Transhuman (28 page)

“You're trying to bribe me! An FBI agent offering me a bribe! I'll report you.”

Novack made a shushing motion with one hand as he said, “Take it easy. I'm not with the FBI. I work for Quenton Fisk.”

“Who the hell is Quenton Fisk?”

“One of the richest men in the country. And he can make you rich, too, if you'll play along.”

“That's my daughter we're talking about. Keep your fucking money!”

“I'll make it ten thousand. Ten now and ten for every week the kid's away from home.”

“Go shove it up your ass.”

Del started toward the stairs, but Novack had maneuvered himself between Del and the steps. Del tried to push him aside; Novack brushed his arms away.

Del looked down at this wiry little guy. He was smiling, sort of, as he blocked access to the stairway.

“I don't want to hurt you,” Del said, clenching his fists.

“I wouldn't at all mind hurting you,” Novack said, his grin widening. His arms remained at his sides. He looked relaxed, at ease.

Del grabbed for his shoulders, intending to push the smaller man out of his way. Novack ducked under his reaching arms and planted a solid right fist in the pit of Del's stomach. The air gushing from his lungs, Del staggered back against the bare concrete wall. Novack drove two more punches into Del's midsection. The pain was incredible; Del's legs began to fold.

“Not yet,” Novack muttered, pinning Del against the wall. He grabbed a fistful of hair and smashed the back of Del's head against the concrete. Del's vision blurred.

Dragging Del's half-collapsed body to the edge of the stairway, Novack rammed a vicious punch into his right kidney, then kicked Del's legs out from under him. Del went tumbling down the bare concrete steps and sprawled unconscious on the landing below.

Novack stepped lightly down the stairs, stooped to check Del's breathing, then went out into the hallway, heading back to the kid's room.

*   *   *

L
UKE WATCHED TAMARA
and Angie placing the child's clothes in the suitcase they had bought for her during their brief shopping spree in Portland. Women, he thought. They fold each piece just so, and lay it in the suitcase like it's made of crystal. The clothes will get all rumpled during the trip, but they still have to be so neat, so precise.

Shannon was still sitting on the bed, looking weary. It's been a hell of a day for her, Luke realized. The FBI, this White House guy, and now Del.

“I still don't see why Professor Abramson can't stay and continue his work here,” Shannon was saying.

Rossov, sitting beside Luke, shook his head. “We need a secure facility, Mrs. Bartram. A place where the professor can work without distraction.”

“Like where?” Luke asked.

“I have people checking federal research facilities,” Rossov said. “I don't know which ones, off the top of my head.”

Hightower stood by the door, arms folded across his chest, like a cigar store Indian. Silent and still. But his eyes were alert. He doesn't miss anything, Luke thought.

The door burst open and Novack stepped in, looking flustered. “There's been an accident.”

Luke jumped to his feet. “What?”

Novack said, “Your son-in-law, he fell down a flight of stairs.”

“Daddy?” Angela bleated.

“It's all right,” Tamara said, placing a restraining hand on the child's shoulder. “Your grandfather will take care of it.”

Luke headed for the door, Hightower and Rossov right behind him. Over his shoulder, he told Tamara, “Stay with Angie.”

The four men hurried down the hallway. Novack was explaining, “We went into the fire escape, for privacy. He got all excited and started swinging at me. We scuffled, and he fell down the stairs.”

Luke opened the fire door and there was Del, semiconscious, moaning, a gash on his forehead bleeding down his face.

Kneeling beside his son-in-law, Luke muttered, “He might have a concussion.”

Rossov said, “Good thing we're in a medical facility.”

Pointing to the intercom phone on the wall out in the hallway, Luke commanded, “Phone Shannon—Mrs. Bartram. Extension one.” He figured that Shannon's secretary would know the number of the phone extension in Angie's room.

Rossov dashed to the wall phone. Hightower knelt beside Luke, then looked up at Novack, his face like a carving made of ice.

