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CH017

R
ick Diehl
of BioGen was changing in the locker room of the Bel Air Country Club. He had gone there to play a foursome with some investors who might be interested in BioGen. One guy from Merrill Lynch, his boyfriend, and a guy from Citibank. Rick tried to play it casual, but he felt some urgency because ever since he watched his wife walk through the lobby with that asshole in white tennis togs, he had been in a panic. Without Karen’s financial backing, Rick was exposed to the untender mercies of his other major investor, Jack Watson. And that wasn’t comfortable. He needed fresh money.

Out there on the golf course, with the sun shining and a soft breeze blowing, he fed them his little speeches about the emerging wonders of biotech, and the power of the cytokines manufactured by the Burnet cell line BioGen had acquired. It was a real opportunity to get in on a company that was about to grow fast.

They didn’t see it that way. The Merrill Lynch guy said, “Aren’t lymphokines the same as cytokines? Haven’t there been some unexplained deaths from cytokines?”

Rick explained that there had been a few deaths, some years back, because a handful of physicians had jumped the gun on therapy.

The Merrill Lynch guy said, “I was in lymphokines five years ago. Never made a dime.”

Then the Citibank guy said, “What about cytokine storms?”

Cytokine storms
.
Christ,
Rick thought. He blew his putt. “Well,” he
said, “cytokine storms are really just a speculative concept. The idea is that in certain rare circumstances, the immune system overreacts and attacks the body, causing multiple organ systems to fail—”

“Isn’t that what happened in the influenza epidemic of 1918?”

“A few academics have said so, but they all work for drug companies that market competing products.”

“You’re saying it might not be true?”

“You have to be very careful about what universities tell you, nowadays.”

“Even about 1918?”

“Disinformation takes many forms,” Rick said, picking up his ball. “The truth is cytokines are the wave of the future, they are fast-tracked for clinical testing and product development, and they offer the fastest return on investment of all the product lines out there today. That’s why I made cytokines my first acquisition at BioGen. And we have just won the litigation that surrounded—”

“They won’t appeal? I heard they were.”

“The judge’s ruling took the fight out of them.”

“But haven’t people died from gene transfers that provoked a cytokine storm? Haven’t a
lot
of people died?”

Rick sighed. “Not so many…”

“What? Fifty, a hundred, something like that?”

“I don’t know the exact number,” Rick said, now realizing that this was not going to be a good day. And that was an hour before one of them finally said that in his opinion only an idiot would invest in cytokines.

Nice.

And so he felt
exhausted and defeated, sitting slumped in the locker room afterward, when Jack Watson, suntanned and resplendent in tennis whites, dropped onto the bench beside him and said, “So. Useful game?”

He was the last person Diehl wanted to see. “Not bad.”

“Any of those guys going to come in?”

“Maybe. We’ll wait and see.”

Watson said, “Those Merrill Lynch guys have no balls. Their idea of taking a risk is peeing in the shower. I wouldn’t hold my breath. What do you think about the Radial Genomics business?”

“What Radial Genomics business?”

“I guess word hasn’t gotten around. I figured you’d know about it.” He bent over, began to unlace his shoes. “I just thought you’d be concerned,” he said. “Didn’t you have a robbery recently?”

“Yes. My car was stolen from the parking lot,” Diehl said. “But I’m going through a divorce, and it’s pretty bitter just now.”

“So you assume your wife took your car?”

“Well, yes…”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

“No,” Diehl said, frowning. “I just assumed…”

“Because that’s how it started at Radial Genomics. Minor thefts of physical property. A lab assistant’s car from the lot, a purse from the company dining room. An ID card from the bathroom. Nobody thought much about it—although in retrospect, it was someone probing the system for weaknesses. They understood that, after the massive databank theft.”

“Databank theft?” Diehl said, frowning. That was potentially very serious. He knew Charlie Huggins down at Genomics. He’d call him and get the full story.

“Of course,” Watson said, “Huggins’s not admitting anything happened. They’ve got an IPO in June, and he knows it’d kill the offering. But the story is, last month they had four cell lines taken from their labs, and fifty terabytes of network data removed, including backups of that data from offsite storage. Very professional job. Really set them back.”

