Strong Medicine

by Arthur Hailey

  Making a fast decision, she said, “I want to see him. Over here.”

  “Vince?”

  “Yes. Tell him it’s an order. He’s to get on the first available plane and report to me as soon as he arrives.”

  Now they faced each other. Celia and Vincent Lord.

  They were in the living room of the Jordans’ Mayfair apartment.

  Lord looked tired, older than his sixty-one years, and under strain. He had lost weight so that his face was even thinner than before. His face muscles, which earlier had twitched occasionally, were doing it more often.

  Celia remembered an incident from her early days as assistant director of sales training, when she had often gone to Lord for technical advice. In attempting to be friendly she had suggested that they use first names, and Lord had replied unpleasantly, “It would be better for both of us, Mrs. Jordan, to remember at all times the difference in our status.”

  Well, Celia thought, for this occasion she would take his advice.

  She said coldly, “I will not discuss the disgraceful Yaminer affair, Dr. Lord, except to say that it gives the company an opportunity to dissociate itself from you, and leave you to defend yourself about everything—at your own expense.”

  With a glint of triumph in his eyes, Lord said, “You can’t do that because you’re going to be indicted too.”

  “If I choose to do it, I can. And any defense arrangements I make for myself are my concern, not yours.”

  “If you choose …?” He seemed puzzled.

  “I will not make any commitment. Understand that. But if the company is to help with your defense, I insist on knowing everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “There’s something in the past,” Celia said. “Something that you know and I don’t. I believe it has to do with Dr. Mace.”

  They had been standing. Lord motioned to a chair. “May I?”

  “Yes.” Celia sat down too.

  “All right,” Lord said, “there is something. But you won’t like hearing it. And after you know, you’ll be sorry that you do.”

  “I’m waiting. Get on with it.”

  He told her.

  Told everything, going back to the first problems with Gideon Mace at the FDA, Mace’s pettiness, the insults, the long, unreasonable delays in approving Staidpace—in the end, a good, lifesaving drug … Later the attempt to discover something harmful about Mace, resulting in Lord’s Georgetown meeting in a homosexual bar with Tony Redmond, an FDA technician … Lord’s purchase from Redmond of documents incriminating Mace. The cost: two thousand dollars—an expenditure approved by Sam, who later agreed not to disclose the information to a law enforcement agency but to hold the papers secretly, thus making Sam and Lord accessories to a crime … Two years later, when Mace was delaying FDA approval of Montayne, the decision, shared by Sam, to blackmail Mace … The blackmail succeeding, despite Dr. Mace’s unease about the Australian report on Montayne and his honest doubts about the drug …

  Then it was done. Now Celia knew it all and, as Lord had predicted, wished that she did not. Yet she had had to know because it affected future judgments she would make as president of Felding-Roth.

  At the same time so much became clearer: Sam’s despair and guilt, the real and deeper reason for his suicide … Dr. Mace’s breakdown at the Senate hearings and, when asked why he had approved Montayne, his pathetic answer, “I just don’t know.” … Mace’s anger at Felding-Roth and all its works.

  Celia thought: If I were Mace I would hate us too.

  And now that Celia knew the sorry, dismal story, what came next? Her conscience told her there was only one thing she ought to do. Inform the authorities. Go public. Tell the truth. Let all concerned take their chances—Vincent Lord, Gideon Mace, Felding-Roth, herself.

  But what if she did? Where would it leave everybody? Lord and Mace would be destroyed of course—a thought which left her unconcerned. What did concern her was the realization that the company would be disgraced and dragged down too, and not just the company as a paper entity, but its people: employees, executives, stockholders, the other scientists apart from Vincent Lord. Only she herself might look good, but that was least important.

  Equally to the point was the question: If she went public what would be achieved? The answer: After this length of time—nothing.

  So she would not do the “conscience thing.” She would not go public. She knew, without having to think about it any more, that she too would remain silent, would join the others in corruption. She had no choice.

