Shadow of Eden (23 page)

“Well,” Steve continued, “Dr. Walker at GW has a spinal fluid test for prions and it was positive on two of the patients.” Steve stopped for a moment waiting for a reaction.

“Prions, you say,” Perera said, sounding as if prions were a distasteful word in his mouth.

“Right, prions.” Steve repeated.

“Well, Dr. James, I’m surprised. You must certainly know Eden is a very popular drug. I would guess if you went to your hospital and asked three patients at random, it would be very likely that you would find three in a row who were taking Eden. This is like you had told me three patients taking Tylenol also had a strange brain illness. I can’t see how you can possibly link the two.”

Perera and Anne had nailed the obvious flaw with his theory. Steve began fiddling with a freebie Eden pen that had been dropped off by his local drug representative. “Well, I find it a little disconcerting that the MRI pattern looks like there is a nasal entry of a toxin that spreads in the olfactory pathways through the brain. That would fit with Eden’s nasal administration.”

“I see your point, Dr. James. Who did you say your colleague was at GW? I may want to call him and inquire about his technique. It sounds most interesting. Dr. Martin Walker, is it not? Has he published his technique yet?”

“Not yet.” Steve had no interest in discussing the fact it was Dr. Breen’s test and not Marty’s. He just wanted to know about any prior cases.

“Hmm.” Perera sounded disappointed.

“I plan to do some testing on Eden,” Steve said, feeling increasingly frustrated and a little defensive. “I think it would put my concerns to rest if we had negative results with Eden in nerve cell culture.”

“By all means. Where would you perform these tests?”

“Sheridan Laboratories.”

“I know about Dr. Sheridan. He’s got some interesting papers on MS, I believe. Well, by all means, Dr. James, go ahead and do your research, after all, they are your patients. But for your information, there are no reported cases of encephalitis related to Eden.”

“None?”

“Correct, Dr. James, none. Please, do give me a call to let me know your findings,” Perera said smoothly. “But I’m sure it’s not related to our drug. Goodbye.” Perera hung up.

“Fine, then. Thanks for listening.” Steve said sarcastically into the dead line. He snapped the Eden pen in half spattering black ink over his hands.

Dr. Perera rewound the tape of his conversation with Dr. James and looked out the high-rise window of his office as he listened to the replay. Dr. James’ voice was not questioning; it sounded convinced. And, Perera admitted, his arguments were logical and thorough, although they both knew he did not have anything that counted as proof. Perera stared out at the slow moving muddy-gray Delaware River, visible off to his right.

He recalled yesterday’s conversation with Fran, Trident’s on-site study monitor assigned to Dr. James’ office. She had called during her scheduled visit at Dr. James’ office concerned that he was discontinuing all his patients from the Eden and Paradise trials. The only explanation given to her was that it was the investigator’s best judgment. She had never seen this happen before from an investigator, especially one as well established and successful as Dr. James.

If Dr. James thought Eden was causing problems, then he was doing the logical thing to protect his patients. Acting on his convictions, Dr. James stood to lose a substantial sum of money, including all the future Trident studies he would now forgo.

Perera reached the obvious conclusion. Dr. James was smart and persistent, and that was unfortunate for him. His colleague, what was his name? Walker was it? Perera rewound the tape again and listened. That’s right, Dr. Martin Walker at GW would also be a problem and possibly Dr. Sheridan as well.
Shit!
This was another probable case, one Trident could ill afford, especially with a high profile doctor like Dr. James. His and Paul’s calculations about the frequency of the encephalitis in humans were way too low—he knew that now. Perera had a sense of dread, as if their ship was taking on water and every new case ripped another hole in the hull. How long could they contain it? With Paul’s death never far from his mind, Perera copied the digital recording onto two CD-ROMs and stored one in the pouch of his briefcase—part of his new insurance plan. It would join his other recordings and files in a large, newly rented safety deposit box opened in his brother-in-law’s name. Morloch, as usual, would get the other one.

Chapter 49

“W
e come together in the name of God inside this brilliant Cathedral of yours to celebrate our Lord and the special relationship between our two countries,” Archbishop of Canterbury, William Northbourne, said in his amplified English baritone.

President Dixon and Elise sat together next to the aisle in the second pew, holding hands as they listened. The Archbishop was here on a special tour through the United States with his first stop here in Washington. The ceremony was actually a secular celebration attended by members of Congress, administration officials, as well as anybody else who wished to attend. The church had publicized Archbishop Northbourne’s visit well, as the Cathedral was full.

Dixon’s eyes occasionally rose to take in the sweeping Gothic arches rising high overhead. He loved the National Cathedral in its cavernous majesty. Traveling through Europe as a student, he had seen many of the great Gothic cathedrals: York in England, Notre Dame in Paris, and the ornate Duomo of Milan. His favorite was still the Chartres Cathedral in France.