“No kidding. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Of course I put Charlie in contact with BDG, Biological Data Group. It’s a security outfit. I’m sure you know them.”

“BDG?” Diehl couldn’t remember that name, but it seemed he ought to know it. “Of course I know BDG.”

“Right. They’ve done security for Genentech, Wyeth, BioSyn, a
dozen other places. Not that any of those guys will ever talk about what happened, but BDG is unquestionably the best when you have problems. They come in, analyze your security setup, ID your vulnerabilities, and close the network holes. Quiet, fast, confidential.”

Diehl was thinking the only security problem he had was Jack Watson’s nephew. But what he said was, “Maybe I should talk to them.”

Which was how
Rick Diehl found himself sitting in a restaurant across from an elegant blonde in a dark business suit. She had introduced herself as Jacqueline Maurer. She had short hair and a brisk manner. She shook hands firmly and handed him her business card. She couldn’t have been more than thirty. She had the tight body of a gymnast. She looked him in the eye when she spoke and was very direct.

Rick glanced at the card. It had
BDG
in blue, and beneath, in small lettering, was her name and a phone number. Nothing else. He said, “BDG has its offices where?”

“Many cities around the world.”

“And you?”

“I am based in San Francisco at the moment. Before that, Zurich.”

He was listening to her accent. He had thought it was French, but it was probably German. “You are from Zurich?”

“No. I was born in Tokyo. My father was in the diplomatic corps. I traveled a lot when I was young. I attended school in Paris and Cambridge. I worked first for Crédit Lyonnais in Hong Kong, because I speak Mandarin and Cantonese. Then I went to Lombard Odier in Geneva. Private bank.” The waiter came. She ordered mineral water, a brand he did not know.

“What is that?” he said.

“It’s Norwegian. Very good.”

He ordered the same.

“And how did you get to BDG?” he asked.

“Two years ago. In Zurich.”

Rick said, “What were the circumstances?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t say. A company had a problem. BDG was brought in to solve it. I was asked to help—some technical issues. I subsequently joined them.”

“A company in Zurich had a problem?”

She smiled. “I’m sorry.”

“What companies have you worked with, since joining BDG?”

“I’m not free to say.”

Rick frowned. He was thinking this was going to be a very weird interview, if she couldn’t tell him anything.

“You realize,” she said, “that data theft is a global concern. It affects companies around the world. Estimated losses of one trillion euros annually. No company wishes its problems made public. So we respect the privacy of our clients.”

Rick said, “What exactly
can
you tell me?”

“Think of any large banking or scientific or pharmaceutical firm. We have probably done work for them.”

“Very discreet.”

“As we will be discreet with you. We will send only three persons to your company, including me. We will identify ourselves as due-diligence accountants for a VC firm that is thinking of investing. We will spend one week reviewing your status, and then report to you.”

Very straightforward, very direct. He tried to focus on what she was saying, but he found her beauty distracting. She did not make the slightest sexual gesture—not a glance, not a body movement, not a touch—yet she was immensely sexy. No bra, he could see that, firm breasts beneath a silk blouse…

“Mr. Diehl?” she said. She was staring at him. He must have drifted off.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “It’s been a very difficult time…”

“We are aware of your personal stresses,” she said. “And also of your security issues. I mean, the political aspects of your security.”

“Yes,” he said, “we have a head of security, a man named Bradley—”

“He must be replaced immediately,” she said.

“I know,” he said, “but his uncle—”

“Leave all that to us,” she said. The waiter came back, and she ordered lunch.

As the conversation
continued, he felt more and more drawn to her. Jacqueline Maurer had an exotic quality, and a personal reserve that he found challenging. It was not difficult to decide to hire her. He wanted to see her again.

At the end of the meal, they walked outside. She shook hands firmly.

“When will you start?” he said.

“Immediately. Today, if you like.”

“Yes, good,” he said.

“All right, then. We will visit your headquarters in four days.”

“Not today?”

“Oh no. We start today, but we must address your political problem first. Then we will come.”

A black town car pulled up. The driver came around to open the door for her.

“Oh, and by the way,” she said. “Your Porsche has been located in Houston. We are quite certain your wife did not take it.” She slipped into the town car, her skirt riding up. She didn’t pull it down. She waved to Rick as the driver closed the door.

