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  Shawbeck lifted his hand. “It probably will be us. I’ve got meetings scheduled with four CEOs tomorrow—Merck, Schering Plough, Lilly, Bristol-Myers,” he said. “Americol and Euricol next week. They want to talk sharing and subsidies. As if that isn’t enough, Dr. Gallo’s coming in this afternoon—he wants to have access to all of our research.”

  “This has nothing to do with HIV,” Augustine said.

  “He claims there might be similar receptor activity. It’s a long shot, but he’s famous and he has a lot of clout on the Hill. And apparently he can help us with the French, now that they’re cooperating again.”

  “How are we going to treat this, Frank? Hell, my people have found SHEVA in every ape from green monkeys to highland gorillas.”

  “It’s too early for pessimism,” Shawbeck said. “It’s only been three months.”

  “We have forty thousand confirmed cases of Herod’s on the Eastern Seaboard alone, Frank! There is nothing on the horizon!” Augustine pounded the whiteboard with his fist.

  Shawbeck shook his head and held up both hands, making little shushing noises.

  Augustine dropped his voice and let his shoulders slump. Then he picked up a cloth and meticulously wiped the edge of his hand where it had smeared across the ink on the board. “On the bright side, the message is getting out,” he said. “We’ve had two million hits on our Herod’s web site. But did you hear Audrey Korda on Larry King Live last night?”

  “No,” Shawbeck said.

  “She practically calls men devils incarnate. Says women could get along without us, that we should be put in quarantine and kept away from all women . . . Pfft!” He shot out his hand. “No more sex, no more SHEVA.”

  Shawbeck’s eyes glittered like little wet stones. “Maybe she’s right, Mark. Have you seen the surgeon general’s list of extreme measures?”

  Augustine ran his hand back through his sandy hair. “I hope to hell it never leaks.”

  28

  Long Island, New York

  Toothpaste dribbles lay like little blue tadpoles in the bottom of the sink. Kaye finished washing out her mouth, spat water in an arc to swirl the tadpoles down the drain, and wiped her face on a towel. She stood in the bathroom doorway and glanced down the long upstairs hall at the closed master bedroom door.

  This was her last night in the house; she had slept in the guest bedroom. Another moving van—a small one—was arriving at eleven this morning to remove what few belonging she wanted to take with her. Caddy was adopting Crickson and Temin.

  The house was up for sale. In a booming market, she would get top dollar. That at least was protected from their creditors. Saul had put the house in her name.

  She chose her clothes for the day—plain white panties and bra, a blouse and cream sweater combination, pale blue slacks—and rolled the few items of wardrobe that hadn’t already been packed into a suitcase. She was weary of dealing with stuff, apportioning this and that to Saul’s sister, marking bags for Goodwill, other bags for trash.

  It had taken Kaye almost a week to remove those marks of their life together that she did not want to take with her and that the real estate agent thought might “color” the place for potential buyers. She had gently explained about the detrimental effect of “All these science books, the journals . . . Too abstract. Too cold. Too much the wrong color.”

  Kaye pictured snooty upper-class lookie-loos invading the house in critically mindless pairs, well-dressed in tweeds and penny loafers or draped silk and knee-length microfiber, shunning signs of true individuality or intellect, but finding hints of style from Sunday supplement magazines all too charming. Well, by itself, the house had plenty of that sort of charm. She and Saul had bought furniture and curtains and carpeting that did not overtly offend that sort of charm. Their own life, however, had to be expunged before the house could go on the market.

  Their own life. Saul had ended his share of any more life. She was erasing the evidence of their time together; AKS was disbanding and scattering their professional life.

  Mercifully, the agent had not mentioned Saul’s bloody incident.

  How long would the guilt go on? She stopped herself going down the stairs and bit the ball of her thumb. No matter how many times she tired to jerk herself up short and get back on whatever track was left to her, she would wander off into a maze of associations, emotional paths to an even deeper unhappiness. The offer from the Herod’s Taskforce was a way back on a single track, her own new path, cool and solid. Nature’s oddities would help her heal the oddities of her own life, and that was bizarre, but it was also acceptable, believable; she could see her life working like that.

