by Thomas Hopp
“The Sheik?” I asked. “That’s not him.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ll never forget his face. That man’s skin isn’t yellow enough. No dark circles around his eyes. Not enough hate lines on his forehead.”
The man sneered at the cameras as he was led past.
“Teeth are too straight,” I said. “No way that’s him.”
“So who have they got?”
“One of his henchmen? A decoy? I don’t know.”
Penny turned the sound down as another commercial started, and began questioning me about everything that had happened to me. She dragged details out of me about the ranch, and about what the fever was like. She wanted to see the scabs on my arm. She made sympathetic noises about them, crowding me on the couch and gabbling over me like a pink Mother Goose from hell, until I stood up suddenly.
“Goodnight, Penny,” I said.
“Hmm?” she responded.
“Goodnight!” I went to the door and opened it.
As she walked out she said, “If there’s anything you need…”
“Thanks.” I closed the door after her.
I went to the phone and called Nagumo’s office, hoping I could find someone there after hours to tell they had the wrong man. Instead, I ended up listening to a “your call is important to us” message interspersed with muzak for ten minutes.
I hung up, turned off the lights and TV, and climbed back into bed. I lay awake for a while, wondering where Sheik Abdul-Ghazi had gotten to.
* * * * *
The next morning I awoke rested and feeling a lot healthier. I opened my blinds and got an eyeful of clear blue sky above the buildings across the street, and the Space Needle’s saucer deck looming above. The sun was radiant. I moved around the bright spaces of my apartment with the joy of redeemed life in me. The TV buzzed about the overnight capture of Kharifa, and recanted the story of the Sheik’s capture. While I plied my espresso machine for some caffeine, the captured man was described as an accomplice of the Sheik, but Abdul-Ghazi himself remained at large. Then I learned, from a report filed in Washington D.C., that the CDC and the Department of Homeland Security had distributed ImCo’s synthetic vaccine nationwide within twenty-four hours, and a mass immunization program was being readied. The contagion at Sumas had been halted within a ten-mile radius of town after claiming only 26 victims. Those exposed at Grand Junction, and all other Sumas residents, had already received doses of the new vaccine.
I put on sweats and sneakers and went to a corner restaurant and ate a big breakfast of eggs, bacon, hashed browns, toast, and cantaloupe, while their TV aired a series of positive news reports from around the nation. Jihadis arrested. Jihadis shot dead. Their attacks in Olympia and San Francisco countered by quick quarantines and the new vaccine.
But all the good news didn’t temper my concern for Jameela. After breakfast, I went home and called the FBI offices again. I reached Nagumo’s secretary and extracted a vain promise from her, that she would call me with any news of Jameela’s situation. Meanwhile, the newscast on my TV showed a scene in San Francisco, where people from the BART incident were lined up to receive the synthetic vaccine.
At a loss as to what else I could do, I sat down at my computer nook and began fleshing out my own all-but-forgotten news article. I paused when the TV coverage switched to Olympia, where state congressmen and women were lined up in the foyer of the Capitol building to receive their inoculations.
I got a phone call just past noon from that newbie newspaper reporter, Melinda Coury.
“How are you, Fin?” she said in her hard R-ed Northwest accent. “I heard you have been through some exciting times.”
“You’ve got that right,” I said, at the same time realizing my list of eligible females no longer included Melinda, having shrunk to just one person. “I’ve seen a lot more excitement than I ever want to see again.”
“We should get together and talk about it, Fin. Over coffee after the press conference?”
“What press conference?”
“At ImCo. Today. In an hour.”
“I hadn’t heard about it.”
“We just got the e-mail a few minutes ago. Very last-minute. I’m about to rush out the door.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Me too.”
