The Protégé (18 page)

PART
TWO

10

DR. SCOTT DAVIS
was the chief neurosurgeon at the Medical Center of Virginia in downtown Richmond and, according to the head of anesthesiology at St. Christopher’s, also a leading authority on biochemical nanotechnology research.

Gillette had handed the project of finding a nanotechnology resource to an Everest vice president named Cathy Dylan. Cathy was every bit as aggressive as David Wright, just five years younger and, importantly, much more malleable. Gillette would have handled the project himself, but he was worried that Boyd might be monitoring him—tapping phones, reading e-mails, having him followed—especially for the first few days after disclosing what they wanted. He couldn’t have Wright track down an expert because Wright would ask too many questions. He needed a hunting dog, a loyal Lab who would act on orders without question. A younger person at the firm who wanted simply to please. Cathy fit the bill perfectly.

Like most Everest vice presidents, Cathy was nervous around him. But he sensed she was more street-smart than the others. Quicker on her feet with a believable truth stretcher if she needed to be.

Gillette had given Cathy a quick primer on nanotech, then the name of the anesthesiologist at St. Christopher’s. The guy put her in touch with Davis right away. Which was a stroke of divine intervention as far as Gillette was concerned, because he didn’t want six or seven degrees of separation on this. Casting a wider net would have given Boyd a better chance of finding out what was going on. After all, the nanotech research community couldn’t be that big if most people believed commercial development of the technology was still thirty to forty years off.

Gillette had instructed Cathy not to use his or Everest’s name during her search except with the anesthesiologist at St. Christopher’s; to make all telephone calls related to finding an expert from a pay phone—never her SoHo apartment or Everest; not to do any nanotechnology research on her office or home computer; not to send any e-mails related to nanotech from her office or home computer; and to try to make certain the doctor she found was a practicing physician who worked long hours—someone who would be less likely to have time to be involved with DARPA. Gillette had called Cathy collect last night at seven forty-five from a pay phone in the hotel lobby, during a quick break from his dinner with Allison and Mitchell. Fourteen hours later, not only did she have a resource, she had an appointment. He was impressed.

Gillette sat in Davis’s cramped and cluttered hospital office, waiting for the doctor to get out of surgery. Gillette had brought Stiles and just one other QS agent with him on the flight to Richmond and hadn’t given the Everest pilot the destination until he and Stiles were on their way to LaGuardia and until the QS agent who was going with them was actually sitting beside the pilot. They’d stopped at a bodega in Harlem to call the pilot after the QS agent who was driving had made several nifty evasive maneuvers. And Gillette had warned the pilot on the call not to tell anyone but the tower where they were going.

He pulled out his Blackberry for the fourth time in the last twenty minutes and almost turned it on. But he caught himself just in time. He wasn’t going to turn it or the cell phone on until he’d landed back at LaGuardia. He let out a long breath, glancing around the office as he put the Blackberry away. He hated sitting on his hands, hated wasted minutes. And he’d already been in here for half an hour.

“
WHERE IS HE?
” Wright demanded, frustrated that Debbie wasn’t even bothering to look up from her computer.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You
always
know where Chris is.”

“This time I really don’t. He told me he was going out this morning around nine, and that was it. He didn’t say where he was going, and he didn’t say when he’d be back.”

“Look, I
have
to get in touch with him.” Paul had called Wright an hour ago, looking for Gillette’s schedule. “I have to talk to Chris about a deal point. We could lose it if I don’t talk to him right away.” A lie, but he had to say something.

“Then call his cell phone,” Debbie snapped. “You’ve got his number.”

“I tried, he’s not picking up.”

“E-mail him.”

“I did that, too, of course,” Wright said, “but he hasn’t pinged me back. If he had, I wouldn’t be here. Obviously.”

Debbie finally looked up. “Well, I can’t help you. If he calls me, I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.”

Wright leaned over Debbie’s desk. “You better not be lying to me,” he warned. “The deal could hinge on this. I’m a managing partner now, and if you’re holding back, I’ll do everything I can to get you fired.”

