Kitabı oku: «Sweet Talking Money», sayfa 3

THREE
1

The loneliest place in the world is easy to find: a luxury hotel in a foreign city and a phone with no one to call.

It was six weeks now since Bryn’s life had broken to pieces on the rocks. Cecily had promised him that her decisions were for ever – or, to put it bluntly, that she was as stubborn as a donkey. Bryn knew this. He’d have been less surprised to meet Mount Rushmore on walkabout than to find Cecily changing her mind. All the same, he’d done what he could. On the assumption that she’d gone home to her parents, he’d tried to call her there. It was Cecily’s mum who answered.

‘Oh God, Bryn, it’s you,’ she’d said, not unkindly.

‘Yes, I was hoping that I could maybe speak to –’

‘Yes, yes. Of course you were.’

Her voice was sympathetic and unhappy and Bryn then knew straightaway that Cecily hadn’t just left him, she’d left him for somebody else. ‘He’s a rich sod,’ her mum went on to say. ‘Taken her off to some horrible mansion in the Caribbean. I met him once, Bryn, hated him. I’m so sorry.’

But sympathy from his about-to-be-ex-wife’s mother was little comfort, as he began to search the ruins of his life for a path leading out.

Once, that path would have been work. He was still at Berger Scholes, of course – back in Boston finalising his biotech deal – but his career there was coming to an end. He wasn’t going to knuckle down as Rudy Saddler’s number two, and he wasn’t going to trudge the world of emerging markets, hunting for nickels. He’d called a headhunter, who was even now lining up new places, new jobs. Bryn Hughes would start out all over again: new job, new start, and in time, perhaps, a new woman, perhaps even a family.

Meantime he was lonely. No one to visit. No one to call. It wouldn’t be different tomorrow or the next day. Welcome to life without a family. Welcome to life without direction.

He wasn’t hungry, but ordered a giant salad from room service anyway, giving himself something to pick at. Putting his hand in his pocket, searching for a couple of dollars to tip the waiter, his fingers met the sharp rectangular edge of a business card. He pulled it out with the money. A receipt for a hundred bucks, received with thanks, scribbled in pencil on the back of a card. Cameron Wilde, MD, PhD. Bryn tipped the waiter and stared at the card.

A Boston number, someone to call.

2

Over on the university campus, a phone rings in the surrounding silence. Cameron Wilde, working late, answers it.

‘Cameron Wilde.’

‘Dr Wilde, it’s Bryn Hughes.’

‘Brandon …’

‘Bryn. Bryn Hughes. A patient of yours.’ Still no recognition. Bryn gave her the help she needed. ‘I came to you with flu and you punched me in the chest.’

‘Oh. Sure. You were the guy who said he wasn’t stressed.’

‘Right. It was around then you started hitting me … I was calling to say that you totally sorted me out. One day in bed, then as right as rain.’

‘As right as what?’

‘Rain. A British expression. Something to do with our love of bad weather, I suppose.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘I wanted to thank you. Perhaps I could take you out to dinner somewhere. That is,’ he added, joking, ‘if you know anywhere which doesn’t serve coffee, alcohol, sugar, fats, additives or dairy.’

‘No, sorry.’ Her no was flat, no hint of apology.

‘No?’

‘No. I don’t know anywhere. Uh … you could eat at my place if you wanted. Did you mean tonight?’

‘Yes. Tonight. Unless you’re doing anything.’

‘No. Sure. Fine.’

And shortly Bryn was in a cab crossing Boston, watching the darkened winter streets pass by, feeling as he hadn’t done for years.

For the first time since his life had smashed upon the rocks, here was an edge of excitement, a tiny nibble of adventure, a step into the unknown. He sat forward in his seat, unaccountably excited by what lay ahead.

3

The air that night had come down from Canada, and shivered with the possibility of snow. Bryn stamped his feet in the lamplight spilling from the apartment block’s lobby, careful with his once-injured right knee on the frozen pavement. When, following his second ring, the buzzer buzzed the door open, he made his way across the over-heated lobby towards the stairs and Cameron Wilde’s apartment.

‘Here. I brought this.’ Bryn held out a bottle of champagne he’d bought at the hotel before leaving. Cameron looked at it, but made no move to take it. Her face was white, drawn, shocked. ‘Are you OK? Is this a bad time?’

She shook her head, turned, and walked into her living room, leaving the door open for Bryn to follow.

