Authors: Hilary Norman
They had never needed him more than now.
They assembled in the president’s office at 6 a.m. The factory was still silent, and Al Hagen’s office, too, had a strained, hushed atmosphere. It was a cool,
rectangular room decorated and furnished in stark black and white; monochrome photographs, mostly of uncompromising landscapes, hung on the walls, and a built-in Bang & Olufsen hi-fi system
with four speakers was a focal point.
Hagen had called Ashcroft, Leary and Schwartz at their homes within moments of being alerted by Security to the two faxes from the Boston
and Chicago Police Departments. Ashcroft and Leary had crawled, dazed and ragged, from their beds, but Schwartz, who prided himself on being able to get by on less sleep than most people, had
already been dressed for work. The shock of the news imparted to them by Hagen guaranteed that none of them would rest easily for the foreseeable future.
“Is it really true?” Schwartz asked Hagen.
“I’m afraid so.”
Neither Ashcroft nor Leary spoke.
“One death in Boston, last Sunday. The second on Wednesday morning, right here in Chicago.” Hagen’s light blue eyes pierced them all from behind his round wire-framed glasses.
He was generally thought of by his workforce as a benevolent leader. Fifty-one years old, six feet tall and stoop-shouldered with grey, fuzzy, close-cropped hair, he tended to dress like an ageing
college boy, with bow ties and white socks and long, colourful woollen scarves in winter. He looked anything but benevolent today. He looked stunned, and he looked accusing.
“Do we have details?” Olivia Ashcroft recovered first. She was usually crisply elegant and poised, wore matte, understated makeup and tailored suits every day of the working week.
This morning she wore blue denims, a sweater and anorak, and her hair was rumpled. She looked almost, though not quite, vulnerable.
Hagen passed across the faxes. “See for yourself.”
In the rush, Ashcroft had forgotten her glasses. She held the paper a little away from her face, and both Howard Leary and Fred Schwartz craned their heads to read at the same time.
“Jeesus.” Leary, smartly dressed for business despite the frantic call, was a red-haired, green-eyed man with a quick temper, poor digestion and a sallow complexion. Reading the
Chicago fax, he grew paler than usual.
Ashcroft glanced at him. “What?”
“Don’t you recognize the name?”
She peered back at the fax. “Marie Ferguson?”
“That’s Marie Howe Ferguson,” Hagen said. His voice, usually gentle, had a harsh note. “Head of the Howe Clinic in Rogers Park, daughter of William B. Howe. Major money,
major citizen.”
“Oh, God.”
Schwartz remained silent, still staring at the faxes, too shocked to speak.
“Nothing to say, Fred?” Hagen asked, quietly.
“What can I say?”
“You’d better think of something,” Leary said.
Schwartz was a quiet, modest man, with hazel eyes, mousy hair and a small nose and mouth. “I’ll be trying to track both shipments – ” He sounded unsteady. “But
since the faxes say that the explosions eradicated every trace of all serial numbers . . .” His voice trailed away.
“You’re going to need as much information as possible,” Hagen said.
“Their physicians will have our delivery notes on file,” Ashcroft said.
“The pacemakers could have been hospital or doctors’ stock,” Schwartz pointed out. “I don’t have to tell anyone here that the delivery notes will only guide us to
the relevant shipments. Many shipments are made up of devices from different production batches – if either Mr Long’s or Mrs Ferguson’s pacemaker was one of our biggest sellers
– ” He came to a halt, his mind already hard at work sifting through possibilities.
“Depending on when these two devices were manufactured,” Hagen continued the line of thought, increasingly appalled as the immensity of their predicament became clearer to him
– ”most of the others in their batches will probably have been implanted too. If not all.”
“We’ll still have the master copies,” Schwartz said.
“Jesus,” Leary said again, more softly.
The focus turned relentlessly on Schwartz. In the ten years this man had worked for the corporation, no one had ever seen him at a loss. Schwartz might be the quiet type, but he exuded a brand
of confidence that others found reassuring. He was a gifted engineer with a fine scientific understanding; there was nothing flamboyant about him, neither in the drab clothes he wore nor in his
unremarkable face. Only his clear, 20/20 vision, hazel eyes and his hands, long-fingered and nimble, betrayed his high intelligence and skill. So long as Schwartz was around, Hagen and the others
knew things would be ticking along nicely. Or at least they had, till now. Now, just when it mattered most, he had nothing to offer.