  Lord knew it also. Around his thin lips there was the ghost of a smile.

  She despised him. Hated him more than anyone else in all her life.

  He had corrupted himself, corrupted Mace, corrupted Sam. Now he had corrupted Celia.

  She stood up. Emotionally, almost incoherently, she shouted, “Get out of my sight! Go!”

  He went.

  Andrew, who had been visiting a London hospital, returned an hour later.

  She told him, “Something’s happened. I’ll have to go back right after Martin and Yvonne’s party. That means a flight the day after tomorrow. If you want to stay a few days more—”

  “We’ll go together,” Andrew said. He added quietly, “Let me handle the arrangements. I can tell you’ve a lot on your mind.”

  Soon afterward, he reported back. Thursday’s Concorde to New York was fully booked. He had secured two first-class seats on a British Airways 747. They would be in New York, then Morristown, on Thursday afternoon.

  21

  Yvonne could scarcely believe it. Was she really inside Buckingham Palace? Was it truly herself in the State Ballroom, seated with others whose spouses or parents were about to receive honors, all of them waiting with varying degrees of excitement or expectancy for the Queen’s arrival? Or was it all a dream?

  If a dream, it was delightful. And set to music by the regimental band of the Coldstream Guards in the minstrels’ gallery above. They were playing Early One Morning, that happy, jouncy tune.

  But no, it was no dream. Because she had come here to the Palace with her own dear Martin, who was now waiting in an anteroom, ready to be escorted in when the ceremony began. Already Martin had gone through a brief rehearsal, guided by the Comptroller of the Household, a colonel in dress uniform.

  Suddenly a pause, a stir. The band stopped, its music ceasing in midflow. All other activity halted. In the gallery, the bandmaster, his baton poised, stood waiting for a signal. It came. As liveried footmen swung double doors open, the Queen appeared.

  The uniformed were at attention. All guests had stood. The baton swooped. The national anthem, sweet yet strong, swelled out.

  The Queen, in a turquoise silk dress, was smiling. She moved to the center of the ballroom. Dutifully following were the Lord Chamberlain and the Home Secretary, each in morning dress. The presentation of honors began. The band played a Strauss waltz softly. All was dignified, fast-moving and efficient. No wasted time, but not an occasion that those involved were likely to forget.

  Yvonne was storing every detail in her memory.

  Martin’s turn came soon, immediately following a Knight Commander of St. Michael and St. George who took precedence in rank. Following instructions, Martin entered, advanced three paces, bowed … forward to a kneeling box … right knee on the box, left foot to the floor … As Martin knelt, the Queen accepted a sword from an equerry and with it touched Martin lightly on both shoulders. He rose … a half pace to the right, one pace forward … With Martin standing, his head bowed slightly, the Queen placed around his neck a gold medallion on a red-and-gold ribbon.

  The Queen had spoken briefly with each person being honored. With Martin, Yvonne thought, more time was spent. Then, with three backward paces and a bow, Martin was gone.

  He joined Yvonne quietly a few minutes later, slipping into a seat beside her. She whispered, “What did the Queen say?”

  Smiling, he whispered back, “The Queen is a well-informe
d lady.”

  Yvonne knew that later she would find out exactly what the Queen had said.

  Yvonne’s only disappointment was that she hadn’t seen or met the Prince and Princess of Wales. She had been told in advance that it wasn’t likely they would even be in the palace, but had hoped. One day, though, it might happen. Now that she was married to Martin, anything could happen.

  The only thing she was having trouble getting used to since the announcement of Martin’s knighthood was being addressed as “my lady” by Harlow and Cambridge people, including the head porter at Lucy Cavendish. She’d asked him not to, but he insisted. Well, in time she supposed she’d adjust to that and other things. After all, Yvonne thought whimsically, quite soon there would be farmers calling for Lady Peat-Smith, veterinary surgeon, to take care of their pigs and cows.

