“Green tea.” Ishida watched Sammy take another sip from her mug.
“Quite soothing, don’t you agree?”
Sammy nodded as the warm liquid slid down her throat. It was slightly more bitter than the tea she’d shared with Mrs. Nakamura, but already she was beginning to feel a calmness settle over her. Her pulse had returned to normal, her breathing had slowed. She took a moment to survey the room. The CEO’s decor here was slightly less elegant than his corporate office in New York — walnut instead of mahogany, expensive prints instead of original French impressionists.
“I’m sorry you had to see that body,” Ishida continued. “What happened to the boy was most unfortunate.”
Sammy eyed Ishida over her mug. His expression reflected genuine regret. “I know Luther was bitten by a monkey, but I don’t understand why he died. I mean he was treated at Student Health right after the injury.”
“You are obviously a bright young woman and a very resourceful one,” Ishida said, smiling. “So I’m going to be very frank with you, Sammy. The monkey that bit Luther was infected with a deadly virus.”
“Virus?” Sammy’s eyelids drooped as she felt a torpor stealing over her. She was totally exhausted, but she forced herself to sit straighter in the chair. She sipped another mouthful of tea and tried not to think of Luther’s corpse.
“Two years ago Dr. Palmer began testing a new vaccine to combat the AIDS virus. He was using an approach developed by another Ellsford University professor.”
“Dr. Nakamura,” Sammy said sleepily.
“Why, yes. Of course,” Ishida agreed, raising an eyebrow. “But Dr. Palmer significantly refined the original technique.” Ishida paused and took a sip of his tea. “The early trials with pigtail macaques showed great success, and frankly, we would have continued using monkeys if not for Reverend Taft.”
“Taft? I don’t think —” Sammy couldn’t remember what she was going to say.
“The Traditional Values Coalition has lobbied quite hard to stop animal research. They have even tried to buy influence among those of a political persuasion.”
Ishida’s smile seemed somehow odd to Sammy, who tried vainly to suppress a yawn. She felt very, very tired.
“Perhaps with enough time and money, we could have overcome the opposition in the public arena. But it seemed prudent — given the significant financial potential for Nitshi if we were first to develop the vaccine — to simply proceed to the next phase. Human trials.”
Sammy was puzzled. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“All the infected monkeys were ordered destroyed. Unfortunately, Dr. Palmer allowed one newborn to survive. That was the pigtail that bit Luther Abbott.” Ishida drank once again from his tea mug before proceeding. “Truly a pity. By the time he realized the boy was infected, it was too late. We know from students already tested that the vaccine only works as a preventive measure.”
“Students?” Sammy frowned, trying to concentrate on the conversation. “Lucy Peters, Seymour Hollis, Sergio Pinez are students —”
Ishida nodded. “A shame the vaccine did not protect them. But I assure you, their sacrifice was for the greater good.”
“Sacrifice? Greater good?” Despite the hazy cloud she felt settling over her thoughts, Sammy began to grasp what Ishida was saying: Lucy, Seymour, and Sergio had been part of a study. They’d been infected with the virus and now they were dead. Palmer had killed them and Ishida had given the corrupt doctor his blessing.
“You know, this tea is my mother’s favorite.”
Sammy focused on Ishida’s lips for several moments, fascinated by how slowly the words were forming in his mouth.
“See? Here we are together in Kyoto.”
Sammy followed his fingers to a small photo perched on his credenza. Ishida stood next to a beautiful Japanese woman dressed in a traditional kimono. Sammy stared at the picture, then back at the Japanese executive sitting in front of her. A chill of alarm spread through her veins an instant before full comprehension settled in. The truth was there before her all the time. No wonder the woman’s features seemed so familiar that day in New York. “You’re Mimiko Nakamura’s son.”
“If I hadn’t had you watched, I’d never have known you visited Mother,” Ishida said. “For some reason, she didn’t tell me.”
Sammy’s mind raced as the significance of Ishida’s true identity registered. She felt a mixture of disgust and fear.
Sometimes we don’t always know the men we love as much as we think we do.
