Sweet Talking Money

by Harry Bingham

  Cameron shrugged. ‘I don’t know. That’s the point. They … whoever.’

  Bryn felt a flicker of excitement flashing from nerve to nerve across his body, like a lightning flash that briefly illuminates an entire landscape. He didn’t know why or what, but he knew he was on to something important. He leaned forward. ‘Let me understand. When you send a paper to the Journal or any other scientific publication, they get it reviewed, right? Half a dozen independent reviewers comment on whether the article is good enough to be accepted. Did your paper go out to reviewers, or was this rejection just based on the editor?’

  ‘Oh, no. The editor, he was keen – I mean, was keen.’

  ‘Do you know who he chose to review your paper?’

  ‘Sure. I’m not supposed to, but I found out.’ Cameron gestured at the mountains of paper surrounding her desk. ‘In the yellow binder, there.’

  Bryn found the binder and pulled it out. Pasted to the inside flap was a list of six reviewers, names and numbers.

  ‘Good.’ He brought the list back to the sofa. ‘Now, I need you to think. Look at these six names. Tell me if you can think of any reason why they might be hostile to you or your paper.’

  Cameron looked at the list for about two tenths of a second, then shook her head. ‘No. Why be hostile? It’s only science, for God’s sake.’

  Once again, Bryn did his bully-boy act, squeezing Cameron’s shoulders so that she was forced to look up into his eyes. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Nothing: in the world happens without a reason. Nothing. If a handful of intelligent scientists chooses to believe some coked-up laboratory manager without even checking with you, then there’s a reason. Once we work it out, we probably know who’s behind all this. OK?’

  Cameron looked back at the list, more intently now. But the names still revealed nothing to her. She dropped the list. ‘I can’t think of a reason.’

  ‘OK. Who does your paper hurt? It’s about – what? How to juice up rat blood?’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt anyone,’ she said, a little sharply. ‘My medicine is about helping people.’

  ‘Helping people, right. But what about your rats? What was in your article?’

  Cameron shrugged, as though unimpressed by her own achievements. ‘I took a hundred and fifty rats, gave them five kinds of killer disease, then treated their immune systems. Reprogrammed them. Programmed them to be incredibly good at killing whatever virus it was I’d given them. I wrote up my results and sent ’em to the Journal.’

  ‘And what about the rats?’

  ‘They lived, of course. Otherwise my paper wouldn’t have been very interesting, would it?’ Bryn gripped Cameron’s arm, tightly, more than was polite. He delivered his next question with barely controlled intensity. ‘To cure your rats. Did you use drugs? Were their recoveries in any way drug-dependent?’

  ‘Oh, who cares?’

  Cameron sought to free her arm, but Bryn tightened his grip, as his nerves danced with urgency. ‘Please, Cameron. It’s critical that you tell me.’

  She quit struggling. ‘Some of the rats benefited from very small doses of immune stimulant pharmaceuticals. In real life, not an experiment, I might have wanted some further drug support. But in general, no. The rats didn’t get better because of any drugs.’

  Bryn’s flicker of excitement burst into flame, seizing hold of his entire body. He leaped back as though on fire. ‘Jesus Christ! Jesus, Cameron, I thought you said your paper didn’t hurt anyone. There are billions – no forget that – there are tens, hundreds of billions of dollars invested in drug technologies which you could be putting at threat. It’s not if, frankly, it’s who … Let me think. Jesus.’ He took the list of names again, thrusting them in front of the scientist, inches from her face. ‘Do you recognise any of these names? Is there a common link? Any company, or organisation?’

  Cameron looked at the names. ‘They’re all OK. This guy, Professor Durer, he’s quite good. Had a real interest in my work. Rucci … The name rings a bell, but … Now, Freward. He’s a grade-A creep, but an OK scientist … The others, hell, the others, who cares?’ Her insightful analysis stumbled to a close.

  Bryn drummed briefly on the table. Then, pulling out his phone, he began to dial.