 

The White House

P
AUL ROSSOV FELT
grungy. He had flown from Portland to Seattle, bumping a disgruntled businessman off the flight, then taken the redeye from Seattle to Washington, D.C.

Years earlier he had taught himself the knack of sleeping on an airplane: put a pillow behind your neck, crank the chair as far back as it will go, close your eyes, and think of erotic fantasies. So he was reasonably fresh by the time his plane landed.

But his clothes were wrinkled and sour-smelling. He needed a shower and badly needed a shave. Still, he told the chauffeur that was waiting for him at the Baltimore/Washington airport to drive him directly to the White House.

I can shower and shave there, he told himself as the limo weaved through the morning traffic. I've got a couple of fresh shirts in my office.

By nine
A.M
. Rossov was at his desk, showered, shaved, wearing a crisply clean shirt, and on the phone with Quenton Fisk.

Fisk's image in the phone's console screen looked wary, scowling.

“Abramson works for me,” he said, once Rossov explained what he wanted. “I fund his work, and he's signed a privacy agreement.”

“Of course, of course,” Rossov said, as placatingly as he could manage. “But Professor Abramson's work has some important national implications.”

Fisk huffed. “If he's cured that child of brain cancer, I'll say it has national implications.”

“Look, Mr. Fisk,” Rossov said smoothly, “this is too important to discuss over the phone. I'd like to talk with you face-to-face, if it's all right with you.”

Fisk's eyes shifted away. He's checking his calendar, Rossov thought. Good.

“How about the day after tomorrow?”

“Don't you have any time free today? I can get up to New York in a couple of hours.”

Shaking his head, Fisk said, “Today's impossible.” Before Rossov could reply he added, “Unless you want to have cocktails. Say, around five?”

“Five o'clock. That's fine.”

“Here in my office,” Fisk said.

“I'll be there.”

*   *   *

A
S ROSSOV'S IMAGE
winked off from his wall screen, Fisk bellowed into his intercom, “Get Novack on the phone. And get me a dossier on a Paul Rossov. He's some sort of aide in the White House.”

Within minutes Novack's face appeared on the wall screen. He looked grim.

Without preamble he said, “We've got to get Abramson out of here, Mr. Fisk. Too many people butting in.”

Then he explained about the White House aide and Del Villanueva.

“The girl's father?” Fisk hadn't expected that. “How did you handle him?”

With a smirk, Novack said, “The poor slob had an accident yesterday. Fell down a flight of steps. He's in bed with a concussion. He won't be taking the kid anywhere for a couple of days.”

Fisk accepted that without comment. “I'm meeting with the same Paul Rossov this afternoon.”

Novack looked impressed. “He gets around.”

“I want to find out just what the White House's interest in Abramson might be.”

Novack nodded.

“You make certain that Abramson stays where he is until I tell you where to move him. And the little girl, too. Control her and you control Abramson.”

“What about the kid's doctor? She's hot.”

“Keep her with Abramson and the kid. I don't want her loose and blabbing this story to anybody.”

“Check,” said Novack.

*   *   *

T
HE DEEPER HE
got into this case, the less Jerry Hightower liked it. At first it looked like little more than a family spat, but then his boss insisted on filing a kidnapping charge against Abramson, and now he was telling Hightower to keep the professor where he was.

“Don't let him get away from you again.” His director's voice sounded urgent in Hightower's cell phone. He sounded almost scared.

“He seems okay with staying here at the Bartram labs,” Hightower reported.

“Good,” said the director. Then he repeated, “Don't let him get away from you again.”

The “again” made Hightower wince.

*   *   *

L
UKE STOOD BY
his son-in-law's bed. Del's head was swathed in bandages, but his eyes seemed clear enough. Shannon's medical people had diagnosed a concussion right away, but when Del urinated blood they ran him through an MRI. His right kidney was swollen to twice its normal size.

“He beat the crap out of me,” Del was mumbling. “And then he threw me down the stairs.”

Luke wondered how much was true and how much was hallucinations from the painkillers they had pumped into Del's veins.

