John Ramsey matched Lillian's slow, measured pace as they walked together toward the medical center's parking garage. The rain of the past two days had left behind puddles to trap the unwary. It was fully dark now, and the security lights on the buildings he passed cast shadows that made John think of the childhood night terrors he experienced after reading a ghost story at bedtime. Only this time, the terrors were with him day and night, and had nothing to do with scary tales. No, they stemmed from the work of evil men-he had no idea how many-who were more interested in their own gain than the well-being of countless patients. "John, you don't have to walk me to my car," Lillian said. "I can look out for myself. I'm a grown woman."
"With Mace in her purse, I'd wager." "Matter of fact… " He caught a glimpse of her grin in the reflected glow of headlights as cars began to stream out of the parking structure. John decided to risk it.
"Would the unafraid, grown woman like to have a cup of coffee, or even dinner, with the courtly gentleman who insists on escorting her through the shadows?" There was a hiatus in the parade of cars. Now darkness veiled Lillian's face. Was she frowning, smiling, what? Then John felt her hand take his. "I'd be pleased to, John. Remember, though-right now I'm just a friend." "I know. And I appreciate your sensitivity. But a friend is what I most need." Half an hour later, they were seated in a back booth at Amberjack, one of the nicer restaurants in town. Lillian looked at John over her menu and said,
"I've always wanted to come here, but I could never bring myself to dine alone at one of these places." "I know. I tried it once after Beth died. Since then, I don't think I've eaten out anywhere except fast-food restaurants. They sort of look at you funny, don't they?"
"You're exactly right," Lillian said. She returned her attention to the menu. "I think another reason I don't try to eat out alone is that there's no one to split an entree with me. My late husband and I used to do that all the time. I guess I could take half my meal home and heat it up later, but it never tastes as good as when it's fresh."
John felt his eyes growing moist. "Beth and I split entrees all the time." He drank some water, then wiped his mouth and used the motion to touch his napkin to the tears on his cheeks. "I'll be happy to pay for whatever you want, but I have to ask. Would you like to split an entree tonight?" "I'd love it." Their discussion went back and forth like an engaged couple picking out a silver pattern. John had been here before and knew that the side dishes were large. When the waiter returned, he said, "We'd like to split the Hawaiian snapper, with a side order of potatoes and vegetables. And please have them divide that in the kitchen." "I'm sorry, sir, but our chef says that splitting an order disturbs the presentation of the dish." John tried hard to maintain a stern expression. "You can ask the manager to come to the table, and I'll discuss your policy with him as well as anyone else within earshot. Or you can convey my compliments to your chef and tell him that we're more interested in the taste of the food than its appearance. And, by the way, the longer we sit here without something to eat, the more testy I tend to become." "Very well, sir. I'll ask the chef to divide the order for you." "Thank you… " John squinted at the nametag the man wore. "Thank you, Henry. I appreciate your doing that. I'll be certain to remember it when we've finished."
As Henry hurried off, undoubtedly to tell the chef about the demanding customer in booth twelve, Lillian giggled behind her hand. "John, you should be ashamed of yourself for coming down on that poor man that way." "No," John said. "The restaurant should be ashamed of itself for such an obvious ploy to make people order more food than they should eat." He helped himself to a roll and buttered it. "Besides, what good is having a dinner companion if you can't show offfor her a little bit?" As they chatted, waiting for their meal, John realized that for the first time in several days he wasn't worried about his HIV tests, or his recovery from Staph luciferus, or the person or persons unknown who didn't want him and his colleagues to discover the truth about Jandramycin. He had a friend- someone to talk with, someone to encourage him, someone who might… No, that would be later, if at all. For now, a friend was more than enough.
The three men gathered in Dr. David Patel's office showed no outward evidence of the stress they bore. Patel presided from behind his desk, the coat of his gray pinstripe suit unbuttoned to show a pristine expanse of dress shirt on which a black and gold rep-stripe tie nested. Dr. Bob Wolfe was seated across the desk from Patel. A white lab coat with his name embroidered over the breast pocket covered his blue oxford-cloth button-down shirt worn open-collared.
His dress signified that, although he was a professional, he worked in the trenches with the lab techs and others he supervised. Steve Lindberg had taken his usual seat at the edge of Patel's desk, halfway between the other two men-neutral in all respects, the Switzerland of Janus Pharmaceuticals. A Grateful Dead tie hung at half-mast on a wrinkled dress shirt. His jacket had been deposited on the back of his office door when he arrived this morning, and he wouldn't retrieve it until he left the building. "Gentlemen, this meeting will be brief,"
Patel said. "Bob, what's the status of our NDA for Jandramycin?" Wolfe cleared his throat. "Because of the unusual circumstances, the FDA appointed a special advisory committee to consider it. They've received clear marching orders from on high to fast-track it and recommend approval. They're working on it, and as I understand it, they're scattering exceptions and waivers along the way like beads from a Mardi Gras float. The wheels have been greased for approval."