The room was pleasant enough. Pale floorboards, strewn with rugs. A couple of lavender-blue sofas. Walls stone-washed and decorated with a handful of anonymous prints. No TV. You could look at the room for an hour and know nothing of the person who owned it. Until, that is, your eye arrived at the corner devoted to Cameron’s work: paper stacked high on shelves and the surrounding floor; PC and printer; graphs, notes, equations tacked up on the wall above. If the room was coloured according to the intensity of life in its various parts, then the whole large living space would be a pale, almost icy blue; the study area, a vivid, glowing scarlet. Cameron crashed down on one of the sofas, looking like death.

Bryn read the situation quickly and crouched in front of Cameron, squatting awkwardly with his weight skewed on to his stronger knee.

‘Dr Wilde, I don’t know what’s happened in between my phone call and now, but I can see you’re in shock. If you want me to go, please say.’

She said nothing.

‘Right. I’m going to stay. Now I can help you best if I know what’s going on. What is it? Some kind of attack? An intruder?’

There was no sign of forced entry, and Cameron was on the third floor, but it was best to be sure. The scientist gave no response.

‘An intruder? No intruder?’

Bryn bashed at her with his voice, studying her face carefully for information. It seemed to him she was telling him ‘no’.

‘OK. What else? Perhaps …’ Bryn was about to try other avenues when he noticed a fixity in Cameron’s expression. She was staring at a letter lying open on her table. ‘This letter? You came home from work, found this letter, and it gave you a shock? May I read it?’

There was no sign in her face, so Bryn went ahead. It was a short note, from the editor of the Journal of the American Academy of Medicine: ‘Thank you for your recent submission to this office. Unfortunately, we do not consider this paper to be of sufficient interest to our readership at this present time.’ There was another sentence or two of blah-blah. A pretty standard rejection, as far as Bryn could tell.

‘You submitted an article to the Journal and it was rejected.’ Bryn hesitated. The American Academy of Medicine published the world’s most prestigious medical journal. If medical science was athletics, then publication in the Journal was like running in the Olympic finals. ‘Cameron,’ he said, using her Christian name for the first time, ‘it’s not surprising to get a rejection like this. Even great scientists get rejected sometimes. There are tons of other places where you can get your article published.’

‘Right. The Redneck County Medical Gazette. The Baldhead Mountain Parish News.’ Cameron’s eyes were large and smoky-blue, but the skin around them was puffy and grey, and the eyes themselves red-rimmed and desolate.

‘No. Real journals. Respected ones.’

Cameron slowly shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No. You don’t understand.’ Then, after a long pause, finding what she had to say almost impossible to speak, she continued. ‘They told me … they said they …’ Just as it seemed she had petered out, she burst into life. ‘Oh, goddamn it! They told me my results weren’t acceptable. They thought I’d fixed my data.’

‘Fixed? They thought you cheated?’

But she had snapped shut again, her screen of hair falling forwards over her face. All the same, you didn’t need to be much of a psychologist to see that Cameron had no more fixed her data than she had swum the Atlantic. He gripped her by the shoulders and forced her face up towards him, brushing her hair back from her eyes.

‘They thought you cheated, but you obviously haven’t. So there’s a mistake. And mistakes are fixable.’

‘Fixable?’

Bryn wished he’d used another word. ‘Correctable. Mendable. They think you fixed your data. You didn’t. So sort it out. Ask for independent checks, whatever.’

Cameron shook her head. ‘There’s an ethics committee,’ she said. ‘Apparently, I’ve got to collect my work. Hand it over for investigation.’

‘First step,’ said Bryn, ignoring her. ‘Find out how the mistake happened. What did they say? What did they think went on?’

Cameron stared at him, trying to make up her mind whether to trust this battering ram of a stranger. In that instant, Bryn realised that her silence up till now had been less because of her shock, and mostly because of her uncertainty over him. Still uncertain, she continued. ‘They didn’t say. They wouldn’t say, but personally I …’ She shook her head, reluctant to continue.

Bryn took her by the shoulders again. ‘Speak, Cameron. I do better with words. What are you saying? You have a suspicion about something? You don’t know, but you have a suspicion?’

She nodded, slowly.

‘Who? You have colleagues, co-workers, lab assistants? Anyone you argued with? Had a fight? Fired?’

‘No. Kati, my lab assistant, she’s my best friend. She wouldn’t. Not her. But …’

‘Yes? But? But, who?’

‘Look, I don’t know, but …’ She shook herself, as though physically shrugging away her shock, as though literally stepping into a more aggressive, defiant state of mind. ‘Listen. Our Head of Laboratory Services used to be a creepy guy named Duaine Kovacs. One night I found him down with my rats. Late at night. I don’t know what he was doing there. I screamed at him.’

