June 30
It took me a long time to get here today. I had to take a special route, a secret route. The woman who cleans my room has been looking at me strangely, and I don’t want her following me. She’ll talk to Brent about it, just as my lab assistant and the network administrator have done.
It’s because I’ve discovered the key. And now I must be ceaselessly vigilant.
You can tell them by the way they leave things on their desks. Their messiness gives them away. And they are polluted with germs. Billions of bacteria and viruses hiding in every crevice of their bodies. I wish I could speak of it to Brent, but I must continue as if nothing had happened, as if all were normal.
I don’t think I had better come here again.
Carson was silent. The sun settled toward the horizon, its shape ballooning in the layers of air. The old stone walls of the ruin smelled of dust and heat, mingled with the faint scent of corruption. One of the horses whinnied with impatience, and the other answered.
At the sound of the horses, de Vaca started. Then she quickly stuffed the journal in the container, placed it into the sipapu, covered the hole with the flat rock, and smoothed the warm concealing sand over the spot.
She straightened up, brushing off her jeans. “We’d better get back,” she said. “There’ll be questions if we miss the emergency drill.”
They climbed out of the ruined kiva, mounted their horses, and reined slowly in the direction of Mount Dragon.
“Burt, of all people,” de Vaca muttered as they rode. “Faking his data.”
Carson was silent, lost in thought.
“And then using himself as guinea pig,” de Vaca went on.
Carson roused himself, startled by a sudden realization. “I guess that’s what he meant by ‘poor alpha,’ ” he said.
“What?”
“Teece told me that Burt has been raving about ‘poor alpha, poor alpha.’ I guess he meant himself, as the alpha test subject.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t call him a guinea pig, though. Making himself the alpha was very much in character. A man like Burt wouldn’t deliberately risk thousands of lives on unproven blood. He was under incredible time pressure to prove its safety. So he tested it on himself. It’s not unheard of. It isn’t exactly illegal to do something like that, either.” He looked at de Vaca. “You have to admire the guy for putting his life on the line. And he had the last laugh. He proved the blood was safe.”
Carson fell silent. Something was teasing the back of his mind; something that had surfaced as they read the journal. Now it remained just out of the reach of consciousness, like a forgotten dream.
“Sounds like he’s still having the last laugh. In a nuthouse somewhere.”
Carson frowned. “That’s a pretty callous remark, even for you.”
“Maybe so,” de Vaca replied. Then she paused. “I guess it’s just that everyone talks about Burt like he was larger than life. This is the guy who invented GeneDyne’s filtration process, synthesized PurBlood. Now we find he faked his data.”
There it was again. Suddenly, Carson realized what it was in the journal that had raised an unconscious flag. “Susana, what do you know about GEF?”
She looked back at him, puzzled.
“The filtration process Burt invented when he was working at Manchester,” Carson went on. You just mentioned it. We’ve always simply assumed the filtration process works on X-FLU. What if it doesn’t?”
De Vaca’s look of puzzlement turned to scorn. “We’ve tested X-FLU again and again to make sure that the strain coming out of the filter is absolutely pure.”
“Pure, yes. But is it the same strain that went in?”
“How could the filtration process change the strain? It makes no sense.”
“Think about how GEF works,” Carson replied- “You set up an electrical field that draws the heavy protein molecules through a gel filter, right? The field is set precisely to the molecular weight of the molecule you want. All the other molecules are trapped in the gel, while what you want emerges from the other end of the filter.”
“So?”
“What if the weak electrical field, or the gel itself, causes subtle changes in the protein structure? What if what comes out is different from what went in? The molecular weight would be the same, but the structure would be subtly altered. A straightforward chemical test wouldn’t catch it. All it takes is the tiniest change in the surface protein of a virus particle to create a new strain.”
“No way,” said de Vaca. “GEF is a patented, tested process. They’ve already used it to synthesize other products. If there was anything wrong, it would’ve shown up a long time ago.”