In his mind, the Washington National Cathedral was the most pure and beautiful of all Gothic churches in the United States. The huge ribbed piers swept up to the pointed roof almost a hundred feet above, its fingers spreading to support the stone roof in symmetrical rays. The innovation of the Gothic design with its flying buttresses allowed large windows to let vast amounts of light into traditionally dark and gloomy cathedrals. The National Cathedral designers had filled the windows with beautiful stained glass, scattering and coloring the sunlight throughout the interior as if filtered through a thousand prisms. Today, with the mid-morning sun streaming through the east windows, the colors played throughout the nave.

“As you know,” the Archbishop continued, “The stones of this very pulpit upon which I stand were donated to you by the Church of Canterbury. In the late eighteen-hundreds, stone was taken from the Bell Harry Tower and carved with depictions of the history of the English Bible before sending it to our good friends here in Washington.”

Dixon hadn’t known that and looked at the massive stone pulpit anew, seeing its ornately carved top, perched on squat stone pillars an easy ten feet above the Church floor. Carvings of men and Gothic designs in deep bas-relief covered the thick, solid balustrade. He would have to look at it more closely later, Dixon thought to himself.

“It seems only fitting, therefore,” the Archbishop said smiling broadly, “That I start my journey across America from this very spot.”

Dixon half listened to the remainder of the Archbishop’s comments as his thoughts again drifted back to the church. These imposing, but graceful walls always gave Dixon the feeling he was in the very presence of God. Today, that feeling was stronger and more profound than ever. It gave him a deep sense of peace to be here so close to God, a peace he hadn’t known since the Chinese massacre had turned and twisted his insides like never before. But here, in one of His treasured Gothic cathedrals, he found his inner agitation calmed and at rest. Dixon closed his eyes as he felt the relaxation wash over him and in moments, he fell into his first sound sleep in days.

“Wake up,” Elise urgently whispered, gently shaking his arm.

“Huh?” Dixon only slowly regained awareness. He wiped some drool off his mouth.

“Honey, it’s your turn.”

Dixon’s neck was sore where it had supported his hanging head as he had dozed off. He looked around trying to remember where he was. The massive piers and windows immediately told him he was in the National Cathedral. The place was unnaturally quiet although filled with people.

“Honey, get up and go talk.” Elise whispered with unmistakable urgency in her voice. She pushed his arm toward the aisle where Tyrone Grune waited. Dixon saw his press secretary’s face pinched with strain. Dixon got to his feet, but a feeling of lightheadedness drained his vision. He sagged, grabbing the pew in front of him for support. Slowly his vision cleared, as did his thoughts. He had to go up to a lectern and make his welcoming comments to the Archbishop of Canterbury.

What had happened? Oh, yes, he had fallen asleep in the Lord’s house. He almost smiled until he realized everyone was looking at him expectantly. A few hushed whispers reached his ears. Following Grune’s direction, he stepped up to the tall dark wood dais set up for his comments. Apparently, the laity was not allowed to stand in the pulpit. Sheets of paper with his remarks were waiting for him on the lectern. He looked down at the unfamiliar words on the first page. Why had Ty put him up in front of all these people unprepared? Normally he would have practiced his speech several times before delivery. He cleared his throat and looked up at the audience, and noted the video cameras standing behind the assembled crowd recording everything he did.

He looked down at the words again and started speaking into the microphone, almost mechanically, obviously reading like a schoolboy giving his book report. Turning the page, he started remembering parts of the address and he began smoothing out his words and looking up at the audience. He still wondered why he hadn’t practiced it before. He would speak to Tyrone later. Fortunately, his comments were brief and he quickly finished. Since they were in a Church, there was no applause as he concluded, which was an uncomfortable experience for one so used to it. With an unsettled feeling, he left the dais and walked down the steps back to his seat.

Chapter 50

M
orloch watched Perera close the door behind him as he left.
Damn!
Another doctor—no, two this time, possibly three. And two were respected researchers and worse, one was the now famous doctor who had saved that damn jet from crashing. That Dr. James could blow this whole thing up in a hurry. Even the whisper of a problem from a hero like Dr. James would get unrelenting press scrutiny. But, he concluded after some reflection, there was a way to turn Dr. James’ fame against him.

Morloch’s thoughts turned to the bigger problem. These reports from observant physicians were getting too fucking frequent. Someone would catch the ear of the press or the FDA and make it stick. He couldn’t allow that to happen, not before his back-up plan was operational. He needed to arrange a short cut to Paradise’s introduction.

He dialed a number and Sharod Houssan, his Chief of Operations picked up the line. “Yes.”

“Sharod, can you come up here?”

“Sure. I’ll be right in.”

As Morloch hung up, his thoughts turned to Oscar Perera. Once on the market, Eden had skyrocketed into the amazing success they had all hoped it would. Suspecting there might be some inquiries regarding encephalitis related to Eden, he installed Perera as the safety officer with instructions for him to report only to Morloch.