Bryn didn’t quite follow. ‘You think he knifed you, because you screamed at him once?’

Cameron shook her head. ‘When I found him, he was clearing up a spillage. Blood. He’d cut himself. After he left, I looked at a few drops under the microscope. Good stuff, blood, it tells you everything.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, Kovacs was in a state. Unhappy blood. Like, way worse than yours. I ran some tests. Alcohol. Dope. Cocaine. Prozac. Tons of stress factors. I reported him, of course. I mean, I wouldn’t care. If someone wants to take coke, that’s their problem, but in a laboratory – in my laboratory, messing around with my rats … I wasn’t having it. He was fired.’

‘OK. So we have our mole. Question is, why on earth would the Journal believe him rather than you? He was fired after all.’

Once again, Cameron’s face clouded and Bryn probed hard to read what was written there. ‘Something else, Cameron. There’s something else you’re not telling me.’

She sighed, a sigh which began down in the soles of her feet. ‘Damn right, there’s something else.’ She paused again, gauging her little-known visitor. ‘The night Kovacs was fired, he was drunk, high, I don’t know what. He burst in on me, yelling abuse, how my experimental results would never see the light of day, how they were going to see to it.’

‘They who?’

Cameron shrugged. ‘I don’t know. That’s the point. They … whoever.’

Bryn felt a flicker of excitement flashing from nerve to nerve across his body, like a lightning flash that briefly illuminates an entire landscape. He didn’t know why or what, but he knew he was on to something important. He leaned forward. ‘Let me understand. When you send a paper to the Journal or any other scientific publication, they get it reviewed, right? Half a dozen independent reviewers comment on whether the article is good enough to be accepted. Did your paper go out to reviewers, or was this rejection just based on the editor?’

‘Oh, no. The editor, he was keen – I mean, was keen.’

‘Do you know who he chose to review your paper?’

‘Sure. I’m not supposed to, but I found out.’ Cameron gestured at the mountains of paper surrounding her desk. ‘In the yellow binder, there.’

Bryn found the binder and pulled it out. Pasted to the inside flap was a list of six reviewers, names and numbers.

‘Good.’ He brought the list back to the sofa. ‘Now, I need you to think. Look at these six names. Tell me if you can think of any reason why they might be hostile to you or your paper.’

Cameron looked at the list for about two tenths of a second, then shook her head. ‘No. Why be hostile? It’s only science, for God’s sake.’

Once again, Bryn did his bully-boy act, squeezing Cameron’s shoulders so that she was forced to look up into his eyes. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Nothing: in the world happens without a reason. Nothing. If a handful of intelligent scientists chooses to believe some coked-up laboratory manager without even checking with you, then there’s a reason. Once we work it out, we probably know who’s behind all this. OK?’

Cameron looked back at the list, more intently now. But the names still revealed nothing to her. She dropped the list. ‘I can’t think of a reason.’

‘OK. Who does your paper hurt? It’s about – what? How to juice up rat blood?’

‘It doesn’t hurt anyone,’ she said, a little sharply. ‘My medicine is about helping people.’

‘Helping people, right. But what about your rats? What was in your article?’

Cameron shrugged, as though unimpressed by her own achievements. ‘I took a hundred and fifty rats, gave them five kinds of killer disease, then treated their immune systems. Reprogrammed them. Programmed them to be incredibly good at killing whatever virus it was I’d given them. I wrote up my results and sent ’em to the Journal.’

‘And what about the rats?’

‘They lived, of course. Otherwise my paper wouldn’t have been very interesting, would it?’ Bryn gripped Cameron’s arm, tightly, more than was polite. He delivered his next question with barely controlled intensity. ‘To cure your rats. Did you use drugs? Were their recoveries in any way drug-dependent?’

‘Oh, who cares?’

Cameron sought to free her arm, but Bryn tightened his grip, as his nerves danced with urgency. ‘Please, Cameron. It’s critical that you tell me.’

She quit struggling. ‘Some of the rats benefited from very small doses of immune stimulant pharmaceuticals. In real life, not an experiment, I might have wanted some further drug support. But in general, no. The rats didn’t get better because of any drugs.’

Bryn’s flicker of excitement burst into flame, seizing hold of his entire body. He leaped back as though on fire. ‘Jesus Christ! Jesus, Cameron, I thought you said your paper didn’t hurt anyone. There are billions – no forget that – there are tens, hundreds of billions of dollars invested in drug technologies which you could be putting at threat. It’s not if, frankly, it’s who … Let me think. Jesus.’ He took the list of names again, thrusting them in front of the scientist, inches from her face. ‘Do you recognise any of these names? Is there a common link? Any company, or organisation?’