  Celia and Andrew’s reception and party at the Dorchester Hotel in honor of Sir Martin and Lady Peat-Smith was a great success. It began at teatime, went on until early evening, and during that time nearly a hundred people came, including most of the Harlow institute’s senior staff. Rao Sastri was there; he was escorting Lilian, and they seemed to be having fun. Twice, however, Celia saw them with their heads together, apparently engaged in serious talk. Rao, Celia knew, was unattached; according to Martin, he had never married.

  Yvonne was looking lovely and radiant. She had lost weight and confided to Celia that Martin had at last allowed her to take Peptide 7. For Yvonne, as for others, the drug’s antiobesity factor worked.

  During the party Celia told Martin quietly, “Andrew and I are leaving tomorrow, early. When this is over, I’d like the four of us to have a few minutes by ourselves.”

  At last the celebration ended. With happy leave-takings, the guests dispersed.

  It was already dark when Celia, Andrew, Martin and Yvonne walked the short distance from the Dorchester to Fortyseven Park. The February day had been cold, but clear and invigorating. The clearness was persisting into night.

  Now they were relaxed in the pleasant living room of the Jordans’ apartment.

  “Martin,” Celia said, “I’ll come to the point because it’s been a full day and I think we’re all a little tired. As you know, Felding-Roth is building a genetic engineering facility. It will be in New Jersey, not far from what will be our new Morristown headquarters, and we’re taking care that the labs will have everything in them to gladden a genetic scientist’s heart.”

  “I’d heard some of that,” Martin said. “The quality of what you’re doing is already being talked about.”

  “What I’m leading up to,” Celia continued, “is a question. Will you and Yvonne come to live in the United States, and will you head our genetic research as vice president and director of the new labs? I’d promise you a free hand to follow whatever scientific direction you believe we should.”

  There was a silence. Then Martin said, “It’s a fine offer, Celia, and I’m truly grateful. But the answer is no.”

  She urged, “You don’t have to give an answer now. Why not take time to think about it, and talk it over with Yvonne?”

  “I’m afraid the answer’s definite,” Martin said. “It has to be because I need to tell you something else. I wish I could have picked another time, but here it is. I’m resigning from Felding-Roth.”

  The news shocked Celia. “Oh, no! That can’t be true.” Then she looked at him sharply. “Are you going to another pharmaceutical company? Has someone made a better offer? Because, if so—”

  He shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that to you. At least, not without discussing it first. What I’m doing is returning to an old love.”

  “He means Cambridge, not another woman,” Yvonne said. “We’re going to live there. The university is where his heart is.”

  And where I plucked him from before you knew him, Celia thought.

  She had been unprepared for the news, but instinct told her there would be no dissuading Martin, so she wouldn’t try. Cambridge had called; he had responded like a homing pigeon. Well, on a sunlit Sunday thirteen years earlier, she had won a victory against the university. It had proved a worthwhile victory all around. But time’s wheel had spun; now it was Cambridge’s turn, and Celia and Felding-Roth had lost.

  Andrew spoke, addressing Martin. “I always thought that academia might call you back one day. Will you be master of a college? I read somewhere that there are vacancies.”

  “There are,” Martin answered, “but not for me. At forty-six I’m still young for a mastership. Maybe when I’m older, grayer, more illustrious …”

  “Goodness!” Celia exclaimed. “How illustrious do you have to be? You’ve had a major scientific breakthrough, accolades worldwide, a knighthood.”

  Martin smiled. “Cambridge has seen all those things many times. The university is not easily impressed. No, I’m going in under something called the ‘New Blood Scheme.’”

  It was a government-sponsored program, he explained, through which he would become an assistant director of research in one of several new, frontier areas of science. The salary in the new post, as was so often the case in academia, would not be large—to begin, less than ten thousand pounds a year. However, the Peat-Smiths would be comfortable because of Martin’s substantial Peptide 7 income, and he would undoubtedly use some of it, he said, to supplement his department’s research funds.

