Authors: Peter James
It was a decent, if soulless office, a generous size, with bland modern furnishings and a window, set a little high, with a view out over a quadrangle onto two other campus buildings. There was paperwork strewn over every flat surface in the room, including the visitor chairs and much of the floor, a Mac monitor and keyboard, and a whiteboard on the wall that was covered in scrawled algorithms and a barely legible diagram from an illustration he had made for a student.
Without removing his jacket he sat at his desk, pulled his laptop out of the bag and downloaded the files he had been working on last night at home, then checked his agenda for the afternoon.
‘Shit!’ he said out loud.
There was a six o’clock appointment he had completely forgotten about. A journalist from
USA Today
wanted to do a piece about his department. Normally it would have been handled by Saul Haranchek, who had taken over as head of the unit after Bruce Katzenberg’s departure, but Saul was out of town and had asked him to take the interview. John didn’t need this, not today of all days when he wanted to get home early, back to Naomi.
He tried Dettore’s number, but again got the answering machine. Then he rang Naomi at the production office.
She sounded low. ‘Did you try Dettore?’
‘Yes, I’m going to keep trying.’
‘What about a second opinion?’
‘Let me talk to him first. I’m afraid I’m going to be a little late back, I have to do an interview.’
‘It’s OK, I have to go to a screening I’d forgotten all about. Need it like a hole in the head. I won’t be back till at least nine. What do you want to do about food tonight?’
‘Want to go out? Have a Mexican somewhere?’
‘I’m not sure I could handle Mexican at the moment. Shall we see how we feel later?’
‘Sure,’ John said. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you, too.’
He hung up with a heavy heart, then opened his email inbox.
He had Dettore’s email address, and typed out a curt email, stating Dr Rosengarten’s diagnosis and asking him to phone him as a matter of great urgency.
He sent the email, then walked over to the window. Despite the cold wind and the spats of rain, quite a few people were out there. Some sitting on benches eating their lunches, some in groups, talking. One or two smoking. Students. No longer kids, but not yet adults. Their whole lives in front of them. Did they know what was coming up behind them?
He looked at one particularly hip group standing in their baggy clothes, with their topiaried heads, laughing, fooling around, so goddamn carefree. None of their parents had messed with their genes. But when their turn came, what would they do?
Did they know they were the last generation of kids left to chance? Did they realize that however smart they might think they were, they were going to grow up to find themselves a genetic underclass? That they were going to be faced with the chance to make their own kids infinitely smarter, stronger, healthier than they themselves could ever be?
What choices would they make?
Then he turned away from the window, afraid. Rosengarten could have made a mistake, sure, but if he hadn’t? If it was Dettore who had made the mistake, just how many other mistakes had he made?
Twelve weeks. You could abort right up until how long? Sixteen weeks? Or was it eighteen?
At half past four, he rang Dr Dettore’s number again, and left a second message, a considerably more assertive one than before. He also rang Dr Rosengarten, and left word with his secretary that he wanted to speak to him urgently.
By six o’clock there had been no response from either Dettore or Rosengarten. He rang Naomi’s office, but was told she was in a meeting. He looked at his watch. If Dettore was on board his offshore clinic, he would be on Atlantic time, three hours ahead of Pacific time. Nine o’clock in the evening. Angry now, he was about to pick up the phone to dial again when it rang. He snatched it off the cradle, but it wasn’t Dettore.
It was the reporter from
USA Today
, a breezy-sounding young woman called Sally Kimberly. She was held up in traffic on the 101 and would be with him in fifteen minutes. Had the photographer arrived yet?
‘I didn’t realize there was a photographer coming,’ he said.
‘He’ll be very quick – just a couple of shots in case we need them.’
It was another thirty-five minutes before she knocked on his door. The photographer had arrived and was busy rearranging his office.
Dettore had still not called back and nor had Dr Rosengarten.
It was cocktail hour, which meant the lights in the hotel bar were dimmed and an endless loop of Chopin played from the speakers, giving the impression that in some alcove behind one of the banks of potted palms lurked a pianist. The air conditioning was too cold, but the tables and chairs were well spaced out, making it a good place to talk – although John’s real reason for bringing the reporter here was because it was one of the few places in walking distance from the campus that served alcohol.
He followed Sally Kimberly in through the revolving door. She was a polite, quiet-spoken young woman in her early thirties, and dressed in a conservative suit. Her body was a little plump, but her face was attractive, and she had a pleasant, caring manner about her, unlike some reporters he had encountered.
He glanced at her hands, looking for an engagement or wedding ring. There were a couple of plain bands, but not on the marriage finger. It was a strange instinct men had, he thought, some reproductive dynamic that was hardwired into the species. He could never help it himself – one of the first things he looked for was always the wedding-ring finger.
She picked a corner table at the far end of the room from the bar, and not directly beneath a speaker, so her recorder wouldn’t be muffled by the music, she explained. She ordered a Chardonnay, and he ordered a large beer for himself. He needed some alcohol to steady his nerves, already shot to hell and back by the day’s news and made worse by the prospect of this interview.
USA Today
was a huge newspaper. A good article would enhance his chances of tenure, and it could catch the eye of a possible sponsor for their department. But he knew from past unhappy experiences that as a scientist you always had to be wary of the press and media.
Sally Kimberly set her small tape recorder on the table, but didn’t switch it on. Instead she asked, ‘Is your wife called Naomi?’
‘Naomi? Yes.’
‘Of course! I’ve made the connection now! She works in television PR? Naomi Klaesson?’