  The doorbell chimed melodiously, “Eleanor Rigby.” Saul’s touch. Kaye finished the descent and opened the door. Judith Kushner stood on the porch, her face tight. “I came as soon as I saw a pattern,” Judith said. She wore a black wool skirt and black shoes and a white blouse, and her London Fog raincoat trailed its buckles on the step.

  “Hello, Judith,” Kaye said, a little at a loss. Kushner grasped the door, glanced at her to ask a sort of permission to enter, and stepped into the house. She swung off her coat and draped it over a maple silent butler.

  “By pattern, I mean that I called eight people I know, and Marge Cross has contacted all of them. She drove out personally to where they live, says she’s on her way to a business meeting somewhere—hell, five live around New York, so it’s a good excuse.”

  “Marge Cross—of Americol?” Kaye asked.

  “And Euricol, too. Don’t think she doesn’t pull all the strings overseas. Christ, Kaye, she’s a great big bull of a woman—she has Linda and Herb with her now! And they’re just the first.”

  “Please, Judith, slow down.”

  “Fiona was like a little mooncalf when I turned Cross down, I swear! But I hate this conglomerate shit. I hate it like fury. Call me a socialist—call me a child of the sixties—”

  “Please,” Kaye said, holding up her hands to stem the torrent. “It’s going to take forever if you stay this angry.”

  Kushner stopped and glared. “You’re smart, sweetie. You can figure it out.”

  Kaye blinked for a second or two. “Marge Cross, Americol, wants a piece of SHEVA?”

  “Not only can she fill her hospitals, she can supply directly with any drug ‘her’ team develops. Treatment programs exclusive to Americol-associated HMOs. Plus, she announces a blue-ribbon team, and her companies’ valuations go through the roof.”

  “She wants me?”

  “I got a call from Debra Kim. She said that Marge Cross was going to put her in a lab, house her SCID mice, buy out her patent rights on the cholera treatment—for a very fair figure, enough to make her wealthy. All before there is a treatment. Debra wanted to know what she should tell you.”

  “Debra?” This was going much too fast for Kaye.

  “Marge is a master at human psychology. I know. I went to medical school with her in the seventies. She took an MBA at the same time. Lots of energy, ugly as sin, no man trouble, extra time you and I might have wasted on dating . . . She jumped off the gurney in 1987, and now look at her.”

  “What does she want with me?”

  Kushner shrugged. “You’re a pioneer, you’re a celebrity—Hell, Saul’s made you a bit of a martyr, especially to women . . . Women who are going to come looking for treatment. You have great credentials, great publications, credibility just smeared all over you. I thought they might shoot the messenger, Kaye. Now I think they’re going to offer you the gold ring.”

  “My God.” Kaye walked into the living room with the blank walls and sat on the freshly cleaned couch. The room smelled soapy, faintly piney, like a hospital.

  Kushner sniffed and frowned. “Smells like robots live here.”

  “The real estate agent said it should smell clean,” Kaye said, stalling to buy time enough to get her wits together. “And when they cleaned upstairs . . . after Saul . . . it left a smell. Pine-Sol. Lysol. Something.”


  “Jesus,” Kushner said softly.

  “You turned down Marge Cross?” Kaye said.

  “I have enough work to keep me happy for the rest of my life, sweetie. I don’t need a driven money machine calling the shots. Have you seen her on TV?”

  Kaye nodded.

  “Don’t believe her image.”

  A car rumbled along the driveway. Kaye looked out the front bay window and saw a large hunter-green Chrysler sedan. A young man in a gray suit stepped out and opened the right rear door. Debra Kim emerged, looked around, shielded her face against a cool wind off the water. A few flakes of snow were starting to fall.

  The young man in gray opened the left side door and Marge Cross unfolded, all six feet of her, wearing a dark blue wool overcoat, her graying black hair done up in a dignified bun. She said something to the young man and he nodded, returned to the driver’s side, leaned against the car as Cross and Debra Kim walked up to the porch.

