Shadow of Eden (24 page)

Perera, much to his surprise and dismay, had taken a physician call regarding encephalitis in someone who was taking Eden. After some careful inquiries, Perera determined that it was likely the same encephalitis they had seen in the animals—their first human case. With Paul Tobias suffering through the illness of his daughter, Morloch had pointedly instructed Perrera to keep Tobias out of the loop.

Morloch then had charged Mallis to investigate the inquiring physician and take appropriate action, which he did, eliminating the threat of exposure. Unfortunately, the first call was followed by a second, and now there were a total of six cases related to Eden—at least before today—and Morloch had called in Mallis on each one. While their luck so far had held and word had not gotten out, Morloch knew his time was running out—they were reaching the limit to how many more cases they could cover up. Morloch desperately needed FDA approval for Paradise so he could pull Eden off the market in time to avoid any public connection of Eden with the brain disease.

With Tobias now dead, only Oscar Perera knew of the problem with Eden and he represented the largest threat to Morloch. While Morloch’s immediate concern had been Tobias—who would still have been productively toiling away in blissful ignorance had he not gotten that dammed call—Morloch was now concerned about Perera. Eliminating him would be problematic. Tobias’ work on Paradise was essentially done and could easily be taken over by any of Trident’s other scientists, but he needed Perera to field the encephalitis calls, at least for the next several years. Morloch, considering the options, decided to ask Mallis to keep a closer watch on his Safety Officer.

Houssan walked in.

“I want to accelerate Paradise’s production by several months,” Morloch said, without preamble.

Houssan, a large, square-jawed Egyptian, sat down and thought a minute before speaking. “Most of it rests on completing the new facility in Puerto Rico and getting Paradise approval from the FDA. We can distribute Paradise within two months after that, but you know them, it might take a year or more.”

“Time we don’t have.”

“Well, pushing everyone to the max, I think I can start initial batch testing in a couple of months, and, pending certification, full production in another two. But it still depends on the FDA.” Sharod shrugged his large shoulders. “That part is out of my hands.”

Houssan’s comment triggered a thought. Morloch had gotten Eden an expedited review through a generous bribe of Trident stock. Typically, follow-on compounds like Paradise don’t get the expedited review from the FDA, that designation is reserved for important and critically needed drugs, but he might be able to repeat the persuasion for Paradise. That could shave six to eight months off the review process and get Paradise on the market much earlier.

“Sharod, I need you to be ready and fully certified for production in five months at the latest, in case the FDA approves it quickly. I don’t want to be caught jerking off.”

“Okay,” Houssan sighed, “You always ask the impossible. I better start making some calls.”

After Houssan left, Morloch buzzed his secretary. “Karen, can you extend a VIP invitation to Secretary Jacob Castell for our Stockholder’s meeting?” He had to get that expedited review.

“I’ll get right on it.”

Morloch snapped off the intercom and punched a private number into his secure cell phone.

Chapter 51

T
yrone Grune took the podium in front of the White House press corps and pulled out his prepared comments. It was more crowded than usual, with a number of foreign news teams present, in addition to all the regular domestic networks. The bright video lights switched on and he cleared his throat.

“This morning, the President attended a secular service at the Washington National Cathedral to welcome Archbishop Sloan Northbourne, the Archbishop of Canterbury. He made some prepared comments and held a luncheon reception for the Archbishop afterwards at the White House, in the State Dining Room.” He looked up at the press vultures and took a deep breath.

“During the Archbishop’s address, President Dixon drifted off to sleep . . . probably like many of you have done in church at one time or another, I would guess.” He had worked hard to make this comment seem offhand and casual. He flashed a smile. “The President woke up and then delivered his comments. Any speculation,” Grune looked squarely through the lights at the press corps, “about the President’s health is misdirected, I can assure you. He is back in the Oval Office and conducting business as usual. I will now take some questions.”

Any mention of the President’s health had been a matter of intense debate among the White House Senior staff. Jeff Bell had recommended against it, saying it would legitimize the concern. Grune had argued the opposite, that failing to mention it smacked of either ignorance or a cover-up. Besides it would come up in the questioning anyway. Arthur Slywotsky, the White House Counsel, threw the tiebreaker vote. The wording was also a compromise, but Grune was satisfied with the final version. Now to see if it had worked. He pointed at the front row. “Victoria?”

Victoria Hogue from the Washington Post rose. “Ty, we saw the President stagger when he stood up and then he fumbled his opening statement. Now, I’ve gone to sleep a few times in my life . . .” That drew a chuckle from the reporters. “But I’ve never woken up as confused as he looked. Is he on medication? Or does he have something you’re not telling us?”

Grune nodded. “As you all know, and most of you reported, President’s Dixon’s health was perfect as determined by Dr. Thomas Green, the President’s personal physician. I hardly think something has happened since then to affect it.”

Hogue persisted. “Is that a definite no?”

“Yes, it’s a definite no.” Grune replied. “I believe that’s grammatically correct. Alfred?” he said, pointing at another familiar face three rows back.

