Blood List

by Patrick Freivald

  "I'm on it," Sam said in their ears. Gene pretended not to hear her as Lefkowitz continued.

  "Jackson's threat worked for six months or so. I was too scared to risk it, but the promise of the treatment was too much. I called Bailey, but the number was disconnected. A Norwegian firm bought up Bailey, and all the employees were laid off. That firm sold all of the research documents to a Chinese company, but I was unable to get contact information. I tried for years to track down the cure, but it was buried and gone."

  Gene preempted Sam's questions this time. "What were the firm names?"

  "The Norwegian firm was Samarbeide Medisin." He spelled the name for them. "But they had nothing. They never even looked at the files before selling them. The Chinese company was only in Chinese. I never knew how to pronounce it. You must understand that this was before the Internet, and such information can be hard to find. I am sorry."

  "Go on," Gene prompted.

  "I started a lab to do the research myself. Although we mostly research in other fields, as we must to make money, I was always trying to rediscover the cure. Then, a decade ago I got a call from a former patient. He tells me this fanciful tale that the three men he came with to my clinic have all had psychotic episodes."

  Gene opened his mouth, and the doctor jumped in ahead. "Taggart. James Taggart was the man's name."

  "Where is he now?"

  "He's dead, like the rest. I will show you the records later. May I continue?"

  Gene exchanged a glance with Doug. "Please do."

  "As—" the Doctor began. Gene interrupted him with a raised hand while Sam's voice broke into his ear.

  "Samarbeide Medisin went belly-up in the early nineties. Anything Chinese at that time might be impossible to track. I'll get the corporate research team on both and let you know what we find."

  "Thanks, Sam," Gene said to the air. He dropped his hand and looked at Lefkowitz. "I'm sorry. You were saying?"

  "As Mr. Taggart told it to me, he used one of those Internet classmate finders to see how his fellow patients turned out in life. Fredrick Grier had killed his mother with a meat cleaver, then threw himself off a building. Iyov Daniels killed three people at a liquor store before the clerk killed him with a shotgun." His hands shook, and he cleared his throat. "Roy Archer's wife found him slamming his newborn baby's head into the floor. He charged at her and she fled. I read the police report. When they handcuffed him, he started crashing his own head into anything that came near.

  "It was the treatment. The therapy changed something in them, then it broke them."

  "Now just wait a goddamn minute," Marty said. "I see where this is headed. These are mercy killings. You're doing this to save lives. You're not really a murderer. You're a hero! Spare us the bullshit, doc." Gene gave him a withering look.

  The doctor looked up at Marty and gathered his thoughts. "Agent, I murdered over two thousand people in the 1970s. They just don't all know it yet. All I've been doing is trying to save their friends and family."

  "Even if all of this is true," Carl said, "you couldn't possibly know that the people you kill will definitely suffer psychotic episodes."

  "Of course I cannot know," Lefkowitz responded. "In order to know, I'd need tissue samples and DNA maps of multiple patients. Then I'd have to re-create the adenovirus therapy. At that point I'd need to test it on primates, something as close to human as possible. Rhesus monkeys, perhaps. And then maybe chimpanzees."

  "Something like that," Carl said.

  "Exactly like that," Lefkowitz said. "Ninety-eight percent of rhesus monkeys succumb within a year. Would you like to know the statistics for chimpanzees?" Carl's comment had obviously annoyed him. "Six percent within thirty days. Eight percent within a year. It spikes to eighty-four percent within five years. Only two are still alive, and they try to kill everything that gets near them. They beat themselves against their bars unless under restraint. Would you like to meet them?"

  Carl looked incredulous. "But it's been more than thirty years since the last patient, human patient, was treated."

  "It's slower in humans. Much slower. But it is still inevitable."

  "Doctor," Gene said, "how many people are we talking about here?"

  "Of the just over two thousand," Lefkowitz said, "six hundred and twelve are still alive. Or they were, as of last night. That doesn't account for VanEpp's patients."

  "Jesus," Doug said.

  "Over eight hundred of my patients have died while committing murder, attempting to commit murder, or as part of a murder-suicide, six hundred within the past five years. It appears that the longer it takes for the episode to occur, the worse it is. My chimps support that theory, as do the more recent psychotic breaks."

