Authors: Harry Stein
“Where do you come up with this crap?”
“Take a look at Kober’s file, Greg. The woman only has one kidney …
“What the hell do I care?”
“It means she had more Compound J in her system, not less. The stuff didn’t kill her—it probably saved her. It helped her fight off the toxin.”
“You’re psychotic, Shein, you’re delusional! Do you
know
what you’re suggesting?”
“Well, Greg, I know this: We got three dead ladies and Compound J didn’t kill ‘em. Just as a matter of professional interest—did you use the same toxin on Reston? The fucker was quite a loose cannon, wasn’t he?”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Throwing up his hands, Stillman returned to his desk chair and sat down heavily.
Shein had never imagined there’d come a time when he’d see his rival so helpless, so utterly vulnerable—and he moved in for the kill. “It’s okay if you don’t wanna tell me. He’s only been buried—what?—a week. No problem exhuming the body and running a few tests.”
“Shein, look, we’ve had plenty of problems, you and I. But what are you trying to do to me here? We’re both in the same business, we’re both out to cure cancer.”
“I assume you’re just talking theoretically here, right?”
“What are you trying to do, wreck the ACF? I’m not saying there’s a word of truth to this—there’s not. But I promise you, if you pursue it, that’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to fuck up everything we’ve worked for. And, let me tell you, it couldn’t come at a worse time.”
Shein leaned forward. “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
Stillman closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.
“C’mon, Greg,” he urged gently, almost seductively, “out with it. You know I’m gonna get it anyhow.”
Stillman stared at him miserably. Then he picked up the file on his desk and handed it over.
L
ogan had been poring over the notebook in Perez’s living room for over four hours, but he was still as lightheaded with excitement as at the start. Though he’d never been especially religious, he now could say he understood the definition of a spiritual experience. For what he held in his hands was close to holy—the life work of a scientist as remarkable as any he’d ever studied in the classic texts. Work of potentially incalculable benefit to humankind.
The telephone rang, startling him.
“Logan? I hope you’re not chewing up the carpets.”
“Ruben, where are you?”
“At your place. How much stuff you want me to bring over?”
Nothing could’ve been of less importance to him. “I don’t know, at least a few days’ worth.”
“Great,” said his friend, wearily.
“Oh—could you also bring my German-English dictionary? It’s on the shelf next to the couch.” Logan had been having trouble deciphering some of Nakano’s more complicated notes.
“What for?”
“Please, I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“I see it. It looks like a
heavy
mother! Logan, I have a lot of junk to carry already.”
“Take a cab, I’ll pay for it. Please, just hurry.”
Logan turned back to the notebook. It was nothing short of remarkable in its detail, a complete record of the development of the compound from theory to realization. He could see how Nakano had built on small successes as he went; yet, too, how reluctant he’d been to discard certain
key ideas that seemed virtual truisms and how slow to embrace others that appeared, at first blush, extraordinarily unlikely.
Logan understood. Nakano had also been convinced at first the toxicity was linked to the length of the polymer’s bridge—in fact, had persisted in that belief for a dozen frustrating years. It was only his belated discovery that the problem lay elsewhere—in the unlikeliest of places—that enabled him to press forward; and even then, ten more years were required to reach completion.
Logan studied the final series of drawings with particular care. All that had been required was a slight repositioning of the sulfonate groups, on the head and tail modules of Compound J. The compound Nakano discovered was, in fact, an isomer of Compound J: it had exactly the same number of atoms in its chemical composition, but its parts were arranged slightly differently.
It was as if the molecule were a deck of cards in which, for a particular trick to work, the cards had to be in a precise order. Logan himself had had several cards out of sequence. He might have gone on working for a hundred years—a thousand!—and never gotten it right.
He heard the click of a key in the door and looked up.
“Well,” announced Perez, a shopping bag in each hand and the dictionary under his arm, “just call me the Bag Man of Washington Heights.”
“Ruben, c’mere. I have to show you something.”
“Will you let me close the door, for Chrissakes?”
He had just done so and was heading toward the couch when there came the sound of heavy footfalls in the hallway outside, immediately followed by a violent pounding on the door.
