A Fierce Radiance (32 page)

C
laire sat in the backseat of a big, leather-upholstered military car while an attractive young military man named Anthony Pagliaro drove. Her official driver, her official car. She couldn’t help but feel pleased with herself for the small perks provided by Vannevar Bush.

It was a good assignment, all things considered, driving through the New Jersey countryside in early July, on her way to Rahway, passing peaceful farms and woodlands, sunlight sparkling through the trees. Claire was traveling to the Merck company headquarters to photograph their penicillin production. The trip took longer than expected because the speed limit had been lowered to thirty-five miles per hour to conserve gasoline and tires.

So she had plenty of time to appreciate objectively how attractive Anthony Pagliaro was, how good he’d look in an advertising photograph, say. She wasn’t attracted to him herself. She felt a generation older than he was. Every now and again she saw his eyes glancing into the rearview mirror, keeping track of her as well as the road behind, as she kept track of him. He had a sleek handsomeness, dark eyes, thick hair swept back. He carried himself with an edge of class resentment that added to his attractiveness.

Claire now had security clearance, as did Anthony Pagliaro. After today’s shoot, she would send the film to Andrew Barnett via military pouch, and he would have it developed and locked in a cabinet until the story could be told. Anything interesting she heard or
observed along the way, she was instructed to report to Barnett for evaluation.

“So, Tony,” she said, trying to get to know her partner in espionage, “what did you do before you became a military driver?”

“I drove a delivery truck for the family business.” The Brooklyn accent flitted in and out of his voice as if he were trying to coach it away.

“What business?”

“Bread. In Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.”

“Pagliaro’s Bakery?”

“That’s the one.”

“I’ve had that bread. So crispy. My son’s favorite.”

“Yeah, it’s good. Brick ovens. Makes the difference.”

“I’ll tell my son. That’s the type of thing he likes to know. Brick ovens. Interesting. So the military gave you the same job you had before.”

“Except I didn’t join up to be driving around hotshots and women. No offense meant.”

“None taken. What did you want to do?”

“I wanted to drive a tank. And repair tanks. That’s what I told them: I’m interested in tanks and I have experience repairing trucks. This is the job they gave me.”

“Maybe you can request a transfer once things are moving along. Probably they don’t have enough tanks manufactured yet to need someone to repair them.” The slow pace of military production—endless delays, confusions, and red tape—was daily fare in the newspapers.

“Meanwhile, I’ll teach you about photography.”

“Nothing personal, but I can’t say I ever wanted to learn about photography.”

“Suit yourself.”

In Rahway, the guard at the company gate found their surnames on his list, called the office, and waved them in. They turned onto a tree-
lined lane that meandered through thick woods and eventually opened onto a wide, manicured lawn. Deer grazed in the distance.

“What the hell is this?” Tony asked. “Some kind of Sherwood Forest?”

“More likely the opposite. I don’t think we’ll be meeting any Robin Hoods here.”

A circular drive led them to the company headquarters and laboratories. George Merck himself was waiting at the door. This was noteworthy. What did he find so important about her visit, to require a personal greeting? The press continually referred to him as Adonis-like, and Claire knew from more than one article that he was in his late forties, six feet four, blond and blue-eyed. Seeing him up close, however, Claire thought he was chunky and staid, too tightly buttoned into his vest and suit jacket. He and his family had made a fortune in the commercial development of vitamins. He regarded her with puzzlement.

“Everything all right, Mr. Merck?”

“We were expecting…”

“A military man?”

He smiled winsomely, and suddenly he did look as handsome as his reputation. “You could say that.”

“I’ve got military clearance, so we’re okay on that count.”

“With so many men going overseas, I understand how the magazines must be filling in with women for nonessential jobs.”

“Oh, indeed. I’m even busier now than when I went on staff at
Life
four years ago.”

Merck’s smile wavered, and beside her Tony Pagliaro hid a snigger.

“Mrs. Shipley, welcome to Rahway.” With strained heartiness, Merck reached out to shake her hand.

Between the two Adonises, blond George and dark Tony, Claire proceeded into the building.

“Let me show you our operation. We’re proud of it, I don’t mind telling you.”