  4

  First London, where it was two o’clock in the morning. He called three of his junior analysts, two of whom were asleep in bed, one of whom was at work, finishing up a spreadsheet for one of Bryn’s other projects. Bryn began to bark instructions, getting the two sleepy analysts into work as soon as possible, pulling the third off his existing project for the time being. He thought briefly, then, for the sake of completeness, he called a couple of associates in New York and set them the exact same task, with the same urgent deadline as he’d given the others. What one group missed, the other might find, and vice versa. Before he was done, he interrupted himself briefly. ‘Fax?’ he asked Cameron. ‘E-mail?’ Wordlessly, she pointed to her filofax which lay on the desk. Bryn flipped to the contact information, and gave it to the associates on the other end of the line. He switched off his phone and tossed it down.

  ‘There we go. We’ll have some answers pretty soon.’

  ‘Answers to what? Except whether you’re a nice guy to work for.’

  Bryn allowed himself a tiny smile. ‘We pay ’em enough.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  Bryn looked up in surprise. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Who are you? How come you know about the pharma industry? More to the point, what the hell made you come see me tonight?’

  With a jolt, Bryn realised that Cameron knew nothing about him. She’d shown no personal curiosity in him the night they first met, and this evening the normal social exchanges had been obliterated by the steamroller of Cameron’s distress. ‘I’m an investment banker,’ he said, briefly explaining who he was and how come he was in Boston.

  ‘That doesn’t explain how come you’re in my apartment.’

  He shrugged. Why was he here? Because his wife had left him and he thought that some weird Dr Dynamite scientist type was going to make him feel all warm and cuddly again? He shook the question away, and crossed to Cameron. ‘We should have some data coming in by now.’

  He booted up Cameron’s PC and went into her e-mail. Before long, e-mails began to fly in from London and New York. ‘Data dumps,’ he said. ‘Everything you ever wanted to know about your six reviewers, plus the Journal’s editor. Everything which has ever appeared in print, anywhere in the world. Pharma company appointments, educational bulletins, research reports, internet stuff, you name it.’

  ‘You have systems which do that?’

  ‘Not systems, people. The information is out there, it’s finding it which is hard. Now, let’s see …’

  For two and a half hours he worked, expertly skimming the mass of information flooding in, printing, marking and putting to one side anything he thought possibly relevant. Before long, seven piles mounted up: Durer, Regan, Rucci, Czarnowski, Booth, and Freward – the six reviewers – plus Goldbach, the editor.

  At length, he took a break.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I think I’m close. Of the six reviewers, I can connect four to one company, Corinth Laboratories. Durer is the one who connects tightest. His research lab has a major multi-year contract with Corinth. I doubt if Durer would stay in business if Corinth moved away. Regan and Czarnowski have both done paid experimental work for the group, plus Regan – no, Czarnowski – has done paid lectures, expert witness work with the FDA, that kind of thing. Then Booth is working to get a hospital extension funded. His co-chairman on the committee is an ex-CEO of Corinth. It’s not a strong connection, but if they’re hoping for funds, you never know. That leaves Freward and Rucci. I can’t find anything. Not yet. But there’s more stuff coming.’

  He carried on speaking, but Cameron had turned to stone.

  ‘Rucci,’ she said. ‘I’ve just remembered where I heard the name.’ She walked to a shelf and pulled down an old edition of an i
ndustry magazine, Pharmaceutical People. She flicked through the pages and found the item she was looking for: a sickly-sweet mother-daughter feature, adorned with a cheesy photo. ‘The mom, Paula Rucci, was my reviewer. Her daughter, Gabriella, is Vice President in Corinth’s Veterinarian Division.’

  ‘Ha!’ barked Bryn, flying back to his sheaves of paper. He flicked quickly through his stacks and came away with a sheet. ‘Gabriella Rucci has recently been promoted to Executive VP. How nice. Her mum may be clean, but her daughter certainly isn’t. And if dear little Gabby comes home one day and tells her mum all kinds of crap about you, who’s she going to trust? That just leaves Freward.’

  Cameron shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. Freward’s the worst.’ From a pile on her desk, she pulled a photocopied research piece, Quantificational errors in omega pathway modelling of digestive enzymes. Among the list of authors, Freward’s name had been circled with a handwritten comment next to it, ‘Pillock!’ Bryn looked blankly at the page.