Chapter 22
I got off the phone and into high gear, shedding my sweats, showering, shaving, and dressing within minutes. I went out and hurried down the stairs and across the street to my car, and drove downtown. I parked across the street from the ImCo building at the end of a row of satellite vans, went and signed in at the front desk, hurried to the first floor auditorium and settled into a chair in the last row with my usual timing - right at the appointed minute. A glance around the room showed me the news from Seattle wasn’t being neglected any more - at least not news from ImCo. A mob of television and print journalists filled the place, seated shoulder-to-shoulder. A dozen cameras crowded the sides and back of the place. A forest of microphones jammed the podium. News of the jihad virus was prime-time, headline stuff.
Kay Erwin was seated in the front row, but not the master of ceremonies at this show. She looked around and gave me smile and a thumbs-up. I waved back. She was off my eligible females list, too, and for more than one reason.
“Well, I’ll be…Fin Morton!” Cameron Phipps called out from one row in front of me. His eyebrows rose almost to the top of his high ebony forehead. He grinned a wide, toothy grin, and reached out and shook my hand with one of his thick paws. “I heard you were in the hospital with this disease.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It wasn’t much fun.”
“You’re lucky to be alive,” he said, while surreptitiously wiping his hand on a pant leg. “You’re not contagious, are you? I just got my shots.”
“Just look at this crowd,” I said. “It didn’t take the national media long to find out where the action is.”
“Eee-nternational meedia,” remarked my neighbor on the right, a tall blond fellow. “Eet’s alvays thees vay vhen someting beeg happens. Vee all catch the next flight from vherever the last beeg event vas. I’ve chust now come from Japan, ver der vas a volcanic erooption.”
“Oh,” I said. “I wasn’t aware of one.”
“Many people killed.”
“And yet you came here.”
“I go vhere I am assigned.” He pointed to his press pass. It read, LARS ALMASSEN, OSLO TIMES.
Our conversation was cut short when an ImCo functionary, a young, tidy, dark-haired buck in a black pinstriped business suit, took the podium to announce Stuart Holloman. While the man dished the expected chatter about the eminence of his boss, I studied the podium’s round emblem of polished brass. In the center was a large, stylized, thick letter I, and the words “Immune Corporation” circled the edge. Below it on the podium was a line of smaller brass letters that I could barely see. I craned my neck to read them over the sea of heads in front of me. Toward a healthy…I stood momentarily to read it all. Toward a healthy return on investment.
I sat down and pulled out my note pad as the eminent Dr. Holloman began with a few statements regarding the danger still posed by the jihad virus. He was puffed up like a bantam rooster, his pink shirt and gold tie almost bursting out of his buttoned gray suit.
“I am proud,” he stated the obvious, “to tell you ImCo’s scientists have made progress even beyond my high expectations of them. Three days ago, the President of the United States personally asked me to produce 100,000 doses of our synthetic vaccine. I assured him ImCo would do so, and today I am happy to announce that we delivered the full 100,000 doses and we’re finishing 100,000 more. Not only that, but I’ve passed on to the President and the Centers for Disease Control our formula for the vaccine.”
“He means Peyton McKean’s formula,” I whispered to Cameron Phipps.
Holloman went on. “The President is gearing up government labs to produce hundreds of millions of doses before the virus has any further chance to
spread. Our investors need not worry about us giving this one away, however. The President promised me Congress will approve payments that will net this company’s investors almost a billion dollars.”
He then summoned another man in a pinstriped suit to the podium - the Undersecretary of Homeland Defense, to whom he ceremonially handed a vial of vaccine, while camera’s flashed. “Undersecretary Smith,” Holloman said, “will personally carry this vial of vaccine to Washington D.C. to immunize the President himself.”
The Undersecretary took the podium and praised Holloman, vowing that every man, woman and child in the United States who wanted a dose of the vaccine would get one. “They tell me you have modestly resisted naming the Congo River vaccine after yourself,” he said to Holloman. “Perhaps you’ll consent to calling this one the Holloman Vaccine?”
Holloman smiled with feigned humility.
I looked around for Peyton McKean and Janet Emerson but didn’t find them, or any other recognizable ImCo personnel other than Stuart Holloman and his dark-haired sycophant. I took some half-hearted notes, but the story didn’t interest me that much. There were plenty of pressmen and women to carry the details of Holloman’s triumph to the world. I realized I wouldn’t need to bother.
