by Jordan Dane
Jasmine rolled her eyes but didn't say a word.
"Yes, I suppose that describes it." The doctor raised an eyebrow and paused for effect. "Since natural pleasures are necessary for survival, the limbic system creates an appetite that drives human beings to seek them out. And when someone experiences unnaturally intense feelings of pleasure, the limbic system is flooded with dopamine. So the behavior is reinforced."
The doctor walked slowly down the aisle as he explained the complex topic.
"So we believe the brain circuits regulate a person's responses to food, sex, or certain risky behaviors, and acts like a natural reinforcement for survival. Well, what if this natural order is somehow commandeered from its usual path? If this happens, it's conceivable a person might become addicted to overeating, for example."
"And I suppose this also explains how drug addiction works, right?" Christian asked. "The drug high signals the brain to release the dopamine and the behavior is reinforced, time and time again, at greater and greater levels."
The facility director stopped walking, losing his enthusiasm for the subject. The eye contact he'd been exchanging vanished, replaced by a glare tinged with caution. The man stuffed his hands in his slacks.
"Yes, the principle works for all types of addictions," he said, picking up his pace through the laboratory. "A person's genetic makeup probably plays a role, but after enough doses, an addict's limbic system craves the drug. And dependency is made worse over time. Without a dose of the drug, dopamine levels in the abuser's brain are low. They feel flat, lifeless, and depressed. So the addict needs drugs to overcome these feelings. Larger amounts are needed to create a dopamine flood or high, an effect known as tolerance. And so the cycle goes."
A flurry of familiar questions bombarded Christian, but one stood out. Why would a man associated with drug trafficking in the States be involved with a genetics lab committed to curing the disease in South America? His gut wrenched as he followed Dr. Phillips. He had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer.
When they exited the lab and turned toward the offices, he knew the tour was almost over. Even though his body felt stiff, his mind churned with questions, perhaps stemming from his need to procrastinate.
"With the rain forest nearby, does your research include a broader scope? A search for new medicines, for example?"
The doctor brightened, thankful for the change in topic. "It is one of the very reasons this facility has achieved what it has. Our close proximity to Mother Nature's own pantry has afforded us great opportunities."
Phillips directed them into another room. A climate-controlled structure stood in the center of the floor. Technicians in white coats blurred behind opaque walls. The usual high-tech gear and computers lined the walls of the room, but the main focus was the arboretum.
"Can we see inside?" Christian asked.
Phillips was getting tired of accommodating him, but the man complied after a quick glance at his watch, "Certainly. I suppose I can spare a little more time."
Stifling heat stemmed his next breath as Christian walked inside the conservatory. The temperature shift from chilly to hot made him want to sneeze. He fought the sensation, but Jasmine wasn't so lucky. She suppressed a set of three sneezes.
"Bless you." He responded on pure reflex, but had second thoughts about blessing an assassin. Somehow, it went against the grain.
The interior of the greenhouse was set up like a mini-rain forest, complete with artificial light. Butterflies fluttered amidst the flowers, and small colorful birds chirped in the trees. Man-made streams and fountains provided a soothing white noise. And water misters purged their contents onto the picturesque setting at timed intervals. In a perfect world, nothing was left to chance. Someone had an eye for style over function. Even Jasmine appreciated it. She walked next to him, brushing his arm as she lost her balance looking into the lush trees, her eyes wicie with wonder.
"Did you have a hand in this, Dr. Phillips? It's beautiful." Christian meant it.
"Yes, I did. Rather proud of it, actually." The man smiled. "I sometimes eat my lunch here. It's quiet. Peaceful."
Christian appreciated the need for a quiet mind. His own demons rarely cooperated.
A female technician hunched over a small shrub ahead, digging at the yellow-tinted root bark. The vivid color combination of the exotic plant caught his attention. He hadn't seen anything like it. Small green leaves set off delicate white flowers with bright pink spots. And elongated oval-shaped fruit, the color of an orange, hung from its stems. The lab tech extracted clippings from the root system.
