Unacceptable Risk

by David Dun

  "I guess you must be busy moving," she said as she walked toward a massive safe.

  "Oh yeah."

  "This is interim filing for stuff closing or just closed in the last six months. But when somebody has the family jewels or some national secret, they put it in the cabinets inside the safe here. I think nobody ever put anything in here worth knowing, but it's fun to think about. Okay. Now for 'Big Bertha.' " She walked over to the steel door and began on the dial. It required two tries and probably three minutes, but at last she grunted and pulled open the nearly foot-thick door.

  "Impressive," Sam said.

  "Now we sign in. At one time this part of this floor belonged to a prominent wholesale jeweler and that's why the big walk-in safe. We would never have spent the money."

  Sam wrote the name Scott Davis, the date, and the time on the sign-in sheet.

  They went inside the big vault to a row of locked fireproof filing cabinets. Files were arranged by number so they located the file whose number corresponded with the one that Sam had carried upstairs.

  "You will just be using the file in the office?"

  "Oh yes."

  "Will you be here long?"

  "Just a few minutes."

  "Because without Mr. Arthur Stewart okaying it, I would feel extremely strange."

  "Oh, of course. I'll just be a minute with these documents."

  Sam had already spied a large copier in the filing room.

  "Call me when you want to lock up."

  "Sure will. And thanks so much for your help. And say, I was wondering, you know, I don't want to be forward, but I was wondering if we might go out for a cup of coffee."

  "Oh. That's actually a kind invitation. And I definitely would if I weren't having to get a motion out tomorrow. But maybe a rain check."

  He looked in her eyes and could see that she really meant it. He felt guilty for trying to use her. Walking and talking with her as he left the building would naturally cause people not to notice him like they would a lone late-night stranger.

  Sam could not recall when he had been this interested in a discovery. The locked file was voluminous and had various parts. He went to what looked like the guts of the matter. Attorney memos designed to explain in straightforward language what the hell was going on.

  There were typed notes of a telephone interview, probably recorded. On the file earpiece it said: trustee: grace technologies. On the memo header: admiral Francois

  LARIVE AND MADEMOISELLE BENOIT MOREAU, REPRESENTATIVES OF THE GOVERNMENT OF FRANCE, ACTING AS TRUSTEE FOR GRACE TECHNOLOGIES.

  We have various representations in this matter and a number of confidential relationships. See conflicts file.

  Then there was the following:

  Moreau: Freshwater sponge material was provided by Michael J. Bowden to Northern Lights Pharmaceutical in the fall of 1998.... I believe it was November. Jacques Boudreaux of Grace Technologies, a French Corporation, obtained a sample of a molecule isolated from certain organic material because it was said to be a powerful immune system suppressant. Boudreaux gave the material to Georges Raval, a skilled young researcher. Quite by accident Raval traveled down a path of research that led to the development of what he called a Chaperone. To understand Chaperone it is necessary to understand the underlying technology for which it was developed.

  The memo went on to give a detailed and a somewhat technical description of the use of vector technology to alter the DNA in animal cells, particularly human cells—effectively, genetic engineering on live humans. In particular, it was genetic re-engineering of human brain cells. Sam skipped down, since he was already familiar with the concept. In among the technical stuff there was a lawyer's explanation of the Chaperone technology that was more or less understandable.

