by Ben Bova
By nine A.M. Rossov was at his desk, showered, shaved, wearing a crisply clean shirt, and on the phone with Quenton Fisk.
Fisk’s image in the phone’s console screen looked wary, scowling.
“Abramson works for me,” he said, once Rossov explained what he wanted. “I fund his work, and he’s signed a privacy agreement.”
“Of course, of course,” Rossov said, as placatingly as he could manage. “But Professor Abramson’s work has some important national implications.”
Fisk huffed. “If he’s cured that child of brain cancer, I’ll say it has national implications.”
“Look, Mr. Fisk,” Rossov said smoothly, “this is too important to discuss over the phone. I’d like to talk with you face-to-face, if it’s all right with you.”
Fisk’s eyes shifted away. He’s checking his calendar, Rossov thought. Good.
“How about the day after tomorrow?”
“Don’t you have any time free today? I can get up to New York in a couple of hours.”
Shaking his head, Fisk said, “Today’s impossible.” Before Rossov could reply he added, “Unless you want to have cocktails. Say, around five?”
“Five o’clock. That’s fine.”
“Here in my office,” Fisk said.
“I’ll be there.”
* * *
AS ROSSOV’S IMAGE winked off from his wall screen, Fisk bellowed into his intercom, “Get Novack on the phone. And get me a dossier on a Paul Rossov. He’s some sort of aide in the White House.”
Within minutes Novack’s face appeared on the wall screen. He looked grim.
Without preamble he said, “We’ve got to get Abramson out of here, Mr. Fisk. Too many people butting in.”
Then he explained about the White House aide and Del Villanueva.
“The girl’s father?” Fisk hadn’t expected that. “How did you handle him?”
With a smirk, Novack said, “The poor slob had an accident yesterday. Fell down a flight of steps. He’s in bed with a concussion. He won’t be taking the kid anywhere for a couple of days.”
Fisk accepted that without comment. “I’m meeting with the same Paul Rossov this afternoon.”
Novack looked impressed. “He gets around.”
“I want to find out just what the White House’s interest in Abramson might be.”
Novack nodded.
“You make certain that Abramson stays where he is until I tell you where to move him. And the little girl, too. Control her and you control Abramson.”
“What about the kid’s doctor? She’s hot.”
“Keep her with Abramson and the kid. I don’t want her loose and blabbing this story to anybody.”
“Check,” said Novack.
* * *
THE DEEPER HE got into this case, the less Jerry Hightower liked it. At first it looked like little more than a family spat, but then his boss insisted on filing a kidnapping charge against Abramson, and now he was telling Hightower to keep the professor where he was.
“Don’t let him get away from you again.” His director’s voice sounded urgent in Hightower’s cell phone. He sounded almost scared.
“He seems okay with staying here at the Bartram labs,” Hightower reported.
“Good,” said the director. Then he repeated, “Don’t let him get away from you again.”
The “again” made Hightower wince.
* * *
LUKE STOOD BY his son-in-law’s bed. Del’s head was swathed in bandages, but his eyes seemed clear enough. Shannon’s medical people had diagnosed a concussion right away, but when Del urinated blood they ran him through an MRI. His right kidney was swollen to twice its normal size.
“He beat the crap out of me,” Del was mumbling. “And then he threw me down the stairs.”
Luke wondered how much was true and how much was hallucinations from the painkillers they had pumped into Del’s veins.
“Why did he do it?” he wondered aloud.
“Didn’t want me to take Angie home,” said Del, his words slightly slurred. “Offered me big bucks to let her stay with you.”
Luke felt his brows knitting in puzzlement. “And you say he works for Quenton Fisk? He’s not with the FBI?”
“That’s what he told me.” Del’s eyes closed briefly, then he muttered, “Used me for a fucking punching bag.”
The door opened and Tamara stepped in, with Angela beside her. The child’s eyes went wide when she saw her father’s bandaged head.
“Daddy!” She ran to Del on pipestem-thin legs, Tamara within arm’s reach every step of the way.
He held out his arms to her, even though the motion cost him a sharp stab of pain. “Angie baby.”
“You’re hurt, Daddy.” Angela’s eyes filled with tears.
“Nah, it’s nothing, Angel. Just a bop on the head. I’ll be okay in a day or two.”
And Luke realized, In the meantime we’re all going to stay right here. Nobody’s leaving this place, not for a few days, at least.
* * *
“I CAN GIVE you half an hour,” said Quenton Fisk, as he reached across his desk to shake hands with Paul Rossov.
Rossov nodded. He had arrived at Fisk’s office ten minutes before five, and cooled his heels by the secretary’s desk until precisely five P.M. No cocktails, he thought ruefully. Just as well, I’ll need a clear head to deal with this guy.
“So what about Professor Abramson?” Fisk asked.
Rossov settled himself in the upholstered chair in front of the desk before replying. “We need to find a secure federal facility where he can continue his research.”
“Under your watchful eye,” said Fisk.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“I’m paying for his work. The government isn’t going to screw me out of it.”
“We have no intention of doing that,” said Rossov. Then he added, “But his work has got to be controlled, controlled very carefully.”