Alfred Maloney from the Daily Beast stood up. “I would like to hear you specifically deny that he is taking any drugs, like Vicky asked. But my question is whether or not the stress of the Thanksgiving Day massacre has affected him in a significant way and that his sleeping in church is a symptom of that?”

That one hit home, thought Grune. “That’s easy,” Grune began, “No drugs, no problems with stress. Sure, he’s concerned about China, but they’re not threatening the United States in any way, so stress is not an issue. And to be honest, I’m not sure why you’re all talking about the President’s health.”

“You brought it up first,” Eric Knowles, from MSNBC, called out bringing another chuckle. “But with his prayer at the school—”

“We denied that—” Grune interrupted.

“Of course you did, but we all heard the tapes. I think he said the word ‘prayer.’ My question is between the school incident and this confusion thing, I’m worried there’s something you aren’t telling us. Can we ask President Dixon personally about his health?”

Grune had expected this question and had rehearsed his answer. “First, your premise is faulty. The President remains in excellent health and spirits. There is no medical condition affecting the president’s health and he is not on drugs.”

Knowles was not so easily dissuaded. “Can we ask the President personally? I think our access to him has become an issue—at least it has for MSNBC. When can we talk to him directly?”

Grune held his ground. “He’s busy, he’s not avoiding you.”

“Scouts honor?” Victoria Hague called out.

Grune smiled pleasantly, but ignored the question. “John?” he said pointing at another reporter.

“What about China’s reaction to Taiwan President Quin’s visit?”

Grune smiled graciously. Back on firm ground again. “No mystery about that. They’re surprised and very irritated.”

Chapter 52

J
ohnnie sat beside Steve in the Lexus coupe looking out the side window. “We’re almost at your favorite part, Son.” They approached the transition from the Loop 101 to the Red Mountain freeway with a ribbon of concrete curving up and over the freeways below. While marked for one lane, its generous shoulder was wide enough for two lanes or a disabled car. Johnnie’s endless fascination with the sweeping bridge made Steve take the slight detour to drive over it.

“All right, Dad. I see it now.” He hugged the windowsill and pressed his face to the glass. “Slow down, Dad.” He always asked to slow down and Steve allowed him the request as long as there were no other cars behind them. A quick check in the rear view mirror revealed a UPS truck.

“We’ve got a tail. No-can-do today, Son.” Johnnie seemed not to notice as he watched the other lanes pass far below. Johnnie’s enthusiasm made Steve feel guilty that he had been neglecting his son lately. He would try and spend more time with Johnnie tonight.

“How far down?” Johnny asked for at least the tenth time.

“I’d guess about one hundred feet or so.” Steve answered for at least the tenth time. He chuckled inside and wondered if he had been as inquisitive as a boy. Probably, he thought, but with both his parents dead, he would never get those questions answered, nor could he share his son with them.

Johnnie had been a relatively late decision, with both his and Anne’s busy careers and frequent traveling. Anne, four years younger than Steve, came from a large family and one day at thirty-five, she decided it was now or never and within ten months they had little Johnnie. Steve had held the squirming bundle thinking there never had been anything quite so precious. He wanted a little girl next, but scarring in the fallopian tubes from a post partum infection prevented Anne from conceiving again and they had decided against the alternatives.

The beeping of his cell phone snapped him back to the present.

“Steve, I’m glad I caught you.”

“Marty, how’s it going?”

“We got over a hundred responses.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The miracle of e-mail. I leveraged my NIH position and talked the American Radiology Academy, or whatever they call themselves, into sending a mass e-mail to all their member radiologists. We included representative pictures of Captain Palmer’s scan and asked them to reply if they’d ever seen a similar case. If they had, they were asked to supply clinical information, a medication list, plus a sample of the film.”

“And?” Steve asked.

“We got a pretty good response.”

“So, how many matched the profile?”

Marty drew in a breath. “About ninety had matching MRI scans. About seventy or more of those were taking Eden, based on the med lists and more are trickling in.”

“Seventy? My God, Marty.”

“I bet,” Marty continued, “that some of those without a history of Eden were taking it on the QT, like Captain Palmer. And this only reflects the radiologists who responded. The actual number is probably considerably higher.”

“Oh, man,” Steve responded, trying to absorb the information. “Any geographical patterns?”

“Nope. Small clusters in Los Angeles and New York, but other than that, they’re all scattered across the map, the U.S., Canada, and Europe. Even some from Asia. Hard to spot a pattern.”

“The beautiful people had to pick it up first,” Steve surmised. He had a mental image of parties where they traded Eden inhalers and popped Viagra.

“Well, without an obvious pattern, this might have escaped anyone’s notice for some time,” Marty observed. “But it still seems odd that no one picked it up before. I went to our radiologists here at George Washington and they managed to find two more cases that matched. Different doctors took care of them and no one made the connection. This must be so sporadic that it hasn’t caught anybody’s attention.”

“Including Trident’s?” Steve still could not get over the enormity of the news. He had expected something, but not ninety. “This is really big.”

“Bigger than the two of us, as Bogart said. Anyhow, based on these results, I’m going to request a full investigation.”