  Several months earlier a settlement for Martin had been worked out by Felding-Roth’s financial officers and lawyers in New Jersey. The arrangement had received Celia’s approval and, later, the board’s.

  Under British law—the Patents Act of 1977—Martin could have applied for a court award of compensation for his Peptide 7 discovery. But he hadn’t wanted to go to court, even amicably, nor had Felding-Roth. Therefore, by agreement, an offshore trust fund of two million pounds had been set up in the Bahamas from where money would flow to Martin regularly. The fund was hedged around with legal moats and barriers so that Britain’s confiscatory taxation system would not, as Celia expressed it, “rob Martin of his just reward.”

  That just reward, she now thought ruefully, had helped open the way back to Cambridge. She suspected, though, that Martin would have made the same decision whether the Peptide 7 money were available or not.

  Before Martin and Yvonne left to drive home, Celia said, “Felding-Roth will miss you both, but I hope the four of us will always stay close friends.”

  They agreed they would.

  Prior to Celia and Andrew’s departure from Britain, one final matter was arranged.

  Several hours after Martin and Yvonne had gone, and close to the Jordans’ bedtime, there was a knock at the apartment door. It was Lilian Hawthorne. Sensing that Lilian wanted to be alone with Celia, Andrew discreetly disappeared.

  “I’m glad you talked me into coming to England,” Lilian said. “You may have noticed that I’ve had a good time.”

  “Yes, I have,” Celia said. She smiled. “I was pleased to see Rao enjoy himself too.”

  “Rao and I have discovered that we like each other—and it may be even more than that.” The older woman hesitated. “I suppose you’ll think, because all of it has happened so quickly, and at my age, I’m being foolish …”

  “I think nothing of the sort. What I do think is that it’s time you had fun again, Lilian, that you should enjoy life any way you want, and if that includes Rao Sastri—fine!”

  “I’m pleased you feel that way because it’s about that I came to see you. I want to ask a favor.”

  “If I can do it,” Celia said, “I will.”

  “Well, Rao would like to come to America. He says he’s wanted to for a long time. I’d like it too, and if it were possible for him to work at Felding-Roth …”

  The sentence was left unfinished. Celia completed it. “It would be convenient for you both.”

  Lilian smiled. “Something like that.”

  “I’m certain,” Celia said, “that a place can be found in the new genetic labs. In fact you can
tell Rao I guarantee it.”

  Lilian’s face lit up. “Thank you, Celia. He’ll be delighted. He was hoping for that. He knows he doesn’t have the leadership qualities of someone like Martin; he told me so. But he’s a good support scientist—”

  “I’m aware of that, which makes it easier,” Celia said. “But even if he’d been less than he is, I’d still have done it. You did me a big favor many years ago, Lilian, my dear. This is a small one in return.”

  The older woman laughed. “You’re talking about that first morning we met? When you came to the house—so young, so brash—hoping I’d help you become a detail woman, by influencing Sam?”

  Then she stopped, a catch in her voice as, for both of them, so many memories flooded back.

  Early the following morning a chauffeured limousine conveyed Andrew and Celia to Heathrow airport.

  EPILOGUE

  In the 747’s first-class section the trappings of luncheon had been cleared away. Andrew, after leaving his seat briefly, returned.

  He told Celia, “I was thinking in there”—he waved a hand in the direction of the airplane’s toilets—“how we take so many things for granted. When Lindbergh made the first successful transatlantic flight, which isn’t all that long ago, he had to stay in his seat and urinate into a flask.”

  Celia laughed. “I’m glad that much has changed.” She regarded her husband quizzically. “Is that all? I sense some philosophy aborning.”

  “You’re right. I’ve been thinking about your business—pharmaceuticals. I had a thought or two you might find cheering.”

  “I could use a little of that.”

  “People like you, hemmed in by pressures,” Andrew said, “get so close to what you’re doing that there are times—and I think this is one—when you’re apt to see the storm clouds only, and forget the rainbows.”