The Dolomite Solution (7 page)

James Winthrop had stayed on at Harvard Medical School, finished at the top of his class, and was now considered the finest cardio-vascular surgeon in Boston.

After Harvard, Perry Greenfield had gone to MIT, where he earned his doctorate in biochemistry. He had worked for over fifteen years as a researcher in a Brookline biotechnology company where he studied the effects of amino acids on cardiovascular degeneration. For the past five years Greenfield had taken over as editor of the prestigious Journal of Cardiovascular Medicine, the foremost authority on issues of the heart in the United States, perhaps even the world. Dr. Winthrop had been a featured writer in many of Greenfield's issues.

There was a light knock on the front door. Dr. Winthrop rose reluctantly, shoved the journal article into his top desk drawer, and answered the door, finding a wet and somewhat dejected-looking friend waiting for him to invite him inside.

“What brings you by so early, Per?” the doctor asked, closing the door behind his friend and taking his wet coat and gently draping it over a wooden hanger in the foyer.

It was six a.m. The two of them often met at a small cafe for breakfast, but not usually until seven or eight, depending on their schedules.

Perry Greenfield was a tall, thin man who looked much older than his fifty years. It wasn't so much the silver hair receding back from his forehead, but more the bloodshot eyes and the wrinkles in the corners of those eyes and at the sides of his mouth that had failed to preserve his youth. His bushy brows gave him the appearance of a dead Russian leader.

Greenfield didn't answer as he walked into the study and took a seat in a leather chair. The rain had been relentless all night, and was still coming down with stubborn ferocity. Greenfield combed his fingers through his scant hair to scatter some of the dampness out. He glanced around the room, which was a shrine to all of Dr. Winthrop's accomplishments. Copies of degrees in fine wooden frames. Swimming trophies and medals from high school and college.

The doctor went directly to one side of his desk. “Would you like some coffee, Perry? I just made it.” Dr. Winthrop stood holding an extra cup and the glass pot, with steam rising into the cooler air.

“Sure.” Greenfield was clutching a package in his damp hands. The manila envelope had drops of rain on it, and he set the package on his lap as he accepted the cup from the doctor.

“Now. What can I do for you so early in the morning,” Dr. Winthrop said, taking a seat behind his large oak desk and sipping on his coffee.

Greenfield shifted in his seat, took a sip of coffee, and then cradled his cup, drawing warmth from it. “Remember the article I told you about a few weeks ago. The one co-authored and submitted by Austrian and Italian researchers?”

Dr. Winthrop feigned uncertainty. Then he said, “Of course. The DNA study on heart disease. It was called The Dolomite Solution, I believe.”

“Exactly. I sent you a copy.”

There was silence as they stared at each other. A mariner's clock on an oak credenza ticked away the seconds.

The doctor impatiently said, “And?”

“If it's true...you're not worried?”

“Why should I be?”

“All those bypass surgeries you do,” Greenfield said, his bushy brows coming down and nearly covering his eyes. “They've paid for this house. The Cape Cod home. Your sailboat. Not to mention your Mercedes.”

Not to mention the investments and the silent partnership. “Yeah, yeah. What's your point, Per?”

“If this study is correct...” he fought for the words. “You could be out of work.”

The doctor leaned back, laughing slightly. His leather chair squeaked as he swiveled around. He slowly sipped his coffee. “What did I tell you when you showed me the article the first time?”

Greenfield thought and shrugged. “I don't remember.”

“Come on.” The doctor smirked. “I said not to worry about it. I have some friends looking into it. Seeing if they can verify the results.” This wasn't entirely true. He had thought about it, though.

“But—”

Dr. Winthrop raised his hand. “It's okay, Per. We'll see what happens.”

Greenfield set his coffee cup on the edge of the desk and fumbled with the envelope, extracting a copy of the journal he edited. “This is hot off the press,” he said. “We had to print the article. The two of them have been nominated for the Nobel. You understand, right?”

