West smiled.
“Appropriate use? I’d a feeling you’d say something like that. In my line of work when you see the word appropriate, it just means somebody’s passing the buck. Take the appropriate steps, frame the appropriate response, and, while you’re about it, take the heat when it all goes wrong.”
“It can’t be appropriate to let people die, Marshall, not while there’s a chance you can save them.”
West’s smile faded.
“I know what you must be going through,” he said softly. “When I think about my two”—he nodded towards the family photograph propped up on the side of his desk—“it makes me … Well, if there’s anything I can do, you know you can count on me.”
Marcus leaned forward in his chair.
“We need to get into Apex. We need to find out if they’ve developed this drug. We need to get hold of it. For a lot of people it could be the last chance. For Sunny it could be the last chance.”
West frowned.
“Marcus, we can ask them about it, but I doubt if—”
“Asking’s no good. There isn’t time to ask. We have to go in there and look at what they’ve got. We have to make them hand it over.”
West shook his head in disbelief.
“Marcus, you don’t know what you’re saying. These people have rights. You can’t march into a major company and take what you like just because you want it. This isn’t North Korea. We need grounds, evidence of criminal activity. Otherwise, how is anyone supposed to get a warrant?”
“Marshall, they stole this technology. By rights it belongs to Stern Corporation. When Stern bought Helical Systems, they bought the rights to all its R and D work as well. But Novak and Griffen and their friends, they took the best of it away with them—Stern themselves reached that conclusion, even if they couldn’t prove it. Then, sometime later—my guess is when things had died down a little—they made a deal with someone else, a big deal for a lot of money.”
“And you think that someone was Apex?”
“Who else? I talked to our in-house pharmacy people yesterday. They told me Apex badly needs a breakthrough. They’ve spent a ton of money on research, and they’ve got nothing to show for it but a handful of specialist treatments. A genetically engineered product like Omega is just what they’re looking for. And besides, Scott Griffen is in charge of research, for Christ’s sake.”
Ford saw the muscles flex on either side of West’s jaw. He had the impression that he was talking to someone who wanted to give the impression of listening but who did not want to hear. It was West’s job, his chosen role, to persuade people, not to be persuaded.
“If what you say is true, then maybe, just maybe, Stern could pursue some kind of claim against Apex. But we’ve no real evidence that Omega even exists, not really. All we can be confident of is that Stem’s people think it exists, or maybe just suspect that it does. I hate to dent your hopes on this, Marcus, but we have to be realistic.”
Ford looked down at the pale green carpet, at his dusty, spattered shoes. West wasn’t going to help him, maybe just couldn’t help him. The evidence was circumstantial. And if Stern hadn’t been able to prove anything, what hope did he have? But then, why should it matter if things were proven or not? If there was a chance that lives could be saved, it was worth trying anything.
“Look, Marshall, Novak was killed because he wanted to make the drug available. I’m certain of that. He and Griffen were going to shortcut whatever deal they’d made because they saw the need for it. Sooner or later the police are going to find that out. I’ll tell them myself if I have to.”
“These theories aren’t enough, Marcus, compelling as they are.”
“The point is—”
He was interrupted by a sharp buzz on the intercom.
West deliberately reached over his desk and pressed a button.
“Yes, Sally.”
“Your car’s downstairs, Mr. West.”
“Thank you. Be right there. Marcus, I hate to rush you, but I’ve a meeting at City Hall in twenty minutes.”
West began gathering papers and files together. Ford stood up, planting a hand on the desk.
“My point is, we don’t have to worry about who has legal title to Omega. Once we establish it’s there, at Apex, we’re in a position to call the shots, don’t you see? Provided there’s no publicity. We can make a deal with the company.”
“Marcus, I don’t see—”
“We get to try out the drug under whatever name they like—call it a clinical trial—in return for keeping its history out of the papers. If Apex cooperates, they retain ownership. If not, we let the whole story out, how they’ve been keeping the drug back, even when people were dying on their doorstep. At best it’ll be bad publicity, at worst they lose the drug to Stern and half the board goes to jail.”
West put an attaché case down in front of him and released the catches. Then, avoiding Ford’s gaze, saying nothing, he began placing his documents inside it. For a moment everything in the office was quiet. Then suddenly he stopped, closed his eyes as if in pain, sighed.
“What you’re asking…” His voice was little more than a whisper. “These are powerful people. The kind of favors I’d have to…” He shook his head. “You have no idea, Marcus, no idea.”
Ford slowly straightened up.
“It’s my daughter’s life,” he said.
West nodded to himself, then got to his feet.
“I’ll do everything I can. It isn’t going to be easy, but I’ll try. You have my word on that.”
2
Scott Griffen came out onto the patio carrying a bowl of coconut chicken soup to find two men standing by the pool—looking into the pool as though they had lost something. The one with the gun was dressed in a lightweight gray suit and had short red hair. The other, similarly dressed, was lean, balding, with the wholesome look of an astronaut. For a moment Griffen was so shocked he couldn’t speak.
“Smells good,” said the man with the gun. “Tom ka gai, right?”