Debbie shot out of her seat.
“What is your damn problem, David?”

Wright’s cell phone went off, and he turned away, yanking it out of his pocket. It was Paul again. He shut his eyes, fighting the urge to scream.

GILLETTE WAS
reaching for a magazine on the front of the doctor’s desk when the door opened.

“Hello,” said the man, a curious expression on his face. “I’m Scott Davis. I . . . I was expecting a Cathy Dylan. Are you—”

“I’m Christian Gillette.” He rose and shook the doctor’s hand. “Cathy works for me. She made the appointment for me. Sorry about the confusion, Dr. Davis.”

“Oh, well, fine. And please call me Scott. I don’t go for that formal stuff.”

Davis was fifty-five, of average height and build, and had intense brown eyes, thick eyebrows, dimples, and a full beard. He was still dressed in his light blue surgery smock and pants, a mask draped around his neck, a surgical cap slightly crooked on his head.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Jamie Robinson’s a good friend of mine,” Davis said, referring to the anesthesiologist at St. Christopher’s who had put Cathy in touch. “We did medical school together at Johns Hopkins.” He eased into his wooden desk chair with a tired groan. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but the surgery was more complex than I had anticipated.”

“What was it?” Gillette noticed several dark splotches on Davis’s smock that looked like dried blood.

“A twelve-year-old boy with a brain tumor the size of an orange. It was a tricky procedure. The tumor was almost inaccessible.”

Gillette winced. “That’s awful.”

Davis sighed, stroking his beard slowly with his thumb and forefinger, over and over, as he rocked in the creaky chair. “It is awful, but I believe we were successful. I believe the boy will recover.”

Gillette liked Davis right away. He spoke in a low, soothing voice and had a calmness about him that was nearly hypnotic. “Congratulations,” he said softly. “It’s an incredible thing you do.”

“God does it, Christian. I’m simply His conduit. But I appreciate your kind words.” Davis was silent for a few moments as he continued stroking his beard. “Jamie tells me your firm has made quite a donation to his hospital. They’ll be able to build a new wing for children with cancer now. That’s wonderful. I believe in doing all we can for children. For everyone, of course, but particularly children.”

“I’m a fortunate man, Dr. Davis.” Davis had asked Gillette to call him by his first name, but somehow he couldn’t. It didn’t seem appropriate for a man who performed miracles every day. “I may not have the same faith in God as you, but I’ve been blessed in my life, and I believe in giving back.”

Davis smiled serenely. “Good for you, good for you. Perhaps someday you’ll find your faith.”

“Perhaps.”

Davis leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. “Jamie also tells me you have an interest in nanotechnology.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

“I run an investment firm in New York, and I’ve been approached by some people about funding an opportunity in the space.” He didn’t like lying to Davis, but it was safer for the doctor if he didn’t know the truth. Just as it was for Stiles. He’d taken a long look into Norman Boyd’s eyes during their meeting yesterday and found a zealot, a man who was deeply committed to his objective and might use any means necessary to achieve it. If lying meant keeping innocent people out of jeopardy, so be it. “I need your expert advice.”

“Let me be perfectly clear right from the start,” Davis said candidly. “I’ve studied nanotechnology extensively, so I can sound dangerous. But I’m no expert. I know what atomic force microscopy is, I’m familiar with carbon nanotube transistors, and I can tell you that molecular tweezers will be very important one day. But I’m not researching day and night the way some people are, probably the way those people who are presenting you with that opportunity are.” A far-off look came into his eyes. “You know, some people say I’m on the cutting edge of medicine today, but what I do will look like meatball surgery when true biochemical nanotechnology becomes reality.”

“When will that be, Doctor?”

“Well . . . you hear rumors all the time.”

“And?”

“Actually, there are people on the cusp of it right now.”

Gillette’s ears perked up.