Sammy assumed Mimiko had meant her husband, but the long-suffering woman had been referring to Ishida. She shivered, certain of one fact: Dr. Nakamura never committed suicide. “You killed your own father,” she gasped as she struggled to stand.
“Yitashi Nakamura was not my real father,” Ishida declared. “Fifty years ago he married my mother. I was five years old.”
Sammy slid back down in her chair, confused. “But your accent sounds Japanese.”
“When I was eleven, Yitashi convinced my mother to send me to Japan to ‘complete’ my education. He called me a ‘nisei.’ Second generation. Too American. I never forgave him for that. I took my mother’s name back. I became Japanese. After graduating university, I joined Nitshi Pharmaceuticals, starting, as you say, at the bottom. As administrative associate, I reviewed all scientific proposals submitted for funding. One was from my stepfather. I understood enough immunology to recognize that Yitashi’s early work was visionary. A word to the director of program development was sufficient.”
“Huh?”
“My stepfather was invited to work for us. A very productive association at first. I was promoted. Yitashi had all the financial support he needed for his vaccine project and, in exchange, Nitshi would own the patent.” Ishida produced a bitter laugh. “But Yitashi was always such a pedantic moralist at heart. He believed private funding could corrupt researchers, compromise their objectivity. He eventually wanted out, and that would not have been good for either of us.”
Sammy’s head hurt as she tried to focus on Ishida’s words.
“I was sure a little pressure from above would force Yitashi to change his mind, so I went directly to the chancellor. Reginald Ells-ford was only too happy to accept our yen. When we proposed the institute, he was delighted.”
“But you’re — Yitashi?”
Ishida’s voice was icy. “Yitashi tried to block the venture, to hide his research. That’s why he had to go. He was standing in the path of science. Of progress, of —”
“You were his son,” Sammy said quietly.
“I was never his son.”
No, Conrad, not Ishida was his son, Sammy thought, remembering her conversation with Mimiko:
Yitashi loved him as a son. Perhaps even more than a son.
“You killed Conrad.” The words tumbled out slowly. “You were jealous.”
“Jealousy is a useless emotion.” Ishida shook his head. “He just managed to get in the way.”
Sammy struggled to keep her eyelids above her pupils. It took all her strength. “Of what?”
Ishida finished the last of his tea before responding. “Conrad learned we’d progressed beyond animal studies. Somehow he’d plugged into Palmer’s database so he knew about our work. He planned to tell the dean and the board of regents.”
“Dean Jeffries . . . brown envelope . . .” Sammy’s words were slurred.
“My, you have done a bit of detective work. Pity that no one else will ever know.”
Sammy’s mind recoiled. Her tongue struggled in vain to express the horror at what she’d just heard. “I . . . don’t . . .”
Ishida picked up Sammy’s mug. It was empty. “More tea?”
“. . . don’t feel so well . . .” Sammy slumped over in her chair.
Ishida shook his head. “A very bright young woman,” he said. “We might have benefited from your talents. A real shame.” Picking up his desk phone, he buzzed Palmer. “You can come in now.”
Pap
pajohn’s home fax hummed as the machine produced the Berkeley University records he’d requested hours before. Twelve pages dating back over a decade were sent. Some of the typing had faded and was difficult to read. He sat at his desk and skimmed through the papers until he came to the report he was looking for: Faculty Senate minutes, June 1986. Reading the journal carefully, he knew he’d discovered the last piece of a complicated puzzle.
A black-and-white yearbook picture had been included in the faxed materials. Pappajohn gazed at the photo of the bearded young man, wondering whether the decision to sell his soul had come easily. Temptation had crossed his path many times during his own career, but Pappajohn had never stepped over the line.
Why? It was a question he wanted to ask the man when he caught him.
Now Pappajohn lifted the receiver on his desk phone and dialed Sammy’s number. He didn’t care what time it was. He needed to talk to her.
“This is Sammy Greene. I’m not in.”
Damn it. Nothing but — what was it — tzoris — trouble — from that girl.
