The RX Factor (20 page)

They surveyed the lab. It was an enormous, mostly rectangular room. The far corner of the lab was cut at a ninety-degree angle where the clin ic's drugs were proudly displayed behind a glass trophy case. From their visit with Dr. Pohmer earlier that day, Ryan was familiar with the lab's five rows that ran the length of the room. Each of the rows was lined with countertop-height lab stations and each of the countertops was filled with computers, high-tech electronics, test tubes, beakers, and burettes. The work space was designed so that technicians could work on either side of the rows and swivel chairs were scattered throughout the lab. There were four stations in each of the first three rows. The back two rows had two stations each. The lab's entrance was in the middle of the room. Directly back from the entry door, located past the first three rows, was a reception-style desk with twelve large file cabinets lined up against the wall behind it. This is where Ryan and Jordan decided to begin their search for more information on the wonder drug.

As Ryan expected, the file cabinets were locked. But these were not high-security locks and he was able to jimmy them open using a letter opener he found on the reception desk.

They began searching through each file in every drawer. The search was monotonous as many of the files contained scientific data that had to be reviewed thoroughly to determine if the information was possibly relevant.

As Jordan read through the last file in the third cabinet, something caught her eye. "Ryan, I found a file that references Tricopatin."

Ryan immediately grabbed the file from Jordan. Sure enough the file referenced FSW's Tricopatin drug, now known as Serapectin. He dug deeper into the file but couldn't find any reference to changes in the formula. The file contained a brief history of the drug, the failed FDA trial, and the dosing procedures for Serapectin. That was it.

Just as he put the file back in the cabinet and closed the drawer, the entry door opened and a flashlight swept the lab. They dropped to the floor just in time to avoid being spotted.

The guard left just as quickly as he had come in and Ryan whispered, "Come on, we've got another hour, keep searching."

They set to work with a new fervor. They continued to find evidence of the wonder drug in use, but they could not locate patient records, test results, documents that revealed the formula, or any reference to where the drugs were being stored.

They abandoned the file cabinets and began searching through the cabinets under the various lab stations. Some were unlocked and others were locked up with a mechanism no more sophisticated than the file cabinets'. The locks were easy to bust open, but each took a few minutes and the clock was ticking. They were deep into their search, checking every vial and test tube they found, when the guard returned.

Both ducked and held their breath. The flashlight beam swept the lab but instead of leaving this time, the guard entered. Ryan and Jordan exchanged a look as the guard's footsteps drew closer. When he entered the next aisle of counters and began to round the corner, both scurried as quietly as possible to the abutting aisle. When their shoes scuffed on the tiled floor, the guard called out,
"Hola . . . Quien estd ahi?"

They froze before Ryan reached up and knocked over a set of test tubes into the aisle adjacent to where he and Jordan were crouching. As the guard raced to the site of the broken glass, Ryan swung around the counter and, attacking from the rear, took the guard around the neck, applying pressure until he drifted into unconsciousness. Ryan had gone over a decade without using his FBI training; since meeting Jordan, he literally hadn't been able to live without it.

After dropping the guard to the floor, Ryan raced over to the door and flicked on the lights. He yanked power cords from the back of a couple computers and bound the unconscious guard's feet and hands. After fashioning a gag from the guard's own necktie, Ryan got to his feet. "We don't need to worry about him now, but we need to find what we're looking for before someone comes looking for him."

Glancing around the office for any place they hadn't already checked, Jordan said, "Maybe we're looking in the wrong area. What about the vial in the display case?"

"How do we know it isn't just a labeled test tube filled with colored water?"

"What do we have to lose? Besides, we're running out of time."

They fell into a full sprint towards the far corner of the lab where the wonder drug was on display. Ryan picked up a chair, heaved it through the glass, and grabbed the vial of Serapectin. "Now for the accounting office."

"After the racket you made?" Jordan said, aghast. "Don't you think we're pushing our luck? Let's get out of here before we end up in a Mexican prison."

"Not so fast. We need to locate any possible leads if we're ever going to find out who's been trying to kill you. This may be our only chance. Besides, we need to see if we can get our hands on a complete patient list. I want to see if any of these people are really still alive. That will tell us if this crap works or not."

Against her better judgment, Jordan agreed, and they headed off toward the accounting office. Using the letter opener to jimmy the lock, Ryan slipped in with Jordan behind him. The office had a glass partition, and everything inside lay exposed to the main corridor. Once inside, Ryan booted up the computer.

Drawing on her experience as a clinic oper ator, Jordan had some ideas as to where the information might be stored and under what titles. The sales reports told a story all by themselves: the clinic employed eight salesmen, with Jerry Cottle being the top earner at $7 million dollars in the last year alone. Even the low-end guys made over a million a year.

After printing off the sales reports, Jordan located the file in the hard drive that contained a patient list. Although the list did not include any medical information, it did provide names, addresses, and phone numbers, along with billing and payment details. A quick scan of the printed list revealed that patients paid anywhere from several hundred thousand dollars to $5 million for their treatments. A long list of patients had paid $5 million dollars, and it was this information that drew Ryan's attention.
These must be the suckers that paid for Tricopatin, or Serapectin, or whatever it is they're calling it these days.

There was no security in sight aside from a lone clerk nodding off to sleep at the front desk. They held their breath as they headed out the door, prepared to run if alarms went off. Moments later, they were in the SUV on their way back to the hotel.

Gus Witherspoon returned the small stack of
results to the clinic's chief of staff and turned to leave.

"You barely looked at these!" the doctor protested.

Gus was already halfway out the door. "I've seen enough."

The doctor chased after him, following him outside. "What about the patients? What about their families? What do we say to them?"

