McKean 01 The Jihad Virus

by Thomas Hopp

  My window has a pretty good overlook on Pioneer Square. Glancing sidelong, I can just glimpse the bronze bust of Chief Seattle at the base of the totem pole that stands at one end of the triangular park. I imagined him in the depths of depression over what smallpox had done to his people.

  Finally something - maybe it was the rising caffeine buzz from the triple shot - clued me to the passage of time. I glanced at the clock and leaped from my chair. Eight fifty-five! I was almost late for my appointment with Dr. Holloman.

  I clicked off my computer and yanked my windbreaker from the rack by the door, locked up and hurried down to the street. Worried that a major story could slip away, I ran past Chief Seattle’s bust and sprinted the dozen blocks to ImCo, which sits in the heart of Seattle’s waterfront. I slowed to a walk on the last block to catch my breath. I checked my wristwatch. Not a minute to spare.

  Immune Corporation’s research building is short, compared to the skyscrapers towering around it. At six stories high, it’s a squat concrete-and-brick building shaped like a kid’s ABC block - or an ATC block, considering the genetic code on which the company’s fortunes were built. Some say Immune Corporation, abbreviated ImCo by cognoscenti, is the preeminent Northwest biotech company, and a contender for that honor worldwide. At sidewalk level, its unprepossessing walls are of solid brick, painted a light salmon pink. But the upper stories are lined with wide windows, inside which passers-by can glimpse researchers in long white lab coats busying themselves at the latest laboratory equipment and facilities.

  I went to the front desk and signed in with the security guard, who sent me up the elevator to the top floor. When the doors opened onto the penthouse-level executive office suites, I entered the domain of the power elite of ImCo. The landing’s floor was of polished green serpentine tiles and the walls were furnished with dark cherry wood paneling. The wall facing the elevators announced IMMUNE CORPORATION in polished-brass letters two feet tall. It looked like the entryway to a Wall-Street brokerage firm.

  Inside the carpeted executive suite, a young woman sat behind a high cherry-wood reception desk. Proclaimed “Sally Ann Noonan” by her brass name placard, she looked a little out-of-place. Maybe it was her black-dyed, blond-rooted hair, or maybe her triple-pierced ears. I imagined a pentagram tattooed across her ass, as well. I liked her.

  “Fin Morton,” I announced myself.

  She smiled pleasantly. “Dr. Holloman is expecting you.” She stepped from behind the desk, long-legged and short-skirted in black nylon, and I followed the prance of her black, ankle-high stiletto-heeled boots through a heavy cherry-wood, brass handled, multi-windowed door into Dr. Holloman’s inner sanctum. Outer sanctum I should say. It was a broad corner office with a harbor view suited to Holloman’s high standing at Immune Corporation and among Seattle’s corporate bigwigs in general. Two entire walls were windowed with sweeping views of Seattle’s waterfront and Puget Sound glimmering in the near distance. The Olympic Mountains rose beyond that, under clearing skies. A white-and-forest-green ferry plied the waters of Elliott Bay, escorted by a small red Coast Guard gunboat. I recently read an article in Forbes Magazine, in which the outlook from Holloman’s windows was described as “a view to kill or die for.”

  Stuart Holloman himself was almost lost in the vastness of his office and the immensity of his view. He sat behind a cherry-wood desk set off to one side of the room as if to let the visitor be gob-smacked by the imposing vista first. If that was the intention, it worked.

  “Hello, Mr. Morton,” Holloman said in neutral tones when Sally Ann announced me. As she left us, he stood as if he might shake my hand, but the breadth of his desk was too great. Without the distractions of a press conference, I had a better chance to get a physical impression of him. He was a little shorter than I. And I’m of average height. He wore a charcoal gray suit with pinstripes, and looked to me more like a financier than a scientist. The bald dome of his head glinted in fluorescent light from overhead.

  On the windowed side of his office, a couch of rich crimson velour with matching armchairs and a coffee table beckoned, but he motioned me into one of three guest chairs facing his desk. The chairs were rich too - oxblood leather on carved cherry frames, studded with large polished-brass rivets. He watched my face as I sat, perhaps gauging whether I was suitably awed by his office. I was.