About to dial another number, his attention turned to a new message flashing on his computer screen. He’d been searching through Marcus Palmer’s files via the E-net when the fax had interrupted his search. Someone was making a new entry. At this hour?
Across the terminal came the words, row by row:
NRINET UPDATE: 0257 GMT
ADMITTING PHYSICIAN: M. PALMER
DATE OF ADMISSION: 11/29/95
STUDY PATIENT #24: SAMMY GREENE
Pappajohn frowned. What the hell was going on? The terminal source was NRI. That mean it was located not at Ellsford General Hospital, but the Nitshi Research Institute.
“Ghamo to!” he cursed out loud.
Without a second thought, Pappajohn jumped up from his desk, grabbed his coat and his gun, and bolted out the door.
Sammy dreamed she was lying in a hospital bed, but she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there. Her head throbbed with pain. Had she been in an accident?
Voices buzzed back and forth around her. She strained to listen.
“It seems to me that this is rather an inappropriate time for you to begin setting moral standards for yourself, Doctor.”
Sammy recognized Ishida’s voice.
“But giving her the virus. You might as well kill her.”
That was Palmer talking, Sammy realized, forcing herself to concentrate.
“That is unavoidable. Would you prefer she tell her story to the police?”
A pause.
“I didn’t think so.”
Another pause.
“In fact, go ahead and give her the vaccine. That way she’ll be another subject for your study. We can keep her in the institute until she contracts the disease.”
“But you don’t know. It could protect her.”
“Hardly, Doctor.” Ishida’s laugh was filled with contempt. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? After all those deaths?”
“It’s got to be some kind of mutation producing a different, much more virulent strain.”
“A different strain, yes. But not from some random mutation. You’d be happy to know, my people used your techniques to alter the virus.”
“You did this?” Palmer’s voice was strained with shock. “Why?”
“In the words of the Roman philosopher, Seneca, ‘Most powerful is he who has himself in his own power,’ ” Ishida answered calmly. “Today’s friends are tomorrow’s enemies. What better tool than a deadly virus that no one can cure — not even you, Doctor.”
“You’re mad!” Palmer screamed. “Absolutely mad.”
“Do not even think about running,” Ishida said. “Or you will meet the same fate as our patient.”
Sammy felt a rush of panic. Ishida was trying to kill her!
“She’s more alert. Look, her lids are fluttering.”
Sammy slowly opened her eyes. Colors spun like a psychedelic light show across the ceiling. Struggling to move, she sensed something binding across her chest and thighs. They’d strapped her down.
“Don’t worry, Sammy. They’re just safety belts. We didn’t want you to fall out of bed.”
That voice sounded strangely familiar. “Thirsty,” she croaked.
A hand lifted her head gently and held a glass to her lips. She gulped it down, then turned to focus on the face.
“Dr. Osborne.” With her head, Sammy motioned for him to approach so she could whisper in his ear. Even in her sluggish state she noted how out of character he seemed. His blue blazer was missing a button, his cotton shirt was poorly tucked, his tan slacks wrinkled. “You found me . . . Have to get out of here . . . Not Taft . . . Ishida wants to kill me.” She strained against the straps, but they held tight and she lay back on the pillow, gasping.
“I’m really sorry.”
Something in his tone disturbed her. She gaped up at him with alarm.
“You had to be so persistent, didn’t you?” His face grew bleak. “If you’d just stayed in your apartment as I asked.”
“Peter Lang would have made your end much more pleasant than I’m afraid it’s going to be now.” Ishida had come over to stand behind Osborne.
“Help me!” Sammy appealed to Osborne.
Osborne looked away. “It’s out of my hands.”
“There’s too much at stake to let you leave the institute alive.” Ishida’s statement left Sammy numb.
Sammy was unable to breathe. Her whole world was collapsing. Osborne? The man whose eyes had been so kind, whose wisdom and understanding had helped her to open up her heart and reveal feelings she’d kept buried for so long. Could this same man be part of such evil? She turned to him with a look of despair and strained to speak. “You? You’re involved?”