‘Film and television, yes.’
‘You’re not going to believe this! We worked together about six years ago on the PR for a biology series for the Discovery Channel!’
‘How about that!’ John said, wracking his brains, trying to recall if Naomi had ever mentioned her. It was quite possible; he had a lousy memory for names.
‘She’s great, I really liked her. She was pregnant—’ Her voice braked. ‘I – I’m sorry. That was not very tactful. I heard about your son. I’m really sorry for you both. I’m sorry I brought it up.’
‘It’s OK.’
After a brief silence she said, ‘So, how is Naomi?’
‘Oh – she’s doing great now, thanks. She’s got through it.’ He wanted to add,
And she’s expecting again!
But he held back.
‘Still in PR?’
‘Uh-huh. Right now she’s at a documentary company called Bright Spark.’
‘Sure, I know them. Wow! I must give Naomi a call, have lunch with her! She has the most wicked sense of humour!’
John smiled.
Their drinks arrived. For some time they chatted easily, graduating from the good and the bad about life in LA, to the merits of different eBook readers. Sally Kimberly sipped her white wine, John drained his beer in minutes, and ordered a second, warming to just being here with her, enjoying talking to her, feeling – if for just a short while – he was escaping from his pressures. There was something so sincere and vulnerable about her that made John wonder how on earth she survived in the rough and tumble world of newsprint.
She was single and found it hard to meet men in this city who weren’t either totally vain or totally screwed-up, she told him. And her body language hinted, very subtly, but very definitely, that she found him attractive.
He found her increasingly attractive himself, and immediately saw warning flags. In eight years with Naomi he had never strayed; although he had found himself flirting with other women at the occasional party, he had never been tempted. He needed to play this young lady very carefully; flirt, yes, but in no way lead her on.
Suddenly his glass was empty again. ‘Get you another white wine?’ he offered, turning his head for the waitress.
The reporter looked at her almost-full glass. ‘No, I’m good, thanks.’
The beer was giving him a pleasant buzz, making the problems with Naomi’s pregnancy seem easier to understand, easier to cope with. Mistakes happened all the time in medicine. Rosengarten was in a rush, he hadn’t been concentrating, and he was being arrogant saying he could determine the sex at such an early age. He wished he’d quizzed the obstetrician harder about why he was so sure, but he’d been so shocked, as had Naomi, that he had barely said anything.
‘OK – I’ll just have another—’ He tapped the side of his head with a grin. ‘Need some rocket fuel to get my brain going for you.’ He detected what might have been a slight frown of disapproval. Or had he just imagined that?
‘You have an accent,’ she said. ‘Kind of slight.’
‘Swedish.’
‘Of course.’
‘Ever been there?’
‘Actually, there’s a possibility I may get sent to Stockholm to do a piece on the Nobel Prize awards—’
‘You’re getting one for journalism?’
She laughed. ‘I wish.’
‘It’s the most beautiful city, all built around water. I’ll give you some names of restaurants you should visit – do you like fish?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘They have great fish. Best seafood in the world.’
‘Better than here in LA?’
‘Are you kidding me?’
‘There’s great fish here,’ she said, a little defensively.
‘You call me and tell me that again after you’ve eaten fish in Stockholm.’
She gave him an unambiguous
take me there
look.
Smiling at her, then hastily turning away, he finally caught the waitress’s eye and ordered another large draught beer.
Sally Kimberly reached forward and switched the recorder on. ‘I guess we should start. OK?’
‘Sure, fire away,’ he assented. ‘I’ll do my best not to incriminate myself!’ He was aware the beers had gone to his head; he’d drunk them too fast.
Need to slow down, just take a few sips from the next one, and no more.
She switched the machine off, wound the tape back and played a few moments. ‘Just checking it’s recording,’ she said. John heard himself say,
. . . my best not to incriminate myself!
She set the machine down again. ‘OK, my first question, Dr Klaesson, is what were the influences that made you decide to become a research scientist?’
‘I thought you wanted to talk about my department and the work we’re doing, rather than individuals?’
‘I’d just like a little background.’
‘Sure.’
Giving him an encouraging smile, she said, ‘Are either of your parents scientists?’
‘No, we don’t have any other scientists in our family. My father was a salesman.’
‘Did he have any interest in science?’
John shook his head. ‘Not remotely. Fishing and gambling were his things – he was a walking encyclopedia of rods, lines, weights, lures, floats, bait, poker odds and race-horse form. He could tell you where the fish hung out at what time of day in every stretch of water within thirty miles of our home, and what horse was running in any race just about anywhere in the world.’ He smiled. ‘I guess he was into the science of fishing and betting.’
‘Do you think there’s some analogy between fishing and the methodology of scientific research?’ she asked.
John was torn between trying to keep the reporter happy and trying to steer her on to what he really wanted to talk about. ‘I think my mother was a much bigger influence,’ he said. ‘She used to be a mathematics teacher – and she’s always taken a great interest in everything. And she’s a hugely practical woman. She could take an electric motor to pieces to show me how it worked one day, and another day sit me down and discuss the religious writings of Emanuel Swedenborg. I think she gave me my curiosity.’
‘Sounds like you have more of her genes than your father’s.’
The remark brought his thoughts abruptly back to Dettore. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, distractedly.
How the hell could Dettore have got it wrong? How? How?
‘OK, Dr Klaesson, I wonder now if you could describe in – like – a couple of sentences, the broad beats of your research team’s work?’
‘Sure, absolutely.’ He thought for some moments. ‘How much do you know about the construction of the human brain?’