"What is she doing, Doctor?"
"Ah, Tabernanthe Iboga, also known as black bug-bane, or simply the Iboga. It's a perennial, more plentiful in western Africa. Although it's found in our rain forests, it is not as common, so we cultivate a crop of it here." Phillips's eyes wandered around the room and he kept looking at his watch, making sure Christian got the message that he wanted this tour to be over. "But we've also discovered a similar plant that's showing great promise. It grows near the base of the Chapada dos Guimarães foothills that overlook the Pantanal near the Paraguay River. The local tribes have been .. . generous to the efforts of this research facility. We have a great deal more research to do, but our initial studies show amazing similarities without the same downside in side effects."
Phillips turned around, directing them away, but Christian had another question.
"With all the exotic vegetation in this country, why the fascination with this plant and the one in the foothills?"
The man stopped short and sighed. He let a long moment pass before he replied, "The Iboga and its distant cousin stimulate the central nervous system. Under scientific testing conditions, Ibogaine has been found to be effective in stopping addiction to hard drugs such as heroin or cocaine. It may also help interrupt chemical dependency to alcohol and nicotine. We are simply studying this aspect to see if there is a genetic correlation. Standard procedure, really."
The facility director dismissed his curiosity once again. Even Jasmine gave him the stink eye. But Christian was having none of it.
"This doesn't sound like something the FDA would approve."
"No, unfortunately not." Dr. Phillips let out a loud sigh, making a show of his impatience. "Even though the pharmaceutical aspects have been extolled in countless peer reviews and position papers, no formal clinical studies have been completed."
With a grin, the man added, "But there is growing support in the U.S. for legislation making it permissible for Ibogaine—and perhaps other derivative plants not yet on their legal radar—to be used for medicinal purposes, similar to marijuana."
"No harm, no foul, just as long as no one inhales?"
"Excuse me?"
"Ah, nothing." Christian shook his head. "So Charboneau and the backers of this facility would be ahead of the game if a worldwide Ibogaine market opened up ... or some derivation of that by-product that might be uncovered through your studies. Operating in a country that allows such research would give them an edge."
For what purpose, he still had no idea. His speculation sounded like a legitimate business enterprise, but curing adciiction wasn't much of a game plan for a drug lord bent on world domination.
"Yes, I suppose. And you are right. We have discovered other plants similar to the Iboga that are not banned in the U.S." The doctor shrugged. "We're making strides."
Strides? Strides in their agenda. Maybe that was the point. Interesting that Phillips was more concerned by a U.S. ban than the therapeutic aspects. Finding a way around U.S. laws and international borders handed them a get-out-of-jail card in case they needed it. Making strides around the law on a global scale could be quite lucrative until they were deterred by legal measures. And with enough distribution infrastructures, they could operate for a long time before they were shut down, country by country. The arm of the law moved slowly across jurisdictions. But he realized he had to know more about the plant itself.
"You
said the Iboga stimulates the nervous system. How does it work exactly?"
Phillips appeared uneasy by his interrogation.
"When taken in small doses, it reduces sleep, makes it possible to resist hunger and fatigue, and activates circulation and respiration. The root material has an astringent bitter taste when chewed, causing an anesthetic sensation in the mouth and numbness to the skin," the doctor explained. "Local natives use it in rituals and tribal dances to stimulate spiritual hallucinations, particularly at night. Apparently, darkness accentuates the haunting experience. And because it's not addictive, they consider it quite harmless. Now I really must be going."
"Yeah, but human nature being what it is . . ." Christian touched the man's arm to grab his attention. ". . . someone always pushes the limit. What happens when the dose is upped to overload, Doc?"
He knew he pushed the guy's buttons, but his mind was filled with questions. Jasmine, impatient as well, stood behind Phillips and glared at him, arms crossed and foot tapping. Some forms of communication needed no translation.