“What the fuck?” exclaimed Perez, quickly moving for the baseball bat he kept in the corner.
In a panic, Logan slammed shut the notebook and slipped it beneath a cushion of the couch.
Abruptly, the door crashed open, kicked in by one of
the four burly men who came rushing in. Three of them had guns drawn.
“Which one of you is Logan?”
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Perez.
“Keep your mouth shut!”
Logan noticed the head man had a small photograph in his hand. It was identical to the one on his ID card at the ACF. Instantly, he knew: these guys were ACF security.
“I am,” he accepted the inevitable. “I’m Dan Logan.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s my friend, he didn’t do anything.”
“He goes too,” came the command.
“What about these?” One of the men indicated the rats.
The leader didn’t hesitate. “Take ’em.”
Both men were jostled out of the apartment and down the stairs, where two cars waited, engines running.
“My fault, man,” called Perez, before he was pushed into one car. “I was a fuckin’ idiot!”
Logan couldn’t manage a reply before he disappeared into the second—a Volvo.
No way
, he reflected miserably,
ALL mine
.
He was placed on the back floor, invisible to passersby. “My friend didn’t do anything,” he repeated. “He doesn’t know about any of this.”
But he had no doubt that if they were ready to eliminate him to steal Compound J, Perez, caught in the crossfire, didn’t have a chance.
“Don’t worry about it,” said the guy in charge.
“How’d you find me?” Though, in fact, he was just trying to reassure himself these people were human enough to make conversation.
“No talking, Doctor. Those are our orders.”
Anyway, the answer seemed clear. Having staked out his place, he figured, they’d followed Perez uptown.
For the next thirty-five or forty minutes they drove in silence, across—he surmised, looking up from his position on the floor—the George Washington Bridge—and on
into New Jersey. When they came to a halt and he was helped from the car, he was surprised to find they were at the edge of the tarmac in what appeared to be a rural airport. But now he found himself hustled aboard a plane on the adjacent runway, a Learjet. A few moments later they were airborne.
Again, he was kept from the window, an exercise that struck him as completely pointless.
“I know where we’re going,” he said quietly.
Neither of the men flanking him replied.
“At least give me the satisfaction of knowing I’m right.”
Nothing.
“Screw you!” he said, summoning up his final reserve of defiance. “Screw you all!”
They came down at a similar airfield—Virginia, he guessed, by the look of the terrain—and he was made to lie down in the back of another car, a Buick sedan.
“Hope you’re not too uncomfortable,” said the head man, the first time he’d spoken since New York.
But by now, in his despair, Logan took this as nothing more than an effort by the guy to absolve his conscience. He’d all but accepted the inevitable. “Look, asshole, where I’m going, I’m not worried about a little discomfort.”
For another half hour there was silence—until someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Okay, you can sit up now.”
With difficulty, he struggled in the cramped space to his knees, then two pairs of hands helped lift him to the backseat.
“Why,” he said, shaking them off, “you want me to see the place where—”
He stopped in midsentence, jaw literally going slack. What loomed before him was so staggering, for a moment he was actually unable to process it. They’d just driven through a gate and were heading up a drive toward the imposing structure.
“Is that the …”
“Yessir, of course. The White House.”
They halted at the East entrance and Logan was helped from the car.
“Again, I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, sir,” said the senior man. “There was concern you might try to evade us, and our job was to bring you here as quickly as possible. I hope you understand.”
He got back in the car and it drove off. Instantly, another man was at Logan’s side. “Right this way, please, Doctor.”
He escorted him into the building, around a corner, and then up a narrow staircase.
“Excuse me,” said Logan, “but isn’t this where—”
He nodded. “The private quarters, yessir. Please follow me.”
He led the way down a long corridor, knocking at a door close to the end.
“Come in,” called the familiar voice.
His escort opened the door and stepped aside to let Logan pass. There, in what appeared to be a sort of sitting room, waited Kenneth Markell, Raymond Larsen, and Seth Shein!
By now Logan was almost beyond surprise. He just stared at them.
“Dr. Logan,” nodded Markell in greeting, as if the meeting of this group, in this place, were the most natural thing in the world.