“This is a catastrophe,” Howard Leary said flatly.
“How, Fred?” Ashcroft was gentler. “How can this have happened?”
“In theory, it can’t,” Schwartz replied.
“According to the police departments of Boston and Chicago, it has.” Al Hagen’s narrow face was filled with tension. “According to the medical examiners in two cities, it
has.”
Since Schwartz had taken over quality control, not even the tiniest, most benign flaw had slipped through his net, but he had, nevertheless, laid down simple, straightforward
procedures in case of unlikely hitches. To begin with, every component that went into a Hagen pacemaker had its own serial number, and all components were bought or produced in batches of one
hundred, of which thirty-three were used in the current production cycle, another thirty-three were set aside to be used in three months, and a further thirty-three in a year. The remaining
component in each batch was kept right out of production, and in that way, if something did go wrong, not only was the relevant component readily available for inspection, but the potential for
trouble had been divided by three.
Because the faxes made it clear that the explosions had obliterated every part of both pacemakers, including the serial numbers on the electrodes at the generator box end of the pacing leads,
Schwartz had no alternative but to await full details of the shipments that had contained the devices; without that information, even if the Hagen Pacing computer could tell them how many
pacemakers had been shipped to Massachusetts and Illinois locations in the past two months or so, there was no guarantee that one or both devices had not been awaiting use in Boston and Chicago for
a year or more, since they would still have been well within their use-by dates.
“How long till we get whatever’s left of the devices?” Schwartz asked now, in the early morning hush.
“We’ll have Mrs Ferguson’s later this morning,” Hagen replied. “They’ll be flying the Boston remains to us as fast as they can.” The president shook his
grey head. “God knows what the press will make of this if it gets out.”
“We have to stop it getting out,” Leary said.
“What is the situation on that score?” Ashcroft asked Hagen. “How much have the families been told?”
“That’s another problem,” Hagen said. “Sean Ferguson, the husband, is a journalist.” A hint of despair touched his voice.
“Shit,” Leary said.
“According to the police, they were together when it happened – and I mean together.” Hagen folded his hands and laid them on his desk, visibly shaken but still fighting to
stay calm. “That poor man saw it happen. Whether he’s read the autopsy report yet or not, he saw his wife die before his eyes because of one of our pacemakers.”
“We
have
to stop this getting out.” Leary was very grim. “There’ll be chaos, pandemonium – patients clamouring to have their pacers removed.”
“Stop it, Howard,” Ashcroft said.
“Jesus Christ, Olivia, about twelve thousand people a year entrust their lives to us!”
“And losing our tempers won’t help any of them.”
“What do you suggest?” Leary glowered at her.
Schwartz stood up. “I have only one practical suggestion to make at this point.” His voice grew a little stronger. “That in the absence of any more information, I start getting
some kind of investigation under way.”
“How long, Fred?” Hagen asked.
“I can’t answer that.”
“Couldn’t you at least hazard a guess?” Leary was sarcastic.
“How can he?” Ashcroft reasoned. “He needs facts – some place to start.”
“I’ll see that you get everything you need,” Hagen told Schwartz.
“It’s going to be tough today.” Schwartz spoke directly to Hagen, ignoring Leary. “We obviously can’t involve anyone else, so I’ll have to keep production
moving, and work alone after hours.”
“Thank God for the weekend,” Leary said.
“Looking on the black side,” Ashcroft came in again, tentatively, “if we have no answer by Monday, shouldn’t we consider halting production?”
“Once the FDA get hold of this” – Hagen was dismal – ”I doubt we’ll have much choice, but for now – ” A new thought struck him. “This could
be pretty dangerous for you, Fred. Once you start checking master copies or whatever’s left of the batches – I mean, we can’t be sure they’re not lethal too.”
“They’re not,” Schwartz said, decisively. “I’d stake my reputation on it.”
“We’re talking about staking your life,” Ashcroft pointed out. “And no matter how confident you may feel, we have to consider protecting the rest of the
workforce.”
“Olivia has a point,” Hagen said.