A concerned look shadowed the doctor's face, an uneasy fear. "In massive doses, it can cause death by paralysis of the respiratory muscles. Not a pleasant way to go, I'm afraid. The victim suffers extensive hallucinations in a frenzied state. And they endure profound paranoia before they simply suffocate, strangled by the failure of their crippled lungs. Agonizing."
That sounded way too personal.
"You've witnessed an overdose before?"
The doctor stared off into the distance, his mind in another time and place.
"Once." The peaceful setting of the arboretum mocked the memory he relived. "And once is quite enough."
The man cleared his throat and ushered them out of the hothouse and back into the main corridor.
"I'm afraid that's all the time I have today." The director turned for the offices up front, expecting them to follow.
"Wait a minute. What's down here?" Christian pointed to a corridor the man had avoided.
"Oh, that's nothing. A medical clinic we set up to serve the local community." Phillips turned to go, but neither Jasmine nor Christian followed. When the man looked back over his shoulder, he added, "I assure you it's nothing. Minor injuries, immunizations, really basic health care for the locals. It was negotiated . . . recently."
"Such a humanitarian gesture. I would think you'd want to show it off." Christian shrugged and stood his ground.
Jasmine joined him, crossing her arms. "The last time my employer came for a visit, this clinic was not in service. I would also like to see it for myself."
Dr. Phillips sighed. "Very well. Follow me," he conceded, and headed toward the health facility. His jaw was knotted with tension, nudging a nasty cluster of purple veins jutting from his temple.
With a pained grimace, Christian hoisted the tote carrying the dead snake and voodoo artifacts onto his sore shoulder and waved an arm for Jasmine to pass.
"After you, Ms. Lee."
The beautiful woman said nothing. Her sly wink gave him the only Atta boy he'd get.
CHAPTER 10
Like a Russian nesting doll, the clinic was burrowed neatly within the much larger genetics facility, only a fraction of the puzzle Charboneau's money had funded. If Christian hadn't paid attention on the tour, he might never have noticed the breezeway link to this section of the compound. The medical clinic had been cordoned off from the rest of the secured research laboratory, with a circular drive and a small parking lot outside. On the taxi ride in, he hadn't noticed any signs directing traffic to a healthcare clinic. Yet it looked like an entrance allowed the public through an open gate without security during the day, giving the community better access.
Being the cordial guide, Dr. Phillips now led them through the main ward. Contrary to what the doctor had led them to believe, the facility mainly catered to expectant mothers, not just general health concerns. Christian might not have given this a second thought since everything appeared in order—except for Jasmine's behavior. Her classic stoic face morphed into edgy apprehension. When the doctor's back was turned, she stepped toward the bed of a pregnant teenage girl, grabbed her chart and scanned the girl's medical history.
"What's wrong?" Christian whispered, turning his back on their host. She kept reading, a troubled look on her face.
Eventually, Dr. Phillips stepped between them and yanked the chart from Jasmine. "In this facility, we respect a patient's right to privacy."
"Yes, of course." Jasmine nodded her apology, a courteous bow of her head. "I was merely curious."
She walked up to the young girl, who couldn't have been more than fifteen years old. Shoulder length black hair, skin the color of caramel, and large hazel eyes brimming with uncertainty. Even with her swollen belly, she looked small and frail in the hospital bed. But the young girl managed a smile. Jasmine reached for her, ran fingers through her bangs and touched her cheek.
Christian had no idea she could muster such affection. Well, I'll be damned! When the doctor headed back to see what Jasmine was up to, he waved the man off.
"The girl reminded her of someone. Let it go." He knew Jasmine had something on her mind. To deflect attention away from her, he went on the offensive. "Is this place linked to the research conducted at the lab?"
"No, this clinic is purely humanitarian in nature. What are you implying?"