Cameron looked at the names. ‘They’re all OK. This guy, Professor Durer, he’s quite good. Had a real interest in my work. Rucci … The name rings a bell, but … Now, Freward. He’s a grade-A creep, but an OK scientist … The others, hell, the others, who cares?’ Her insightful analysis stumbled to a close.

Bryn drummed briefly on the table. Then, pulling out his phone, he began to dial.

4

First London, where it was two o’clock in the morning. He called three of his junior analysts, two of whom were asleep in bed, one of whom was at work, finishing up a spreadsheet for one of Bryn’s other projects. Bryn began to bark instructions, getting the two sleepy analysts into work as soon as possible, pulling the third off his existing project for the time being. He thought briefly, then, for the sake of completeness, he called a couple of associates in New York and set them the exact same task, with the same urgent deadline as he’d given the others. What one group missed, the other might find, and vice versa. Before he was done, he interrupted himself briefly. ‘Fax?’ he asked Cameron. ‘E-mail?’ Wordlessly, she pointed to her filofax which lay on the desk. Bryn flipped to the contact information, and gave it to the associates on the other end of the line. He switched off his phone and tossed it down.

‘There we go. We’ll have some answers pretty soon.’

‘Answers to what? Except whether you’re a nice guy to work for.’

Bryn allowed himself a tiny smile. ‘We pay ’em enough.’

‘Can I ask you something?’

Bryn looked up in surprise. ‘Of course.’

‘Who are you? How come you know about the pharma industry? More to the point, what the hell made you come see me tonight?’

With a jolt, Bryn realised that Cameron knew nothing about him. She’d shown no personal curiosity in him the night they first met, and this evening the normal social exchanges had been obliterated by the steamroller of Cameron’s distress. ‘I’m an investment banker,’ he said, briefly explaining who he was and how come he was in Boston.

‘That doesn’t explain how come you’re in my apartment.’

He shrugged. Why was he here? Because his wife had left him and he thought that some weird Dr Dynamite scientist type was going to make him feel all warm and cuddly again? He shook the question away, and crossed to Cameron. ‘We should have some data coming in by now.’

He booted up Cameron’s PC and went into her e-mail. Before long, e-mails began to fly in from London and New York. ‘Data dumps,’ he said. ‘Everything you ever wanted to know about your six reviewers, plus the Journal’s editor. Everything which has ever appeared in print, anywhere in the world. Pharma company appointments, educational bulletins, research reports, internet stuff, you name it.’

‘You have systems which do that?’

‘Not systems, people. The information is out there, it’s finding it which is hard. Now, let’s see …’

For two and a half hours he worked, expertly skimming the mass of information flooding in, printing, marking and putting to one side anything he thought possibly relevant. Before long, seven piles mounted up: Durer, Regan, Rucci, Czarnowski, Booth, and Freward – the six reviewers – plus Goldbach, the editor.

At length, he took a break.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘I think I’m close. Of the six reviewers, I can connect four to one company, Corinth Laboratories. Durer is the one who connects tightest. His research lab has a major multi-year contract with Corinth. I doubt if Durer would stay in business if Corinth moved away. Regan and Czarnowski have both done paid experimental work for the group, plus Regan – no, Czarnowski – has done paid lectures, expert witness work with the FDA, that kind of thing. Then Booth is working to get a hospital extension funded. His co-chairman on the committee is an ex-CEO of Corinth. It’s not a strong connection, but if they’re hoping for funds, you never know. That leaves Freward and Rucci. I can’t find anything. Not yet. But there’s more stuff coming.’

He carried on speaking, but Cameron had turned to stone.

‘Rucci,’ she said. ‘I’ve just remembered where I heard the name.’ She walked to a shelf and pulled down an old edition of an industry magazine, Pharmaceutical People. She flicked through the pages and found the item she was looking for: a sickly-sweet mother-daughter feature, adorned with a cheesy photo. ‘The mom, Paula Rucci, was my reviewer. Her daughter, Gabriella, is Vice President in Corinth’s Veterinarian Division.’

‘Ha!’ barked Bryn, flying back to his sheaves of paper. He flicked quickly through his stacks and came away with a sheet. ‘Gabriella Rucci has recently been promoted to Executive VP. How nice. Her mum may be clean, but her daughter certainly isn’t. And if dear little Gabby comes home one day and tells her mum all kinds of crap about you, who’s she going to trust? That just leaves Freward.’

