Prizes

by Erich Segal

  Neither would I, Adam thought to himself with annoyance. This revelation disquieted him, and as the limousine navigated still narrower and darker roads, he grew more apprehensive. What if the Navy physician was still lying? What if this was some mafioso don?

  But then he realized that in a way it was. After all, Hartnell was an old-style power broker. This was far from the first time he would have twisted rules to get his own way.

  Perhaps the admiral read his thoughts, because a few minutes later he said earnestly, “Let me assure you, Dr. Coopersmith, Thomas Hartnell is a very worthy human being—and a valuable asset to this country. You should have no qualms about what you’re doing.”

  In moments they reached the imposing gates of Clifton House, which instantly opened to admit the men who had come to heal the lord of the manor.

  “Ow!”

  Adam stood silently in the elegant bedroom as Penrose injected the serum into Hartnell’s buttock. Then the two men turned the dignitary onto his back, and when Hartnell was comfortable, Adam, with the panache of a magician, whisked away the cloth from the object he had carried into the room and announced:

  “Voilà, Mr. Hartnell, a gift from Immunology Lab 808, and specifically its director, Max Rudolph.”

  “A mouse … ?”

  “Well yes, zoologically speaking, I suppose so. But this little fella’s rather unusual—he has the same blood chemistry as you do, and we thought if you saw him frisking around, it might give you an idea of what you’ll be like in a couple of weeks.”

  “Now tell me,” the Boss questioned imperiously, “how soon do I get better?”

  “I can’t answer that, sir,” Adam replied. “Unfortunately, you’re not a mouse.”

  After waiting for the sedative to take effect, Penrose led the visiting scientist to a majestic drawing room where members of the patient’s inner circle were tensely waiting by the fireplace. They were all anxious to hear what had transpired. The admiral quickly made the introductions.

  “All we can say at this point is that he’s resting comfortably,” he declared by way of overture. “And now, I’ll leave it to my learned colleague to spell out the procedure we’ve put into effect.”

  He gracefully yielded to Adam, who looked around, trying to gauge his audience, then began.

  “I don’t have to tell you that we’re skating on thin ice in total darkness. But I’ll be glad to share with you what little we do know.”

  Despite the lateness of the hour, Adam felt an unexpected surge of energy. Until now, he had been operating under enormous pressure. Not merely the tension of running so great a medical risk, but the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. These people were from another world. Their status intimidated him.

  But now they had entered a domain in which he was the master and they the wide-eyed tourists, looking at him with awe and hanging on his every word. When it came to discussing genetic engineering, his enthusiasm always went into overdrive.

  Moreover, he was a born teacher, and his manner charmed the audience.

  He discoursed on the development of a retrovirus that could be transported directly to the cancer cells that had gone amok. Its “disguise” would allow it to penetrate the nucleus of the malignant cell where the alchemy of DNA transformed foe back into friend. Pausing, he smiled.

  “In other words, it makes a bunch of Hell’s Angels suddenly turn into the Vienna Boys Choir.”

  Surveying his high-powered audience, Adam was puzzled by the presence of a tall, striking blonde. Her horn-rimmed glasses and conservative suit seemed to him deliberate attempts to camouflage her beauty.

  Yet Antonia Nielson was far too young—a fairly recent graduate of Georgetown Law School, it later emerged—to hold important government office. And she was even too youthful to be a politically acceptable wife for a sixty-year-old man.

  But she was the ideal vintage for a cabinet-level mistress.

  The only question was: Whose?

  In any case, she seemed to fill an important role, even meriting a private whispered chat with Boyd Penrose, who gave her a mock salute before they returned to the others.

  As Adam spoke, she smiled several times at his witticisms, and he began to think that he had seen her somewhere before.

  And then it struck him. To set the mouse cage down on the patient’s night table, he’d had to displace a leather-framed photograph of Hartnell and a ravishing young woman. He now realized it was Antonia, without spectacles. His question was answered.