  Moreau: Chaperone gets its name from the common concept of an escort. For purposes of this explanation we will call the recipient of Chaperone "the patient." Say the patient receives a vector that alters the patients brain cells. Once altered, they are foreign and will be rejected by the patient's body. Each cell in the body makes protein. It is the protein that the immune system either recognizes or rejects. If each new brain cell type is paired with Chaperone and introduced into the bloodstream, then those new cells will be accepted by the patient's body because his immune system will be reset by Chaperone to accept the particular proteins that they manufacture. The process of binding Chaperone to a foreign protein molecule is complex and is contained in papers of the inventor Georges Raval, former employee of Grace Technologies, to be deposited into escrow (see appendix for escrow details). There are many applications for Chaperone. Suppose a patient is to receive a heart transplant from a donor. The donor's DNA will never match the patient's and hence, except in the case of an identical twin, there is never a perfect match of the new organ from the donor with the patient. The patient's body will reject the donor's organ and the only known method of medically dealing with the rejection is to administer immunosuppressants for the life of the patient and these drugs have undesirable side effects. If we were to isolate a particular protein molecule from the donor and bind it to Chaperone, and inject the combination into the patient, the patient would soon accept the donor's molecule as if it were native to the patient. Chaperone can be bound to multiple molecules so that all of the proteins associated with a donor's organ, such as a heart, are accepted as native by the patient.

  DNA altered by vector technology produces the same proteins consistently regardless of the patient's individual DNA makeup. These foreign proteins can be bound with Chaperone and administered along with the vectors. Hence, there is no immune reaction from the onset of the extrusion of foreign proteins by altered brain cells.

  Sam skipped the rest of the lawyer's explanation and went down to a section on patent rights.

  Raval was at all times an employee of Grace Technologies when this special process was developed as was Dr. Boudreaux (per Admiral Larive).

  Moreau states: I am certain the molecule for the Chaperone was discovered by Bowden in the Amazon basin in 1998. We do not know whether the molecule is plant or animal. I was told that the properties of the molecule as an immunosuppressant were very similar or the same to that of a certain molecule from Porifera, a saltwater sponge which is technically an animal as distinguished from a plant. However, it was my understanding that the Porifera molecule would not function as a Chaperone.

  Grace purchased a license to utilize the Chaperone molecule from Northern Lights. The processes for utilizing Chaperone belonged to Grace through its employee Raval as the inventor. Moreau states: Raval's status as an employee of Grace will be verified by the French government's bankruptcy attorneys.

  A confidential communication from Northern Lights not to be disclosed to other parties is to be to the effect that the Chaperone is a molecule taken from a freshwater sponge known only to occur in the Amazon and known only to Michael Bowden, and that Northern Lights makes certain claims to this molecule outlined in a confidential letter from their attorney. Those claims seem dubious because they have not yet described this complex molecule with any precision and parts of the molecule are as yet not understood.

  Immediately Sam focused on Benoit's comment regarding the employment of Raval. It seemed to be placed in the interview like a bomb in an innocent-looking sack. Sam wondered how the law firm was handling all the confidentiality between all of the parties and figured they must have a giant file folder full of conflict waivers. Looking further, he found the "Conflicts" file, but he didn't bother trying to copy it, since it was, in fact, massive and he was running out of time.

  There were other notes and research about process patent rights. Obviously, Michael's 1998 journal entries would be critical. Hurriedly he copied what looked to be the important material and headed for the handicap stall in the women's rest-room where he opened his briefcase. He spent a half hour doing a passable job on his disguise.

  As he was about to exit the restroom, he heard running footsteps and imm
ediately supposed that he might be in trouble. Quickly he closed the door but for a crack.

  "God, I love that show Six Feet Under, have you seen it?" The girl from the coffee room. "Who's running?" There was a pause and the footsteps grew closer. "Jeez. Who are you?"

  "FBI. We've been alerted that someone has broken into your offices. They might be looking for the office of Arthur Stewart. Have you seen any strangers?"

  "Bearded guy. He was looking for the fireproof cabinets. He said Mr. Stewart was there and we told him where to go." They meticulously described the route. "What's with the guns?"

  Sam could see that the agents each held a 9mm model 459 Smith & Wesson. The weapon was not standard-issue FBI, and if they were Feds, they would not be running around with their guns out when there was no threat.

  "Thanks. You should leave immediately. Get out of the building."

  "Whatever you say."

  "This guy is very dangerous."

  They weren't even good imitators. Real agents would have given a name.

  They left.

