The most gruesome, nonsensical rumor Joel had ever heard was that Mortimar had been decapitated, and it was his head alone, sitting in amniotic fluid, connected to a computer and a blood pump, that was calling the shots at Trans-Continental.
Few knew anything about Mortimar’s background, fewer still about how he’d guided his company from obscurity to number one in the world. He was the most powerful man in the industry, and one of the most influential in the country. Politicians hated to get calls from Sam “The Ghoul” Mortimar. And now, here, it looked as though Sam “The Ghoul” had assembled some sort of health-care star chamber.
“You’re Sam Mortimar?”
“Yes. You seem to know Mr. Casey and Mr. Wheaton. The man you’re sitting next to is Bill Smith. Bill runs and owns a large piece of Smith Systems. As of last year, Smith joined our little team here as number five.” Bill Smith nodded to Joel but didn’t extend a hand.
Joel nodded and relaxed a little. Introductions were over. As the newly throned CEO of Cabbot, he was among peers. He would’ve preferred Mortimar not appear so ghoulish, but rumors and speculation aside, Mortimar was widely known to be not only a medical genius, but a man who understood business as well. This was a rare quality in an industry so reliant on scientists and doctors, both of whom were traditionally terrible businessmen.
Mortimar continued, “Joel, we don’t waste time. We’re all busy men. We meet here once a quarter and we don’t mince words or work. As Ed Waxel’s replacement at Cabbot, you will be a member of our group. As you’ve been instructed, nothing we do or say in these meetings can ever leave this room. If you take information out of this room, you do so at your own risk.”
There was that word ”risk” again, Joel thought. Mortimar must have written the script for the security guard.
“We have a busy agenda today, but our first item is to explain what we do.”
“Okay.”
“Joel, this is the one place where it’s always okay to say that healthcare is a business, and not a profession. It’s important for you to understand that. We do what we do to make money. If all sick people are cured, we lose. We’re out of business. If from today forward no more people were to get sick, we’d all be out of business. We need a strong inventory of existing and new sick people to continue to grow our business.”
Joel nodded, and Mortimar continued. “Joel, as CEO of Cabbot, what is your worst fear?”
Without missing a beat, Joel said, “Missing this quarter’s Earnings Per Share projections.”
The other men in the room chuckled and nodded; each felt the pressure to hit quarterly earnings estimates.
Mortimar continued, “Joel, Cabbot generates $14 billion in cancer treatment revenue every year. What would happen if a cure for cancer were announced tomorrow and was available for $5 at every drug store in the country?”
Joel shrugged and said, “It wouldn’t be pretty for Cabbot.”
Bill Smith spoke up. “Earnings per share would be the least of your concerns.”
All of the men laughed, but what he said was true.
Cabbot’s best cancer drug, Ostiozone, was still under patent protection, meaning they had a monopoly on it, and both gross revenue and profitability were sky-high. If that revenue went away, or even decreased, it would be disastrous. Joel would be out of a job before year’s end.
Mortimar said, “Let me answer the question for you, Joel, since you can’t seem to come up with the answer on your own. As CEO of Cabbot, your worst fear is that someone finds a cure for cancer.”
Joel immediately saw his point.
“Don’t worry, it’s mine too. And William’s, and Charles’, and Bill’s. Our allegiance is to our shareholders. We need sick people. Lots of them. And we need strong-selling drugs to sell them. Not cures.”
“Our allegiance at Cabbot is to our end users, the patients. They’re the people who pay us,” Joel countered.
“No!” Mortimar cut in vehemently. “They’re not our patients, Joel. They’re the doctor’s patients, and they don’t pay us, Joel, their insurance companies do. Or, if they’re senior citizens, the government pays.
“One thing holds true: your job is to grow Cabbott. There are really only two ways to grow a business, Joel. You either grow it by charging your existing customers more, or you increase the number of customers. In our case, that means increasing the number of sick people.”
Joel was silent.
“We treat symptoms, not people. We create diagnostic tests to sell our drugs, but we don’t prevent or cure illness. That would be contrary to our sworn duty as Chief Executive Officers. It would put us out of business.”
Joel was not ready to agree or disagree, but he nodded anyway. What “The Ghoul” was saying ran contrary to what Joel felt and believed. It went against all the reasons he’d started working in healthcare in the first place. However, he was not going to make waves at the first meeting with this group.
“So, Joel, the group assembled here today does two primary things: we stop the development of new products that threaten our existing product lines, and we make sure there are enough sick people to take all the drugs we need them to consume, in order to meet and exceed our revenue and profit objectives.”
Joel couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What do you mean when you say we make sure there are enough sick people to buy the amount of drugs we need them to consume?”
Casey spoke up, “Joel, the industry has a long history of creating disease so we’ll have something, anything, to create new products for. Have you ever heard of the Cimmaron Project? We basically created a new type of cancer by combining . . .”
“Silence!” Mortimar hissed, directing a fiery gaze at Casey, his exposed eyeball bulging. Spittle flew from his mouth like venom, landing on the table in front of Joel. Joel shifted in his chair and looked at the saliva, half expecting to see it sizzle.