  He settled into his high-backed oxblood leather executive chair and his suit parted, exposing a pink shirt with buttons stretched across his gut. His dark gray tie fell to one side of his ample belly. Fat cat, I found myself thinking again, despite intending to start the interview without a bias for or against the man. He hadn’t given me a reason to dislike him, but an instinct told me that there was something vaguely uncool about him. I hadn’t put my finger on it yet.

  Leaning his elbows on his desk and rubbing his pudgy hands together, Holloman studied me with small gray eyes - a little on the beady side, I thought. Then he opened his palms wide and asked, “Where should we begin?”

  I took my notepad out of my coat pocket and launched into my planned line of questioning. “Supposing this smallpox virus is a new strain, what role do you see ImCo playing in its cure?”

  “Central,” he replied.

  “In what way?”

  “The virus will arrive here later this morning, by courier. That means ImCo will be the first commercial organization to get a look at the thing. We’ll be in a situation comparable to the one in which we developed our vaccine against the Congo River virus - “

  “The product that put ImCo on the map,” I remarked while scribbling.

  “Yes,” Holloman agreed. “Our most successful research project to date and our first major product.” Absentmindedly, he patted his belly with both hands, as if anticipating the cat growing fatter. “I foresee the same thing happening again. We’ll get early access to information about the virus’s DNA, and if anything unusual turns up, we’ll be one step ahead of the world. My scientists will have the inside track in the race to develop a vaccine. So we can ace out the competition.”

  “There will be competitors?”

  “There are always competitors in this business. A vaccine can be worth hundreds-of-millions of dollars a year. Virogen, in Boston, is our main enemy. So far, with the exception of Congo River virus, they’ve always been a half step ahead of us. But this will be Congo River all over again, another golden opportunity.”

  I sensed Holloman’s mental wheels turning, and it was clear he’d had profit motives foremost when he agreed to help Kay Erwin investigate the smallpox virus. Creeping across the back of my mind came a question I didn’t ask. How much did humanity figure in his thinking? Or was it all about money? “I remember once reading some rumblings out of Virogen,” I remarked. “They said you took unfair advantage of a university professor’s unpublished Congo River data. Stole his ideas.”

  “Sour grapes,” Holloman said flatly, staring at me with confidence. “ImCo beat Virogen to the FDA. It’s as simple as that. They may have spent a lot of time and money on the project, but we won the race. The first company to file with the Patent Office and the FDA on a new vaccine is always the winner.”

  I recognized a juicy quote and scrawled as fast as I could write. He was in a talkative mood, so I went after more verbal fireworks. “What do you think of people calling it the Holloman vaccine?”

  “It’s like the Salk vaccine against polio being named after its inventor,” he said. A smile flickered across his face. “I haven’t discouraged the practice, although I would rather see my name associated with a product with, shall we say, a larger profit margin? Not a lot of people need the Congo River vaccine. Mostly just villagers in the African bush.”

  “And they’ve got no money to pay for it.”

  “Exactly. If it weren’t for WHO funding, we would have gone broke making it for them.”

  In five minutes I got several pages of quotes that would make great copy in a magazine or web article. And if they stirred some reaction from V
irogen’s execs, I’d have an opportunity to interview them. Holloman was in a mood to make a splash, and so was I.

  “And now to the case at hand,” I said. “If Mr. Fenton’s virus is a new mutant, you’re confident you can make an effective vaccine?”

  “Absolutely,” Holloman responded. “In fact, I’ve assigned a team of our best investigators to start as soon as we get the sample. I’m confident we can produce a vaccine in record time.”

  In record time, I scribbled. “I’d like to hear how you’ll do that.”

  “And I’d like to tell you,” Holloman replied. And then he glanced at his wristwatch. “But we only have so much time. I have a meeting with a couple of key investors in fifteen minutes. I’ll need to wrap this up before that. I have some reading to do.” He patted a thick legal document sitting on one side of his desk.

