The Magic Bullet (31 page)

He laughed. “You should see me try to draw a female nude.” He paused. “Anyway, to simplify things, what I’m thinking—what I think our problem is—is that the bridge between the two outer modules might be too long. If we could shorten it …”

For five more minutes he went on, explaining how, in scientific terms, what he proposed to try was quite elementary; how, in fact, under the right circumstances, it could be achieved in a matter of days.

“And what about lab space?” came her typically pragmatic question.

“First things first. Are you with me?”

She gave a wan smile. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, we’re
working
in a lab, that’s not a bad start.” He paused uncertainly. “I guess I’ll feel Shein out tomorrow.”

Logan waited till a little past noon, when most of the others had departed for lunch, to approach the senior man.

“What the hell do you wanna hang around the lab for after hours?” he demanded. “Don’t I give you enough shit work around here?”

When Logan explained that his intent was to look more closely at the Compound J molecule, the senior man was a picture of consternation. “What’s wrong with you, Logan? Hasn’t your little life been screwed up by this thing enough?”

Logan blanched. “Well, then, what does it matter if I screw it up a little more?”

He was startled to see Shein’s face erupt in a grin. “Thattaboy, I was waitin’ for you to ask.”

“You were?”

“No initiative—that’s what makes me despair for so many of you damn kids. You think I like coddling you every step of the way?”

They got the lab to themselves the following Friday evening—by happy coincidence, the start of the three-day Independence
Day weekend. Logan figured they would need at least that much time to do the necessary tinkering on the molecule.

All was in readiness, including a dozen lab rabbits bearing tumors induced by a carcinogen and waiting to be dosed with the new drug. All that remained was to create it.

Now that the moment was at hand, Logan found himself considerably less certain. The procedure he had in mind required no fewer than six chemical reactions in a preset sequence. If they were to succeed in concocting the slightly altered compound—Compound J-lite, as they’d begun referring to it—each step had to go flawlessly.

“Part one,” he noted at the start, feeling oddly professorial, “basically involves creating the two modules. Each is made up of aminonaphthalenetrisulfonic acid. To do it, we combine naphthalene and—”

“This is what I hate,” she interrupted, “these words …!”

“Relax, Sabrina, don’t let that scare you. This part is nineteenth-century chemistry. The Victorians used to do it before breakfast—probably instead of making love. Trust me, it’s idiot proof.”

“Do not patronize me, Logan, this is not a lesson. I don’t
have
to know the words. Just tell me what to pour and what to mix and what to heat.”

And that, essentially, was the basis on which they proceeded. It was intense and grueling work—punctuated by long, frustrating breaks as they waited for one or another chemical reaction to reach completion.

In fact, the first evening they decided to break for dinner and a movie: the mix they’d concocted needed to heat for four and a half hours.

Returning close to 1:00
A.M
., Logan noted approvingly the brown gelatinous liquid bubbling away in the heating mantle. “You want to take a break, go ahead.” He indicated a small room off the lab; inside was a cot, precisely for times like these. “I’ll do the next part myself.”

“But you are tired also, no?”

He threw back his head in a maniacal laugh, Dr. Frankenstein at play. “Me? Nah! This is fun!”

She moved beside him and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “Good. Thank you. I will take this nap.”

He kept at it through the night. By the time this aspect of the procedure was complete it was early Saturday morning, and he was out on his feet.

“Good morning, Logan,” she announced, sauntering back into the lab. “How is the work?”

She looked completely fresh. He’d had no idea she’d brought along a change of clothes.

“Terrific.” He held aloft a beaker bearing yellowish liquid. “My turn. I’ve written down instructions for you for the next step. It’s simple as pie, but you know where to find me.”

Six hours later she gently jostled him awake. “I have finished,” she said softly.

It took him an instant to get his bearings.
Right—Saturday afternoon, still in the lab
. “It worked out okay?”

She nodded uncertainly. “Come see.”

The container of liquid she held aloft seemed to be of precisely the right hue.

He beamed. “See that? You’re a natural.”

“Thank you,” she said, genuinely flattered.