Casey put his hand out and said, “I just thought I’d give Joel an example of what we mean when we talk about increasing the inventory of sick people; our . . . emerging markets, so to speak.”
Mortimar leaned back in his chair slightly. Joel could hear his breathing. It was shallow and fast. Mortimar had gotten very angry very fast, and seemed to be trying to calm himself.
Finally, after an excruciating silence, he said with forced civility, “I’ll lead that portion of the discussion, William, thank you.”
Joel wondered if Mortimar didn’t trust him yet, or if he was just particularly sensitive about the Cimmaron Project, whatever that was.
“Joel, let’s talk more about the first topic, blocking competitive products from coming to market. It’s a little more straightforward. Then, we’ll get into how we make people sick, or as William aptly calls them, emerging markets. Okay?” Glances were exchanged between the other men at the table. They all nodded.
Joel said, “Okay.”
“As for new medicines, cures, and treatments, we simply would not be able to absorb the impact that a cure, in any of our primary categories of business, would have on our bottom line. Do you agree?”
“I can see how it would significantly impact us, yes.” His voice unsure; trembling slightly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. “But what can we actually do? I mean, how can you actually stop a medicine or treatment from becoming public? Stop it from coming to market? That is what you’re talking about, correct? Actually stopping a drug from coming to market if it is too effective? If it can actually cure someone?”
They all looked at him, but no one answered.
“Is that what you’re talking about? If it’s not ours, block it?
Mortimar smiled a ghoulish smile and said, “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Well, how the hell would you do that?” Joel asked, astonished.
“That’s exactly what we’re going to talk about next.”
Chapter 5
McAlister heard a man’s voice coming from the cell phone he’d dropped on the floor. Eyes g
lued to the TV, he picked up the phone and distractedly whispered, “What?”
“Mr. McAlister, this is Fire Chief Mike Cienkus. We need to talk to you about your friend, sir. Where are you located right now?”
He covered the mouthpiece and said to Undertaker, “Turn it up.” Back into the cell phone, “I’m sorry Mike, I’m going to have to call you back.”
“No, wait, I need to . . .”
McAlister closed the phone.
Undertaker had turned the TV volume up. “And now a breaking news story. News Three has learned that this man, Dr. Thomas McAlister, is charged with breaking into the New York Biomedical Research Center. This morning, at approximately nine a.m., McAlister overpowered two of the facility’s guards and broke into the high-security vaccination wing of the center.
“Police report that an undisclosed number of vials from the facility’s highly toxic Level Four toxins, are, in fact, missing. We go on-site now where Leslie Matosian is live. Leslie, we understand McAlister was actually captured on video during the getaway. What can you tell us about that?”
“That’s right, Kathy, I’m here at the Biomedical Research Center, which has security cameras mounted over literally every square foot of the facility. Let’s run the video now, and you will see that the perpetrator was actually caught on film during the getaway.”
McAlister saw a grainy video, shot from a high vantage point, of a man quickly exiting the receiving dock area of the research center. From a distance, it looked just like him.
“This video, combined with a tip police received shortly after the heist, has led them to believe McAlister, a former archeology professor, is behind the theft.”
“Any idea of motive, Leslie?”
“It’s too early to know, but one police source told us McAlister may be disgruntled over being fired from his job as a professor of Egyptology about a year ago. Needless to say, his past employer has been notified of this developing situation.”
“Thank you, Leslie.” The newscaster at the desk turned back toward the camera and began reading again, “If anyone has information as to the whereabouts of Thomas McAlister, we ask you to dial 911 and get that information to the police as soon as possible. He is considered to be armed and extremely dangerous.
“We want to reinforce that there is absolutely no evidence that McAlister has any plans to release the toxins and as we said, police and local authorities are mounting a search for McAlister as we speak.
“Thank you for the on-site report, Leslie. News Three will continue to track developments on this story and will bring you updates throughout the day, as new information becomes available.”
Undertaker grinned at McAlister. “Looks like we have a maniac on the loose who is in possession of one of the most feared viruses in the history of the world.”
Something about the newscast bothered McAlister, but he couldn’t place it. “H5N1, or Bird Flu, when it mutates, is widely thought to be the virus that will cause the next pandemic. Death estimates range anywhere from fifty million to one billion people, if it’s a virulent strain,” McAlister said.
Undertaker knew even more. “Four labs in the world have already mutated the virus so that it will pass easily from human to human.”
“They’ve done it to try to find a vaccine?” McAlister asked.
Undertaker paused. “Yes, a vaccine, Thomas. But also an antidote, to cure someone who is already infected.”
“They think I’ve stolen it.”
“You’re on the video, and your picture is all over the news.”
“Someone who looks like me was on the video and they had a tip. Clearly I’m being framed.”
Undertaker shrugged. “Perception is reality in this case.”
“I can beat it if it’s just the video plus a tip.”
“I know that. That’s why Taylor, the man you’re staying with, just got very sick.”
“So they’ll think I mishandled the virus.”
“Yes.”
McAlister was silent. It was perfect.