  Sam knew that if he ran down the stairs to lower floors, he would have a good chance of fueling a gun battle and that was just what he didn't need. If he went to the elevators, somebody might watch the elevator descend and that would be a dead giveaway. If he went for the emergency stairs in the building, the number of bodies chasing him might increase geometrically as he descended. This was feeling like a trap resulting from a tip-off.

  He followed the two men, figuring they would end up in Martha's office. When he got to the right turn leading down Martha's hall, he stopped and listened.

  "You're sure you haven't seen any strangers, no bearded guy?"

  "No. Only a new lawyer by the name of Scott Davis. That's it"

  "Where is he now?"

  Sam quickly stepped into the first open office before hearing the answer. He closed the door, locked it, and stepped behind the door. There was a window to the hall with blinds and he saw their legs move by in a blur.

  After waiting a minute, he opened the door and went quickly to Martha's office.

  When he walked in, she jumped and looked frightened.

  "It's me again."

  "What in the hell? The beard?"

  "Be calm. I'll explain."

  "The FBI is here. They said to leave."

  "Obviously I'm not Scott. I'm Sam. Those men are impersonating the FBI and I am a government contractor of sorts."

  "Oh, my god. Why are they pretending to be the FBI?"

  "Here's what I want you to do. Get the number of the New York FBI, Manhattan office."

  "Okay."

  She grabbed the phone and dialed, still looking frightened.

  "Please don't be frightened. In seconds you'll have real FBI agents on the phone and on the way."

  "I'm beginning to hope so."

  "You got them?"

  "Yes. Tell them you want to be put through to the Washington field office. Tell them you are placing the call for Agent Silverwind."

  "She says just a minute. She says she doesn't know what you're talking about. She says she's new."

  "Tell her that she should have a list of FBI agents on her computer. Tell her to look up Agent Silverwind."

  "She says, 'What now?'"

  "Ask her what it says by the asterisk."

  "She says that it says to put through all calls and gives a number."

  "Ask her to do it."

  "Please put the call through."

  "She says, 'Why didn't you say so?' "

  "It may take awhile. It's running through relays to the cell of whoever is on call."

  "Hello. I'm standing here with a guy named Sam who says he knows you."

  "Tell him I need to prove I'm a government contractor." Sam said.

  "He says he needs to prove he's a government contractor." Pause.

  "You have a locket?" She looked genuinely perturbed.

  They waited and she reached out for the locket, which was still outside his shirt. "Let me see." She studied it.

  "I see the locket. It's gold and has a picture of an old Indian gentleman. He says to take off your right shoe. There is a red birthmark on your instep."

  Sam quickly took off his maroon dress shoe. It had gum soles in keeping with tradition.

  "I see the birthmark. He says now to ask you how the earth smiles."

  "In flowers," Sam answered.

  "He says you're a good guy, but not an employee of the government. He says though that he would trust you with his own mother."

  Sam took the phone. "Who have I got?"

  "Ernie."

  "Thank God it wasn't your hard-ass partner."

  "You lucked out. What's going on?"

  "Long story, no time. I'm at Binkley, Hart, and Rove on Wall Street. We have guys with guns over here impersonating agents and hunting me."

  "Are you clean?"

  "No, but I think I'm onto a big one."

  "As in terror?"

  "Terror for profit."

  "Okay, so maybe we aren't so concerned about you being dirty. But don't use the term government contractor. You kill anybody?"

  "Not yet. I've got to get out of here, though."

  "I'll get people there as fast as I can. But this is Manhattan and there's traffic."

  "Hurry."

  "Do you look like yourself?"

  "What difference would that make?"

  "Good point."

  "At the moment I may go with the full beard. Not sure."

  Sam hung up.

  "Make a copy of these." Sam held out the Chaperone papers.

  "These are documents from our law firm. Client documents."

  "I have reason to believe the people who want these are on the verge of committing a massive atrocity that will make 9/11 look like child's play. It is a crime in the future, not in the past. The attorney/client privilege doesn't cover it, and if it does, then damn the privilege."