Suddenly conscious he was still dressed in his T-shirt and jeans, Logan folded his arms before him. “What am I doing here?”
“We’ve got a situation,” said Markell.
Logan turned to Shein. “Why am I here?”
“Hey,” replied Shein, with what he’d once have taken as an ingratiating smile, “don’t ask me, I only work here.”
“A
situation
,” repeated Markell. “And it occurred to us that you might help.” He paused. “Mrs. Rivers has a chemotherapy-refractory cancer. I’m afraid it’s bad.”
The First Lady? Logan’s mind raced. It made perfect sense, of
course
—yet somehow he was again caught short.
He’d always liked Elizabeth Rivers, he’d voted for her husband. What Markell was telling him was that she was doomed; they’d tried all the chemo they could and nothing had worked. “I’m sorry.”
“The upshot is that she’s willing to try any alternative therapy we deem appropriate. The President concurs in that view. The situation is quite desperate.”
“We understand,” added Shein, “that you’ve continued to work on Compound J.”
He looked from one to the other. “How do you know that?”
“As I expect you know, Doctor, it’s our business to keep tabs on such things,” replied Markell. “Part of our responsibility.”
The break-in—it wasn’t only Stillman! These sons of bitches! These monsters! Yet instead of anger, what he felt bubbling up within was something like pure joy. “Yes, of course, I’d almost forgotten how things work at the ACF.”
Logan waited for a reaction to this provocation, then gave a small smile when none came. It was true: THEY needed HIM. HE was in control here, HE had the power. “Where’s my friend? They took my friend also.”
“He’s fine. There are security implications to this, of course; we didn’t want the police or the press involved. We had to be certain he was aware of that.”
Logan nodded. “Shouldn’t there be someone else here?”
“Who would that be?” asked Markell, all innocence.
“Dr. Stillman. Or did he object to my being called in?”
Markell looked at Shein, who seemed pleased to field the question. “Dr. Stillman is leaving the ACF for greener pastures. He has accepted an offer to be the director of the Southwest Regional Cancer Center in Phoenix. That far away enough for you, Logan?”
“Dr. Stillman was the original doctor on this case,” added Markell quickly. “Unfortunately, he did not agree with the course we wished to pursue. But we remain on
excellent terms. I expect no negative fallout for the Foundation.”
Throughout it all, Larsen, having taken a seat in the corner, looked as if he wanted nothing so much as to disappear into thin air. Now, Logan confidently turned his way. “How about you, Dr. Larsen? Do you agree with this course of action?”
Larsen cast a worried glance toward Markell. “Actually, I’m new to the case myself. But, yes, it strikes me as fully appropriate.”
“It does? You’re saying you’ve changed your mind about this compound? And me? You’re offering me an apology?”
Larsen shifted miserably in his chair. “I am interested in what is best for the American Cancer Foundation,” he replied stiffly. “That is my policy. As always.”
“Ah, but that isn’t what I’m asking. Don’t you remember, we have a history together, you and me.”
“Doctor,” cut in Markell, “is this absolutely necessary? There are times to put aside personal feelings in the interest of the general good.”
“Hey, c’mon,” spoke up Shein, throwing an arm around the younger man’s shoulder, “Logan’s got a point and we know it. You”—he pointed a finger at Larsen—“treated him like shit. If he wants to see you grovel a little, I, for one, can’t blame him.” He smiled amiably at his colleagues. “Why don’t you let me have a few minutes alone with Dr. Logan?”
Markell nodded. “Absolutely.”
Shein steered Logan toward the adjacent bathroom and closed the door behind them.
“Great.” He laughed, jerking a thumb toward the room they’d just left. “I enjoyed that as much as you did.” He rubbed his jaw. “And a lot more than the last time we got together.”
“How’d all this happen?” asked Logan coolly.
Shein shrugged. “Hey, didn’t I tell you I’m your guy? And now here we are, back in the saddle again—the Lone Ranger and Tonto.” He dropped his voice even lower.
“You know the best part? It’s a no-lose proposition. If she responds, we get the credit. If she dies, Stillman, out there where the buffalo roam, takes the blame. I mean, you should see her in there, so weak she can hardly move. The fucker wasted five months on totally useless treatment!”