  “All right,” I acquiesced. “Perhaps we could finish off with some of the technical details on how you created the Holloman - the Congo River vaccine. Can you describe the actual laboratory procedures? It would make great background material on how you’ll tackle smallpox.”

  A wrinkle appeared in his forehead, just a little crease. “Yes, uh…” His eyes fixated beyond me, as if something on the far wall had drawn his attention. I glanced around, following his gaze, but nothing was there.

  When I turned back, his face seemed to have reddened. I got the scent of fresh news, so I pressed him. “Your methods are no longer secret, having been patented and filed with the Food and Drug Administration, right? I would like very much to hear the details of how you made such a brilliant discovery.”

  He knit his fingers in front of him on the oxblood leather blotter of his desk, flexing them until his dimpled knuckles showed white. His lips drew tight. My journalistic instincts keyed up another step.

  “Is there a problem with what I’m asking? Maybe one of your technical people could walk me through the steps of your discovery, if you’re too busy.”

  He cleared his throat softly, as if about to broach a delicate subject. “That’s a good idea,” he said. He worried one thumbnail with the other as if weighing a difficult decision. Then he inhaled sharply. “The actual work was done by Peyton McKean.”

  “By whom?”

  “Peyton McKean,” he repeated with a faint quaver in his voice. “One of our junior scientists. He’s the one who made the actual breakthrough, acting on my orders, of course.”

  “Of course,” I responded, jotting McKean’s name.

  Holloman had gone beet red. Too red, I thought, for a cagey corporate exec who ought to be among the thicker-skinned of interviewees. Just from the look of things, I decided there was yet another story here.

  “Could I meet this Peyton McKean, then? If he can give me the details, I won’t need to take up more of your time.”

  “Yes,” Holloman murmured, glancing at his watch again. “That would be acceptable. But please keep your questions confined to the Congo River vaccine.”

  “Okay,” I agreed, although I didn’t quite take his meaning about limiting my questions.

  He pressed an intercom button. “Sally Ann, find Peyton McKean for me, will you please?”

  I got only small talk from Holloman after that. Time dragged for more than ten minutes until Sally Ann finally came in with a man following her. He was a tall, thin man of about thirty-five with a long, straight, Germanic nose and the pale skin of someone who spends too much time at work. He had a high forehead and dark brown wavy hair worn a little long and swept back, partially covering his ears and neck with loose curls. He was clean-shaven and a bit thin-lipped. His white lab coat was unbuttoned and the sage green chambray shirt under that was unbuttoned at the collar, and under that came the neckline of a brown T-shirt. Threadbare brown denim pants and brown leather walking shoes gave no hint of formality. Laboratory Casual, I thought. I had encountered this near-chaotic appearance often enough before on young, science-absorbed assistant professors at the universities on my beat. The look contrasted strongly with Holloman’s corporate, gray-suited uptightness.

  McKean’s dark brown eyes had an Einsteinian intensity, as alert and piercing as any eyes I’ve ever seen. His thin frame and erect, square shoulders gave him a scrawny, schoolmasterly look overall. I rose to greet him, to discover that he stood half-a-head taller than I.

  “Peyton McKean,” said Holloman, “meet Phineus Morton, medical reporter.”

  “Phineus?” McKean murmured while shaking my hand with thin fingers that gripped much more firmly than I had expected. “Named after the blind seer of Greek legend?”

  “Named after a Greek uncle,” I responded. “Nice to meet you, Dr. McKean.”

  “Call me Peyton.” A cordial smile turned up the corners of his mouth.

  “Call me Fin,” I replied.

  McKean looked at Holloman and asked, “What’s up, Stuart?”

  Holloman glanced at his wristwatch. “We’ve been waiting nearly fifteen minutes,” he said. “Where were you?”

  “At the coffee shop across the street.” McKean turned to me. “My work requires more thinking than doing. I like to get away and mull things over.”

  Holloman raised an eyebrow. “Can’t you do your mulling in your office?”

  “Answer: no.” McKean replied as if two words were enough explanation.

  The crease in Holloman’s forehead had reappeared. “When I ask for you, I’ll expect you in my office a little quicker next time.”

