“And?”
“And they told me the treatment had been successful and that he was on the mend”
“The treatment? You mean the operation?”
“No. That’s just it. I managed to ascertain that there had been no operation.”
“He’s getting better without the amputation?”
“Apparently, yes. Of course I asked for more information, but as I think I said before, the Turnbulls and the circles they move in put a premium on discretion. I was lucky to find out what I did.”
“So…”
Ford didn’t know what to say. He had no real sense of Wingate’s character or the extent to which he could be relied on. It was an intriguing piece of news but perhaps no more than that.
“Dr. Ford?”
“Yes, I’m still here. I’m trying to get a sense of how important this—”
“Well, it may be nothing, of course. It may be that the boy’s immune system came out on top. I mean, stranger things have happened. All I’m saying is, the last report I had of Edward Turnbull he was very sick with a multiresistant infection. You had to see his hand to appreciate what I’m saying.”
“I see. But, as you say—”
“Well, I suppose what I’m really saying is, I would be intrigued to know what kind of treatment they were giving the boy, that’s all. It’s just a feeling I have. I mean, if anybody is going to have access to the latest medical treatment, it ought to be Edward Turnbull. Do you see what I mean?”
“I’m not sure I—”
“Well, quite apart from his family’s financial … resources, his uncle more or less runs LA County.”
“Pardon me?”
“I mean the health administration in LA County. His uncle runs it.”
“And his uncle is…?”
“Marshall West. You know, the czar. So, you can—”
“Yes. Yes, I can.”
Wingate continued to talk, but Ford was no longer listening. All he could think of was Marshall West’s face as he’d stood there on the street and told him it was time to face up to reality. What had he said? Sunny’s getting the best care there is. You know that.
Maybe that wasn’t exactly true.
“Hello? Hello, are you still there?”
Ford gave himself a shake.
“Yes. Dr. Wingate, I have to go now. I really appreciate your keeping me informed about this.”
Wingate started to say something, but Ford just hung up. He sat still for a moment, his mind racing. Then he got to his feet. You can’t cure all of the people all of the time, that was what West had told him. All of the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time. Yes, thought Ford, keyed up now, looking through his desk for the big LA County road map, some of the people—that was a different matter.
PART SIX
OMEGA
1
MIRAGE VALLEY
Helen Wray looked at herself in the mirror and managed a nervous smile. She was about to meet the CEO of Stern Corporation, Randolph Whittaker, and wanted to look her best. Whittaker was a well-known ladies’ man, and while he had several good reasons to be delighted with her efforts on Stern’s behalf, that was no reason not to give him another. She turned her head slightly, tried a complicit smile bordering on the flirtatious. Even by her own exacting standards she looked terrific. The exertions of the past few weeks had taken her a couple of pounds under her ideal weight, bringing out a distinctly feline quality in her face. She gave her dove gray Gucci jacket a little tug downwards and smiled again, getting it right this time: a friendly smile, warm with just a hint of playfulness.
The Stern Corporation laboratories were located twelve miles east of the town of Lancaster in the extreme north of LA County, not far from Edwards Air Force Base. From a distance the building had the look of a high-tech grain silo, except that it was surrounded not by rolling wheatfields but by scrubby desert and a scattering of Joshua trees.
Stern Corporation undertook the business of anticipating the requirements of the twenty-first century protected by an airconditioned steel-and-glass envelope. The labs themselves, while packed with state-of-the-art equipment, were no more than functional, providing a stark contrast with the executive suites, boardroom, and reception rooms on the fourth floor. The move to Lancaster had been voted during a stockholders’ meeting back in the mid-eighties, and a disgruntled board had insisted that if they were to be stuck out in the desert, then at least let it be in comfort. The designers and architects had taken them at their word.
Wray’s meeting was scheduled for three o’clock in Whittaker’s office, but before that she planned to call in on Murray Kernahan, Stern’s R&D head. She had always cultivated Kernahan as a contact because it was useful to know what was coming down the pipeline. The imminent arrival of a new beta-blocker or analgesic might require some shift in her sales focus, even in the kinds of clients she was developing. For his part Kernahan had always been very receptive, claiming an interest in hearing what the clients were saying about Stern products, though Wray suspected that his openness was, at least in part, social.
Having notified Whittaker’s personal assistant of her presence in the building, Wray took the elevator down to the first floor and, using her security pass, entered the first-floor laboratories through the double glass doors.
Kernahan was, as usual, up to his ears in work. He liked nothing better than to get into his lab coat, all the more since the nature of his work—interfacing between the upper tiers of management and the research teams—didn’t allow it that often. Not surprisingly, he had insisted on being directly involved from the outset with the development of the antisense material recently “recovered” by Stern.
Like everybody else at Stern, or at least those people who knew anything about it, he took the view that the company should have had the material back in ‘92, at the time of the Helical takeover. The fact that Stern had decided to take an unorthodox route to reacquire Helical’s work was seen as a reflection of market reality. Charles Novak’s death was a clear indication of the harsh nature of that reality—proof that there were other interested parties ready to play even dirtier.