“There’s a company in San Francisco named Optimicronics,” Davis went on, “basically four eye surgeons and a bioengineer. They’ve developed a subretinal chip that in clinical trials appears to restore sight quickly for many forms of blindness. The chip is tiny. Its diameter is about sixty times smaller than that of a
penny,
and it’s about half as thick as a paintbrush bristle. Can you imagine? It’s revolutionary, a major breakthrough if the trials prove out.” Davis hesitated, studying Gillette’s expression. “But judging from your reaction, that isn’t what you’re interested in.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Then I assume your interest lies in the hard-core stuff. The ability to operate at the atomic level. In the range of ten-to-the-negative-nine meter and less.”

Gillette broke into a grin, embarrassed at his ignorance. He wondered if this was how financial talk sounded sometimes to people outside the industry. “If you’re talking eighty thousand times smaller than the diameter of a human hair, I think we’re on the same page.”

Davis nodded, chuckling. “Depending on whose hair you’re talking about and when it was last washed.”

“If you say so.”

“It is fascinating stuff,” Davis said. “I just hope I’m around to see it.”

Gillette noticed Davis’s fingers moving more quickly over his beard. It was clear the topic excited him. You could tell so much about people if you really watched them. It was like the good poker players always said: Play the players, not the cards. “How far off do you think nanotech is, Doctor?”

Davis leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and gazed at the ceiling. “Twenty to thirty years to the market, but in the lab right now.”

Less than what Gillette had heard from others, but still at least a generation off. “Could nanotechnology really live up to the hype?”

“Yes, absolutely. Some people pooh-pooh it, but I’m a firm believer, and I don’t have an ax to grind.”

Gillette wrestled with the best way to ask his question, letting out an exasperated breath before he spoke up. “Can you, I mean, I just don’t know if I get—”

“Do you want the layman’s version of what’s going on here? Is that what you’re trying to ask me, Christian?”

“Yes,” he admitted with a relieved smile.

“Happy to oblige. But remember, I only know enough to
sound
dangerous.”

“I’m glad to start with that at this point.”

“Okay, here it is in its simplest form. The human body is made up of billions and billions of complex molecules, and the elderly, the hurt, the frail, the sick—they all have one thing in common. The atoms, and therefore the molecules, are no longer functioning correctly because of a virus or a bacteria, or maybe because the genetic material degenerated, or because some linebacker blindsided them and now their knee is snapped. Nanotechnology will enable doctors to use incredibly small machines, active inside the body, to detect the problem, or maybe to direct the repair of the body’s own DNA. Initially, these machines may only work on one type of disorder, but there will be many of them sent in to attack the problem. Eventually, they’ll work atom by atom, molecule by molecule, cell by cell, organ by organ, until everything’s right.”

“Can you give me a specific example?”

“Sure, take a heart attack. The way it works now is that scar tissue replaces dead muscle after a heart attack. But nanotech will help the heart to grow new muscle tissue and overcome the scar.

“This technology isn’t like a drug that goes bouncing around your body after you swallow a pill,” Davis continued, “with you and your doctor hoping by chance it runs into the right receptor molecule. This is an advanced, sleek device that is programmed to zero in on specific physiological or biological problems.”

“Or screw it up,” Gillette said quietly.

“Well, now you’ve hit on one of the great debates with nanotech. The other being the immortality issue.”

“Immortality?”

“People age because, simply through the passage of time, there is a greater and greater chance of DNA becoming damaged, due to all kinds of factors. As long as DNA remains intact, it can continue to produce directives for the assembly of new proteins to regenerate damaged cells. But when the DNA itself is harmed, it can’t continue to produce error-free directives. Those errors add up over time, molecules become misarranged, organs break down, and, of course, people die. Nanotechnology machines will
repair
DNA. Even when your organs break down, we’ll be able to fix them. You may never die. In fact, you may not even have wrinkles when the technology is perfected. It’ll be preventive, too,” he added. “For example, doctors will be able to detect that blood vessels in your brain are weakening and are about to explode. In other words, you’re about to have a stroke. They’ll send nanomachines into the brain immediately to guide the quick growth of reinforcing fibers, and you’ll never know you were about to become a vegetable.”

“Incredible,” Gillette said, aware that the word was woefully inadequate for what Davis was describing.