by James Barney
And there it was. The Question. The same question Kathleen had heard at every quarterly shareholder meeting for the past two years. She gave Whittaker the same response she gave the investors each time. “It’ll be at least another three to five years.”
“That long?”
Kathleen shrugged. “Science takes time,” she said matter-of-factly. “Three to five years is our conservative estimate.”
With that, the interview concluded. The photographer snapped some additional shots of Kathleen in the lab, in the anteroom in front of the D. melanogaster poster, and, finally, in the conference room where they’d begun an hour earlier. He then went to load his camera equipment into the news van, leaving Kathleen and Whittaker standing alone in the lobby.
Outside, a chilly rain had begun to fall.
“I have one last question for you,” said Whittaker, inching closer to Kathleen. “Strictly off the record.”
“Okay . . .”
“Is there a, uh . . . Mister Dr. Sainsbury?” He cocked an eyebrow impishly and smiled.
Kathleen was stunned by the question, which seemed to have come from nowhere. She shook her head no.
“Any chance you’d consider having dinner with a lowly newspaper reporter? Full disclosure: I got a C in high-school biology.”
Kathleen laughed. “Well, I don’t know . . . maybe.” She immediately regretted that response. She didn’t even know this guy.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“You did what?” asked Julie Haas in mock disbelief.
Kathleen, Carlos, Julie Haas, and Jeremy Fisher—the four employees of QLS—were seated at a booth at Azteca, a Mexican bar and grill a few blocks from QLS.
“I said I’d go out with him,” Kathleen repeated, shaking her head remorsefully. “I honestly don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Hey, I think it’s great,” Carlos reassured her. “You said yourself you need to get out more.”
The foursome never needed an excuse to come to Azteca after work for margaritas and chips and salsa. Today, however, they had a bona fide reason to celebrate, namely the upcoming story in the Washington Post. Like Dr. Sainsbury, the other three members of QLS each owned stock options in the privately held company, and they knew their big payday would come when QLS went public or, more likely, was acquired by a large pharmaceutical firm. Either way, some positive press in the Washington Post couldn’t hurt.
And it couldn’t have come at a better time. QLS was low on cash and fast approaching the end of its first-round funds. The investors were growing increasingly vocal about the company’s lack of progress, and, unfortunately, Kathleen’s constant refrain of “science takes time” was wearing thin.
QLS needed a breakthrough . . . and fast.
“What does he look like?” Julie asked.
“Like this.” Kathleen pulled Bryce Whittaker’s business card from her purse and handed it to Julie. In bold, gothic print, it read: BRYCE A. WHITTAKER, REPORTER, THE WASHINGTON POST. In the upper left corner was a professional black-and-white photograph of Whittaker in a dark suit with a serious, hard-hitting expression.
“Oh my God,” Jeremy crowed, snatching the card from Julie’s fingers. “Who puts a picture like that on their business card? This guy’s totally full of himself.”
“Hey, I think he’s cute!” Julie retorted.
“He looks like an ass,” Jeremy said.
Just then, a pitcher of Margaritas arrived, and Carlos filled everyone’s glass. “Here’s to QLS,” he proposed, raising his glass.
“Here’s to some good press,” Kathleen added.
An hour later, the foursome exited Azteca and headed for their respective cars in the parking lot. Carlos walked Kathleen to her car. “Dr. Sainsbury?” he said as they reached her car. He never called her “Kathleen”—a sign of respect and a carryover from his twenty years in the Marines.
“Hmmm?”
“I meant to ask you earlier, but do you have plans for Easter Sunday? Ana and I would love to have you join us for dinner.”
“Oh, thank you, Carlos, that’s very kind.” Kathleen genuinely appreciated the offer, though it made her feel vaguely sad. Carlos knew she had no family except for her elderly grandfather, so he always made a point of inviting her to spend holidays with his family. A sweet gesture but totally unnecessary. “I’ve already made plans,” she lied. “Thank you, though.”
“Well, if you change your mind, just let me know.”