He rubbed his thumb and fingers together in a symbol everyone recognized. "It's costing-" "I don't need to hear that," Patel said.
"We'll approve the amount, whatever it is." He swiveled toward Lindberg. "And the marketing campaign?" Lindberg beamed. "First rate, if I do say so myself. The ad agency came up with some great slogans and visuals. We have ad space reserved in every major medical journal, and until we have approval to market we're using it to 'tease' the forthcoming breakthrough that's the biggest antibacterial advance since penicillin. Our sales force has been trained. We've brought key docs and thought leaders to resorts for what we call 'advisory panels.' We make them sign a confidentiality agreement, then bombard them with information about Jandramycin so when it launches we have a ready-made set of lecturers. We'll send them out to national meetings and saturate the medical community with our message." "Again, whatever you need to spend, I'll approve it," Patel said. "I've received word that the scientists at Darlington Pharmaceuticals are on track to develop a compound that is as effective as Jandramycin against Staph luciferus. Not only that, it has better activity against other bacteria than our drug, and although there is a risk of minor immediate reactions-rash, GI upset, and so forth-there's not a hint of severe or late problems." He waited for the import of those words to sink in. "We all know that the first drug on the market gets an almost unbeatable advantage on the ones that follow, even if they're better.
So we cannot allow anything to slow the introduction of Jandramycin."
He looked at Wolfe and Lindberg. "Clear?" Wolfe squirmed in his chair.
Lindberg tugged at his already open collar. Both nodded silently.
"That's all." For all three men, the message was clear. The stakes, already high, had been raised. Winning was everything… whatever the cost.
"How's Chelsea Ferguson?" Rip asked. "Maybe a little better," Sara said. "It's been almost two days now, and I hoped we'd see more improvement." Rip stretched and yawned. "I was figuring forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Let's see how she's doing tomorrow." They were sitting in Sara's office. She was on the computer, while he thumbed through a stack of journals, both desperately looking for the clue that would show them how Jandramycin could save lives, only to put them in jeopardy later. True, there was a chance that OMAL would stop or even reverse the process when complications arose, but that wasn't a sure thing. It was a shot in the dark, based on an educated guess.
Sara ran her fingers through her hair. "You can't believe how frustrated I am." "All we can do is keep-" Rip stopped when Sara's cell phone rang. She spoke for a few moments, but apparently whoever was on the other end of the conversation was in no mood to engage in dialogue. Sara returned the cell phone to her pocket. "That was strange." "What?" Rip asked. "That was Carter Resnick." Rip closed the journal he was reading, marking the place with his finger. "Okay, I agree. It was strange that he'd call you, or anyone for that matter.
Lately he's been sequestered in Ingersoll's 'secret' lab"-he set the word offwith air quotes- "not talking with anyone." "This is stranger still." Sara swiveled away from her computer to face Rip. "He wants to meet us in the lab tonight. He says he's tired of keeping secrets. He thinks we deserve to know." "Know what?" "He didn't say. But he wants us both there at midnight." "Should I call John or Lillian?" Rip asked. Sara thought for a moment. "I don't think so. Resnick said to come alone. He's just unstable enough that, if he gets word I've told anyone, he might back out. He's opened the door a bit, and I don't want to give him an excuse to close it." They were engrossed in their searches when Sara's intercom buzzed. "Dr. Miles, there's a long-distance call for you on line one." "Who is it?" "He's got some kind of heavy accent. It sounded like he said 'Goober.'" Sara shrugged and punched the blinking button on her phone. "Dr. Miles." The man's accent was indeed thick, but Sara made out the words easily enough.
"This is Dr. Heinz Gruber in Ulm, Germany. I believe you called me?"
Sara waved frantically to get Rip's attention. When he looked up, she motioned him toward the outer office and mouthed the words "Get on the phone." She waited until she heard a faint click before answering.
"Doctor, thank you for calling back. I have a question for you." There was silence on the line. "Did you hear me?" she asked. "I was waiting for the question." Fair enough. "I understand you and a colleague have been carrying out a clinical trial of the antibiotic Jandramycin. Is that correct?" The answer sounded like "Yah." Was that the German word for "yes"? She assumed it was. "The same trial is going on at our medical center here. My question is-" "So you are with Professor Ingersoll? Yes?" "Yes. And some of our patients have had problems several weeks after they received Jandramycin. These are autoimmune disorders. Do you understand autoimmune? I'm sorry, I don't know the German word." "It is the same. And I have in turn a question for you. Why are you calling me when you have there Herr Professor Ingersoll?" How much could she tell him? She decided to try to finesse the situation. "I've mentioned it to him, and he seems to think there's no such problem. But I thought that perhaps your experience might be different." Gruber cleared his throat. When he spoke, the words were wooden and without inflection, as though he was reciting a prepared statement. "I know of no such problems with the drug." "Then perhaps you can clarify for me the mechanism of action of Jandramycin.