  “Then check the coffee shop first,” McKean suggested. His lack of tact surprised me more than his gangling, disheveled appearance.

  Holloman’s eyes narrowed. But he let the issue drop. Waving Sally Ann out the door, he explained to McKean in a measured voice, “Mr. Morton is here to write an article about our work on the smallpox virus from Seattle Public Health.”

  “I see,” said McKean. “An intriguing virus, that one.”

  “Dangerous,” I suggested.

  “Safe enough,” McKean countered, “once it’s in our bio-containment facility.”

  Holloman cleared his throat. “Peyton, Mr. Morton would like some background information on our laboratory procedures. You have my permission to give him some detail on how we handled the Congo River virus.”

  “We - ?” McKean began, and then stopped. “Yes, of course.”

  “Don’t tell him anything we still consider proprietary, Peyton. But give him enough detail to make him see how we did it.”

  McKean nodded.

  Sensing the introductions at an end, I began to sit down.

  “No, don’t sit,” said Holloman.

  I stopped halfway to the chair then stood again. Holloman pointed to the door.

  “Take Mr. Morton to your office, Peyton. The two of you can talk these things over while you wait for the smallpox sample. I’ve got other matters to attend to. And I’m late getting to them, thanks to your tardiness, Peyton.”

  “Come with me,” said McKean, turning quickly for the door as if he felt the less time spent in his boss’s office the better. As we went out, Holloman called after us.

  “Mr. Morton, I’ll be quite happy to have you write about what Peyton McKean tells you, but - ” he paused significantly.

  I turned in the doorway, waiting for him to finish. He appeared to have shrunk behind his wide desk with distance. Seeming a smaller and rounder man than when I came in, he said, “I want to read your copy before you send it for publication.”

  “I don’t usually let interviewees review or alter what I write - “

  “But you will this time, if you ever want to come through my office doorway again.” He eyed me stubbornly.

  “My manuscript will be passed by you, sir,” I acquiesced.

  “Thank you.” He picked up the legal brief. The red color that had painted his cheeks while dealing with Peyton McKean was fading. But he watched the two of us leave with a hint of anxiety in his pale gray eyes.

  Chapter 3

  McKean seemed chipper as we left Holloman�
�s office. As we strolled past Sally Ann’s desk to the elevator foyer, he gave her a wave and she winked a gooey eyelash at him, holding a compact mirror she was using as she touched up her blood-black lipstick. With hands clasped behind his back, McKean strode so quickly on his lanky legs that I nearly had to run to the elevator to keep up with him. He pressed the down button with a long bony finger, and while we waited, I explained my interest in the origins of the Congo River vaccine. McKean had little to say in response. He seemed suddenly introverted. His brow creased, as Holloman’s had. On the elevator, descending to the third floor, he kept his hands behind his back and fidgeted in a nervous way, rocking a little from heels to toes like a man suffused with more energy than he knew what to do with.

  “How long have you worked for Dr. Holloman?” I asked.

  “Five years.”

  “You’ve seen a lot of growth at Immune Corporation then, haven’t you?”

  “I was the first scientist hired by Dr. Holloman and his capitalist cohorts.”

  “You were lucky to get in so early.”

  He snorted sardonically, and watched the lighted numbers over the door count down while I watched him. He had a peculiar look on his face. There was a hint of something in his eyes. Hostility? No. Frustration? Maybe.

  “I had something they wanted,” he said with an odd tension in his voice, as if he were about to say something better left unsaid.

  “What?”

  “In my graduate school days at New York Hospital, I discovered some of the techniques used to create the Congo River vaccine.”

  “Holloman mentioned you had helped him with that.”

  He chuckled. “One could say I ‘helped,’ I suppose.”

  “Such a brilliant success,” I said, “must have made ImCo’s founders rich.” Maybe I was needling him.

  “Answer: yes,” he agreed flatly.

  Curious about his odd responses, I pressed on. “With revenues from sale of the Congo River vaccine, ImCo has expanded to - what? - a thousand employees?”