“I will.”
“Good night, Dr. Sainsbury.”
Across the street from Azteca, a black Lincoln Navigator was parked lengthwise across three parking spaces in a Burger King parking lot. Its sole occupant—Semion Zafer—sat motionless in the driver’s seat, staring out the side window at Azteca’s front door. The Navigator’s dark tinted windows made him practically invisible from the street.
Zafer was tall and gaunt, with oily black hair and a pale, unshaven face. His dark eyes were deeply recessed above protruding cheekbones, giving his face an angular, skeletal appearance. His lips were thin and tight, expressionless.
Through the telephoto lens of his Hasselblad H2D–39 camera, he spotted Dr. Kathleen Sainsbury—his target—exiting Azteca with three other people. “Well hello,” he croaked in a heavy Israeli accent, “aren’t you a pretty one?” The corners of his mouth curled up slowly as he increased the zoom and surveyed Kathleen’s slender body from head to toe. She wore tight jeans and a fashionable silk blouse that accented her figure tastefully.
Zafer quickly zoomed in on each member of the QLS foursome, snapping several face shots of Kathleen, Julie, Jeremy, and Carlos in a matter of seconds. He then followed Kathleen and Carlos with his lens as they walked to Kathleen’s car, snapping several shots along the way.
Three minutes later, as Kathleen pulled out of the parking lot and turned right onto Route 355, Zafer snapped one last shot of her silver Subaru Outback, being sure to capture the license-plate number.
His work today was done.
Chapter Two
Washington, D.C.
Luce Venfeld leaned back in his plush leather chair and flipped open the business section of the Washington Post. He was a lean, serious man in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a square, clean-shaven face. His appearance was refined in every respect, save for an ugly, purplish scar that ran diagonally across his left cheek, betraying a life that had once been far less luxurious.
Venfeld’s K-Street office was spacious and beautifully appointed with expensive leather and mahogany furniture, an intricate Turkish rug, and several tasteful oil paintings on the wood-paneled walls. In a corner by the door, partially obscured by a Kentia palm, a half dozen framed photographs showed Venfeld posing with some of the most notorious characters of the past three decades. In one, he stood next to Manuel Noriega. The Panamanian dictator was smiling broadly, his arm draped casually over Venfeld’s shoulder. In another, Venfeld was shaking hands with a handsome man with deeply tanned skin and white hair, dressed entirely in white. They stood before a palatial hacienda somewhere on the Mexican coast. The photograph was inscribed in blue ink: “Many thanks. —Guillermo.”
Venfeld was a lawyer by education but had never actually practiced law. Instead, upon graduating from Georgetown Law School some twenty-five years earlier, he’d gone straight into the CIA, where he worked his way up from analyst to field agent. During his last ten years at the agency, he’d successfully infiltrated the business hierarchy of some of the most sophisticated drug cartels in Venezuela, Panama, and Mexico, posing as Joseph Browning, an international tax attorney with Langston and Darby of New York, London, Hong Kong, and Buenos Aires. His polished appearance and world-class education allowed him to mix easily into Latin-American society, where he casually collected information at cocktail parties and befriended key individuals, gaining their trust over a period of years.
The large window behind Venfeld’s desk framed the Washington Monument and the federal buildings at Madiso
n Place like a postcard. At this early hour, the morning sun was just breaking the horizon, backlighting Washington’s famous limestone obelisk with a soft peach glow.
Venfeld read with mild interest the story that began on page one of the business section, titled AREA BIOTECH STARTUPS REACH FOR THE STARS. The byline attributed the story to “Bryce Whittaker, Staff Reporter.”
“In the past decade,” the story began, “the Washington area has become a major biotech hub, with dozens of biotech and life-sciences companies establishing headquarters in Maryland, Virginia, and even the District.”
