_Tuesday, April 7
10:32 P.M.
_Winston Bartlett looked at the white phone on the oak end table beside
his chair and argued with himself about picking it up and calling the
Dutchman. When Van de Vliet was at his office at the institute, they
communicated by encrypted videophone. By this time, though, he was
usually home, but he still hadn't called to say what had happened with
Alexa Hampton. Now they would have to talk over an open line. Damn him.
After his explosive run-in with Stone Aimes--damn him too--Bartlett had
gone up to the Park Avenue place to check on Kristen firsthand and try
to console her. But he wasn't actually sure she recognized him; at
times she seemed to and then at other times she would just stare at him
blankly. Her mind increasingly had an in-and-out relationship with
reality, and today was an out day.
The time had come to be deeply concerned about her. She couldn't be
kept under wraps forever. He had checked her into the Dorian Institute
under an assumed name, Kirby Parker, to try to avoid any publicity. Now
that was the only
name she could remember. How had the Syndrome done that to her?
Kristen Starr, whose identity was known to several million watchers of
cable TV, could no longer remember her own name. Karl had worked with
her every day, but no medication he had tried had even minimally slowed
the Syndrome's progress.
The Beta had seemed so promising. Kristen's body had been rejuvenated--
her face was looking like she'd had perfect plastic surgery, and
there'd been no discernible side effects. It was everything they'd all
hoped for. Kristen was elated and even the normally cautious Van de
Vliet was buoyed.
Yes, the Beta was so close. Karl had to find a way to make it work.
In spite of all Winston Bartlett's entrepreneurial derring-do, he
always knew he was at the mercy of time. He was getting ever closer to
that final dance with destiny. But . . . but what if the Beta could be
made to work the way Van de Vliet theorized it might? Was there the
possibility the music would never stop?
Nursing a second Glenfiddich, he looked around the room, the third-
floor study/bedroom, finding it pleased him as always. This room of his
five-story mansion was a handmade gem from New York's turn-of-the-
century Gilded Age, with molded plasterwork ceilings and brass
doorknobs and mahogany paneling. Favorites from his superlative
Japanese sword collection lined the walls, giving him constant joy. He
wanted to live to enjoy it for another three score and ten.
The only galling thing about the place was that he had to share it with
Eileen, who had the top two floors. They had been living in marital
purgatory for the past twenty-eight years, ever since she found out
about the existence of his natural son. Because of that humiliation,
she had refused to give him the one thing he most wanted from her, his
freedom. She let it be known that as long as he flaunted a string of
mistresses in the cheap tabloid press, she was determined to stay in
his face.
He sighed and took a last sip of his scotch, then set it down and
clicked on the phone. Van de Vliet had rented a small villa half a mile
down the lakeshore, south from the institute, and he lived alone. Until
recently he'd been sleeping in the lab. There was no encrypted phone
where he lived, so this had damned well better be brief.
"Karl, it's me. How did it go today with the new Beta prospect? I
contracted her to do some work here, hoping to do my part to get her
with the program. I was expecting to hear from you by now."
"I've met with her and she had a stress test this afternoon in the
city. Other than the aortic stenosis, she seems to be in superb shape,
which is important. I'm assuming--make that hoping--that she'll come back
in the morning and formally enter the clinical trials. I'll let you
know if she does. Till that happens, I have no progress to report."
"All right, but how soon after that do you think you could get started
with the Beta matter?"
There was a pregnant pause, and then . . .
"W.B., we truly need to talk, and maybe not on this line. Just before I
left the lab, I ran another simulation on the Mothership to try to
figure out what dosage level of Beta enzyme would be safe. But it's
like trying to extrapolate backwards, and I just don't have enough
data. I'm beginning to wonder if using her to try to create telomerase
antibodies is actually such a good idea. It's just so risky. . . ." His
voice trailed off.
"Karl, everything in life is a goddam risk. I know I'm supposed to be
the beneficiary here, but if the antibody concept works out, we might
still be able to do something for... Beta One."
"I'm already doing everything I know how for her. That's a tragedy
we're all still in denial about. And now we're talking about risking
yet another woman. Yes, maybe it's the answer, but for now I don't know
what a safe dosage of enzyme should be. It has to be enough to generate
the antibodies, but not so great that . . . You know what I'm talking
about."
I sure as hell do, Bartlett thought. I'm looking at the Syndrome
myself.
"Karl, just think of what it could mean if you could get the Beta to
work the way the other procedures do. What great medical discovery
didn't have a few missteps at the beginning? This is experimental
medicine that could change the world. So, dammit, we've got to take
risks."
"Why are we having this conversation at this time of night? Over an
unsecure phone?"
"Because we don't have a lot of time," Bartlett growled.
