_Monday, April 6
12:18 P.M.
_"Hey, how did it go?" Jennifer asked the minute Ally came in the door.
She wasn't sure she knew the answer to that. Initially the job looked
like a lot of fun, but now she felt the interpersonal dynamics of
working in Bartlett's home were already a problem even before she
started.
Also, maybe it was just paranoia, but as she took the cab downtown from
the mansion on Gramercy Park, she got the impression that somebody was
following her in a black SUV. And the stress of that brought on a
tightness in her chest. But as she neared their office in SoHo, the
vehicle abruptly veered east. She had a nitro tab at the ready, but she
didn't have to pop it.
"There's good news and bad news. The good news is he's practically
handing us a sweetheart of a job, and dangling another--designing a
whole museum--in our face. The bad news is, I don't know why he suddenly
thinks we're so terrific. I mean, you and I know that but how did he
figure it out?"
Jennifer looked puzzled. "You mean he--"
"Oh, did I mention that his crazy wife showed up after he left and
essentially accused me of being a hooker? I suppose that comes under
the heading of bad news."
"Great. Does that mean she's going to start second-guessing whatever we
do?"
"The communication channels between Mr. Bartlett and Mrs. Bartlett
don't appear to be all that great. They live on different floors in his
place--which really is a huge old mansion on Gramercy Park, by the way--
and the job would be in his part, the lower level." She explained the
Bartletts' living arrangements. "He wants to redo the garden-level
floor. It was originally the servants' quarters. Like Upstairs,
Downstairs."
"So he's upstairs and she's way upstairs."
"And let's hope she stays there."
Ally fetched herself a cup of coffee, checked in with everybody to see
how they were doing, and then settled herself at her computer. She had
the latest program in computer-aided design (CAD) and she wanted to
program in the dimensions and layout of the space. And since she had a
copy of the blueprints, the first thing she would do would be to run
them through her flatbed scanner and incorporate them into the program.
She didn't get a chance to take any digital photos with CitiSpace's
snazzy (and expensive) new Nikon. But if the job went forward there'd
be plenty of time later.
Everybody's computers were connected to the Net via a broadband DSL
hookup and they were never turned off. Because of that, the computers
were vulnerable to being hacked so Jen had installed a firewall program
to keep out snoops.
She sat down and stared at the screen saver, which was an ever-changing
series of tropical beaches at sunset. She sipped at her coffee--this was
the one cup she allowed herself each day, always saved for the moment
when she felt she needed to be most alert--and reached to turn on the
scanner. The tightness in her chest that she had momentarily
experienced in the cab had completely disappeared and she felt
perfectly normal.
What was she going to do about her mother and the clinic in New Jersey?
Nina certainly appeared to want to go. And with the inevitability of
what lay in store for someone with early-onset Alzheimer's, taking her
out there was surely worth doing. But as for her own heart, she wasn't
so sure she thought the reward was worth the risk. But she'd decided to
hold off on a decision till she could have a firsthand look at the
institute.
She took another sip of coffee and then tapped the keyboard. When she
did that, the screen would normally bring up the "desktop."
But not this time. A file was open, and she was certain she hadn't left
it open. What's this?
"Jen, could you come here a minute? There's something funny."
The first page of the file that had been pulled up and opened was an ID
photo of herself.
"This is what was running. Has somebody been fooling around with this
computer?"
Jennifer looked puzzled when she saw it "Not that I know of."
"Then how did this get . . . ?" She just sat staring. "I didn't open
this file. Does this thing have a mind of its own?"
About eight years ago, Kate Gillis at Manhattan Properties--with whom
Ally had an occasional after-work drink-- told her she'd scanned all her
vital personal documents into her computer at home. She'd said it was
an easy way to make a safety backup.
Seemed like a good idea, so Ally had stored a copy of her birth
certificate, her driver's license, all her credit cards, her passport,
a set of medical records, even the mortgage on her apartment. She'd
even scanned in an ID photo, just for the heck of it. She also
suggested to Grant that he do the same.
Brilliant right? Well, maybe not.
The reason was, she'd routinely made an updated copy on a ZIP disk and
then copied it onto this computer here in the office. Like a second
backup.
"I had everything ready for you for your meeting with Bartlett, so
nobody here has touched your computer this morning." Jennifer furrowed
her brow. "Could somebody have picked the locks and come in last night
and done this, like a prank or something?"
"Come on. That's totally far-fetched." She was trying to imagine how
somebody could have gotten in and out and left no trace. Impossible.