  Under any other circumstances, Adam would have been tempted to claim her as his reward. But somehow in this grandiose—and somewhat menacing—atmosphere, he found himself intimidated. After all, he reminded himself, you also trifle with the Boss’s girl at your even greater peril.

  As the various guests departed, none of them neglected to kiss Antonia. It all appeared perfectly friendly, except the way the Attorney General held her. Indeed, if she had not been so clearly involved with the Boss, Adam would have suspected a liaison with the country’s chief legal officer.

  Unexpectedly, she took the initiative as they emerged from the mansion to a blue sky marbled with the first pink streaks of morning.

  Adam’s driver was waiting patiently. As if he’d been watching all evening, he sprang from the car and opened the back door for his passenger. Before Adam could climb inside, Antonia materialized next to him and asked in soft, confident tones, “Doctor, I know you’re staying at the Watergate. May I offer you a ride?”

  Adam smiled. This was an unexpected gift. “Only if you’ll agree to have a very early breakfast with me.”

  “Fine,” she answered. “I’ll even make it for you myself. But in return, you’ll have to let me cross-examine you like hell while we drive.”

  “With pleasure,” Adam responded. “Just let me retrieve my impedimenta and liberate the driver.”

  As they sped toward the capital, Adam quickly realized that her gesture was not romantically inspired. To be sure, she was desperately anxious to talk to him, but as a doctor.

  “Nobody tells me anything,” she complained. “I mean, even Boyd still treats me like a child. Would you mind terribly explaining the exact nature of what you’re doing?”

  Though she had listened raptly to the earlier account, she now made him review it point by point in even greater detail. When he’d finished, she said, as a kind of feverish command, “He’s got to live, Adam. You mustn’t let him die. Now honestly, what do you think his chances really are?”

  It was as if she was trying to persuade him to use other magic he might have been holding back. Still, though they had covered this ground before, he answered her question again, attempting to sympathize with her distracted concern.

  “Miss Nielson—”

  “Please call me Toni.”

  “Well, Toni, I can only say that what Max has done gives Mr. Hartnell a better shot of licking this killer than any other man on the planet.”

  “Oh Christ, that’s wonderful,” she exclaimed. As they stopped for a traffic light, she squeezed his hand. Yet even this wordless act was not an invitation, merely an impassioned thank-you. “I mean he’s such a good person. No one knows him better than I. Beneath that gruff exterior, he’s loving and sensitive.”

  Forty minutes later they were in her small, expensively decorated flat. Books formed much of the decor and reflected the wide variety of Toni’s interests.

  Her eclectic library included not only history and biography, but fiction of both Americas. She also offered some engaging literary interpretations. (On García Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude: “The diary of my social life.” On Moby Dick: “An allegory of Richard Nixon’s political career.”)

  While she stirred the batter for oatmeal pancakes, Adam excused himself to wash up. When he returned, she was placing the first flapjacks on his plate.

  “Butter? Syrup?” she inquired.

  “Thanks. I’ll help myself. This looks terrific. Hey, I wish Max were here—this is his favorite foo
d, and he deserves his share of the spoils.”

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  “I checked in before we left Virginia, but I think I ought to get over to my hotel pretty soon. There’s always a chance that one of my patients has had a crisis.”

  “That’s unusual. I thought all doctors were incommunicado if they went out of town.”

  “No,” he replied. “Not real doctors.”

  “Why don’t you just call over to see if you have any messages?” she suggested, revealing her anxiety at the thought of letting go of the Boss’s medical consultant.

  “Thanks, Toni, but I’m kind of bushed and think I ought to get some sleep. Besides, Mr. Hartnell’s watchful gaze is beginning to give me the willies.” He pointed to a copy of the same photograph he’d seen in the sick man’s bedroom. This time it was placed center stage near the sofa.

  “Well,” she joked, “it’s one way of keeping an eye on your patient. But may I delay your departure with another cup of coffee?”