“After we boil off the liquid and recrystallize the residue, we’ll be left with a nice, high pile of white powder. That’s the material that will make up the modules.”

“What now?” she asked.

He stretched. “Now we start on the material that will make up that damn bridge. Here’s where we get to work with thiophosgene. You know what that is?”

“Another name.”

“It’s the liquid version of a poison gas they used in the First World War. We’re going to have to be extremely careful here.”

But to his surprise, she only smiled. “You’re right, Logan,
this work is interesting. Why did I not know this earlier?”

The procedure that followed took most of the next two days. Basically, as Logan told it, the various elements they were fitting together were analogous to pieces in a Tinkertoy set. “We may not be able to see the pieces, but essentially the same rules apply. Certain pieces fit neatly together and others never will. You can’t make an amide out of a carboxylic acid and a tertiary amine. Yet under the right conditions, a carboxylic acid and a primary amine will fit together as neatly as a key in a lock.”

By the end, they were left with a second batch of white powder, identical, at least in appearance, to the first. It was seventy-five hours after they’d started. Outside, on this early Monday evening—the Fourth of July!—the sun was starting to set.

Logan, exhausted, gazed at Sabrina and allowed himself a small smile. “Just one more step. Combining them to make the Compound J-lite molecule.”

“How do we do this?”

“It’s the simplest part. Just mix it all together with a condensing agent. It’ll only take an hour.” He paused. “Any interest in celebrating?”

“Very much. Only, Logan …”

“Yes?”

“You need a shave. Badly.”

He ran his hand over the stubble on his cheek. “That’s part of what I have in mind.…”

Taking her hand, he led her from the lab into the dimly lit corridor.

“Where are we going?”

Logan just looked at her and smiled.

They turned a corner, passed down another corridor, then made a sharp right into a narrower, more private hallway. At its end stood an imposing door. Affixed to it on a copper plate was a single word:
DIRECTOR
.

“Logan,” she hissed, “this is Dr. Markell’s office!” But
even in the dim light, he could see that her eyes were alive with excitement.

He tried the door—and was not surprised to find it locked. But directly to the right was another. It was open.

Markell’s private bathroom!

Only now did Logan begin to have qualms. Over this long weekend they had spotted only one other person on the premises, and then only once—the night watchman, two evenings before.

But now Sabrina was urging him within. “Come …” she said, tugging his hand, “… darling.”

She turned on the light and quickly locked the door behind them. By
Fortune 500
standards the facility might not have been considered extraordinary—no sauna, no gold plating on the fixtures, not even a phone alongside the toilet—but it was top-of-the-line institutional issue. Everything was in marble, and there were a separate tub and shower; the latter featuring heads on three sides in addition to the one overhead. Whipping off her clothes, Sabrina turned on the shower and stepped inside. Ten seconds later, Logan was with her, arms around her, pressing her tight, totally aroused.

She brushed her lips lightly against his, the evidence of her own excitement clear in her heavily lidded eyes, the hardness of her nipples, her lower body grinding into his. But now she pulled back slightly. “Shhh,” she said, her voice low. “Slowly, my love.”

From the raised ledge she produced a bar of soap and began deliberately lathering his body. His chest. His sides. His penis.

“Oh, God, I needed this,” he managed. “I’m feeling so
dirty
.”

“Shhh.” Now she was soaping his face, her long fingers massaging his beard, his temples, his hair. And, now, with a disposable razor from a cupful on the ledge, she began giving him the shave of his life.

Only when she finished did they finally let loose. For a full twenty minutes they went at each other, forgetting
everything else. Where they were. How they sounded. Even the extraordinary achievement that had brought them to this moment, to these extremes of passion and love.

It was only when they were done, cradled in one another’s arms, the warm water still coming from all sides, that they finally took stock. Turning off the water, Sabrina peered from the shower stall. Amazingly, there was almost no water on the floor. Laughing, they ran their hands over one another’s bodies, trying to run off excess water; then settled for tamping it off with his cotton shirt.

They were still damp when they made it back to the lab, Logan carrying in his pocket the one item that might have made for incriminating evidence: a used Bic razor.

“Okay,” he said, “where were we?”

