain chip department. And that they were dismantling that part of the company. That would explain why the HEPA filters were being moved.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But I have other suspicions. I want to get inside White Oak.”
“When?” he asked.
“Tonight.”
60
The first thing Bruce Andrews saw when he returned to his BioTech Five office after the press conference with J.D. Rothery was the Tuesday Richmond Times-Dispatch. After one look at the local headlines, he slammed the newspaper down on his desk and swore under his breath. How could this have happened? The front page of the second section featured a picture of Jennifer Pearce’s Mazda RX-8, wrapped around a large hickory and smashed almost beyond recognition. The caption under the picture read, “Where is she?”