  ‘Freward’s a good scientist,’ said Cameron, ‘but he devotes his life to these kind of knocking pieces, always trying to shoot good work down. He’s a director of – what’s the name again? – the Katz-Jacoby Research Foundation and –’

  ‘And Katz-Jacoby is exclusively funded by Corinth.’ Bryn finished her sentence, triumphantly. ‘We’ve got it, then. The smoking gun. The only weird thing is the coincidence. The editor seems clean, so how come he ends up with six Corinth stooges out of six? That doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Uh-uh. It figures. The editor will most likely pick one lead reviewer first, and talk to him about a possible slate of names. The most likely guy on this list is Freward. Like I say, he’s a jerk, but a good scientist with a decent reputation. Maybe the editor comes up with some suggested names, maybe Freward comes up with them all. Any case, by the time they’re done talking, Freward has packed the jury.’

  ‘Plus they’ve got Mr Smack-head Kovacs running around spreading rumours about you, just in case.’ He looked at Cameron admiringly. ‘They really took care to sabotage you,’ he said. ‘They must really respect your work.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No, really. You can’t beat the compliment … And Corinth. It makes sense. I might have guessed.’

  ‘You mind telling me why?’

  Bryn paused to inspect his questioner. She was dressed in old jeans and a thin T-shirt which ran into puckered ridges at the shoulders. She was pale and thin, hair a mess, tear-stained eyes a visual disaster area. All the same, she wasn’t exactly bad-looking. All that high cheekbone stuff that women are meant to have, she had.

  ‘Corinth Laboratories,’ said Bryn. ‘An outstanding company. A decade ago it was a bit-part player. Some good drugs. Some bad drugs. Nothing much in the pipeline. But then they struck gold. They hired this guy Huizinga from outside the industry. Chemicals, I think, was his background. He shook up the company, top to bottom. He began licensing drugs, buying up small biotech outfits, research labs. And focus, he gave it focus. Before Huizinga, Corinth did a bit of everything. A chemo drug. A bit of respiratory stuff. Some anxiety medications. He ditched all that. The one good product they had was an anti-viral, Zapatone. It was big in AIDS –’

  ‘Zapatone? God, it’s toxic. Toxic as hell. There was a British study which showed –’

  ‘There was a British study which showed it shortened the lives of three quarters of the patients who took it. But that was Huizinga’s brilliance. He boasted about the study, made his salesmen lead with it. He went out and told the world that no drug in the history of the world had ever had such impressive anti-viral properties –’

  ‘Anti-patient properties –’

  ‘Whatever. They made a few tiny modifications to the drug administration protocol. Meaningless changes, but enough that they could say the British study was irrelevant to the way the drug was now administered. And that was that. Zapatone took off, and that was Huizinga’s cue. Ninety per cent of Corinth’s sales are now in anti-viral drugs, with just a couple of other sidelines they haven’t yet bothered to sell. Mostly now, the drug industry is looking for less toxic solutions. It’s a kinder, gentler industry, that’s the idea. But not Huizinga, not Corinth. They recognise that there are plenty of doctors out there who like the macho stuff. Toys for the boys, and guns for their chums. They put out these publicity handouts for Zapatone, overlaying a picture of the drug with photos of B-52 bombers.’

  ‘It’s criminal.’

  ‘Genius. Corinth was worth a couple of billion dollars when Huizinga came in. It’s worth fifty times that today – a hundred billion dollars, no less. If there were Nobel prizes for business, Huizinga would be a cert.’

  ‘I do not believe you!’

  ‘I’m not saying I approve, I’m just telling you how the world works. And say what you like, they’re smart. They’ve got the world’s biggest stable of anti-viral drugs. Your medicine is a threat. You said it yourself: under certain circumstances, your technology might be complemented by conventional drug therapy, but by Corinth’s slash-n-burn stuff? No way. As Huizinga sees it, it’s him or you.’

  It was a tactless phrase on which to finish. Cameron’s eyes skated back to the letter still lying open on the table.

  ‘Right,’ she said grimly. ‘And at the moment, it’s him.’

  And it was then, at that precise moment, that Bryn took leave of his senses.

  FOUR

  1

  To begin with, the only sign of the craziness which had come over him was a very rapid beating of his hand on the table, accompanied elsewhere by the focused stillness of concentrated thought. For three whole minutes, he stood there, oblivious of Cameron, unconscious of the world.