The article went on to recount the numerous reasons for this rapid growth of the biotech sector around the capital beltway. For one thing, the Washington area offered easy access to important government resources such as the National Institutes of Health (NIH), the National Cancer Institute (NCI), the National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST), and the Food and Drug Administration (FDA). The area boasted several universities with renowned health and life-sciences programs, including Johns Hopkins University and the University of Maryland. The Washington area was also incredibly wealthy, claiming four of the five richest counties in the United States: Loudoun and Fairfax counties in Virginia, and Howard and Montgomery counties in Maryland. Those affluent counties had each created tax-funded “incubators” to help small startup companies get off the ground, including many biotech, bioinformatics, and nanotech companies.
“Here,” the article continued, “we will take a look at eight biotech startups in the Washington area, each hoping to ride the area’s biotech boom to new heights.”
Venfeld casually sipped coffee as he skimmed the remainder of the article, which included a short synopsis of each of the eight spotlighted companies. He read with waning interest until he reached Quantum Life Sciences on page three, at which point he suddenly sat straight up in his chair, nearly spilling his coffee.
QUANTUM LIFE SCIENCES SEEKS TO EXTEND, IMPROVE HUMAN LIFE
Imagine living an active life for two hundred, three hundred, even four hundred years or more! It may be possible, according to the scientists at Quantum Life Sciences, Inc., a two-year-old biotech startup in Rockville. QLS has already isolated a gene in fruit flies that triples their life expectancy, while also making them more active and productive. Though it is unclear whether this gene—called “INDY” for “I’m Not Dead Yet” (a Monty Python reference)—occurs in humans, QLS is studying how the gene operates in fruit flies and hopes to replicate the same biochemical processes in humans to achieve a better quality of life in old age.
“Clinical tests are several years away,” said Dr. Kathleen Sainsbury, QLS’s founder and CEO, “but we feel we are moving steadily toward a meaningful treatment for Alzheimer’s, dementia, and other age-related diseases.”
QLS raised approximately $2.5 million in its first round of financing. The company had no comment on whether it plans to seek further private equity or make an initial public offering to finance its continuing research operations.
Venfeld studied the picture of Dr. Kathleen Sainsbury that accompanied the article. She stood, arms folded and smiling broadly, before an impressive array of laboratory equipment. The square half-rimmed glasses and lab coat did nothing to detract from her natural beauty.
He refolded the paper and tossed it onto his desk. “Maria!” he bellowed through the open door to his secretary.
“Yes?” she answered.
“Bring me the file on Dr. Sainsbury.”
Chapter Three
Arlington, Virginia.
Dr. William McCreary pressed his security badge against the infrared scanner that controlled access to a door marked OSNS at the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA). He was a youthful fifty-one years old, medium height, athletic build, but a bit pudgy around the middle. The infrared scanner beeped and, simultaneously, the heavy steel door magnetically unlocked with a loud ka-chunk. McCreary entered the restricted area belonging to the Office of Science and National Security and headed straight to his office. In an agency notorious for top-secret, black, and off-budget programs, McCreary managed one of the most secretive of them all.
He reached the door to his office and unlocked it with a key—there was no security scanner for this door. The sign on the door read simply LOGISTICS ANALYSIS. He smiled every time he read that sign, having purposely chosen the most mundane project name imaginable. For the past two years, “Logistics Analysis” had worked like a charm. No one at DARPA seemed to care very much about the boring activities that presumably went on behind this door.
And that was just the way he preferred it.
DARPA was established in 1958 in response to the Soviet’s launching of Sputnik. DARPA’s mission then—as it was today—was to ensure that the United States always maintained the upper hand in state-of-the-art military technology and was never again surprised by an enemy’s technological advances. DARPA was specifically designed not to be a bureaucracy. Instead, its goal was to give brilliant (and often zealous) program managers nearly complete autonomy—and considerable financial resources—to pursue cutting-edge ideas that were often viewed as impracticable or downright crazy by the mainstream scientific community. Although many such projects failed, others succeeded beyond all possible expectations. The Internet (formerly DARPANET) was just one example of such successes.