  “Sure, fine.”

  Moments later, as she was in the kitchen area, the phone rang.

  “My God,” Adam remarked, “your day starts early.”

  She smiled. “No, it’s my evenings that are long. Take it, Adam. My hands are full.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Go on, answer or they’ll hang up.”

  He picked up the receiver, listened for an instant and said, “Are you sure you have the right number?”

  “Who is it?” she asked in a stage whisper.

  Adam covered the phone. “Sounds like a mistake. Some secretary’s asking for ‘Skipper.’ ”

  “Oh,” she said casually, taking the phone from him. “That’s me. It’s my old tomboy nickname.”

  Then, speaking to the caller, “Morning, Cecily, put him right on, please.” She paused for a moment and then exclaimed warmly, “Hi sweetheart, feeling better yet? Yes, I’m here with Dr. Coopersmith. We have to be sure he doesn’t walk under a bus or something. He’s a very precious commodity.”

  She listened for a minute and then asserted, “Yes, yes I did notice he’s attractive. What should matter to you is that he really knows his stuff and I honestly think this drug is going to work.”

  Then, abruptly, her voice became severe. “No—you listen to me. You will not have guests to dinner, especially not in your bedroom. Furthermore, when I get there I’m going to confiscate your booze. Now that you’re going to live, I don’t want you to die from cirrhosis.”

  In another minute they were exchanging kisses down the line. Toni hung up in a buoyant mood.

  “I guess you know who that was?” She smiled.

  “Yeah,” Adam responded, trying to mask his disappointment. “Everybody’s Boss.”

  “Except mine.” Toni grinned.

  “What makes you so special?” Adam asked, with an unmistakable tinge of jealousy.

  “I’m his daughter,” she replied.

  Well, well—Hartnell was her father. That changed things somewhat. No. That changed things completely.

  Except where did “Nielson” come from? That, at least, was a mystery easily dispelled nine hours later when they were returning to the Virginia estate.

  “Mr. Jack Nielson was a childhood folly,” she explained. “We were at law school together, and quite frankly, I think he was more in love with my father’s influence than he was with me. It was the only time the Boss and I disagreed.”

  “You mean he disapproved?”

  “No, as a matter of fact he thought Jack was terrific and practically pushed me into his arms. Anyway, my husband turned out to be such a louse that he was into philandering before we even got back from the honeymoon.”

  “I’m sorry,” Adam commiserated. “I mean, he was pretty stupid.”

  “Well,” she said breezily, “it was what they call a learning experience. And now I’m immunized.”

  “Against what?”

  She looked at the road ahead and then said quietly, “Against emotional involvements.”

  There was a dinner party at the mansion, after all. The only concession the Boss had made to doctor’s orders was that he did not attend in person.

  It was a high-level evening by any standard, a kind of elite circle of courtiers, befitting the nature of the house: two senators, a senior columnist from the New York Times, the Secretary of State. And the Attorney General. All except the last had brought a companion. Conversation was lively, if provincial—at least in Adam’s view. Their stock-in-trade was governmental gossip—small talk about big names.

  Before the evening ended, Admiral Penrose turned up in time to join Adam in a thorough examination of the patient, and then immediately departed.

  Toni stayed a bit longer, but she beckoned Adam into a corner for a rapid confidential chat. Pressing something metallic into his hand, she murmured, “Take my car and just leave it in the garage. I’ve got a spare set of keys. Will you be able to find your way back?”

  He nodded, understanding all too well what was happening and unable to keep from feeling hurt.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “I suppose so. How will you—” He stopped himself. “I guess that’s none of my business, huh?”

  “I guess,” she whispered.

  Okay, he consoled himself, it was all a meaningless tease. Or a figment of his imagination. Toni was not available, after all. She had unblushingly gone off hand in hand with the Attorney General.

  Yet the next night, she insisted upon taking him to dinner at La Renaissance.