“A point that could mean halting production.” Leary was very blunt. “A point that would mean withdrawing lifesaving treatment from hundreds of patients, at least – not to
mention telling our employees and everyone they know that we’re too dangerous to work for. Why not just buy a full page in the
Tribune
? You’ll destroy Hagen Pacing, and
you’ll panic every pacemaker patient in the country.”
Schwartz sat down again. “I hate to say this,” he said, ‘but in some ways having two deaths may make things a little easier – ”
“Easier!” Hagen was appalled.
“Only in that soon we should at least have two sets of clues to feed into the computer, maybe narrow the problem – if it
is
our problem – down to a single production
batch.”
“Jesus, Fred,” Leary said, sarcastically, “maybe you’d like a whole string of explosions.”
“Take it easy, Howard.” Hagen focused back on Schwartz. “Do you really think there’s the remotest chance this might not be a production problem?”
“I
know
it can’t be,” Schwartz replied steadfastly. “There is simply nothing in the devices that could possibly cause anything like this to happen.”
“The batteries are combustible,” Leary said.
“And hermetically sealed – we’ve never had any trouble with them. Which is one of the reasons I’m not all that concerned about the danger of examining the master copies
– to myself or to anyone else on the premises.”
“You’ll still have to take precautions,” Hagen told him. “Protective clothing, goggles, gloves – ”
“Of course.”
For a moment or two, no one spoke.
“Okay,” Hagen said. “First things first. Aside from getting every ounce of available information, I’m going to do everything I can to persuade the people who already know
about this not to break this story wide open.” He paused. “I don’t have to tell any of you how crucial it is that no one else in the complex or outside gets to hear even a
whisper.”
“Of course not,” Ashcroft said.
“No one’ll hear it from me,” Leary confirmed. “You’ll have to be more careful than any of us,” he told Schwartz. “You’re the one at the sharp end
down there on the floor.”
Schwartz’s resentment was plain. “Don’t you think that I, of all people, can’t see the catastrophic consequences of a leak?”
“Come on, folks,” Hagen soothed. “Let’s all try to keep calm.”
“I’m calm,” Schwartz said.
“I’m so calm I scare myself,” Leary said, wryly.
Olivia Ashcroft rose. “I’m going home to change – unless there’s anything I can do for you right this minute, Fred. We all know you work better alone – ”
“I have to work alone, while we’re trying to maintain normality.”
“But if another head or pair of eyes would make a difference, behind the scenes – ?”
“I’ll let you know.” Schwartz smiled at her. “Thank you.”
Leary looked at Hagen. “Al, I need a quick word.” He glanced at the other two. “On a separate issue.”
“Sure,” Hagen said. “See you later, Olivia.” He nodded at Schwartz. “Good luck, Fred.”
Ashcroft and Schwartz left the room and Hagen sat down again.
“What’s up, Howard?”
Leary kept his voice low. “Are you sure he’s up to this?”
“You mean Schwartz? More than anyone else I know.”
Leary looked sceptical. “I know we’ve always thought he was a whiz, and nothing major has gone wrong since he’s been with us. But let’s face it, Al, most of our systems
were in place before Schwartz joined us. He’s never faced a real test before.”
Every muscle in Hagen’s face was tautly drawn. “Right this minute, Howard, I’d be lying if I told you I was sure of anything.” He paused. “But I do think I’ve
come to know Schwartz pretty well over the years, and there is just one thing I am certain of, and that’s that Hagen Pacing means everything to him.”
“I think that applies to all of us.” Leary shrugged. “Maybe I’m just frustrated at having to leave the detective work to him. Just a few years ago, I’d have been
the one working twenty-four hours a day with my eyes glued to a microscope. It isn’t easy leaving it to someone else.”
“Schwartz may not have your flair, Howard, or your qualifications,” Hagen said, gently, “but even you have to admit he’s the most conscientious and meticulous man you
could hope to find.”
“So you don’t think we should consider bringing in outside help?”
“Not until we have to,” Hagen said fervently. “Lord knows there are too many people involved already.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to get moving on some calls.
Over the next couple of hours, I’m going to have to persuade the Chicago and Boston Police Departments and the Ferguson and Long families that we’re moving heaven and earth to nail this
down.”