Cameron shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. Freward’s the worst.’ From a pile on her desk, she pulled a photocopied research piece, Quantificational errors in omega pathway modelling of digestive enzymes. Among the list of authors, Freward’s name had been circled with a handwritten comment next to it, ‘Pillock!’ Bryn looked blankly at the page.

‘Freward’s a good scientist,’ said Cameron, ‘but he devotes his life to these kind of knocking pieces, always trying to shoot good work down. He’s a director of – what’s the name again? – the Katz-Jacoby Research Foundation and –’

‘And Katz-Jacoby is exclusively funded by Corinth.’ Bryn finished her sentence, triumphantly. ‘We’ve got it, then. The smoking gun. The only weird thing is the coincidence. The editor seems clean, so how come he ends up with six Corinth stooges out of six? That doesn’t add up.’

‘Uh-uh. It figures. The editor will most likely pick one lead reviewer first, and talk to him about a possible slate of names. The most likely guy on this list is Freward. Like I say, he’s a jerk, but a good scientist with a decent reputation. Maybe the editor comes up with some suggested names, maybe Freward comes up with them all. Any case, by the time they’re done talking, Freward has packed the jury.’

‘Plus they’ve got Mr Smack-head Kovacs running around spreading rumours about you, just in case.’ He looked at Cameron admiringly. ‘They really took care to sabotage you,’ he said. ‘They must really respect your work.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No, really. You can’t beat the compliment … And Corinth. It makes sense. I might have guessed.’

‘You mind telling me why?’

Bryn paused to inspect his questioner. She was dressed in old jeans and a thin T-shirt which ran into puckered ridges at the shoulders. She was pale and thin, hair a mess, tear-stained eyes a visual disaster area. All the same, she wasn’t exactly bad-looking. All that high cheekbone stuff that women are meant to have, she had.

‘Corinth Laboratories,’ said Bryn. ‘An outstanding company. A decade ago it was a bit-part player. Some good drugs. Some bad drugs. Nothing much in the pipeline. But then they struck gold. They hired this guy Huizinga from outside the industry. Chemicals, I think, was his background. He shook up the company, top to bottom. He began licensing drugs, buying up small biotech outfits, research labs. And focus, he gave it focus. Before Huizinga, Corinth did a bit of everything. A chemo drug. A bit of respiratory stuff. Some anxiety medications. He ditched all that. The one good product they had was an anti-viral, Zapatone. It was big in AIDS –’

‘Zapatone? God, it’s toxic. Toxic as hell. There was a British study which showed –’

‘There was a British study which showed it shortened the lives of three quarters of the patients who took it. But that was Huizinga’s brilliance. He boasted about the study, made his salesmen lead with it. He went out and told the world that no drug in the history of the world had ever had such impressive anti-viral properties –’

‘Anti-patient properties –’

‘Whatever. They made a few tiny modifications to the drug administration protocol. Meaningless changes, but enough that they could say the British study was irrelevant to the way the drug was now administered. And that was that. Zapatone took off, and that was Huizinga’s cue. Ninety per cent of Corinth’s sales are now in anti-viral drugs, with just a couple of other sidelines they haven’t yet bothered to sell. Mostly now, the drug industry is looking for less toxic solutions. It’s a kinder, gentler industry, that’s the idea. But not Huizinga, not Corinth. They recognise that there are plenty of doctors out there who like the macho stuff. Toys for the boys, and guns for their chums. They put out these publicity handouts for Zapatone, overlaying a picture of the drug with photos of B-52 bombers.’

‘It’s criminal.’

‘Genius. Corinth was worth a couple of billion dollars when Huizinga came in. It’s worth fifty times that today – a hundred billion dollars, no less. If there were Nobel prizes for business, Huizinga would be a cert.’

‘I do not believe you!’

‘I’m not saying I approve, I’m just telling you how the world works. And say what you like, they’re smart. They’ve got the world’s biggest stable of anti-viral drugs. Your medicine is a threat. You said it yourself: under certain circumstances, your technology might be complemented by conventional drug therapy, but by Corinth’s slash-n-burn stuff? No way. As Huizinga sees it, it’s him or you.’

It was a tactless phrase on which to finish. Cameron’s eyes skated back to the letter still lying open on the table.

‘Right,’ she said grimly. ‘And at the moment, it’s him.’

And it was then, at that precise moment, that Bryn took leave of his senses.