A ripple of discomfort had gone through senior management when news first reached them of how the Helical technology had been “reacquired.” But that was soon forgotten in the ensuing excitement. For the R&D people lucky enough to be working with antisense technology, the material, the ideas, were like a sudden rush of pure oxygen. For the first few days the team under Kernahan’s supervision hardly ate or slept, running on pure adrenaline and instant coffee.
Kernahan was pouring himself his fifth cup of the morning, his eyes glancing to a computer printout, when Wray entered his office.
“Murray?”
Kernahan looked up and smiled.
“Helen, hi! I heard you were coming in.”
Wray pointed to his cup.
“Stern should take a position in coffee futures.”
“You want one? It’s instant.”
Wray accepted, though she had no intention of drinking. They ground their own beans on the fourth floor, and that was how she liked it.
“So,” said Kernahan confidentially, “you’re in to see the man.”
“That’s right. He tells me you are making great progress with Ribomax.”
Stern had already decided on a brand name for the new drug.
Kernahan jabbed his thumb over his shoulder.
“These guys are having the time of their lives,” he said, keeping his voice low, although there was nobody in earshot. “What a buzz, I’m telling you. ‘Course it helps having worked in the same area for so long. We find that we were pretty much in the ballpark with a lot of the ideas, but I have to admit, Novak was one hell of a chemist. I mean, talk about lateral thinking.” He stroked his beard for a moment, considering. “The way he could step back from a problem, from a discovery, and then come at it from a whole new angle. The way he used knowledge. It’s been an education, I can tell you
.”
“How far away are you from producing the first…?”
Kernahan opposed his fingertips and smiled.
“Everybody who comes down here asks the same question. Here we are riding the roller coaster, and all you guys want to know is when are we going to get off.”
Wray shrugged.
“That’s business, I guess. So are you anywhere near…?”
“It’s already done,” said Kernahan.
“You’re producing it?”
“Sure. Not industrially of course. That’s going to take a lot longer. We’re talking to our plant-design people about that. And anyway, the board has to decide what they want to do with this thing first. How they want to play it. My guess is they’ll want to keep the whole thing under wraps until the patent comes through. That could take a couple of years.”
“But you’ve actually made some?”
Kernahan smiled and reached down beside his desk.
“Helen, let me put you out of your misery.”
He brought up a small cardboard case of the sort used to store vials of serum. Wray could see the small bottles inside. Kernahan took one out.
“Voila,” he said, presenting the bottle as though it were a fine claret. “Chateau Stern ‘97.”
Wray reached across the desk and took the bottle. It was such a small thing. A slender bottle containing a clear, slightly viscous fluid. Omega. Ribomax. Billions of dollars in sales.
“Have you tested it?”
“We’ve shown it to a few cultures.”
“A few?”
“Well, a few thousand, actually.”
Kernahan shook his head in admiration.
“It’s radical. You pick up the petri dish the next morning, and, well … the bacteria are dead in their tracks. They just stop dividing. A day later and they start to die. Like I say, radical. And the funny thing is … at the heart of it, it’s so … intelligent, subtle. I’m not expecting many adverse side effects.”
“So the rumors about Omega were true?”
Kernahan shrugged.
“Rumors schmoomers.” He paused for a moment, considering Wray’s delicate clavicles, then leaned forward a little. “And if you want a piece of free advice, don’t bother mentioning the O word around here. People get a little antsy.”
“I’ll bet.”
She considered the bottle again.
“Is that the form it’s going to take?” she said.
“A serum, you mean? Yes. Synthetic RNA does best in that medium. It’s fragile as hell, actually.”
So fragile, thought Wray, but strong enough to burst the market wide open, to fly into the heart of the market and detonate like a nuclear warhead—billions of dollars of sales flying out like shock waves. It was going to change everything, including her life. In half an hour from now, Whittaker was going to give her the biggest bonus in her life, but more than that, he would hand her a block of options on Stern stock. He’d already hinted as much. When Wall Street got wind of Ribomax, the stock would go critical, making her a millionaire at least. Stern was going to go through the roof and she was going to be riding it. She could almost feel the pressure of money building up.
“I can’t believe I’m holding it,” she said in a quiet voice. “I’ve dreamed about it for so long.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Kernahan. “It’s going to make a hell of a difference to a lot of sick people. I only wish we could get it out to the hospitals right away.”
Wray looked up as Kernahan took the bottle from her hand.
“Yes,” she said. “I … I guess that’s right.”
The phone rang. Kernahan picked up.
“Kernahan. Yes … Yes, she is.”
He handed the phone across the desk.
It was Whittaker himself. He sounded as if he were high.
“Helen, I really appreciate your coming in. I wanted to express my gratitude personally for … for all your hard work.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Helen said, the beginnings of a blush rising to her cheeks.
“Now, listen, Helen, the way things have turned out… I think it’s time we sat down and…” He burst into a hard, euphoric laugh. “Look, this is ridiculous,” he said. “Just come up to my office right away.”
Wray handed the phone back to Kernahan. Her hand was shaking. Kernahan smiled.
“You look like you just won the lottery,” he said.