“Why did he do it?” he wondered aloud.

“Didn't want me to take Angie home,” said Del, his words slightly slurred. “Offered me big bucks to let her stay with you.”

Luke felt his brows knitting in puzzlement. “And you say he works for Quenton Fisk? He's not with the FBI?”

“That's what he told me.” Del's eyes closed briefly, then he muttered, “Used me for a fucking punching bag.”

The door opened and Tamara stepped in, with Angela beside her. The child's eyes went wide when she saw her father's bandaged head.

“Daddy!” She ran to Del on pipestem-thin legs, Tamara within arm's reach every step of the way.

He held out his arms to her, even though the motion cost him a sharp stab of pain. “Angie baby.”

“You're hurt, Daddy.” Angela's eyes filled with tears.

“Nah, it's nothing, Angel. Just a bop on the head. I'll be okay in a day or two.”

And Luke realized, In the meantime we're all going to stay right here. Nobody's leaving this place, not for a few days, at least.

*   *   *

“
I
CAN GIVE
you half an hour,” said Quenton Fisk, as he reached across his desk to shake hands with Paul Rossov.

Rossov nodded. He had arrived at Fisk's office ten minutes before five, and cooled his heels by the secretary's desk until precisely five
P.M
. No cocktails, he thought ruefully. Just as well, I'll need a clear head to deal with this guy.

“So what about Professor Abramson?” Fisk asked.

Rossov settled himself in the upholstered chair in front of the desk before replying. “We need to find a secure federal facility where he can continue his research.”

“Under your watchful eye,” said Fisk.

“That's one way to put it.”

“I'm paying for his work. The government isn't going to screw me out of it.”

“We have no intention of doing that,” said Rossov. Then he added, “But his work has got to be controlled, controlled very carefully.”

Fisk leaned back in his swivel chair, his face radiating suspicion. “Tell me why.”

“Do you have any idea of how Abramson's work could affect Social Security, Medicare, retirement programs, the insurance industry?”

“His work could make a lot of money for me. More tax income for you people.”

“Yes, but what good would that do you if the economy collapses? Take away cancer as a major cause of death, let just about anybody live to be a hundred or more—the economy would be wrecked. It'd make the Great Depression look like a Christmas holiday.”

Fisk stared at him without speaking. Rossov could sense the wheels in his head churning.

Finally Fisk said, “You can't keep breakthroughs like this from the public.”

“Not indefinitely, I agree,” said Rossov. “But we can control their effects. Let the new therapies enter the marketplace gradually, not in a big, uncontrolled thump.”

“Gradually.”

“Keep Abramson busy with human trials. Make sure there are no harmful side effects, that sort of thing. That'll take years. Once we've ascertained that the treatments work the way they should, we allow a few selected people to benefit from them. Keep things under control.”

“And how do I make money out of that?” Fisk snapped.

Rossov smiled thinly. “Two ways. The government will grant you patents on the new therapies.”

“You can't patent a therapy.”

“Oh yes you can,” Rossov shot back. “I've checked with the Patent Office. You can patent a new medical method, a set of unique steps that lead to a previously unobtainable outcome.”

“Really?”

“Really. You'll have the patents, and the full protection of federal law.”

“A monopoly.”

“A monopoly,” Rossov agreed. “For as long as the patent laws allow. More than ten years, I believe.”

For the first time, Fisk smiled. “I see,” he said. “And you allow this treatment for a selected few people.”

“Who will pay just about whatever you want to charge them.”

“I'd make a lot more profits if the therapies were made available to the general public.”

“Yes. And a year or so later the stock market would collapse and the whole economy go down the drain. Where would you be then?”

Fisk went silent again, steeping his fingers and staring at Rossov. Don't blink, Rossov told himself. Stare him down.

“What if I don't go along with you?” Fisk asked. “You can't force me, you know.”

Nodding, Rossov said, “You don't want to have the federal government against you. There's a thousand ways we could tie you up, make your life miserable.”