Fisk leaned back in his swivel chair, his face radiating suspicion. “Tell me why.”
“Do you have any idea of how Abramson’s work could affect Social Security, Medicare, retirement programs, the insurance industry?”
“His work could make a lot of money for me. More tax income for you people.”
“Yes, but what good would that do you if the economy collapses? Take away cancer as a major cause of death, let just about anybody live to be a hundred or more—the economy would be wrecked. It’d make the Great Depression look like a Christmas holiday.”
Fisk stared at him without speaking. Rossov could sense the wheels in his head churning.
Finally Fisk said, “You can’t keep breakthroughs like this from the public.”
“Not indefinitely, I agree,” said Rossov. “But we can control their effects. Let the new therapies enter the marketplace gradually, not in a big, uncontrolled thump.”
“Gradually.”
“Keep Abramson busy with human trials. Make sure there are no harmful side effects, that sort of thing. That’ll take years. Once we’ve ascertained that the treatments work the way they should, we allow a few selected people to benefit from them. Keep things under control.”
“And how do I make money out of that?” Fisk snapped.
Rossov smiled thinly. “Two ways. The government will grant you patents on the new therapies.”
“You can’t patent a therapy.”
“Oh yes you can,” Rossov shot back. “I’ve checked with the Patent Office. You can patent a new medical method, a set of unique steps that lead to a previously unobtainable outcome.”
“Really?”
“Really. You’ll have the patents, and the full protection of federal law.”
“A monopoly.”
“A monopoly,” Rossov agreed. “For as long as the patent laws allow. More than ten years, I believe.”
For the first time, Fisk smiled. “I see,” he said. “And you allow this treatment for a selected few people.”
“Who will
pay just about whatever you want to charge them.”
“I’d make a lot more profits if the therapies were made available to the general public.”
“Yes. And a year or so later the stock market would collapse and the whole economy go down the drain. Where would you be then?”
Fisk went silent again, steeping his fingers and staring at Rossov. Don’t blink, Rossov told himself. Stare him down.
“What if I don’t go along with you?” Fisk asked. “You can’t force me, you know.”
Nodding, Rossov said, “You don’t want to have the federal government against you. There’s a thousand ways we could tie you up, make your life miserable.”
“You’re threatening me?”
“I’m asking for your voluntary cooperation.”
Fisk went silent, looking grim. But at last he asked, “I’d have a monopoly on the treatment?”
“For as long as the patents allow.”
“And we bring the new therapies to the marketplace gradually.”
Rossov nodded again.
“But we do bring the therapies to the marketplace,” Fisk insisted.
“Of course. In time.”
“I’ll probably need cancer therapy myself in a few years,” Fisk murmured. “It runs in my family.”
“You’ll get it,” Rossov promised.
Fisk drew in a big breath, then let it sigh out of him. “All right. I’ll go along with you. I’ll tell my legal people to start work on a patent application.”
“I’ll see to it that it’s given top priority by the Patent Office.”
“And I want a legal piece of paper about this agreement between us.”
“It’ll have to be classified secret, of course.”
“With the President’s signature on it.”
Rossov hesitated a moment, then said, “That can be arranged.”
Fisk nodded back at him. “Now all you have to do is get Abramson to go along with you.”
“That can be arranged, too,” said Rossov.
Bartram Research Laboratories
“IDAHO?” LUKE BLURTED. “Why Idaho?”
Paul Rossov smiled at him. “It’s a secure facility. You’ll be able to work there without being bothered.”
It was four days after Del’s “accident.” Luke’s son-in-law was almost fully recovered and itching to get out of bed. Hightower seemed to be standing watch over them all, a massive presence, silent but seemingly omnipresent. Novack had faded into the background; Luke thought that Hightower felt better off with Fisk’s man some distance away.
Luke had left Angela speaking through Skype with her mother, who was still back in Boston. Angie was looking better, good enough so that her appearance didn’t seem to unsettle Norrie. At least she didn’t look upset. She was all smiles and happiness to be talking with her daughter.
Leaving Angie in Tamara’s care, Luke had gone out to the lone tennis court behind the main laboratory building for a game with one of the lab’s staff researchers. They couldn’t round up two more people, so they played singles, the first time Luke had done that in years. Decades, actually.
The White House executive had appeared unannounced at the tennis court. Luke had broken off the game he’d been playing to talk with him. Just as well, he thought: The guy’s beating me damned easily. Should have stuck to doubles.
Now Rossov and Luke were walking down the hallway that led to Del’s room, Luke in shorts and a sweat-stained T-shirt, Rossov in his usual precise three-piece gray suit.
Shaking his head, Luke said, “I don’t know of any facility in Idaho that has the equipment or the staff that I need.”
“It’s there, believe me. And whatever equipment or staff you need, I’ll see to it that you get them.”
“Idaho,” Luke muttered.
“Good ski country,” Rossov coaxed.
“Good way to break a leg,” Luke grumbled.
Rossov laughed. “I thought you’d be interested in skiing, considering how much your physical condition has improved.”
“Not me. Tennis is challenge enough.”