Carson reined in Roscoe and stood motionless. “Have any of the tests for purity we’ve done looked at that possibility? That specific possibility?”
De Vaca was silent.
“Susana, it’s the only thing we haven’t tried.”
She look at him for a long moment.
“All right,” she said at last. “Let’s check it out.”
The Dark Harbor Institute was a large, rambling Victorian house perched on a remote headland above the Atlantic. The institute counted one hundred and twenty honorary members on its rolls, although at any given time only a dozen or so were actually in residence. The responsibility of the people who came to the institute was to do only one thing: to think. The requirements for membership were equally simple: genius.
Members of the institute were very fond of the rambling Victorian mansion, which 120 years of Maine storms had left without a single right angle. They especially liked the anonymity, since even the institute’s closest neighbors—mostly summer visitors—did not have the vaguest idea of who those bespectacled men and women were who came and went so unpredictably.
Edwin Bannister, associate managing editor of the Boston Globe, checked out of his inn and directed the placing of his bags into the back of his Range Rover, his head still throbbing from the effects of the bad bordeaux he’d been served at the previous evening’s dinner. Tipping the porter, he walked around the Rover, eyeing as he did so the little town of Dark Harbor, with its fishing boats and church steeple and salt air. Very quaint. Too damn quaint. He preferred Boston, and the smoke-filled atmosphere of the Black Key Tavern.
He slid behind the wheel and consulted the hand-drawn map that had been faxed to him at the newspaper. Five miles to the institute. Despite the assurances, a part of him still doubted whether or not his host would really be there.
Bannister accelerated through a yellow light and swung onto County Road 24. The car lurched over one pothole, then another, as it left the tiny town behind. The narrow road headed due east to the sea, then ran along a series of high bluffs over the Atlantic. He rolled down the window. From below, he could hear the distant thunder of the surf, the crying of gulls, the dolorous clang of a bell buoy.
The road ran into a stand of spruce, then emerged at a high meadow covered with blueberry bushes. A log fence ran across the meadow, its rustic length interrupted by a wooden gate and shingled guardhouse. Bannister stopped at the gate and powered down his window.
“Bannister. With the Globe,” he said, not bothering to look at the guard.
“Yes sir.” The gate hummed open, and Bannister noted with amusement that the rustic logs of the gate were backed with bars of black steel. No car bombers crashing this party, he thought.
The mansion’s oak-paneled foyer seemed empty, and Bannister walked through to the lounge. A fire blazed in an enormous hearth, and a long series of casement windows looked out over the sea, sparkling in the morning light. The faint sound of music could be heard in the background.
At first, Bannister thought he was alone. Then, in a far corner, he spotted a man in a leather armchair, drinking coffee and reading a paper. The man was wearing white gloves. The newspaper rustled between them as its pages were turned.
The man looked up. “Edwin!” he said, smiling. “Thank you for coming.”
Bannister immediately r
ecognized the unkempt hair, the freckles, the boyish looks, the retro sports jacket over black T-shirt. So he had come, after all.
“Good to see you, Brent,” Bannister said, taking the proffered armchair. He automatically glanced around for a waiter.
“Coffee?” Scopes asked. He had not offered to shake hands.
“Yes, please.”
“We help ourselves here,” Scopes said. “It’s over by the bookcase.”
Bannister hauled himself to his feet again, returning with a cup that promised to be less than satisfactory.
They sat in silence for a moment, and it dawned on Bannister that Scopes was listening to the music. He sipped his coffee and found it surprisingly good.
The piece ended. Scopes sighed with satisfaction, folded the newspaper carefully, and placed it next to an open briefcase beside his chair. He removed his ink-stained reading gloves and placed them on top of the paper.
“Bach’s Musical Offering,” he said. “Are you familiar with it?”
“Somewhat,” said Bannister, hoping that Scopes wouldn’t ask a question that would reveal the lie. Bannister knew next to nothing about music.