He ushered them into a ground-floor lab. The gleaming, stainless steel counters and sinks looked bright and sparkling. The wooden lab tables were highly polished, shiny beakers arrayed upon them. The shelves were lined with glimmering, empty milk bottles.

“This is our new lab for the testing and development of penicillin. I’ll bring in some scientists and you can photograph them with the equipment.”

“This is an impressive lab, Mr. Merck. Has it ever been used?”

“As I say, it’s our new lab.”

“Mr. Luce’s arrangement with Dr. Bush is for me to photograph the work in progress.”

“This is the work in progress.”

“I need to see where you’re doing the penicillin research now.”

“This is where we’re doing the penicillin research now.”

“The bedpans and milk bottles that you’re
already
using. The old lab. The lab where you’re experimenting with submerged fermentation,” she added, using the rather impressive phrase that Barnett had bandied about during her briefing.

“That initial work has been rendered obsolete. We want to show you only the latest developments.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Merck, I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.” Andrew Barnett had been allowed to walk through the Merck facility the week before. He’d confirmed that extensive penicillin research was being done here. Obviously this new lab was nothing more than a display. Was Mr. Merck playing her for a fool?

“Perhaps we should get Dr. Bush on the phone to discuss the situation.”

“Certainly.”

As luck would have it, Bush was in the process of flying to the West Coast and wouldn’t be reachable until late tonight. Shall I leave
a message for him at the hotel? his secretary asked. Would you like to send a telegram?

Flying to the West Coast was rare and impressive, the sort of thing Mrs. Roosevelt did. It was also time-consuming. Claire found herself with no alternatives. They returned to the lab, and two scientists joined them. The scientists wore well-pressed white lab coats over their dress shirts and ties. Their names were Dr. Frye and Dr. Rand, M.D. or Ph.D., Claire didn’t know. They were like twins, youthful and lighthearted, with blue eyes and blond hair like their boss. They greeted Claire with a playful attitude, pleased at the prospect of having their pictures in
Life
sooner or later. She took out the standard permission forms, and they signed.

Pleading other obligations, George Merck turned the supervision of Claire and Tony over to the scientists and departed. With no other choice, Claire photographed the brand-new laboratory that might someday be used for penicillin or might simply be kept for show, while the real work went on elsewhere. She photographed the two jovial scientists in their starched lab coats, undoubtedly presented to them for this occasion, as they held test tubes of water up to the light and stared through microscopes at nonexistent slides. They were exceedingly cooperative, offering to pose in any way she liked, for fake shots that Claire knew could never run. The entire endeavor began to seem like a bad joke. Claire could only hope they might inadvertently reveal some useful information in the course of their performance.

“So,” she said after about an hour, as she and Tony changed the lights. She trusted she’d given the scientists ample time to be lulled into complacency. “You having any luck with penicillin?”

They exchanged glances. “Slow going. Step by step.”

“Yeah, that’s what I hear from everybody.” She took a gamble. “The cousins are so much easier, don’t you find?” She focused on a lightbulb, pretending that she couldn’t get it twisted in straight.

“I wouldn’t say
easy
, but—”

“We don’t have time for anything but penicillin,” Dr. Frye told Dr. Rand in warning.

“You’re right about that,” Dr. Rand backtracked. “Anyway, it’s the process I enjoy.” He was the handsomer of the two, although his glasses were thicker.

“I understand.” Was this the right approach? She was new to espionage and apparently not yet very good at it. Movies, as Andrew Barnett had correctly pointed out, weren’t much help. “It seems like the process is what everyone who does this type of work enjoys most,” she said. “I once did a story with Dr. James Stanton. Either of you ever meet him?”

Again the glances, the silent questioning of each other, the doubts about what was allowed and what wasn’t. “I’ve heard that name,” Dr. Frye said slowly. “He’s…I guess you’d have to say he’s above our level. I admire him, though. His reputation, I mean. What’s he like?”

“He enjoys the process,” Claire said, shrugging to make them think she had no particular interest. “Just like you. I guess his sister, Tia Stanton, liked the process, too.”

The young doctors said nothing.