We think it might be an immunologic stimulus of the host to make antibodies against-" "You must also ask that question of Professor Ingersoll. I have nothing to say." There was a click, followed by the electronic hum of an empty line. Sara hung up and waited until Rip reappeared and settled into the chair opposite her. "What do you think?" she asked. "I think he's been programmed to keep quiet. We're not going to get anything from him, and I doubt that we'll have any luck with his colleague, either." "Nevertheless, I'm going to try it."
Sara rummaged through the papers on her desk until she found a printed abstract of a paper. She jotted a note on a Post-It and centered it on her desk. "Maybe Dr. Rohde will be more forthcoming than his co-author, Dr. Gruber." "Want me on the other line?" "I don't think the department administrator would take too kindly to my making a transatlantic call from this phone," Sara said. "I guess I'll have to wait until I get home." "No problem," Rip said. "Let's use my cell phone. We can put it on speaker and both hear." "Won't that show up on the bill?" "This is my private phone. I pay the bills, and it's nobody's business who I call." "Even an international call?" "I set it up a while back. Never know when I might need it, and sure enough, now I do. What's that number?" "All I have is the internal medicine clinic number." She dug into her purse and pulled out a wrinkled slip of paper. "Good enough. I just dial 011, then the country code- 49-and the number." He held up a finger. "Okay, it's ringing. I'll put it on speaker and you can talk." " Klinik. Darf ich Ihnen helfen?" Sara gave a "here we go again" shrug. "Do you speak English?" " Bitte, Ich verstehe Sie nicht." Sara was about to go into her raise-your-voice-to-beunderstood act when Rip said, " Wir wollen mit Herr Dr. Rohde sprechen." " Ja, ein minuten." In the silence that followed, Sara looked at Rip in amazement. "When did you learn to speak German?" "A product of my Ivy League education. Had two years of it in college. Spent a month in Germany between college and med school. Guess I still remember it." "I wish I'd known that when I made my original call to Gruber," Sara said. " Ja, hier ist Rohde." Sara felt her pulse quicken. Maybe she could convince this doctor to open up. "Doctor, do you speak English? This is Dr. Sara Miles in the U.S."
"Yes, I speak a little. What would you like?" Sara went through the same speech that she'd given Gruber. This time the response was a full minute in coming, and she feared she'd lost the connection. She was about to hang up when Rohde said, "I have been warned not to discuss our research with anyone. And I would advise you to stop asking these questions." This time there was a discernible click, and the cell phone screen showed the words, "Call Ended." "I'm more convinced than ever that there's a cover-up in place," Sara said. "I guess we'll have to depend on Resnick. He's our last hope."
The voices captured his attention, so the man stopped in the hall and leaned closer to the closed door. The first man spoke in a voice that was guttural and low, spitting sibilants like machine gun bullets as the words tumbled out. "How many times must I tell you? Only you and I know this. And the proof has already been destroyed. No one can resurrect a pile of ashes into a document." The second voice also belonged to a man, but where the first was bold, this one was tentative, the words hesitant. "There are too many people asking questions about the matter, and I'm afraid what we did is going to come to light. Perhaps if we-" "We will do nothing. We remain silent, let the scenario play out, and reap the rewards." The words rumbled like far-off artillery fire and carried the same hint of danger. "When you burned that paper, you ended the trail that could lead back to us.
You did burn it, didn't you?" The second voice was less timid now. "Of course… but how do you know I didn't keep a copy somewhere? If I came forward with the information now, perhaps I could escape any penalties. I can't stand the thought of being disgraced, of losing everything I've worked for. I couldn't live with that." The first speaker's voice was full of menace. "Perhaps you won't have to live-with that or anything else." "Don't think about it. If something happens to me, I have made arrangements for some very interesting documents to go to the right people." The second man's tone became placating. "You need me alive." "I think you're bluffing." "There's no reason for you to find out, is there? We can work this out." A chair scraped back. "No, you've shown your true colors now. You'd throw me to the wolves to save your own worthless skin, wouldn't you?" The next words came out in a rush. "I guess there's only one thing to do to keep you muzzled." The sounds of the argument were replaced by the thumps and groans of a struggle. The man in the hall tried the door, but it was locked. He pounded on it. "What's going on in there? Open up." Glass shattered. The man's imagination supplied mental pictures as the noise intensified. A chair or perhaps even a desk was overturned. When the first man spoke this time, it was as though he were reasoning with a recalcitrant child. "I didn't mean it. Put that away." Now the second man's words were determined, as though he'd made up his mind to do something distasteful. "No. This is the best way..
. " The words trailed off. Two shots rang out-the flat cracks of a handgun. There was a long pause, then the second man's words came out in a rush. "God, forgive me." Another shot, a muffled thump, then silence as the smell of gun powder drifted under the locked door.