She nodded at the twin beakers of white powder, side by side on the lab table. “Now they are going to mate also, I think.”

“Right.”

The process didn’t even require an outside heat source. Logan merely mixed the two powders in a two-liter flask with a condensing agent and the reaction generated its own power. Within two minutes, the flask was so hot that he had to stick it in ice to cool it down.

Now it was only a matter of purifying the stuff, separating the various products of the reaction by means of a long glass vessel, and discarding the chaff. It took less than two hours.

They were done. Compound J-lite was a reality. On the table before them was fully one hundred grams of it.

“Well,” Logan said, “if nothing else, we probably set some kind of speed record.”

He picked up the phone and called down to the animal holding facility in the basement. He was not surprised when it was answered on the first ring; there was a veritable menagerie down there—monkeys, goats, sheep, even a couple of llamas, in addition to the mice, rats, rabbits, and
dogs that are stocked in most such facilities—and
they
didn’t know it was a national holiday.

“Good evening,” said Logan, “this is Dr. Daniel Logan in Dr. Shein’s lab.…”

“Yessir. How may I help you, sir?” It was the young Bangladeshi guy, part of a crew of four or five that ran the place.

“It doesn’t sound like you’ve had much of a holiday.”

“Yessir,” he answered seriously. “Do not worry, I have a TV down here. How may I help you, Doctor?”

“My colleague Dr. Como and I will be down shortly. I believe we have twelve rabbits with induced tumors …?”

“Yessir. Please, just one moment, sir. I must check the book.”

Usually Logan found obsequiousness both unnerving and counterproductive. But given that the experiment at hand was rather unorthodox, especially for a couple of junior associates, he was not sorry to be dealing with someone more eager to please than to ask questions.

“Yessir,” he came back an instant later, “I have found it. Twelve rabbits. Would you like me to prepare them for you, sir?”

“Yes, please. I’d appreciate that.”

By the time they made it down to the basement, the animals had been moved from the holding area to an adjacent lab space for treatment. The young Bangladeshi—he introduced himself as Mr. Hassan—gestured toward it. “Please, sir, let me know if I can be of further assistance.”

The rabbits, each in its own cage, were a sorry-looking bunch, grotesque versions of the adorable creatures found in pet shops every Easter. There was an ineffable sadness about them, their eyes not shiny bright but dead, like crocodile eyes. How could it be otherwise? For the fur of each was pocked with pink tumors—rough to the touch and rock hard. Untreated, none would live longer than three weeks.

Logan turned to Sabrina. “Which one first?”

She gazed dolefully at the miserable creatures. “Look at them, Logan. It always makes me so sad.”

“Well, pick out a favorite. It helps to have a rooting interest.”

He was sorry he’d said it. Though he’d never regarded lab animals with anything more than academic interest, she clearly did.

“That one,” she said after a moment, pointing at the miserable-looking specimen in the first cage.

“Okay. Get it out.”

Logan drew a syringeful of the new compound and shot it directly into the animal’s peritoneum.

Quickly, now, they repeated the process eleven times; then summoned Hassan. “You can put these back now.”

“Yessir.” He nodded. “Tell me, do you have any special instructions for their care? Any dietary supplements you wish or the like?”

Logan looked at Sabrina and shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“Only to let us know if there is anything unusual in their behavior,” she noted.

“Yes. I will write it in the book.”

“Listen, Mr. Hassan, just one more thing.” He smiled, as if making a joke of it. “This experiment we’re working on is kind of offbeat. Not too many of our colleagues know about it.”

At this, the other winked knowingly. “Yessir. I understand.”

“Good. I was hoping you would.”

Unexpectedly, Mr. Hassan laughed. “You would be surprised, Doctor, how many of you people make such requests.”

A
s an additional precaution, the meeting was set not for the White House but across the street in the Old Executive Office Building. Though few in the President’s circle regarded the press as particularly astute, one of the key participants—Kenneth Markell, Director of the ACF—was marginally recognizable, since his picture had appeared from time to time in the newsweeklies. So had that of the somewhat younger man at his side: the renowned breast cancer specialist, Gregory Stillman.