  Carl still looked skeptical. "I suppose you have evidence that supports these claims?"

  "Evidence?" He chuckled sadly. "I have proof. What would you like first? Patient records? A vial of the 'cure?' Newspaper articles showing what happens to my patients when I don't get to them in time? The scientific documentation? Frozen specimens of the monkeys? Video of the chimps? The two surviving chimps? How about Roy Archer? He is in a sanitarium in Maine. I have the address. Which of these do you want to see?"

  "We'll take it all," Carl said.

  Paul looked antsy. Afraid of what he might do, Gene spoke up. "Do you confess that you hired an assassin to kill Kevin Parsons?"

  "I did that, yes, and many others," Lefkowitz said. Paul twitched as if to step forward but restrained himself. Doug grabbed the back of his shirt.

  "And you acknowledge that, after accepting the job, Kevin Parsons disappeared and the killer refunded your money?"

  "Correct. This will be unfortunate in the long run if he is in hiding," Lefkowitz said. Paul sneered and flexed his hands. Doug tensed.

  Gene ignored them. "And you admit to hiring a second killer to kill the assassin who turned you down?"

  Lefkowitz recoiled as if struck. "What! Why would I do such a thing?"

  "Oh, come on," Paul said. "We already know that the hit man you hired to kill Parsons was attacked after Parsons disappeared. There's no point in denying it."

  "Agent," the doctor said to Paul. "With what I have already admitted, why wouldn't I admit if I had done such a thing, if in fact I had? I don't even know the man's name or what he looked like. The only communication I have ever had with him was via phone or text-message."

  "What about the fire at the storage facility?" Marty demanded.

  "I don't know what you're talking about. What fire? And when?" His voice was puzzled and angry. "I set no fires."

  Marty snorted, unimpressed. "So you honestly expect us to buy into the bullshit that you didn't try to kill us?"

  "Wait a minute," Lefkowitz said. "A few weeks ago someone made an attempt on my life. Or did you think my bodyguards were just for show?"

  Gene looked to his team. "Gather the proof. Call in as much help as you need. Let's get the doctor over to PC. We'll continue debrief there.

  "Renner, you're with me," Gene said. He walked outside to clear his head and directed Paul to sit in the car. After ushering Paul to his seat, Doug stood with Gene, looking out across the suburban landscape of innocent-looking pre-fab houses and well-manicured lawns. "What's Renner's problem?"

  "Don't know," Doug said.

  "Do you think he's telling the truth?"

  "He's a lying piece of shit. He hasn't told us everything, and you know it."

  Gene held up his hand to forestall the rant. "Not Renner. Lefkowitz."

  "Oh. Sam and Carl will figure that out for us, boss. But if he is, who tried to kill us on Houston Street? I'm afraid we've barely scratched the surface of this mess."

  Gene exhaled. "What are we going to do about six hundred people who could go insane at any moment?"

  "Gene," Doug said. Gene looked at him.

  "What?"

  "What if there was more than one clinic?"

  Chapter 18

  January 28th, 2:00 PM EST; CDC Headquarters;
DeKalb County, Georgia.

  Eighty degrees in January, Samantha Greene thought. Disgusting. She ruminated about the many reasons why humankind invented the indoors and huffed her way up the ramp leading to CDC HQ. The Centers for Disease Control Arlen Specter Headquarters and Emergency Operations Center was a great big curvy building outside of Atlanta, Georgia, comprising ten stories of glass atop three stories of brick, and barely a corner to be found anywhere. She clutched her briefcase to her chest and picked up her pace.

  Inside the case were several hundred sheets of photocopied paper and a well-chewed ball-point pen missing its cap. The papers weren't marked classified. They weren't on any kind of official letterhead. They weren't even typed. Gene didn't trust Doctor Lefkowitz' handwritten notes to a courier, much less a fax or an e-mail. The only lab in the country set up to analyze this data in anything approaching a reasonable timeframe was the CDC, and the only person on Gene's team with a personal contact at the CDC was Sam Greene.