  She looked at him with hardened green eyes.

  "You want a lot of trust."

  "I think I'm looking at someone who has the courage to be a hero."

  "Or is a damn fool." She took the papers to a copy machine, copied them in about two minutes, and handed the originals back to Sam, who put them in his briefcase. She went to a file folder full of papers as thick as a couple of New York phone books and placed them in the stack.

  "If you don't hear from me tomorrow, make sure these go to the man you just talked to. He's Ernie Dunkin, like Dunkin' Donuts. FBI. Call him and tell him to show them to Jill. He'll know."

  "What if you don't call, how will I find you?"

  "If I don't call, things are bad. I'll have to find you."

  "How did you sign in?" Martha asked, obviously thinking.

  "As Michael Bowden. But I had this beard. In a minute I won't."

  "If I say you're Scott Davis, who is going to argue? There's probably not many partners around."

  "If they know what I look like, they won't argue—they'll just shoot."

  "With witnesses?"

  "You die just as fast if people are watching. I gotta go."

  "I'm coming with you. I can help get you out."

  Sam thought of a lot of things he could say, and perhaps should say, but he had a feeling about Martha. She understood the danger and was determined to help, and standing around discussing it could be more dangerous than moving.

  "Let's go up five or ten floors on the outside stairs."

  "Isn't that the wrong direction?"

  "We'll pull a fire alarm up there. Those guys who want my ass will have to wonder if it's real. The firefighters will come."

  "I know someone up there. We'll need someone to open the door this time of night."

  They slipped into an office near the exit to the stairway to use the phone. Sam pulled off the beard and got the makeup off as best he could.

  "My friend always works late." Martha said. "Let's hope this isn't the only night she takes off this week."

  Her friend was in
and agreed without much explanation to open the stairway door. They went through the exit to the stairwell with their shoes off to keep the sound down and began climbing fast. After a couple of flights they heard someone running up from a few floors down. By the seventeenth floor Martha was breathing deeply and slowing a bit.

  "One more," she said.

  At the eighteenth floor a woman was holding the door open a crack. She was young like Martha, dark and Latin-looking.

  "Go pull a fire alarm anywhere on this floor," said Sam, pointing at the door.

  "But what about you?"

  "I'll be fine. Please do it."

  In his stocking feet Sam resumed running up the stairs, leaving a fretting Martha to disappear with her friend into the eighteenth-floor warren.

  Sounds of foot strikes on the concrete floor began reverberating up the stairwell. People were coming down.

  "You're going the wrong way, buddy," the first guy said. Others tried to be more forceful, even grabbing him by the

  arm.

  "My family" was all he said. He put on his shoes because noise no longer mattered. When he got to the twentieth floor, he found what he was looking for—another fire alarm. He pulled the alarm and stepped behind the door, hoping there were still some late-night stragglers. There were. When the door opened, he ducked inside. No doubt men in the control room would instantly speculate that he might have pulled the alarm and thereby deduce his possible location. Once inside, he went diagonally across the building and found the stairway on the other side. The place was empty now. In his briefcase he kept a lighter. He moved about a large office area full of cubicles and gathered wastebaskets which he clumped together under a smoke-and-heat sensor. Quickly he lit the contents of each on fire and ran to the stairs. The sprinklers began pouring water down from the ceiling. The fires would be out in seconds, but somebody was going to be pissed. He began descending the stairs. There were not many people now, a couple or so that he could hear above, and a few more within earshot below.

  There would be men posted at the stairs probably looking for a bearded guy, but there might be those who would suspect a disguise. If it was Gaudet, his men might have his picture from their surveillance of the LA office. There was no good explanation for how Gaudet's men might have tracked him here, and that was a serious concern. He suspected that Figgy had somehow figured it out and passed it on to the French. Suddenly he knew he had to have the office checked for microphones. The betrayal was a miserable feeling.