  “I’m flabbergasted,” Kushner said. “She works faster than the speed of thought.”

  “You didn’t know she was coming?”

  “Not this soon. Should I run out the back door?”

  Kaye shook her head and for the first time in days she could not help laughing. “No. I’d like to see you two argue over my soul.”

  “I love you, Kaye, but I know better than to argue with Marge.”

  Kaye stepped quickly to the front door and opened it before Cross could ring the bell. Cross broke into a broad, friendly grin, her blocky face and small green eyes brimming with motherly cheer.

  Kim smiled nervously. “Hello, Kaye,” she said, her face pinking.

  “Kaye Lang? We haven’t been introduced,” Cross said.

  My God, Kaye thought. She does sound like Julia Child!

  Kaye made instant vanilla-flavored coffee from an old tin and poured it around in the china she was leaving with the house. Not for a moment did Cross make her feel as if she was serving something less than stylish and gourmet to a woman worth twenty billion dollars.

  “I’m here to be up front with you. I was out seeing Debra’s lab at AKS,” Cross said. “She’s doing very intriguing work. We have a place for her. Debra mentioned your situation . . .”

  Kushner glanced at Kaye, nodded ever so faintly.

  “And frankly, I’ve wanted to meet you for months now. I have five young men who read the literature for me—all very handsome and very smart. One of the handsomest and the smartest told me, ‘Read this.’ Your piece predicting expression of ancient human provirus. Wow. Now—it’s more timely than ever. Kim says you’re fielding an offer to work for the CDC. For Christopher Dicken.”

  “The Herod’s Taskforce and Mark Augustine, actually,” Kaye said.

  “I know Mark. He delegates well. You’ll be working for Christopher. He’s a bright boy.” Cross plowed on as if discussing gardening. “We intend to set up a world-class investigation and research team to work on Herod’s. We are going to find a treatment, maybe even a cure. We’ll offer the specialized treatments at all Americol hospitals, but we’ll sell the kits to anybody. We have the infrastructure, my God, we have the finances . . . We partner with the CDC, and you can act as one of our reps inside HHS and NIH. It’ll be like the Apollo program, government and industry working together on a huge scale, but this time, wherever we land, we stay.” Cross shifted on the couch to face Kushner. “My offer to you still stands, Judith. I’d love to have you both working for us.”

  Kushner gave a little laugh, almost girlish. “No thanks, Marge. I’m too old to put on a new harness.”

  Cross shook her head. “No chafing, guaranteed.”

  “I’m not at all clear about doing double duty,” Kaye said. “I haven’t even started work with the Taskforce.”

  “I’m seeing Mark Augustine and Frank Shawbeck this afternoon. If you want, you can fly with me down to Washington. We can see them together. You’re invited, too, Judith.”

  Kushner shook her head, but this time her laugh was forced.

  Kaye sat silently for a few seconds, staring down at her clasped hands, the knuckles and nails alternating white and pink as she squeezed and relaxed her fingers. She knew what she was going to say, but she wanted to hear more from Cross.

  “You will never have to worry about funding for anything you care to work on,” Cross said. “We’ll put it in your contract. I’m that confident in you.”

  But do I want to be a jewel in your crown, my queen? Kaye asked herself.

  “I work on my instincts, Kaye. I’ve already had you checked out by my human resources people. They think you’ll be doing your best work in the decades to come. Work with us, Kaye. Nothing you ever do will be ignored or trivialized.”

  Kushner laughed again, and Cross smiled at them both.

  “I want to get out of this house as soon as I can,” Kaye said. “I wasn’t going down to Atlanta until next week . . . I’m looking for an apartment down there now.”

  “I’ll ask my people to take care of it. We’ll find you something nice in Atlanta or Baltimore, wherever you settle.”

  “My God,” Kaye said with a small smile.

  “Something else I know is important to you. You and Saul did a lot of work in the Republic of Georgia. I may have the contacts to salvage that. I’d like to do a lot more research on phage therapy. I think I can persuade Tbilisi to pull back on the political pressure. It’s all ridiculous anyway—a bunch of amateurs trying to run things.”