  He was puzzled by her unexpected interest, but had already seen enough of her lifestyle to permit himself a few cynical observations at the end of the evening.

  “Does your father approve of you going out with a married man?”

  “He’s no one to talk,” she replied casually. “He stopped supervising my social life when I broke up with Jack. Anyway, he and … my friend were college classmates. So how can he object?”

  She was not the least self-conscious in discussing these details. On the other hand, she did not seem overjoyed, but rather philosophical about this relationship, which clearly was dependent on her “friend’s” domestic obligations. As it would turn out, there were even several nights in a row when Toni was unfettered and could invite Adam to one or another Washington festivity.

  His every attempt to elicit personal details of her life—except for what she had told him about her marriage—was met with a perfunctory rendition of her curriculum vitae, until finally he said in frustration, “This is supposed to be a conversation, not a job interview.”

  One evening, as they were walking home from a performance of Swan Lake at the Kennedy Center, he was in a carefree mood and actually danced for a few seconds in imitation of the prince. She surprised him by executing several steps in response.

  The whole incident was out of character for them both. Their defenses were suddenly down and they confessed to one another that, as children, they had each studied ballet.

  “What made you quit?” he asked. “I mean, you have a perfect dancer’s body.”

  She smiled. “Thanks for the compliment. The stupid truth is that I was always so tall that none of the boys could lift me. What stopped you from becoming the American Baryshnikov?”

  “Actually,” he answered, trying to sound mysterious, “I had an ulterior motive for taking lessons.”

  “Which was?”

  “I’ll tell you another time.” He grinned. And then, a few paces later, he scolded her, “Now can you see what a pain in the ass it is when you deliberately classify harmless information?”

  That night, Boyd Penrose phoned at three A.M.

  Without apology or preface he reported, “Coopersmith, I’ve just read the Boss’s numbers, and those lymphocytes are definitely making a comeback. I think we’ve turned the corner, old buddy.”

  Overflowing with euphoria, Adam called Boston and conveyed the good news to Max. As he hung up, there was another ring.

  “Hi, I got Boyd’s
message too, your line was busy,” Toni said ecstatically. “Were you on with Max?”

  “Yes, I just reported to him.”

  “I figured as much. Would you like to report to me for an impromptu party?”

  “Why not,” Adam agreed.

  Toni was intoxicated with joy. “Oh, Adam,” she wept, hurling her arms around him as he entered her apartment. “You’ve done it—you’ve saved my father!”

  Suddenly she was kissing him on the lips.

  It was unexpected, but far from undesirable. He’d been happy to begin with, but this amorous gesture added a new dimension.

  Which he welcomed wholeheartedly.

  The next morning, Toni put her arms around him and pleaded, “Now will you tell me why you took ballet?”

  “Two reasons. To begin with, my mother was the pianist for the class and I joined as an act of loyalty. Also it was a way to hurt my father for the shabby way he treated her. I punished him—imagine an Indiana steel-worker having to tell his buddies that his son was a fruitcake who pranced around in tights.”

  “Well, I can vouch for your masculinity,” she said, beaming. “And I’ll be happy to sign an affidavit. Anyway, what happened to your mom?”

  “She died when I was twelve. He killed her.”

  “What? You can’t be serious.”

  “She was trying to bear him another kid, and she got toxemia in the late stages of pregnancy.” His anger was emerging now. “I mean, it was a heartless thing from start to finish—when she got into trouble, he bullied the doctor to hold off delivery to make sure the baby she was carrying would live. In the end they lost both of them.”

  “Who took care of you?”

  “I took care of myself.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Yes. I found that out. So, unlikely as it sounds, I took up a sport—platform diving.”

  “Ah-ha,” she replied with admiration. “I guess you wanted to flirt with danger, huh?”

  “Sort of. But it meant that for at least a couple of seconds—in my head—I could be completely alone, thirty-three feet above the rest of the world.”

  “I knew you were a kindred spirit,” she murmured. “We’re both closet loners.”