Gus stopped in his tracks. He gazed down at his boots, which were covered in dust. The dust, a fine powder that covered everything here in the bush, reminded him where he'd come from—and where he was going.

"Tell them we're going home."

The doctor, an angular man in his fifties, grabbed Gus by the shoulder and turned him around. "We come in here, throw together a clinic in record time, tell these people we're here to save them, and then leave? Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"I won't do it!" the doctor said, flicking spittle as he shouted, his face only inches from Gus's.

Gus removed the doctor's hand from his shoulder. "Doctor," he said, "you knew what you were getting into when we hired you. If you didn't have the stomach for this kind of work, you shouldn't have come. But it's too late now. You've chosen your lot."

The doctor's face turned red. "You sold me a bill of goods. You sold these people a bill of goods!"

A pair of security guards, normally employed to keep unruly villagers out, emerged from the clinic entrance and walked stiffly toward the doctor.

Gus motioned to them. "Please take a jeep and escort the doctor and his things back to town. He can catch a bus from there."

The doctor protested, his voice rising even louder than before, but the guards strong-armed him away.

Nothing, least of all an irate employee, surprised Gus anymore. Life was a series of choices. He'd already made his. Shit happened, of course. Villagers got sick and died. Drug trials went south. Doctors fumed. It was, simply, the nature of things. The average person was sickened by such a zero-sum game. The average person, in fact, was squeamish and self-righteous. But the average person would never change the world. Gus, because he was willing to do what no one else had the courage to do, just might.

As for the doctor, he would be kept close, without his knowledge of course, in case he took his indignation back home and decided to talk. It was his choice. But hopefully it wouldn't come to that. The powers that be had plenty of persuasive tools at their disposal, including other high-paying jobs that were worth even the most principled man's silence. Or, if push came to shove, there was always a more permanent solution.

Gus removed his cell phone and made a call transmitted halfway around the world.

"This is Craven."

"William, it's Gus. I need to speak to the man in charge."

"He's in a meeting."

"How long?"

"Can't say. Usual shit. Can I help?"

"Tell him the MS 4200 trial's a bust."

There was a pause before Craven replied, "You know what to do?"

"Shut it down, wipe it away, and make like it never happened. I know the drill."

"No leaks."

Gus bristled. Sometimes Craven reveled a little too much in his role as the corporation's top bruiser. "Don't worry, tough guy. If anyone threatens to talk, we'll send 'em straight to you."

Craven hung up the phone and made a quick mental note. Stedman and the others in the FSW boardroom would be distressed to learn of the early demise of MS 4200. But it was better the drug fail now, in its early stages of testing, than later, after the corporation had invested millions.

In any case, there were other concerns that ranked higher on Craven's priority list. A certain doctor and her lover were causing trouble south of the border, and it was Craven's job to make the duo disappear before anyone was the wiser.

By the time Jordan awoke, Ryan had been making
calls for over an hour. A room-service tray and an empty coffee cup lay on the bedside table. She parted the mane of hair that made a silken tent over her face and peeked out. She looked impish and adorable, and Ryan couldn't resist the impulse to lean over and kiss her.

With a smile, she scrunched deeper into the sheets. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to find an old friend of mine, Dave Butters. We went to undergrad together. He used to work for Kalliburton Labs, and over the years, I sent him business whenever I had a chance. Last I heard, he was managing their lab outside of Raleigh. I'm hoping he's still there. If anyone can tell us what's in this vial, he can."

She stretched. "The Big Vial Caper," she quipped. "I still can't believe we pulled it off."

"Well, we did. Now we have to find out what's going on with this drug."

"You think they are making it all up?"

"All they need to do is lie. It's making the drug cure cancer that's the hard part."

Jordan sat up in bed. "You're right. Of all the desperate people who come down here looking for a cure, how many would bother or even be able to check out the stats the clinic's touting? This is their last chance at life, and they're willing to believe in miracles. I guess you can write whatever you want in a file."

"Exactly. And as Dr. Pohmer said, all the patients' records are confidential, so no one is able to verify the accuracy of their claims. Those thank-you letters contained all the standard stuff you'd expect from a terminal patient who was suddenly cured. But without knowing for sure whether they're from real patients, the letters don't mean much." He reached for the coffeepot. "It's still hot—want some?"

"Please."

He fixed it the way she liked it—a medium amount of cream with two lumps of cane sugar— and handed it to her. She smiled.

"What's the big smile for?"

"For you. I love that you know how I take my coffee."

"No big deal," he said with a shrug.

"Yeah, actually it is."

While he wouldn't admit it, he cherished her sentiment. Not knowing how to respond, he started dialing another international number on the hotel phone.

Jordan excused herself and got out of bed. When she returned, looking rejuvenated, Ryan announced, "I tracked him down. He's still with Kalliburton and said he'd be happy to look at it. He said he could derive the exact formula of the vial's contents in a couple of hours once it was in his hands. If we can get it there by Monday, he agreed to go to his lab even though they're closed for President's Day. I called down to the concierge, and they said they could have UPS pick up the package within the hour."

"That's great! What do we do until then? And what are we going to do after we get the results?"

"Well, it will be at least forty-eight hours before we get the results back. I called the airline and tried to get a return flight out today, but they're booked up solid until Tuesday. I say we enjoy some time in paradise and try to forget about all of this for a few hours. After that, if the results come back and show that the vial is indeed Serapectin, and that Serapectin is just a modified version of Tricopatin, we need to track down some of the patients to find out how they're doing or if they're even still alive."

"And what if Serapectin and Tricopatin are one and the same?"

"We take the results to Crawford and see if the Feds can get these scam artists shut down. If that doesn't work, we go to the press and expose their scam to the world. Hopefully, whoever is be hind the attempts on your life will either be exposed, or, with the rest of the world now watching, at least back off."