The doctor yanked the magazine from his friend's hand and glanced at the cover, which read, “Will The Dolomite Solution Cure The Heart?” Winthrop paged through, glanced at the article, which he already had a copy of, and then dropped the journal to his desk.

“I thought you agreed to wait a month,” Winthrop said. His smile had faded. The doctor had been considered for the Nobel a year ago for the surgical technique he developed. Hundreds of surgeons had followed his lead performing bypass through a small incision with the heart only slowed by drugs instead of stopping it completely. Yet the Nobel committee had awarded the prize to a British researcher for using leach slime on bacterial infections.

“The Nobel committee comes out with its selections shortly. It's a major coup to print their article first. We had to push production forward. We distribute the journal worldwide in a week. It's beyond my control. The publisher caught wind of it somehow and insisted we move our schedule up. I'm sorry, Jim.”

The doctor rose from his chair, and Greenfield took this as a sign that their chat was over, meeting his friend at the door.

“Don't worry, Per.” He grasped his friend's shoulder and squeezed down. “I have a feeling this solution is nothing more than an elaborate hoax like cold fusion a few years back. I mean who will believe in mysterious minerals affecting the genetic code that way, recombinant DNA gene therapy, implanted on a virus? Even if it's true, which I don't believe for a second, it would take ten or twenty years before the FDA would approve it in this country. By then we'll both be hanging out at the nineteenth hole sipping martinis and reminiscing about our college days.”

Greenfield smiled with that thought. “You're right, of course. You always are.”

The doctor smiled as he walked his old friend to the front door. “You have a good day now Perry. Try to stay dry.”

The doctor closed the door and went back to his study. He sat for a minute before picking up the phone. He thought about punching in a number, and then decided against it. He had to do this in person, but he wasn't looking forward to it.

Out in the foyer he put on his long London Fog and picked up an umbrella. He glanced back up the wooden staircase. His wife would still be sleeping for another hour or so, and his twin daughters, who were only five, would slumber in their rooms until eight. He was used to leaving for the hospital early, since his first surgery wasn't usually until nine. That gave him plenty of time.

●

Dr. Winthrop pulled his Mercedes to the side of the road in a small strip mall next to a phone, powered the window down, punched in a number, and waited. Fog drifted across the parking lot, but at least the rain had turned to a drizzle, he noticed.

On the fifth ring, a gruff-sounding man answered with an irritated, “What do you want?”

“It's me.” He paused, not wanting to say his name. “I need something else.”

“Doc? You saved my ass. I don't forget that shit. What you need this time? Hey, I don't do kids. I don't know if I made that clear.”

The doctor hesitated, not knowing if he should proceed. But if he didn't...he didn't want to think about that. “Can we meet at the New Patriot Cafe on Blakely in a half hour.”

“Half hour? Jesus.” He grumbled something under his breath that the doctor couldn't make out. “Yeah, I guess I can,” he finally said. “Where is it?”

Winthrop was looking right at the cafe as a young woman changed the sign from closed to open. He explained how to get there and then hung up.

The doctor waited in his car until he saw the man enter the cafe. He thought about backing out, but realized he had already made up his mind weeks ago. There was no turned back now. He got out under his umbrella and went inside.

The New Patriot Cafe was one of those new places trying to be trendy by offering fresh bagels and espresso. The walls were salmon colored with prints of famous Monet paintings framed in aluminum. The metal tables were right out of The Dick Van Dyke Show. Winthrop would have rather cut out his own heart than be seen in the place, but that made it the perfect meeting point. He wasn't likely to run across anyone he knew.

They shook hands and then the doctor took a seat across the booth from the man he had done quadruple bypass on just two months ago. A man whom he had called a few weeks ago, once he had first seen the article.

The front door opened and two men entered, taking seats at a table with a view of the door and the doctor and his former patient. The older man had dark hair with a thick mustache and long sideburns. The younger man was also dark with a three day growth of beard. They both picked up menus and started pointing at various items.

The doctor had glanced at the men briefly and then turned back to the man across from him.