  Air conditioning hit her like the breath of angels. She sighed and leaned against the inner doorframe. The receptionist was cute, blonde, deathly tan, and wore a headset. Instead of the Georgia twang Sam expected, she spoke with the generic accent that infected Middle America nationwide. "May I help you, ma'am?"

  Sam nodded, not sure if she was ready to speak. "Yeah. I'm, um…I have an appointment with…." She flashed her FBI badge. If the receptionist was impressed, she didn't show it. "With Doctor Govind Agrawal."

  Sam had gone to John Hopkins University with Govind and had suffered through several of the same computer classes. The truth was that she suffered while he found them to be "trivial" and "base." He was the one person in the world who could make her feel dumb in her chosen field. She contented herself with the knowledge that he made everyone feel dumb. He had three PhDs– computer science, epidemiology, and viral medicine—as well as his MD. He might possibly be the smartest person on the planet.

  "One moment," said the blonde, then she hit a button on her computer and spoke. "Dr. Agrawal, your two o'clock is here?" She made it sound like a question. Perhaps it was, and it was her job to screen visitors. Sam imagined that the CDC attracted its share of raving loonies. The receptionist smiled and said, "Go right up, eighth floor, room eight-oh-six." She hit a buzzer and the elevator opened. There were no buttons on the outside. Fair share of loonies indeed, Sam mused.

  A minute later she knocked at room 806. A placard on the door read Dr. Agrawal, PhD, MD. A rich voice responded in a charming Indian accent.

  "Come on in, Sam!"

  Sam smiled and opened the door. Govind stood behind an enormous desk. Every inch was covered with journals, newspapers, notebooks, papers, and at least three laptops. It looked like a strong wind would set the poor man back fifty years. Sam smiled as she saw the speckling of gray in the black hair around his temples, standing out like a beacon against his chocolate-colored skin.

  He came around the table and gave her a full bear hug, which she returned. Without asking, he poured her a cup of coffee: black, one sugar, just the way she liked it. Sam sat in the chair offered, took a sip, and smiled. They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, caught up on a few old friends, then Govind's face turned serious.

  "Of course, you did not come here just to reminisce, and I must be going at five o'clock. What is this 'sticky business?' It must be quite a doozy to pry Samantha Greene from her fortress at the FBI and bring her all the way to Atlanta."

  Sam's smile faded. She replied as she opened the briefcase, pulled out a stack of papers, and reflexively shoved the end of a blue Bic pen into her mouth. "We're not sure what to make of it, Govey. But we're sure you probably can." She handed over the critical papers and let him read.

  After a few minutes he looked up. "I am not certain I can make heads or tails of this in a single sitting, Sam. If you could come back tomorrow, I will have some of my postdocs analyze it and see what is what." He saw the uncomfortable look on her face, smiled, and patted her hand. "Do not worry, these people are as trustworthy as they come. There is no medical secret that they are not cleared to know, and they are experts at keeping their work to themselves."

  "I think that's fine. Just don't tell them the source."

  Govind narrowed his eyes. "You haven't even told me the source, Sam. Or do you mean that it came from the FBI, or from the great Samantha Greene herself?"

  "Yes, Govind," she said. "All of the above. Just ask them to take a look at it."

  Dr. Agrawal clasped his hands together. "Come back tomorrow at seven, and I will take you to dinner. Arti and the children are with her mother in India for another week, and I would appreciate the company. We can talk about it then."

  "Deal." They shook hands, hugged, and Sam turned to leave. She paused.

  "Hey, Govey?"

  "Yes, Sam?"

  "It goes without saying that your team can't talk about any of this with anyone but me, all right? No one."

  "I would not reveal what I learn here should the president himself demand that I do so."

  Sam turned and walked out. She called back down the hallway, "Thanks, babe!"

  * * *

  January 29th, 7:37 PM EST; Hal's on Old Ivy; Atlanta, Georgia.

  Sam was ravenous. She'd had a little McDonald's on the way back to the CDC, but that was a while ago. The Oysters Bordelaise made for a delicious appetizer, but they barely took the edge off when shared with a friend. She'd ordered the Steak Oscar. How can you beat lump crab meat on top of a medium-rare steak? She'd worried when she realized she was dining with a Hindu. Govind ordered the Veal Piccata, so he was either a bad Hindu or a good gastronome.