"We've got nineteen days left on the clinical trials. That's certainly
enough time to conclude the procedure on her heart. But if we also try
to--"
"Karl," Bartlett said "it's the Beta we should be focusing on. I'm
looking at the Syndrome myself now, though I think I've got the
strength of will to handle it. My mind is a lot stronger than Kris . .
. Beta One's. But I don't want to have to find out. You've got to get
this fucking problem fixed."
"If we do use her, I can't begin to tell you how unethical this is
about to become."
Bartlett wanted to remind Van de Vliet that ethics were the least of
their problems at the moment, but that wasn't the kind of thing you
aired over an unsecure phone connection.
"Karl, just fucking do it," he said finally. "If she's not under way
with the Beta before the end of this week, ethics are not going to be
your primary concern. I may have to revisit some of our agreements.
Cross me and you forfeit a lot."
"All right" He sighed. "I know what I can do to make sure she's in."
"Good. Do it, whatever it is." He now had to warn Van de Vliet about
Stone Aimes, but how much information should he provide? He quickly
decided to keep it simple. "Oh, and as though we didn't already have
enough problems, there's something else I need to alert you about.
There's a smart-ass reporter from the New York Sentinel nosing around.
Yesterday he got to my legal department and asked about Beta One,
though he doesn't know her name yet. He somehow found out she was
terminated from the clinical trials. Please tell me you haven't been
talking to the press behind my back."
"My God, I've been waiting for this to happen." Van de Vliet sounded
like someone who had just had the wind knocked out of him. "You know,
Grant once mentioned that a reporter had been pestering him about
getting an interview with me."
"When?"
"Maybe two months ago, possibly three."
"First I've heard about it," Bartlett said. "I wish he'd told me. I
could have taken steps."
"It might be the same person. Now that I think about it, I do remember
he mentioned the Sentinel. How much do you think he knows?"
"I'm not sure. The question in my mind is, how did he find out about
her in the first place? He's supposedly doing a book about us, Karl, a
book about this project."
"Well, that's the first I've heard about that. Christ! A book!"
"I think he's just fishing at the moment. But this should be a warning.
We've got to keep security tight."
"What do you know about him? Is he good?"
Yes, Bartlett thought, he's damned good. The truth is, I'm almost proud
of him sometimes.
"He's the medical columnist for the paper. So happens, I own the
building where their editorial offices are."
"I don't have time to read newspapers."
"Well, he's good enough that we may have to handle him somehow."
"What are you trying to say?" Van de Vliet asked, though he sounded
like he already knew.
"What I'm saying is, he's a pro, and I get the strong impression he's
hungry."
"Hungry for money or for fame?"
"If I knew that, I'd know what to do next," Bartlett said. Probably
some of both, he thought, if the kid is anything like his old man.
"Then why don't we give him an interview? Meet the whole matter head-
on. I've always found it better to shape the news yourself rather than
trying to stonewall, which usually means a lot of speculation ends up
getting published and then you have to correct it after the fact. It's
also the best way to find out how much a reporter already knows."
Idiot, Bartlett thought, that's the worst possible thing we could do.
This kid would have your balls for a bow tie.
"Karl, you've just provided a perfect illustration of why I have my own
people handling the press. Some amateur like you starts talking to a
guy like that, and the next thing you know, you might as well be on
sodium pentathol. Again, his name is Stone Aimes. Remember it. And
don't ever even think about exchanging a single word with him."
"W.B., my experience is that you can only stonewall the press for so
long, if they're any good at all. Sooner or later, they're going to
find out more than you want them to. The only way to forestall that is
to parcel them carefully controlled information to work with. Trust me.
I've had a little experience with reporters too. You can't treat them
like they're complete dolts. You have to co-opt them, bring them into
your confidence, and then convince them that it's in everybody's
interest for them to help you rather than harm you. So why don't you
let me talk to this guy? We could always start off with the carrot and
then move on to the stick."
"This conversation is making me very nervous, Karl. I don't want you or
any of your people within a mile of him. I mean it, goddamit."
With which Winston Bartlett slammed down the phone.
"Shit."
What are we going to do? So far, Van de Vliet hadn't helped Kristen in
the slightest. Okay, she wanted to try the Beta, but still . . . What
happened was a tragedy.
And who are we kidding--Stone wasn't going to back off.
Seeing his natural (and only) son again after a lot of years had shaken
him up more than he had expected. At some level he wanted to feel proud
of his own flesh and blood.
But now . . . if anything got published about the Syndrome, the
financial consequences could be devastating. Stone Aimes had to be kept
at bay long enough to complete the buyout. Unfortunately, it might come
to involve force.
He smiled to think that Kenji Noda would be ready for that challenge.
But overt violence really wasn't Winston Bartlett's style. At least it
hadn't been his style up to now. But he was staring at the horrific
possibility of the Syndrome. Starting very soon, a lot of things might
have to be handled differently.