On their way to the car, Tony said, “Boy, oh boy, they must have something pretty good to hide, to build a fake lab to hide it.” Tony had proven himself adept with the equipment and Claire appreciated his healthy suspicion of authority.

“Yes, very impressive.” A colossal waste of time, Claire thought. No, worse: offensive. No room for hopes or dreams of saving Emily here; no idealism whatsoever.

Now that they were working together, Claire sat in the front seat with Tony. They drove to another pharmaceutical firm (New Jersey was thick with them) about twenty miles away, Hanover & Company. When they arrived, it was the same deal: the forest, the manicured lawns, the long curving drive, the company headquarters disguised as an English country house.

“Pretty fancy,” Tony said as he made the curve with a fast, pleasurable sweep. “I can see you’re taking me to the best places.”

“Stick with me, you won’t regret it.” Stay cheerful, play for the laugh, that was the code, and she made herself live by it.

At Hanover, they were greeted by the high-heeled, straight-backed Miss Margery Ryan, the director of public information. Miss Ryan wore a tight, gray suit and large, gold earrings. Claire had better hopes of accomplishing something here, without the company chairman intimidating the staff. But at Hanover it was the same story, the gleaming new lab, the scrubbed, polished, and playful young scientists, Dr. Jones and Dr. Evans, with one twist: Miss Ryan never left them. Vannevar Bush had forced the companies to allow Claire through their front doors, but that was as far as they would go; they’d keep their real work secret.

Claire gave it a try anyway. “So,” she said as she posed the scientists with a rack of test tubes filled with tap water, “things must really be moving along with penicillin.”

“Oh, no,” Miss Ryan said before they could answer, “we haven’t made any progress. So discouraging. We work and work, with no progress at all.” Miss Ryan was nervous, incessantly capping and un-capping her fountain pen.

“Life is tough,” Tony said.

“Oh, yes, truly. I feel sorry for these poor young men, coming here with the highest hopes,” Miss Ryan said.

The young men repressed smiles.

“Especially during a war,” Tony said. “You want to feel you’re accomplishing something during a war, not just biding your time until it’s over.” Tony straightened his uniform. He did look impressive. Most likely the scientists were exempt from the draft as essential workers, but even so, Tony managed to convey the idea that they were cowards. Slackers, was the term used on the streets. “I guess if we’re lucky, we’ll all get sent to the front and that’ll be that,” Tony added. “Or maybe
the front will come to us. We could engage the enemy on that big lawn you’ve got out there.”

Miss Ryan regarded him with annoyance. Claire felt that she and Tony had the makings of a great professional team.

They continued with their sham work in the sham lab, going through the motions, taking photos, moving lights, varying the angles. Claire continued to make meaningless conversation. When they had done all they could do and were repacking the equipment, she said to the scientists, “You fellows having any luck with other antibacterials? I keep hearing about them. Lots of research being done, progress being made, breakthroughs everywhere.” What was a little exaggeration at a time like this?

“That, Mrs. Shipley, is an inappropriate question, if I may say so,” Miss Ryan said.

“Forgive me, Miss Ryan.”

“You came here to photograph our new penicillin work, which we are showing you.”

“Indeed, Miss Ryan. But all part of the same family, I should think.”

“Not in my opinion.”

“Obviously.”

The scientists kept their heads down, but Claire caught their amusement.

“Are you quite done now, Mrs. Shipley?”

“Why, yes.” They finished packing, and Tony carried the bags, yet another benefit of his companionship.

In the hallway leading to the reception area, Miss Ryan abruptly strode ahead to meet two gray-haired gentlemen walking down the opposite hallway. She swayed on her heels, and the clicking of her shoes echoed in her path. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hanover,” she called when she was within earshot.

Introductions were made when Miss Ryan reached the two men,
and in her fawning over them, she appeared to forget Claire and Tony.

“Come on,” Tony said. “We don’t need to wait around for her to kiss us good-bye. We can sneak up a back staircase, find out what’s really going on.”

“I appreciate your sense of intrigue, Tony, I really do, but let’s wait.” In her frustration, Claire wanted to see who got to visit the real labs, who Hanover & Company fawned over, since they certainly didn’t fawn over her. Claire and Tony walked closer and closer….