“From the beginning,” Ishida confirmed as Osborne turned away. “How do you think we picked our best subjects?”
Reed rushed from the Nitshi Institute as Pappajohn pulled up the driveway in his Land Cruiser.
“Hold it right there.” Pappajohn leaped out of his truck and ran up to him.
“Look, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
“I’ll bet you do. Where’s Sammy?”
“Sammy Greene? I was just on my way to her apartment. I —”
Pappajohn nodded at the building towering behind them. “She’s somewhere in there.” He described the disturbing message that had flashed on his computer screen.
Reed looked genuinely surprised. “No way. There’re no patients in the —” His voice trailed off as he spotted Sammy’s peacoat lying on a nearby bench.
Luther Abbott. Nurse Matthews told me he was admitted to Ells-ford General, but when I was there yesterday, I heard one of the nurses say he’d been transferred to Nitshi.
My God! He’d never considered that Sammy might be right. Luther and Sergio sent to the institute. To die.
It was too horrible to believe. Palmer conducting some kind of AIDS vaccine study that had gone terribly wrong? And if Sammy was in there, she could be in the gravest danger. Reed’s face reflected his panic. “We’ve got to get her out!”
“Back-up’s on the way.”
Reed shook his head. “There may not be time!
It’s a big building. She could be anywhere.”
Reed peered up at the institute. “I think I know where they may be keeping her.”
Pappajohn only hesitated a moment before reaching into the truck for his gun. “All right,” he said as he strapped on the holster and replaced his jacket. “Let’s go.”
“Now. Inject it now!” Ishida ordered.
Trembling, Palmer approached Sammy’s hospital bed, clutching a syringe filled with clear liquid. When he was just a few feet from her, he turned and faced Ishida. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m not a killer.”
“Do it!” Ishida pulled a .22-caliber handgun from his suit jacket and pointed it at Palmer. “Fitting, don’t you think?” he asked as Sammy watched the drama with growing horror. The effects of the chloral hydrat
e Ishida had slipped into her tea had nearly worn off, leaving her senses raw. “My stepfather’s gun.”
“How did you get it?” Sammy tried to keep her voice steady, fighting to retain control of her fear — and her rage.
“Lang stole it from the police property room.” Ishida said. “Keeping it in the family, so to speak.” He laughed at the irony.
“You’re crazy!” Sammy appealed to Palmer. “Please!”
Palmer shook his head, then suddenly lunged at Ishida, his arm sweeping down in an awkward karate stroke aimed at the gun. But his attack was too slow and far too weak. Without hesitation, Ishida pointed the semiautomatic at Palmer’s mid-chest and fired.
“No!” Sammy screamed.
Palmer fell backward, collapsing on the floor.
The uniformed guard reluctantly led Pappajohn and Reed to the private elevator, and, using a special card, reached in and turned off the override that prevented access to the top floor. “I’m gonna lose my job,” he complained.
“You’ll lose a lot more if you don’t,” Pappajohn threatened as he punched “four.” “Stay here and wait for my back-up. Send them up as soon as they arrive,” he ordered. Pointing to the portable phone the guard carried on his belt, Pappajohn added as the car doors closed, “And stay the hell off that phone.”
Osborne bent over Palmer’s body, assuring himself that the doctor was indeed dead.
“You killed him!” cried Sammy, her eyes flaring with anger at a frighteningly calm Ishida. The CEO still held the gun, but he was no longer pointing it at anyone.
“No, Sammy, you did,” Osborne replied, standing. “Your obsessive investigations are responsible for his death. In the end, Marcus couldn’t face his own deal with the devil.” He glanced at his Japanese co-conspirator.
“And what about yours?” Sammy accused.
Osborne’s smile was patronizing. “You should’ve studied your Shakespeare, my dear. ‘The devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape.’ Palmer’s only error was letting compassion overcome common sense. I won’t make the same mistake.” Osborne removed a syringe from his blazer pocket, at the same time moving to Sammy’s bedside. “I suggest we dispense with the vaccine now.”
Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) Page 33