  Cross put a hand on her arm and squeezed gently. “Come with me now, fly to Washington, let’s see Mark and Frank, meet with anybody else you might want to talk to, get a feel for things. Make your decision in a couple of days. Consult your attorney if you wish. We’ll even provide a draft contract. If it doesn’t work out, I leave you with the CDC, no gripes, no grudges.”

  Kaye turned to Kushner and saw on her mentor’s face the same expression she had shown when Kaye had told her she was going to marry Saul. “What kind of restrictions are there, Marge?” Kushner asked quietly, folding her hands in her lap.

  Cross sat back and pursed her lips. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Scientific credit goes to the team. The company PR office orchestrates all press releases and oversees all papers for timeliness of release of information. No prima donna tactics. Financial rewards are shared in a very generous royalties deal.” Cross folded her arms. “Kaye, your lawyer is a little old and not too well versed on these things. Surely Judith can recommend a better one.”

  Kushner nodded. “I’ll recommend a very good one . . . If Kaye is seriously considering your offer.” Her voice was a little pinched, disappointed.

  “I’m not used to being courted with so many boxes of Godivas and bunches of roses, believe me,” Kaye said, staring off at the carpet corner beyond the coffee table. “I would like to know what the Taskforce expects of me before I make any decision.”

  “If you march into Augustine’s office with me, he’ll know what I’m up to. I think he’ll go along.”

  Kaye surprised herself by saying, “Then I would like to fly to Washington with you.”

  “You deserve it, Kaye,” Cross said. “And I need you. We’re not walking into a funhouse here. I want the best researchers, the best armor I can get.”

  Outside, the snow was falling much faster. Kaye could see that Cross’s chauffeur had moved inside the car and was talking on a cell phone. A different world, so fast, busy, connected, with so little time to actually think.

  Maybe this was just what she needed.

  “I’ll call that attorney,” Kushner said. Then, to Cross, she said, “I’d like to speak to Kaye alone for a few minutes.”

  “Of course,” Cross said.

  In the kitchen, Judith Kushner took Kaye by the arm and looked at her with a fixed fierceness Kaye had rarely seen in her.

  “You realize what’s going to happen,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You’re going to be a figurehead. You’ll spend half your time in b
ig rooms talking to people with expectant smiles who’ll tell you to your face whatever you want to hear, and then gossip behind your back. You’ll be called one of Marge’s pets, one of her waifs.”

  “Oh, really,” Kaye said.

  “You’ll think you’re doing great work and then one day you’ll realize she’s had you doing what she wants, and nothing else, all along. She thinks this is her world, and it works by her rules. Then someone will have to come along and rescue you, Kaye Lang. I don’t know if it could ever be me. And I hope for your sake there will never be another Saul.”

  “I appreciate your concern. Thank you,” Kaye said quietly, but with a touch of defiance. “I work by my instincts, too, Judith. And besides, I want to find out what Herod’s is all about. That won’t be cheap. I think she’s right about the CDC. And what if we can . . . finish our work with Eliava? For Saul. In his memory.”

  Kushner’s intensity melted and she braced herself against the wall, shaking her head. “All right.”

  “You make Cross sound like the devil,” Kaye said.

  Kushner laughed. “Not the devil. Not my cup of tea, either.”

  The kitchen door swung open and Debra Kim entered. She glanced between them nervously, then, pleading, said, “Kaye, it’s you she wants. Not me. If you don’t come on board, she’ll find some way to dump my work . . .”

  “I’m doing it,” Kaye said, waving her hands. “But my God, I can’t leave right now. The house—”

  “Marge will take care of that for you,” Kushner said, as if having to tutor a slow student on a subject she did not herself enjoy.

  “She will,” Kim affirmed quickly, her face lighting up. “She’s amazing.”

  29

  Taskforce Primate Lab, Baltimore

  February

  Good morning, Christopher! How’s the continent?” Marian Freedman held open the back door at the top of the concrete steps. A very cold wind rushed down the alley. Dicken pulled up his knitted scarf and made a point of rubbing one bleary eye as he climbed the steps.