They came to Del’s room. Luke rapped once on the door and opened it. His son-in-law was sitting up in bed, with Angela beside him, both of them bent over a laptop. Tamara was standing at the foot of the bed. As Luke entered, she turned and smiled at him. Luke could hear Norrie’s voice coming from the computer.
* * *
“IDAHO?” TAMARA LOOKED totally surprised.
“That’s what Rossov tells me,” said Luke.
They had left Del’s room and gone to the cafeteria. Now they were sitting at a small table, heads bent together so they could talk low and still hear each other over the babble and clatter.
“Me, too?” she asked.
“For the first few weeks,” he said.
Tamara’s green eyes shifted away. Luke knew what she was thinking: She’d put her entire career in jeopardy by following him on this desperate trek across the country; now he was asking her to stay with him a while longer, keep her career on hold to continue taking care of Angela.
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” he said.
Tamara shrugged. “Like I’ve got a lot to go back to in Massachusetts.”
“Think of it this way,” he coaxed. “You’ll be the only physician in the world who’s actually participated in this new therapy. You’re the attending physician in a case where glioblastoma multiforme’s been cured.”
She smiled wanly. “I’m also the physician of record in the first case of human age reversal.”
“You’ll be able to write your own ticket.”
“I wonder.”
“Of course you will!”
“Luke…” She hesitated.
“What?”
“What about us?”
“Us?”
“You and me,” she said, her voice low. Barely looking at him across the table, Tamara said, “Is there a future for the two of us? Together?”
There it is, Luke thought. Out in the open. With a shake of his head, he replied, “I hope so.”
“So do I.”
He reached across the table and took both her hands in his. “Tamara … I’m an old man, you know. Old enough to be your father.”
She smiled impishly. “Yes, Daddy.”
Luke wanted to reach across the table and kiss her. But instead he simply sat in place, holding her hands, staring into her gleaming green eyes.
At last he said, “It might not be so bad in Idaho. The two of us, I mean.”
Tamara nodded, but her smile faded. “What about this place in Idaho? It sounds almost like a federal prison.”
“No,” he said. “Rossov assured me we’d have a top-flight staff and all the equipment we want.”
“Would we be able to leave?”
He shrugged. “You want to go skiing?”
“I don’t want to be kept under lock and key in some federal facility in the middle of nowhere.”
Luke’s brows knit. So much for romance, he thought.
“Look, Tamara,” he said, “we’ve got the opportunity to carry Angie’s treatment to its conclusion. And my own. Top staff, no interference from asses like Wexler. You’ll be coauthor on all the papers I’ll write.”
Looking askance, she asked, “They’ll allow you to publish?”
Luke felt shocked. “They can’t stop me from publishing! For God’s sake, that’s what science is all about: to do experiments and publish them.”
Tamara nodded. But she did not look convinced.
* * *
NOVACK WAS SITTING in his motel room, making his daily report to Fisk. On his laptop’s screen, Fisk looked calm, almost pleasant. But Novack knew that was only skin deep.
“The arrangements for transferring them to Idaho are almost complete,” Fisk told him. “Another couple of days and off they all go.”
“The kid’s father, too?”
Fisk replied, “I’ve talked that over with Rossov. Yes, bring the father along with you. Hightower is
going to fly out to Boston and offer Mrs. Villanueva the opportunity to be reunited with her daughter.”
Novack grunted. “Family reunion, huh?”
“Yes. One big, happy family: grandpa, daddy, mommy, and baby.”
“Maybe we can get them a puppy.”
Fisk smirked. “Not an altogether bad idea.”
“What happens when Poppa finds out that he can’t leave until we’re ready to let him go?”
“You contain him. Treat him with kindness. Make sure he’s not lacking for any creature comfort.” Fisk’s expression hardened. “But he won’t be allowed to have any communication with the outside world. Once his wife gets there, the whole kit and caboodle of them are going to stay there until we’re damned good and ready to let them go.”
Novack understood. “Which might be a long time.”
“It might be a very long time indeed,” Fisk agreed.
Novack said to himself, So I’ll take them to Nowheresville, Idaho, me and Hightower and a team of federal marshals.
And that Dr. Minteer, he thought. Might not be so bad in Nowheresville with her around.
Moving Day
“YOU JUST PASSED the turnoff for the airport,” Tamara said.
She and Angela, Del, and Luke, plus their luggage, were bundled into a government-issue black Ford Expedition SUV.
Before the federal marshal who was driving could reply, Hightower, sitting beside him, turned slightly and said over his shoulder, “We’re not going to the commercial airport.”
“We’re not?” Luke asked.
“Air Force base,” said Hightower. “A plane will take us direct to Spokane; from there we go to the Idaho facility.”
“Huh.” Luke settled back in his chair. Angela sat beside him, Tamara on the child’s other side. Del sat behind them, grumbling as the SUV thrummed along the highway. Rossov and Novack were in the white Chrysler 300 sedan following them.
Those two make a good combination, Luke thought. Glad they’re not in this wagon with us.
“I want to file assault-and-battery charges against that Novack guy,” Del said loudly.
Hightower said, “That’s not a federal matter. You’ll have to talk to the local police about that.”