“One of the canons of the Offering is entitled ‘Quaerendo Invenietis.’ ‘By seeking, you will discover.’ It was Bach’s puzzle, asking the listener to see if he could tell what intricate canonical code was used to create the music.”
Bannister nodded.
“I often think of this as a metaphor for genetics. You see the finished organism—such as a human being—and you wonder what intricate genetic code was used to create such a marvelous thing. And then you wonder, of course: If you were to change a tiny piece of this intricate code, how would that translate into flesh and blood? just as changing a single note in a canon can sometimes end up transforming the entire melody.”
Bannister reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a tape recorder, and showed it to Scopes, who nodded his approval. Turning on the device, Bannister settled back in his chair, his hands folded.
“Edwin, my company is in a bit of a predicament.”
“How so?” Bannister already knew this was going to be good. Anything that brought Scopes out of his aerie had to be good.
“You know about the attacks Charles Levine has been making against GeneDyne. I hoped that people would recognize him for what he is, but that’s been slow to happen. By hiding under the skirts of Harvard University, he acquired a credibility I wouldn’t have thought possible.” Scopes shook his head. “I’ve known Dr. Levine for over twenty years. I was once a close friend of his, in fact. It pains me a great deal to see what has happened to him. I mean, all those claims about his father, and then it turns out he was an SS officer. Now, I don’t begrudge a man for protecting the memory of his father, but did he have to lionize him with such an offensive story? It just shows that this man holds truth secondary to achieving his own ends. It shows that one must scrutinize every word he utters. The press hasn’t really done that. Except for the Globe, thanks to you.”
“We never publish anything without verifying the facts.”
“I know, and I appreciate that. And I’m sure the people of Boston appreciate it, given that GeneDyne is one of the state’s larger employers.”
Bannister inclined his head.
“In any case, Edwin, I can’t sit still and take these scurrilous attacks any longer. But I need your help.”
“Brent, you know I can’t help you,” Bannister said.
“Of course, of course,” Brent waved his hand dismissively. “Here’s the situation. Obviously, we’re working on a secret project at Mount Dragon. It isn’t secret because of any particular danger factor, but because we face tremendous competition. We’re in a winner-take-all business. You know how it works. The first company to patent a drug makes billions, while the rest eat their R-and-D investments.”
Bannister nodded again.
“Edwin, I want to assure you—as someone whose judgment I respect—that nothing uncommonly dangerous is going on at Mount Dragon. You have my word on that. We have the only Level-5 facility in existence, and our safety record is the best of any pharmaceutical company in the world. Those are facts of record. But don’t take my word for it.”
He slid a file out of his briefcase and placed it before Bannister.
“This folder contains the entire safety record of GeneDyne. Normally, this information is proprietary. I want you to have it for your story. Just remember: It didn’t come from me.”
Bannister looked at the file without touching it. “Thanks, Brent. You know, however, that I can’t just take your word for it that you aren’t working on dangerous viruses. Dr. Levine’s charges—”
Scopes chuckled. “I know. The doomsday virus.” He leaned forward. “And that’s the primary reason I’ve asked you here. Would you care to know just what this terrible, inconceivably deadly, virus is? The one that Dr. Levine says may end the world?”
Bannister nodded, the many years of professionalism successfully concealing his eagerness.
Scopes was looking at him, grinning mischievously. “Edwin, this is off the record, of course.”
“I would prefer—” Bannister began.
Scopes reached over and turned off the tape recorder. “There is a Japanese corporation working on a very similar line of research. On this particular type of germ-line research, they’re actually ahead of us. If they realize its ramifications before we do, then we’re dead. Winner take all, Edwin. We’re talking about a fifteen-billion-dollar annual market here. I’d hate to see the Japanese increase their trade deficit with us, and have to close down GeneDyne Boston, all because Edwin Bannister at the Globe revealed what virus we were working with.”