After the Undersecretary finished, Holloman took the podium again. He droned on about his role, neglecting to mention anyone else by name. Eventually I got irritated at his studious lack of reference to the two people who had created the very thing for which he now took credit.
“He’s leaving out the key players in all this,” I whispered to my Scandinavian neighbor.
The Osloite’s response was to put an index finger to his lips.
I fumed as I watched my neighbors complacently write down every word of doggerel from Holloman, while the television cameras mindlessly took in every word and gesture. I raised my hand. Holloman glanced my way but didn’t acknowledge me. “I am very proud,” he continued, “of the hard work and dedication of a large staff too numerous to mention by name. I couldn’t have done it without their help.”
“I’ve had enough,” I muttered. I stood and blurted out, “Isn’t it true that Peyton McKean and Janet Emerson played key roles in all this?”
Holloman eyed me with surprise, and then disdain. The room fell silent. Reporters turned and scowled at the upstart interrupting the presentation. After a moment of thought, Holloman smiled at me condescendingly. “The individuals you mentioned certainly played a role, sir. But there were quite a few others involved. I don’t want to single out any of my helpers for more credit than they deserve.”
“He refuses to even say McKean’s name!” I grumbled under my breath.
He opened his mouth to make another point but I cut him off in a loud voice. “For the benefit of my fellow press people, I’ll spell the key names. Peyton McKean, P-E-Y-T-O-N - M-C-K-E-A-N, and Janet Emerson, J-A-N-E-T - E-M-E-R-S-O-N.”
Holloman rolled his eyes while I completed my little drill. His forehead went bright red. But he wasn’t intimidated. As I sat down he said, “Thank you Mr. er, What’s-Your-Name, for that. But let me finish what I was saying…”
Few of my colleagues wrote down the names I had spelled out. Not until Holloman restarted his self-serving harangue did they begin writing in earnest. I settled down in my chair, deflated, as Holloman detailed the rapid production of the vaccine under his direction - so he claimed - and its shipment around the nation by courier and military transport. I could understand, if not accept, my colleagues’ fixation on Holloman. He was enough story for them, dishing up all the drama, urgency, and factual detail they needed to sell a ton of newspapers and hours of internet and television time.
I quit listening after a while. I knew the facts better than Holloman.
During the question-and-answer period, I felt a twinge of exhaustion from the ordeals of the last few days. Holloman fielded the inevitable questions about the logistics of producing the vaccine - additional batches planned or in progress. None of it surprised me, or interested me.
Cameron Phipps shot me a quick thumbs-up and a half smile. “Chin up,” he said. “McKean will get his credit. I’ll work his name into my next piece, if my editor allows me enough column space.”
“Great,” I mumbled, knowing how it would be. No column space for secondary characters. I got up and wandered out, feeling tired and disgusted.
The thought struck me that I was not so far from Peyton McKean. He was probably just two floors above me, in his lab. I went to the elevator, but a security guard was stationed there, an old leather skinned man who smelled of stale cigarette smoke.
“Front door’s that way,” he said in a sandpapery voice, pointing down the hall to the entry foyer.
I held my ground. “I was hoping to see Doctor McKean while I’m here.”
He shook his head. “Not today, sir. I have orders to make sure all the press people leave the building.” He glanced at my pass. ” “Specially you, Mr. Morton.”
Outmaneuvered and aching from the aftereffects of the virus, I allowed myself to be sent toward the door. As I turned a corner and neared the entry, a “pssst” sound came from a hall branching to my left. I turned and was surprised to see Janet Emerson leaning against a wall in such a way that she was out of sight of both the front desk and the elevator guard. She waved me to her and I ducked into the side hall.
“Want to see Peyton?” she asked in a low voice.
“Sure,” I whispered. “How?”
She motioned for me to follow her along the hall. “My ID card will get us up the freight elevator.”