  The food arrived and was every bit as delicious as promised. They barely spoke as they inhaled their meals. For a small man, Govind could put it away. A satisfied ten minutes later, talk turned to shop.

  Their smiles disappeared. Govind kept his voice low. "To quote my lead technician Miranda, the stuff you gave us is 'freaking science fiction.'"

  "What do you mean?" Sam used a roll to sop up some of the juices from the steak, then shoved it whole into her mouth. She chewed while he replied.

  "Well, it details some kind of recombinant virus therapy we've never seen before, and if we've never seen it here, it doesn't exist. This appears to block mu-opiod receptors in the brain so that a person cannot ever again get high from narcotics or opiates, but my professional opinion is that what you have here is most likely a load of fanciful gibberish."

  "Why is that?" she asked around the roll.

  Govind's eyes bored into her own as he ticked off reasons on his fingers. "First, because we have yet to get this kind of therapy to work. Second, because someone would have had to do human testing to perfect it. Third, because there is no way that mu-opiod receptors can be so easily blocked by a single drug. We simply do not know enough about brain chemistry. Fourth, there is no mention of side effects, and there are always side effects. Fifth, and this is the most compelling, is that if this were real, there would be no reason not to market it. The inventor would be a billionaire." He looked at his hand, all five fingers open and accounted for. "I seem to be out of fingers, but you get the idea. May I ask where you got it?"

  Sam shook her head and washed the roll down with a gulp of wine. "All I can say is that it's real, and it's been used on people. Americans."

  Govind froze in mid-bite. "You mean that this therapy has been used in human trials, and we have never heard of it? Impossible. Not even the drug cartels could suppress a treatment as incredible as this."

  Sam shook her head. "Not trials, Govey. Actual therapy. This was used on people as early as the mid-seventies."

  "Impossible." He took a bite and chewed. "While routine in some forms today, recombinant gene therapy was unheard of in the early nineteen seventies, and just an idea for most of the rest of the decade. Whoever your source is for this document is lying to you."

  Sam shrugged and shook her head in disagreement. "Believe what you want, babe, but it's true." S
he took another sip of wine. Wow, that's good. "Can you undo the therapy?"

  This brought Govind up short. He was about to reply when the waiter rolled up with a dessert cart. They ordered coffee and the chocolate-drizzled cheesecake, which was dense and creamy, with just the right amount of sweetness, then got back to business.

  Sam continued through a mouthful of cheesecake. "As I was saying, can the therapy be reversed?"

  He furrowed his brow. "What do you mean, can it be reversed?"

  "If we give you a sample of the adenovirus, can you reverse the process, change the gene back to the way it was?"

  "Why would you want to do that? Assuming this is real, and I am not willing to concede that this is at all the case, why would a person want to become susceptible to drugs again?"

  Sam exhaled heavily and leaned forward. "Because of the side effects."

  He didn't let her enjoy her pause. "What side effects could possibly be worse than dying of heroin addiction and destroying your family and your children's lives?"

  In reply she reached into her purse and dropped three twenty-dollar bills on the table. That wasn't quite Dutch, but he could afford it more than she could. "You tell me if your team can reverse the process or suppress the symptoms, and I'll answer that question."

  "But…. To answer to that question could—will—take years!"

  So much for quick answers. "Better get started, Govey. This one's a doozy, and you're going to want a cure. I've got to go."

  Amid his protestations, she walked out of Hal's and hailed a taxi.

  Chapter 19

  January 29th, 8:58 PM EST; J. Edgar Hoover Building, Gene Palomini's Office; Washington D.C.

  Gene hung up the phone and rubbed his temples. It was nice to be off crutches, but Sam's news did nothing for his mood. Jerri raised her eyebrows in question.

  "That was Sam. The CDC might have some answers for us in a couple years."

  Jerri leaned forward. "Really?"

  "Yeah," Gene said. He took a long pull from his coffee, savoring the bitterness of the dark brew.