Griffen nodded.
“Thai food,” said the man, nodding, “absolutely my favorite and I’m including French here. People say French. They say haute cuisine, but I think those Thais have it down to an art.”
“Spicy though,” said the astronaut. “A little on the hot side.”
The gunman raised his eyebrows.
“Not from my point of view.”
It was as if they had arrived at his poolside by accident. As if his being there was of no importance to them one way or the other. Griffen took a step backwards. Realized he was wrong.
“Where you going?”
The gunman was pointing his automatic, a small pistol with the teat from a baby’s bottle on the business end.
“I said where the fuck are you going?”
Affable. Just wanting to be kept informed.
Griffen put his free hand up, spilling a little soup as he did so.
“I was just…”
“Don’t go back into the house,” said the astronaut. “Stay with us. Eat your soup. It must be getting cold.”
Griffen looked down at the bowl.
“Seriously,” said the astronaut. Meaning it. “Eat. I’d hate to see it go to waste.”
Griffen, keeping his eyes on the teat, spooned some of the milky soup into his mouth. Ten minutes ago he had been starving. Now he could hardly swallow. All he could think about was what had happened to Novak—what the woman from Stern had told him.
“It’s nice up here,” said the astronaut. “I’m down in the Valley. The air’s better up here.”
“What do you want?” asked Griffen, finally able to speak.
The men approached the round patio table where Mrs. Menendez, the housekeeper, had set a place for supper. Griffen was mesmerized by the gun and its soft rubber nipple. Were they going to ask him to suck it?
“How come you do the cooking?” asked the gunman.
“I don’t, not … not normally. When my wife�
��s away, I like to cook. Thai food. My wife can’t eat spicy food. It’s not good for her.”
“So what’s wrong with the housekeeper?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The housekeeper,” said the gunman. “How come she don’t cook?”
“Mrs. Menendez doesn’t especially like cooking Asian food. She doesn’t like the smell.”
The gunman was shaking his head in disbelief, looking at his partner, “Can you believe that? Fucking greasers. All they know is garlic and onions.”
“So you sent her home early?” asked the astronaut.
Griffen nodded, his eyes still on the gun. There was a moment’s silence.
“What?” said the gunman. Following Griffen’s gaze, he lifted the pistol and considered the teat. “This?”
Griffen nodded.
“Great, isn’t it?”
The gunman was looking at the teat with an expression of amused wonderment.
“Fucking incredible, but it really cuts down on muzzle blast. Mind you, this is just a .22. Be no good on a bigger gun.” He looked at Griffen now, and Griffen could see that the pupil of his left eye had a flaw of some kind and was pulled into a shape like a comma. “You walk around with a suppressor—a silencer?—get caught with one, say, by the cops, they want to know what line of work you’re in. But nobody minds a little titty. Course you take it off when the gun’s in your pocket or holster or whatever. Hell, you can even swallow the thing if you have to.”
“You get close enough,” said the astronaut, leaning forward, “you put the hole in the right place, you don’t need a big gun. Pop the guy in the head with a .22? The bullet doesn’t come straight out. Whirls around inside. Scrambled egg. You find a nice soft spot—love handles are good or a big stomach—the target soaks up the noise. On a night like this? Little breeze in the trees, nobody’s going to hear much. You understand what I’m saying?”
Griffen put the soup down on the table.
“Is that … Is that what you’re here to do? Shoot me?”
The astronaut smiled, shaking his head.
“Now, don’t get all worked up. I’ll tell you what, why don’t we sit down.”
Griffen sat. Waited for the men to take seats opposite.
“So what … what is it you want?”
Putting both his hands on the table, the astronaut looked at Griffen’s face with a calm, almost friendly expression.
“Naturally, you’re right,” he said, affably. “We are, of course, here for a reason. In fact, I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Apex. Hear your views on a matter which concerns me. It won’t take more than a minute, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”
Griffen looked from one man to the other, wondering for the first time who they were with. Novak had always feared that word on Omega would get out, that other parties might come sniffing around. That was why he had moved his office to the Palisades address.
“Sure,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, we were hoping you could tell us a little about your work. On antisense.”
Griffen relaxed a little. At least now he knew what they wanted.
“You’re going to have to be a little more—”
“Specifically what interests me … what interests my employer, is the work you’re doing on synthetic DNA, particularly synthetic DNA drugs designed to deactivate or kill bacteria.”
“Antibiotics?”
The astronaut nodded, giving Griffen time but no longer looking so friendly.
Griffen drew a breath. “I’m afraid—”
He stopped short, staring at the astronaut’s raised index finger.
“Now, I should explain here,” said the astronaut, “just to save everybody time, that there is a right answer and a wrong answer to this question.”
He smiled and leaned back against his chair, giving Griffen a friendly go-ahead nod. Griffen swallowed hard.