"This must just be something stupid I did when I came down yesterday
after seeing Mom. I don't remember it, but I guess I was pretty tired."
"I've never seen you that tired."
Jen's right, she thought. I was on the city's Web site checking the
Department of Buildings' Housing Code, but I certainly didn't pull up
my personal data. Computers do strange things, but to open a data file
for no reason? That would require a higher intelligence.
Right?
"Jen, you're our resident computer expert. We leave these things hooked
up all the time. I know we have a firewall, but what are the chances
that somebody could defeat it somehow and hack into our computers?"
Jennifer was a software whiz and she had all the designs for all the
clients on their CAD system, which they used to create a virtual-
reality space and allow clients to "walk" through.
"Well, that's entirely possible. Our firewall software is over a year
old. Let me take a look. Maybe I can reverse-engineer what happened. If
somebody went through pulling up files, I might be able to figure it
out."
Ally relinquished her chair and stood staring as Jennifer started
checking the firewall.
It was scary to think that some stranger could know everything about
you. But on the other hand what difference could it make? She had
nothing to hide. Still, it was creepy. Her Social Security and credit
card information was in that file. Could that be--
"Shit. Ally, you're not going to believe this. Whoever did this was
damned good. We've been seriously hacked."
"How do you know?" She bent over to look.
"Our firewall software has been disabled. In fact, the actual program
was uninstalled. Jesus, that's cool. I think we'd better shut down
everybody's Internet connection right this minute, till we can get some
new software."
"That's incredible. You mean somebody--"
"Honey, hackers have gotten into Microsoft's own site. Even the
Pentagon, so I've heard. Anything is possible."
"This is not good."
"What are you thinking?" Jen was still staring at the screen and
tapping at the keyboard.
"I'm thinking what a jerk I was. I keep all my personal information in
that file, like a safety backup in case my apartment burned down or
something. Scanned it in. My passport, driver's license, credit cards,
medical records, everything."
Jennifer looked puzzled. "You can just cancel the credit cards. As for
the rest of the stuff, what could anybody possibly want with it?"
"I don't know, Jen. I don't even know if we were hacked by somebody who
wants to find out about me, or just look at our designs."
She was reflecting that when somebody goes through your files, they
want the information for a purpose. And that purpose couldn't be
positive for you, or they wouldn't have started their undertaking with
a surreptitious act.
"Well, I'm going to check around and download a new firewall program.
Right now."
"Shit, I don't need this. I've got enough on my mind already. Mom wants
to go out to a clinic in the wilds of northern New Jersey and see a
doctor there. And the whole thing makes me nervous."
"Oh Jesus, is the place called the Dorian Institute by any chance?"
"How did--?"
"I'm such a scatterbrain. I took a message for you while you were gone.
From a Dr. Van de Something. I think that's the name of the place he's
with. He wants you to call him back as soon as possible."
_Monday, April 6
11:43 A.m._
Would she call back? Karl Van de Vliet had to believe she would but
nothing in this world was sure.
On the nineteen-inch screen of his office IBM, he was scrolling the
medical file that he'd downloaded earlier that morning. How Grant
Hampton got his hands on it, he didn't know and didn't want to know.
Yes, Alexa Hampton would be perfect. She had aortic valve stenosis,
well along, the same condition that had precipitated the coronary
destruction that took Camille from him. It was the great tragedy of his
life.
He studied the charts carefully, trying to assure himself he was making
the right choice. What if the stem cell procedure on her heart didn't
work? To fail would mean he couldn't have saved Camille after all. That
was actually the main reason he'd kept putting it off. He didn't want
to know if he couldn't have rescued her.
But Alexa Hampton was the obvious candidate. Her clinical condition had
deteriorated to the point that, at some level, you might even say she
had nothing to lose by undergoing an experimental procedure.
And she was perfect in another way as well. Other than her heart
condition, which she could do nothing about, she was in excellent
physical shape. Her last blood pressure was 110 over 80 and her pulse
was 67. She clearly had been exercising, which had been both good and
bad for her heart, though on balance probably a plus. In fact, it was
indicative of a strong fighting spirit, which was often the best
prognosticator of all.
He looked up to see Dr. Debra Connolly walking in. He had just paged
her. She was an M.D. who had been his personal research assistant
during her grad school days at Stanford. Now she was a full and valued
member of the research team. Just turned thirty, she also was a
smashing blonde, five-nine, with a figure that would stop traffic, even
in her white lab smock. She held Van de Vliet in the reverence always
bestowed on a brilliant, beloved mentor.