“Actually, they have more than they need to indict, try, and convict you. You even gave us a motive. You’re a disgruntled ex-professor.”
That was when the horror of it hit McAlister--how exquisitely this day had been orchestrated. Nothing had been left to chance. Undertaker had gotten in, past four locks and an alarm, and they’d had just enough time to talk before the call came from Abigail about Taylor falling ill. Just long enough for Undertaker to prove he knew about McAlister’s search for the Blue Beryl.
And the news report. Hadn’t Undertaker positioned the television remote control right in front of him? Hadn’t he turned on the TV just as the news had started, and hadn’t this been the lead, breaking story?
McAlister felt dizzy. The orchestration, the planning, the power and money required to carry out all of it--to infect Taylor, to control the media--it was overwhelming.
All to frame him.
He was in the middle of a nightmare.
“Why?” he shouted. “Why are you doing this to me? What is the point? Framing me for the theft and making Taylor sick. Why?”
“It’s simple. You’re the best there is at finding things that are lost, Dr. McAlister, and we know you’re the only person alive who can find the Blue Beryl. We need you to find it, and we need you to give it to us. If Taylor is not enough motivation for you, then it will be Lisa. If we don’t have it in our hands within seventy-two hours from now, a virulent pathogen will be released in a small town in Kansas. I think you can guess which town.”
His hometown, isolated and small enough to quarantine and spare the rest of the country.
“You wouldn’t release a strain that would jump from human to human.”
A slight smile appeared on Undertaker’s face as he said, “That’s an assumption you may not want to make.”
He paused and continued, “Up until three months ago, we were one amino acid away from creating a strain of Bird Flu, H5N1, that is highly pathogenic in humans. Now we’ve done it.”
“That would require a lab with a Biosafety Level of Four. There are only a handful of those in the country and they’re highly regulated.”
“Let’s just say there’s one more than everyone thinks.” Undertaker smirked.
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. Taylor is in intensive care. We don’t kid. What you have to ask yourself is did we infect him with HP or LP?”
“What does that mean?
“Highly pathogenic or low-pathogenic. That will determine how much time Taylor has to live.”
“Which is it?”
“I cannot tell you that,” Undertaker said definitively.
“Why frame me for the theft?”
“Speed, control, and incentive. Thomas, you were trying to find the Blue Beryl anyway. We need you to find it faster. Plus, we need control over you. If we tried to take it from you, you’d simply go to the police. You’re relatively well-respected--at least you used to be. They’d have listened to you.”
“You’re damned right they would.”
“We needed to eliminate that possibility. If you’re a wanted felon, not only can you not go to them for help, they’d never believe you. As it is now, you must avoid them at all costs.”
McAlister saw it clearly. “You’ve cut me off completely.”
“Yes. You’re wanted and fully discredited. My group and I are protected.”
McAlister shook his head.
“You’re on tape. The man you’re staying with has been exposed to the same virus you’re charged with stealing.” Undertaker gestured at Thomas with his uninjured hand. “There’s no way out, Thomas, until you give me the book. You have to find the Blue Beryl before you get caught, and then give it to me. After that, we’ll reveal the true identity of the thief, return the vials, and you’ll be proven innocent. I’ll also provide you with an antidote to the virus for Taylor.”
He paused, then added, “But you must hurry. If Taylor falls into a co
ma or has other complications, the antidote will not work.”
“How can you be so sure the Blue Beryl contains the cure you’re looking for?” McAlister hissed.
“Don’t play dumb. We both know the healing power of the antidotes in the Blue Beryl are legendary. There are reams of documentation, both during plagues and with other illnesses, that the Blue Beryl can cure almost anything. You know it, and I know you know it. It’s worth far more than the Holy Grail. It’s a medical bible with recipes that are worth billions.” Undertaker was growing impatient. “That’s why we need it!” he spat.
That was not the first time Undertaker had used the pronoun “we.” McAlister wondered who “we” was. He thought for a second, then said, “I couldn’t have stolen the virus. I have an alibi.”
“Do you, now?” Undertaker said.
“Yes.”
“Lisa?”
“Yes, Lisa!”
“Lisa in Chelsea?”
Undertaker knew Lisa’s address. McAlister knew his terror was visible.
“Yes. Chelsea,” he said slowly, collecting himself while the thought of Lisa getting sick danced through his mind.
Undertaker nodded. “Yes, she’d be a good alibi.” He met McAlister’s eyes. “That is, if she lives through the day.”
He continued, “Now, if she were to come down with a virus, that would implicate you as the thief beyond any reasonable doubt. That would really be the nail in the coffin, wouldn’t it, Thomas? No pun intended.”
Thomas shook his head. Undertaker was right. He was no scientist. They would think he had accidentally infected his friends while handling the stolen vials.
Undertaker’s smile turned devilish. “What are the odds that it was a coincidence that two of your closest friends came down with a virus the same day you were caught, on camera, stealing it?”
McAlister shook his head. He didn’t need to answer. It was checkmate.
Book of Cures (A Thomas McAlister Adventure 2) Page 3