Dominic Varducci was in his early sixties, looking every bit his age. He had a paunch and gray hair that flourished over his collar at his throat. He had worked his way up the Parecchio family business for over forty-five years, starting at age fifteen by running packages from one seemingly legitimate operation to the next. His uncle Pasquale Parecchio, who was eighty-five and retired to the Virgin Islands, had put him in charge, since his own sons had been killed in an unfortunate car explosion. Dominic now ran a chain of restaurants that his son wanted to franchise nationwide. Following surgery, Dominic had nearly turned all of his operations over to his son Johnny, who had gotten his MBA from Harvard, and wanted to make a killing on Wall Street instead of some back alley.

Dominic Varducci leaned back and shoved a toothpick in the side of his mouth. “You know you pulled me away from bed where this gorgeous blonde bimbo was about to straddle my piss hard-on,” he said. “So, what can I do for you, Doc?”

The doctor explained his situation. Told him about the journal article again. And asked him if his men had found out anything in Europe.

“First of all,” Dominic started, “I want to thank you again for saving my life.”

The doctor smiled and nodded.

“This journal. What's it called again?”

Dr. Winthrop told him.

Dominic made a mental note, slipping the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “It's no problem. I'll take care of it. And on the other matter, my guys are handling it as we speak. If there's something to this study, they'll let us know. We just need to give them some time. If you'd like I could send a few of my local men there. Would that make you feel better?”

“I guess.” The doctor glanced at the two men by the door. Then he whispered, “I don't want to know anything.”

“Fine. But there will be some expenses involved now. A favor's one thing, but I'm a businessman. Hey, you charged me for the bypass, I have to make a living.”

“I understand,” the doctor said. “I'll need to transfer some stocks or mutual fund shares, if that's all right.”

“That's fine. You know the amount, and you've got my Cayman account number.” Dominic rose. “Are we done? I'd like to get back to that blonde. At my age you never know when the prick will stiffen again.”

The doctor nodded.

“Good. You take it easy, Doc. Let me do all the worrying.”

The doctor watched the man walk out. A few seconds later the two men who had been sitting near the door followed Dominic out. Winthrop hadn't even thought of them being with Dominic. But it made sense now. He wondered exactly what Dominic had meant when he said he'd take care of it. Maybe it was better if he didn't know.

He went outside and stood under the awning for a moment. The drizzle had turned into a heavy downpour again. He thought about his two daughters and their young mother, his beautiful wife of seven years. Having waited so long to marry, he wondered often what she saw in him. Was it only the money? Regardless, he had to make sure his daughters were taken care of. They would attend the best schools money could buy. If they wanted to follow him into medicine, he would make it happen. They meant everything to him.

He opened his umbrella and sprinted to his car. Slowly, he drove off toward the hospital.

Parked a short distance behind the BMW, Toni Contardo could not believe her good fortune. It was the car that had forced the scientist from the road, she was sure.

She was in front of an old stone building on the University of Milan campus. The walkways were lined with colorful flowers, and the grass was landscaped nicely to the structures, which were accented with yews. The building's walls were strung with climbing ivy.

Toni had raced her Alfa Romeo from high in the Dolomites to Milan. On the way there she had thought about calling ahead and having local authorities detain the professor until she arrived, but she had no reason to do so. Only a hunch. And even if she had wanted to involve the locals, she couldn't. She was not to involve anyone in her current work, on the orders of her superior in Vienna. Thinking of those orders, she wondered how she could do what she had to. Sure she had stretched orders in the past, knowing she could get in trouble for her malfeasance. But this was different. She was assigned to Rome and only working on temporary assignment out of Vienna, and she barely knew the new station chief there that had given her the operational plan. Only time would tell if she did what she was told to do for this engagement.

On the drive to Milan she had gotten the beeper call from her old friend Jake Adams. He had sounded so stressed, which was totally out of character for him. She had tried to return the call, leaving a message on his service. She still wasn't sure what he was doing in Austria, but wished he was here with her now. She could use the back up. They had always worked so well together, she thought. Professionally and personally.