"Hi, Deb, I wanted you to take a look at this." He indicated the
screen. She knew all about the Beta and what had happened to Kristen,
the Syndrome, but she didn't know about the plan to subject Alexa
Hampton to two procedures at once: one for her aortic valve stenosis
and another to develop antibodies to combat the looming side effects of
the Beta in Winston Bartlett.
"This is the patient I was telling you about. I wanted you to see this.
Let's pray she signs on for the trials, because she looks like she
could be perfect, in a lot of ways."
But if she doesn't call back, he told himself, what am I going to do?
"What am I looking at?" Debra asked, scrolling the page. "Is this what
I think it is?"
"It's her medical history."
"How did you get it?" She turned back. "Did she send it?"
"No, Deb, and I don't think you really want to know."
"Somehow, I think I probably should." She looked again at the screen.
"We're in this together."
"All I know is, I got an e-mail from Grant Hampton, and this was an
attachment. She must have been keeping it on a computer somewhere. I
understand he's her brother, but how he got it, I have no idea. He said
we're not supposed to let her know we have it."
"How recent--"
"This final battery of tests is less than two weeks old," he said,
pointing to the date on the corner of the page. Then he scrolled.
"Take a look at her high-speed CT scan. See that degenerative
calcification there. Now look at the same test last year." He scrolled
past a number of pages. "See." He tapped the screen, then scrolled back
to the first image. "Over the past year there's been a significant
buildup. She's made-to- order for the clinical trials."
And there was another reason he wanted her, which he was reluctant to
admit to himself. There was a photo of Alexa Hampton in her medical
files and something about her reminded him of Camille. Her eyes had a
lot of spirit. They made you want to root for her. It was nothing short
of ironic that this woman had the exact same medical condition that
took the life of Camille, who had been at his side during the early
stages of the research that now might provide a cure. But for Camille
it had come too late. It was more than ironic; it was heartbreaking.
Now, though, to save Alexa Hampton would be a kind of circular
recompense. He took a last look, then closed the file.
"Does she want to be in the clinical trials? There's not much time
left. We'd have to get her--"
"I just left a message at her office," he said revolving around in his
chair. "Grant has talked to her, and so has W.B. This very morning.
She's aware that time is of the essence. But there's no guarantee
she'll do it."
He glanced at his mute phone. If she didn't call back today, he had a
feeling that Winston Bartlett might just have her seized and brought to
the institute by force.
"I see that her blood type is AB," Debra said. "Extremely rare."
Funny she should notice, he thought. Is she going to put it together?
"That's the same as Bartlett's blood type," she continued. "Interesting
coincidence, huh?"
"Right."
"You're already fond of her, aren't you?" Deb asked finally. He
detected the usual tinge of rivalry seeping into her voice. "Without
even meeting her."
Dear God, he thought, don't start that. It's the same with
every attractive female patient under the age of fifty. I don't have
time for games now.
The truth was, Karl Van de Vliet was turned on by Debra Connolly. What
red-blooded primate wouldn't be? But she was half his age and to act on
that attraction would be to guarantee trouble. He had enough to worry
about without a lab romance. Besides, he was still thinking about
Camille. They'd had the kind of long-lasting, thick-and-thin love Debra
would never understand.
However, she did sufficiently understand the problems with the Beta
procedure and the Syndrome, so he had to flirt back. She had to be kept
on the reservation. Feign an interest but not enough for it to go
anywhere.
"Deb, she's just an ideal fit for the study, that's all. Nothing more."
The stem cell procedure for her stenosis should go forward with only
minimal risk. There was every reason to hope he could rejuvenate the
tissue in Alexa's left ventricle. It was merely an extrapolation of the
kind of heart procedure that had worked such a wonder for Emma Rosen.
The real challenge was simultaneously attempting the Beta- related
procedure. The trick was to stimulate the development of antibodies
through a moderate dosage of the special Beta enzyme, tempering it
enough that it didn't go critical and begin replicating uncontrollably,
the way it had in Kristen, and (probably) very soon in W.B. Not so low
as to be inoperative but not so high that it would go out of control.
The "Goldilocks dosage," not too much, not too little. The problem was,
he wasn't absolutely sure what that dosage was.
Should he tell Alexa Hampton the full story about what he was doing?
About the Beta? That ethical question, he had decided, he would leave
to Grant Hampton, Bartlett's hustler of a CFO. It was his sister, after
all. Presumably, he'd tell her whatever she needed to know to make an
informed decision. Let the responsibility be on his head.
The phone on his desk finally rang.