As the limousine pulled away, Rick realized he was breathless.

CH018

I
t was
just his way of relaxing, Brad Gordon knew, but try explaining that to anyone else. A single guy had to be careful these days. That was why he always brought a PDA and a cell phone whenever he sat in the school bleachers. He’d pretend to send messages and talk on the cell phone, like a busy parent. Maybe an uncle. And he didn’t come all the time, just once or twice a week during soccer season. When he didn’t have anything else to do.

In the afternoon sun, the girls running around in their shorts and knee socks looked lovely. Seventh-graders—coltish legs, budding breasts that hardly bounced as they ran. Some of them had real racks on them, and butts that were developed, but most retained an endearing, child-like quality. Not yet women, but no longer girls. Innocent, at least for a while.

Brad took his usual seat, halfway up the bleachers and over to one side, as if he were keeping some distance for his private business calls. He nodded to the other regulars, grandparents and Hispanic maids, as he took out his PDA and set his cell phone on his knee. He got his stylus and began to peck at the PDA, acting as if he were too busy to look at the girls.

“Excuse me.”

He looked up. An Asian girl was sitting down next to him. He had never seen her before, but she was cute. Maybe eighteen or so.

“I’m really,
really
sorry,” she said, “but I have to call Emily’s parents”—she nodded toward one of the girls on the field—“and my battery died. Could I possibly use your phone? Just for a minute?”

“Uh, sure,” he said, handing her the phone.

“It’s just a local call.”

“No problem.”

She called quickly, saying something about it being the third quarter and they could come and pick her up soon. He pretended not to listen. She handed the phone back to him, her hand touching his. “Hey, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I haven’t seen you at any of the games before,” she said. “Do you come a lot?”

“Not as often as I’d like. Work, you know.” Bradley pointed to the field. “Which one is Emily?”

“The center forward.” She pointed to a black girl, on the other side of the field.

“I’m her friend. Kelly.” She extended her hand, shook his.

“Brad,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Brad. And you’re here with…?”

“Oh, my niece is at the dentist today,” he said. “I didn’t find out until I was already here.” He shrugged.

“Nice uncle. She must really appreciate you coming. But you don’t seem old enough to be the uncle of one of the girls.”

He smiled. For some reason he felt nervous. Kelly was sitting very close, her thigh almost touching his. He couldn’t use his PDA or his phone. Nobody ever sat close like that.

“My parents are so old,” Kelly said. “My dad was fifty when I was born.” She stared out at the field. “I guess that’s why I like older guys.”

He thought,
How old is she?
But he couldn’t think of a way to ask her without being obvious.

She held her hands up, scrutinized them, fingers spread wide. “I just got my nails done,” she said. “You like this color?”

“Yes. Very good color.”

“My dad hates it when I get my nails done. He thinks it makes me look too mature. But I think it’s a good color. Hot love. That’s the name of the color.”

“Yes…”

“Anyway, all the girls get their nails done. I mean, come
on
. I was getting my nails done in seventh grade. And besides, I graduated.”

“Oh, you graduated?”

“Yes. Last year.” She had opened her purse and was rummaging around inside it. Along with the lipstick, car keys, iPod, and makeup cases, he noticed a couple of joints wrapped in plastic and a ribbon of colored condoms that made a crackling sound when she pushed them around.

He looked away. “So, are you in college now?”

“No,” she said. “I took a year off.” She smiled at him. “My grades weren’t too good. Having too much fun.” She pulled out a small plastic bottle of orange juice. “Do you have any vodka?”

“Not on me,” he said, surprised.

“Gin?”

“Uh, no…”

“But you could get some, right?” She smiled at him.

“I suppose I could,” he said.

“I promise I’d pay you back,” she said, still smiling.

That was how it started.

They left
the playing field separately, several minutes apart. Bradley went first, and he waited in his car in the parking lot, watching her walk toward him. She was wearing flip-flops, a short skirt, and a lacy top that looked like something you would wear to bed. But all the girls dressed that way these days. Her huge bag banged against her side as she walked. She lit a cigarette and then climbed into her car. She was driving a black Mustang. She waved to him.

He started his engine, pulled out, and she followed him.

He thought,
Don’t get your hopes up.
But the truth was, he already had.