  Then: ‘I’m a bloody fool!’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Fool,’ said Bryn, thumping his chest. ‘Moron. Cretin. Idiot. You mentioned an ethics committee. Tell me about it.’

  ‘I don’t know. Where bad scientists go to be interrogated, I guess.’

  Bryn shook his head and stared wildly at her. ‘Kati. Your co-worker, Kati. Can we go and see her?’

  ‘It’s gone midnight.’

  ‘Is it? Damn. Well, come on then. There’s no time to lose.’

  Cameron had no car, so they took a taxi over to her offices. The night was freezing, and frost sparkled on the grass. Above them, the sky was bright with stars, but a dark band in the north spoke of a weather front moving in.

  ‘Do you mind letting me know what’s going on?’ Cameron hurried along in Bryn’s turbulent wake, frightened by his bulldozer energy but also reassured.

  ‘Due diligence,’ said Bryn, storming up the steps leading to Larousse’s apartment. ‘That’s banker-speak for look before you buy.’

  ‘Honestly, she’ll be asleep,’ said Cameron. ‘Can’t we wait?’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Bryn disagreed, pressing the doorbell solid for fifteen seconds. ‘She’s awake.’

  A bleary Larousse came to the door in tartan flannel pyjamas, and stumbled through to her small living room, blinking to get the sleep from her eyes. She was one of those enviable souls, pretty even when caught in the worst possible moment. Clear-skinned and petite beneath a mass of dark-rosewood curls, she twisted her hair into a tie at the back so that it hung in a Pre-Raphaelite halo around her face. Cameron’s looks worsened in contrast. It wasn’t that there was so much wrong with her – apart from maybe her limp, mousy hair drooping down in front of her eyes – but she seemed to want invisibility, to avoid being looked at or admired. Bryn obeyed the silent instruction and concentrated his gaze on Larousse.

  Cameron talked her through the events of the past few hours, ending with the broken-hearted admission: ‘They don’t believe us. They think we cheated. We’re under investigation, Kati … Oh, Kati!’

  Bryn studied her carefully as Cameron recounted the story, but it was absolutely plain that Larousse was totally shocked, stunned by the very suggestion that they might have twisted their facts. Larousse and Cameron huddled up on the sofa togeth
er, cuddling and tearful. Bryn was almost totally sure of what he was about to do, but there was one last check he wanted to make.

  ‘Cameron, would you mind getting me some coffee, please?’

  Larousse looked hard at her visitor. Cameron had barely introduced him and here he was, like some bear out of the Maine forest, bursting into her apartment at one in the morning, ordering her boss to make him coffee. ‘I’ll go,’ she said, starting to get up.

  ‘No. Please. I want a word alone. I have three – no four – questions to ask you privately. Cameron, would you mind …’

  Cameron left to go into the kitchen, and Bryn turned to stare directly at Larousse.

  ‘OK. First question. Did you and Cameron cheat on that experiment? In any way at all? At any time?’

  Colour rose in the young scientist’s face. ‘No. Absolutely not. Never. No way.’

  ‘OK. Good. I believe you, but I needed to ask. Second question. Your Immune Reprogramming worked on rats. Are you sure you can get it to work on humans? I mean, assuming you’ve got time and money.’

  Larousse wetted her lips. It was unnerving, this giant man, his unwavering stare, his barely controlled intensity. ‘Not certain, no. Nothing in science is certain until you’ve done it. And one critical difference is that the peptide chains we rely on are species- and disease-specific.’

  Bryn looked blank.

  ‘What I mean is, our Reprogramming works by using little bits of chemical code, which literally floats around the body instructing it how to fight disease. Trouble is, every species has got its own way of coding these things. That means all the work we’ve done on rats has to be done over with humans.’

  ‘So the answer is?’ prompted Bryn.

  Larousse shrugged. ‘It’ll be a lot of work. The experimental protocols will be way more complex, for one thing. You can’t just give hepatitis to humans and see how they do. But I don’t want to be too cautious. I’d say we had every chance of success. Every chance in the world.’

  Bryn nodded. It seemed like he hadn’t blinked since sending Cameron from the room. ‘Good. Third question. The way Cameron talks, you and she are on the cutting edge of research in this area. How do you know? Maybe there are scientists in, I don’t know, California, Germany, Japan who are ahead of you.’