“I see your point,” Bannister said, swallowing hard. Sometimes it was necessary to work off the record.
“Good. It’s called influenza.”
“What is?” Bannister said.
Scopes’s grin widened. “We’re working with the flu virus. And that is the only virus we are working with at Mount Dragon. That is Levine’s so-called doomsday virus.”
Scopes sat back with a look of triumph.
Bannister felt the sudden, desperate emptiness of a lead story disappearing beneath his fingers. “That’s it? Just flu viruses?”
“That’s right. You have my solemn promise. I want you to be able to write with a clear conscience that GeneDyne is not working with dangerous viruses.”
“But why the flu?”
Scopes looked surprised. “Isn’t it obvious? Countless dollars in productivity are lost every year because of flu. We are working on a cure for the flu. Not like these flu shots that you have to take every year, and that don’t work half the time. I’m talking about a permanent, onetime cure.”
“My God,” said Bannister.
“Just think what that will do to our stock price if we succeed. Those who own GeneDyne stock are going to become rich. Especially considering how cheap the stock has become recently, thanks to our friend Levine. Not rich tomorrow, but in a few months, when we announce the discovery and go into phased FDA testing.” Scopes smiled, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “And we’re going to succeed.” Then he reached over and switched on the tape recorder.
Bannister said nothing. He was trying to imagine just how large a number fifteen billion was.
“We are taking vigorous action against Dr. Levine and his libelous statements,” Scopes continued. “You’ve done an excellent job so far in reporting our lawsuits against Dr. Levine and Harvard. I have news on that front. Harvard has revoked the university charter for Levine’s foundation. They’ve been keeping the revocation under wraps, but it’s about to be made public. I thought you might be interested. We will be dropping our lawsuit against Harvard, of course.”
“I see,” said Bannister, thinking quickly. There might be a way to salvage this, after all.
“The Faculty Committee on Tenure is reviewing Dr. Levine’s contract. There is a clause in all university contracts allowing tenure
to be revoked in cases of ‘moral turpitude.’ ” Scopes laughed softly. “Sounds like something out of the Victorian Age. But it’s cooked Levine’s goose, I can tell you.”
“I see.”
“We’re not yet sure how he did it, but certain grains of truth in his otherwise false allegations prove he used illegal, not to mention unethical, methods to gain confidential information from GeneDyne.” Scopes slid another folder toward Bannister. “You’ll find the details in here. I’m sure you will find out more in your own fashion. Obviously, my name must not appear in connection with any of this. I’m only telling you this because you’re the one reporter whose ethics I most respect, and I want to help you write a balanced, fair article. Let the other newspapers write down everything Levine says without fact-checking. I know the Globe will be more careful.”
“We always check our facts,” said Bannister.
Scopes nodded. “I’m counting on you to set the record straight.”
Bannister stiffened slightly. “Brent, all you can count on is a story that presents a strictly objective, accurate rendition of the facts.”
“Exactly,” Scopes said. “That is why I’m going to be totally honest with you. There is one charge Levine made that is partially true.”
“And that is—?”
“There was a death at Mount Dragon recently. We were keeping the matter quiet until the family could be notified, but Levine somehow found out about it.” Scopes paused, his face growing serious at the memory. “One of our best scientists was killed in an industrial accident. As you’ll see in the first folder I gave you, certain safety procedures were not followed. We immediately notified the necessary authorities, who dispatched inspectors to Mount Dragon. It’s a formality, of course, and the lab remains open.”
Scopes paused. “I knew the woman well. She was—how shall I say it?—an original. Dedicated to her work. In certain ways, perhaps a bit difficult. But undeniably brilliant. You know, it’s very difficult to be a brilliant woman in science, even today. She had a rough time of it until she got to GeneDyne. I lost a friend as well as a scientist.” He looked briefly at Bannister, then dropped his eyes. “The CEO is ultimately responsible. This is something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.”
Mount Dragon Page 25