“Well … I … I don’t know what you would consider the right answer. I can only tell you the truth, the truth as far as I know it. Apex is interested in antisense and triplex agents, but we have always … we have tended to focus more on human cells with a view to dealing with…”
The astronaut had turned. He was looking at his partner. His head came back round, and Griffen could see that he was unhappy. Then the soup bowl slammed into his face, the astronaut reaching across the tilting table, pressing hard, twisting. Griffen made no attempt to move, just leaning backwards as the other man pushed.
Just as it had started, it stopped.
The bowl was back on the table, empty now, the astronaut brushing a spatter of soup from his sleeve. Griffen blinked through the warm broth of coconut and chicken. It ran down his neck and into his shirt. With trembling fingers, he detached a strand of lemongrass from his mouth. There was a taste of blood.
“Please don’t hurt me,” he said.
The gunman raised his pistol and sucked gently at the teat, watching Griffen’s face.
“Scott,” said the astronaut after a moment, sounding disappointed. “Scotty. Does the name Charles Novak mean anything to you?”
Griffen froze.
“Sure, he’s … he was … I worked with him at Helical Systems back in the—”
“Helical,” said the astronaut as though remembering the name. “Right … right. Well, it’s a terrible thing, it’s a terrible thing to have to say, but the slob croaked.”
“Yes,” said Griffen, trying to think whether or not the murder had been reported in the press, whether or not he should know what he knew. “Yes, I heard.”
“Guy killed himself,” said the gunman, taking the teat out of his mouth to speak.
“And Helen Wray?” asked the astronaut.
“She’s dead?”
“Not as far as I know. Not yet.”
The astronaut watched Griffen for a moment.
“You seem upset.”
“I … No, I’m just trying to understand.”
“No, but when I said Helen Wray. You thought she was dead. Why would she be dead?”
“She came here last night,” said Griffen.
The astronaut raised his eyebrows.
“You’re not making any sense, Doctor.”
“I’m sorry. For a moment—when you said her name, I … She was here last night, and I thought you were telling me—”
“Did you fuck?”
“Pardon me?”
“I said did you fuck. You and Miss Wray. Did you have sexual intercourse?”
“I never met her before last night.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No. No, we didn’t.”
“Must have been a nice surprise for you, though. Your wife being away and all. Good-looking woman like that just happens to stop by. What did she want exactly?”
Griffen looked away.
“Now, Scotty,” said the astronaut, lowering his voice, “I know this is difficult for you to talk about, but that’s why I didn’t just pick up the phone. That’s why I didn’t fax you a list of questions. That’s why I … why we went to the trouble of coming up here. Because I knew you would find it difficult.”
He paused for a second, letting all this sink in.
“Now, I’ll ask you again,” he said, his voice a soft growl. “What—did—Helen—Wray—want?”
Still Griffen looked away, his whole body taut, trembling. He did not want to repeat what Helen Wray had said to him because that would mean getting into a discussion that was strictly taboo. His mind raced as he tried to come up with a plausible lie.
“Let’s go inside,” said the astronaut, mildly.
They walked him into the house, closing the outside door as they entered the kitchen. The gunman placed him next to the sink, propping him up as if he were a target. Griffen saw the big kitchen knife, the remains of chopped vegetables, strips of chicken skin, a piece of fresh galingale. He saw a note from his wife on the refrigerator door.
Don’t forget the grapefruit!
Elements of his former life—receding from him at the speed of light.
“They did a beautiful job,” said the gunman, looking around the kitchen.
The astronaut walked over to the microwave. He pressed a button and the door popped open. Then he pushed it shut again, tried to set it to defrost.
He looked over his shoulder at Griffen.
“How do you set this up? Say you want to cook some meat.”
“From … from frozen?”
“No, not frozen. Fresh.”
Griffen crossed the Mexican-tile floor, so scared he couldn’t think straight, pressed a button. Then another.
“That’s for the temperature; that’s for the time.”
“Okay,” said the astronaut. “Okay.”
Griffen was pulled back to the sink. He watched as the astronaut picked up the big kitchen knife. The gunman pushed air out through his nose. He put the gun against Griffen’s head, touching his temple with the cool teat, and waited.
It was the astronaut who spoke.
“Okay, Scott. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.”
He pointed with the knife.
“You’re left-handed, am I right?”
Griffen nodded, showing his delicate left hand.
“I noticed when you were eating your…”
“Tom ka gai,” said the gunman.
“Your Tom ka gai, right. Okay. Now, what I’m going to do is, I’m going to cut off your right hand.” Again he pointed with the knife. “I’m going to cut it off with this knife, and I’m going to cook it in this neat little Japanese microwave.”
He looked at the gunman. Then back. Smiled.
“How does that sound? Understand me, this is in case of any more wrong answers. I’m going to microwave your fucking hand, and then you are going to eat it. How’s that?”
Griffen felt a sudden release of heat into his crotch. He looked down in disbelief, tears of fear and shame stinging his eyes. Then he was blubbering—out of control.
“Please, dear God oh God oh Jesus oh God…”
The astronaut crossed the brightly lit space and pressed the flat of the knife against his face, careful not to cut him. There were to be no marks.
“It may not be Thai, Scotty, but it’ll be interesting. It’ll be a first.”
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