McCreary entered the Logistics Analysis office and closed and locked the door behind him. The reception area was small and windowless. A plain, wooden desk dominated the center of the space, upon which sat the typical paraphernalia of a workaday government analyst—a computer and printer, graphs, charts, reams of data, and various binders and books. Seated at the desk was a large, muscular man of about thirty with bulging biceps and a protruding, square chin. He wore the uniform of a federal bureaucrat: khaki slacks, white, short-sleeve shirt, cheap necktie, and a security badge clipped to his shirt pocket.
“Good morning, Dr. McCreary,” said the bureaucrat.
“Morning, Steve. I’ve got a secure video conference at nine fifteen.”
“Right.” Steve stood up, walked to the back of the office and typed in a nine-digit code on a small keypad beside a large, white panel in the wall. Suddenly, the panel shuddered and popped open about twenty inches, creating a narrow entryway into another chamber.
“Thanks,” said McCreary stepping through the opening. “This shouldn’t take long.”
McCreary was now standing inside a stark, white room, eight feet long by five feet wide, with a seven-foot ceiling. He pressed a button on the wall and the steel door slid shut with a soft thud.
There were no paintings, drapes, or other objects hanging on the walls—nothing that could potentially conceal an eavesdropping device. The floor and ceiling were likewise clean and bare.
McCreary pushed another button on the wall, and the room suddenly filled with the whooshing sound of white noise. The walls were now being permeated with random frequencies so that nothing that was said in the room could ever be detected from the outside, even with the most sensitive eavesdropping equipment.
A Criticom secure video teleconferencing console sat atop the only piece of furniture in the room, a combination desk and chair constructed of high-strength plastic. At precisely 9:15, McCreary sat down at the console and pressed the ENCRYPT/TRANSMIT button. The equipment emitted a random series of beeps and blips as it worked through the process of synchronizing the outgoing signal with the recipient’s console and authenticating the daily key code. Finally, the image of a man appeared on the screen.
“Good morning, Mr. Secretary,” said McCreary deferentially.
“Morning,” grunted Peter Stonewell, Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services. He was sitting in an identical room twelve miles away at HHS headquarters on Independence Avenue in Washington, D.C. “Have you seen this story about the young lady with the mutant fruit flies?” he asked, holding up a folded copy of the Washington Post.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is
that the same Dr. Sainsbury who used to be at NIH?”
“That’s her.”
“So I gather she now has her own company?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have you known about it?”
“About a year and a half, sir.”
“Then how come I’m just hearing about it now!” Stonewell boomed, “and from the goddamn Washington Post of all places?”
McCreary swallowed hard. He’d worked for Stonewell long enough to know it would do no good to point out that Stonewell had, in fact, been briefed on Quantum Life Sciences eighteen months ago. Very little in this program was ever put in writing, so there was nothing McCreary could produce to verify that fact. Besides, trying to suggest to Stonewell that he was wrong about anything was, quite simply, out of the question.
“We’re on top of it,” McCreary said stoically, “and if I failed to mention it to you before, I apologize.”
“All right,” Stonewell said, apparently satisfied with McCreary’s mea culpa. “What do you think about her research?”
“We’ve been tracking her closely, and it doesn’t look like she’s close to anything right now.”
“How does she compare to the others?”
“Of the eight groups we’re still watching, I’d say she ranks third or fourth in terms of likelihood of success. The University of Connecticut group is still the closest, but, as I’ve explained before, they’re still several years away, in our opinion.”
“Well, just last week, your friends at DeCode linked a form of glaucoma to a particular gene in the human genome, and it took them less than twelve months to do it. How do you explain that?”
“That’s different, Mr. Secretary. DeCode is working with a small, heterogeneous population in Iceland, which shares much of the same DNA. When they set out to target a disease like glaucoma, they begin with a DNA sample from a person in the population who actually has that disease—in other words, someone who has a mutated gene in their DNA that causes the disease. By sequencing that person’s DNA and then comparing it to members of the Icelandic population who don’t have the disease, they can quickly pinpoint the genetic source of the disease.”