Christian stepped in, closing the gap with Dr. Phillips, while Jasmine made the rounds.
"Come on, Doc. You mean you're not even tempted to further your research with discarded tissue samples? You do fertility work here?"
From the corner of his eye, Christian saw Jasmine steal a peek at other med charts. No doubt, she had something on her mind. And for his part in the diversion—making a belligerent ass of himself—he expected Jasmine's cooperation when it came time to share her suspicions.
The doctor's skin grew flush, almost purple, to match the veins on his face.
"Mr. Delacorte. Are you suggesting this clinic is involved in stem cell research with unsuspecting donors?"
Christian had no idea where he would go with this line of questioning. He only wanted to stall. From the corner of his eye he caught Jasmine motioning with her hand, a signal for him to keep going. Well, damn it! Read faster. As she flipped through another chart, he dug through his memory for something more to say.
"I've heard a lot of embryos are tossed in the fertility process. I bet that seems like a waste for a researcher like you. Too much temptation?"
Before the man blew a gasket, Christian saved the best for last.
"And what about genetic engineering?" He waggled a finger. "A controversial subject. But with the genome for drug addiction identified, wouldn't it be possible to reengineer a junkie, steer him away from his addiction?"
From fertility and pregnant mothers to a point counterpoint on crazed meth heads, Dr. Phillips grappled with the change in topic. But the way Christian figured it, when grasping at straws, sound reasoning only got in the way.
The man took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes, that's our hope."
"Is it, Dr. Phillips? Is that what Nicholas Charboneau had in mind with this privately funded research?" When the director didn't answer, Christian pressed. "Isn't it also possible to engineer a normal person into becoming an addict? Or make the dependency that much stronger on someone already addicted?"
Indignation replaced the sudden panic on Phillips's face, but not before Christian got a good look at his initial reaction. Score one for the visiting team.
"That's ... preposterous. I see you've been reading all the propaganda from people who don't understand the benefits mankind can derive from stem cell research. For your information, adult stem cells have been extracted from bone marrow since the sixties, for crying out loud. Besides, why would someone knowingly subject themselves to be rewired into an addict?"
"Key word being 'knowingly,'" Christian countered.
"I resent the implication, sir."
"Implicat
ion? Maybe I haven't made myself clear. How are you getting your test samples, Doc? Before I came here, I did a little light reading on genetics, something about legislation on human tissue."
"I'm well aware of the Human Tissues Act." Phillips crossed his arms over his chest.
"Yeah, well . . ." Christian nodded. "International law puts a tight lid on testing human genetic material without informed consent from the patient. Tell me, are you and this facility in compliance, Dr. Phillips?"
"I assure you, none of the people you've seen here today have had their rights violated."
"Very clever semantics, Doc. What about all the people we haven't seen?"
"That's enough." Jasmine weighed in. She'd made her rounds. Now, in a low voice, she intervened. Christian had crossed a line she would defend. Char-boneau's line.
"You feel the conflict, Jasmine? Maybe your beloved employer put himself in the line of fire without knowing it. Maybe the people behind this so-called research got greedy and took him out. You gotta pick sides. What's it gonna be?"
She looked surprised. He'd caught her off guard, not an easy feat.
Christian knew what the doctor said made sense. Even if someone's genes were manipulated without their knowledge, how would the subterfuge be implemented on a grand scale? With Charboneau out of the picture, he knew he might never know the answer. He had to find his father to uncover the truth behind such a conspiracy. Now there was more at stake than a rescue mission for one man. And Jasmine would have to choose sides.
"I think this tour is ended." Phillips seethed with anger.
"I agree," Jasmine chimed in, with less conviction.
Seeing his chance to evade Christian's questions, the doctor took advantage of his rift with Jasmine and waved over a security guard. "Call a taxi for our guests and see that they are escorted off the property. Don't let them get lost." To Christian, he added, "I hope you understand when I say our meeting is concluded and you're not welcome back."