On the third floor, we found McKean sitting at Janet’s lab desk pouring over some data sheets, while the boom box played some down-and-dirty delta blues. He smiled when he saw me and stopped reading for a moment to say hello. His lab coat was wrinkled and he looked gaunt.
“You look tired,” I said.
“I have been effectively living in my office,” he said. “Janet and I are putting in long hours at the lab bench double-checking the quality of the second large batch of vaccine.
“Ironic,” I said. “Holloman is downstairs taking credit while you’re up here doing the work.”
McKean shrugged. “So what’s new?”
“Your attitude amazes me,” I marveled. “So, Holloman’s coupe is complete? He owns the credit, lock, stock and barrel?”
McKean turned back to his data without saying more.
“Sooner or later,” I said, “I’ll get your name into print. I’ve missed the deadline for the next issue of Biotechnology Weekly, but there’s another deadline next week…”
“It doesn’t matter,” McKean murmured, scanning his data sheets as if they had suddenly become irresistible to him.
“Oh, really?” I resisted. “Thousands of Americans, if not millions, owe their lives to this vaccine, Peyton. But they’re saying it’s a product of Stuart Holloman’s brilliant mind.”
The trace of a smile crossed McKean’s narrow face, but he didn’t look up. He highlighted several data lines with his yellow marker.
“Don’t you care at all that you’re being overlooked?” I asked.
“Answer: - ” he said without taking his eyes off the data sheet, “I suppose. But the big fish of science always swallow the little ones. Bosses claim credit for the labors of their subordinates more in the sciences than anywhere else.”
“It’s not fair,” I said. “If I hadn’t been sick with the virus, I would have gotten an article out first. And it would have been about you, not him. I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven.” He highlighted another line.
I wasn’t satisfied. “There’s something I’ve been wondering about, Peyton.”
“What’s that?”
“Why the devil do you stay at ImCo, cooped up under the shadow of Stuart Holloman? Why not get out and be your own man? You’ve clearly got what it takes…”
“Get out?” He sighed as if the subject was an old and boring one to him. He turned on his lab stoo
l to face me. “Where to? You don’t just go out on a street corner and set up a lab.”
“No, of course not. But there must be a better place for you somewhere. How about finding a wealthy patron? Your talents deserve the sponsorship of a modern-day Medici - “
He cut me off in mid-suggestion with a wave of his hand. “Every public and private charity already has a long list of applicants for funding. They’ve got so many requests they need a fulltime staff just to read the proposals. And it’s hard for them to tell the good from the bad. Usually, the ones telling the tallest tales get the money, even if their proposals make exaggerated promises - in fact, precisely because they do. My more sensible proposals have been lost in the shuffle more than once.”
“It sounds like you were fated to obscurity from the start. But that’s not true for every young scientist, is it?”
“The normal pathway is to append yourself to a big researcher like Holloman, serve him loyally for many years, and hope you will be chosen as his replacement when he retires or dies. It’s a feudal system of liege and successor.”
I shook my head. “That’s ridiculous. By the time it’s their turn, most people must have left their best years behind them.”
McKean smiled ironically. “It’s a well known fact that scientists make most of their breakthroughs in their twenties and thirties.”
“So, things are arranged so that only old, hard headed has-beens make it to the top?”
“For the most part, that is true. The occasional young investigator breaks out of the pattern and finds a university departmental chair with no heir-apparent, or gets in on a biotechnology company startup before all the choice positions are taken. But, for most of us, our place in the sun just never opens up.”
“But you have done incredible things! You just haven’t gotten credit.”
A wan smile spread across McKean’s face. “Yes,” he agreed. “I have excelled, and have not been given credit. But please realize my single most important motive in life has been satisfied. My abhorrence of disease, my hatred of viruses, and my distain for infections that kill and disable people, that part of me has had a wonderful catharsis. And it pleases me very much. Every day I make progress against disease, is a day well spent. If overlords like Holloman hog the credit, so what? I’ve still done what I set out to do when I got my Ph.D. I’ve fought human suffering, and won.”