Wray shrugged. “It kind of feels like that,” she said. She stood up.
“Look, Murray, I’ve got to go up to see Randolph now. But … can I come back down afterwards? There’s a few things I’d like to sort out.”
Kernahan smiled.
“Just can’t stay away, huh? I understand. The only problem is I’ve got a meeting this afternoon with some of the other directors. They want to be briefed on the technology.”
He tapped the bottle.
“I’m taking it up for them to admire. Just the one, mind you. I can’t afford to have them break the whole case. You know what they’re like after a heavy lunch. They’ll probably drop it.”
Wray nodded.
“Oh, well, another time, then.”
“Sure,” said Kernahan, getting to his feet. “My blast-proof door is always open.”
2
The late afternoon sun flared against the dirty windshield as Ford turned off San Vicente and headed across Sunset into the shady mansion-land of Brentwood Heights. The Buick took the speed bumps with its usual nonchalance, bucking and lurching like a bull at a rodeo, but Ford didn’t slow down to the statutory crawl until a patrol car turned out into the road behind him. It stayed there for three blocks, watching him, keeping him in its sights, probably checking his plates. Then it cut a U-turn and headed back the other way. Ford watched it disappear in the mirror, then hit the accelerator again.
On the seat beside him lay a black doctor’s bag. It was an item of medical paraphernalia he’d owned for years, although he’d never actually used it for work. His godparents had given it to him when he’d graduated from med school, presumably in the belief that he would soon be making housecalls. Since then it had served as a lunch box, a camera bag, and once, when he and Carolyn had first started dating, as a makeshift champagne cooler. Now it concealed a Sig-Sauer .38 and an assortment of family medicines hastily swept from the bathroom cabinet. He’d thought about putting on a white coat too, but had opted instead for a jacket and tie and a proper wet shave. The coat he left ostentatiously draped over the back of the seat.
Mandeville Canyon snaked its way north through the fringes of the Santa Monica mountains, which divided West Los Angeles from the sprawling suburbia of the San Fernando Valley. It was quiet: no traffic on the road because most people used the nearby freeway, no people on the sidewalks because this was still LA. The houses were comfortable here, not ostentatious, except that now and again, halfway up a hillside, or tucked away at the bottom of a private drive, Ford glimpsed more substantial properties, homes of movie stars, maybe, who were tired of the stalkers and paparazzi in town.
Sky Valley Road lay at the top of the canyon. On the road map it was a tiny black line, no more than a quarter inch long. The entrance to the Aurora Clinic lay at the end, behind a screen of tall cypress trees that formed a neat semicircle right around the property. The building itself was two stories high, red-brown brick, part-timbered with verandahs and ornaments that gave it an oriental resonance. As he drove up to the gates, Ford wondered how many patients it could accommodate. It was a quarter the size of the Willowbrook, but then the community it served—if community was the right word—was probably one percent the size of the Willowbrook’s, if that.
The gates were not manned. Ford rolled down his window and found himself looking into the lens of a security camera. It was mounted on a concrete post, hidden away between the cypresses and the brick wall behind them. There was another one on the other side, and a third mounted directly above the gates. There didn’t seem to be a bell or an in
tercom. Was he supposed to show the cameras some identification? He was reaching into his jacket for his wallet, when, without warning, the gates opened.
There was a visitors’ parking lot at the side of the building, the bays shaded by flowering acacia and citrus trees. In one corner a man dressed in gray livery was polishing the side mirrors of a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. As the Buick went by he stared at the crumpled fender as if it were something catching. Ford parked in the opposite corner and climbed out onto the gravel. It was cooler up here than in the city, and the breeze wore a subtle perfume of lemons and something sweeter that he couldn’t place. As he was walking towards the sign marked visitors, carrying his bag, he noticed a young woman standing in one of the windows on the second floor: a nurse in a pristine white uniform. She was folding something. She watched him for a second and then turned away.
The reception area was hexagonal, with passageways going off to left and right. The desk stood in the middle, with a glass atrium directly behind it, complete with an ornamental fountain and several species of dwarf trees, including one that looked like a miniature cedar of Lebanon.
“Welcome to the Aurora Clinic. How may I help you?” said the receptionist.
She wore the same uniform as the girl in the window, a tailored white coat, the collar finished off with a thin stripe of royal blue. She was maybe twenty-five, blonde hair, piercing blue eyes. Her name badge read Lauren Heller.
Ford forced a smile, tried to make it warm, relaxed.
“Yes, I’m Dr. Marcus Ford.” He made the statement sound like a question, as if she was supposed to know who he was. “I’m here to give a second opinion. The patient’s name is Turnbull. Edward Turnbull, I believe.”
The receptionist showed him a white smile and an easy ten thousand dollars of orthodontistry.
“Thank you. I’ll just check the schedule.”
She swiveled around to a computer terminal and tapped in a few keys. Ford gazed around casually. A security man in a blue sports coat came out of a door by the main entrance, took a look at him, then wandered off down the corridor. Before the door swung shut, Ford glimpsed a row of television monitors and at least two more men dressed the same way.
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