Lethal Dose (6 page)

11

BioTech Five was a busy place for a Friday, even busier than usual with the aftermath of Bruce Andrews's press release the previous day. The reporters were gone, but the activity levels were exaggerated, employees moving briskly about with purpose, fueled by the positive quarterly report on earnings. The company was on a high, and everyone was looking to its CEO as the driving force behind the surge. It was an image Bruce Andrews did little to dispel.

He was in at six, and by nine had made rounds through four of the on-site labs, shaking hands and thanking his staff for their efforts. At nine-fifteen he was back in his office, checking e-mail and waiting for his nine-thirty appointment. He glanced at the lone file on his polished desk and opened it, although he already knew what was inside.

Jennifer Pearce, research scientist with impeccable educational credentials and a proven track record for team management. A Marcon star who, for some reason, had become disillusioned with the pharmaceutical giant and put herself on the market. Her attractive face stared back at him from the cover page, her eyes conveying intelligence and self-confidence. Her hair was cut just above her shoulders, streaked with differing tones of blond and well styled. Her face was lean and her slender, toned neck and shoulders indicated the gym was part of her regular regimen. He liked what he saw.

At precisely nine-thirty, there was a soft knock on his door and his executive assistant ushered Jennifer Pearce into his office. She moved across the expanse of carpet to his desk with confident strides and offered her hand, her eyes locked on his.

“Good morning, Dr. Pearce,” he said, accepting her hand. He was shocked at the strength in her grip but masked his reaction.

“Mr. Andrews,” she replied.

“That sounds pretty formal,” Andrews said, pointing to one of the wingback chairs facing his desk. “If first names are okay with you, I'm Bruce.”

“First names are fine, thank you,” she said, sitting and crossing her legs. She wore a sage-colored pantsuit with a finely knit crew-neck sweater. With the exception of two small diamond-stud earrings, she wore no jewelry.

“It's a little crazy around here this morning,” he said.“We had a news conference and posted our quarterly profits yesterday. Things went very well.”

“I saw the highlights on the late business report,” she replied. “Veritas seems to be riding a wave right now.”

“One that we've worked for,” Andrews said with an easy smile. He glanced at her file, which sat open on his desk. “You spent eight years at Marcon, in their Alzheimer's research division,” he said, getting right to business. She nodded. “Who did you report to?”

“Allan Connors, one of the regional vice presidents,” she replied. “Sometimes directly to Sheldon Zachery.”

“I know Allan,” Andrews said. “He's a pretty good guy. Knows his stuff from a technical stance.”

“Very good with the research end of things,” she agreed.

They bandied a string of names back and forth for a few minutes, and Jennifer was impressed with Andrews's knowledge of who was where and what they were working on. The man had his finger on the pulse of the pharmaceutical industry. She liked the man's easy manner and quick smile; he was sincere and likable. His knowledge of Alzheimer's research was impressive from both a technical and management viewpoint. And to Jennifer, that was a key factor. Where Marcon had failed was in their lack of vision. They professed to still be the industry benchmark for R&D, but the upper management was decimating the teams working in the research trenches. And ultimately, that had cost Marcon. She had left and taken a potentially huge idea with her.

“We would have you in our Alzheimer's group, of course,” Andrews was saying. “In fact, what I had envisioned was a second team with you heading it up.”

Jennifer leaned forward slightly. Even with her credentials and experience, it was highly unlikely she would immediately land a team leader position with a new company. “What sort of resources would I have at my disposal?” she asked.

“Ten to twelve researchers with a minimum master's degree and at least two doctorates in the group. Seven assistant researchers with undergrad degrees and proper maintenance staff for your equipment. Your admin lab would be here, on the second floor of BioTech Five, with an additional six thousand square feet at our facility in White Oak. Most of your time would be spent here.”

“What is White Oak?” she asked.

“The Virginia BioTechnology Research Park at White Oak is a satellite park to this one. There just isn't enough space in downtown Richmond for all the new high-tech industry, so in 2001 Henrico County and Virginia's Science Park struck an agreement to set aside over two thousand acres for development. Hewlett-Packard and White Oak Semiconductor are just two companies with major R&D facilities at White Oak, and with that sort of muscle going into the new facility, we saw the park as an ideal alternative to the high prices we pay for space here. So we purchased two hundred and eighty thousand square feet of space when it first opened. Turned out to be a great investment; we could sell it now for triple what we paid for it. The only downside is that it's about forty minutes when traffic is moving. Considerably longer when I-64 is jammed up.”

She nodded. “And what salary would you be offering?”

“I had initially asked the board to clear an offer of two-fifty a year plus bonuses, but I revamped that yesterday, partly because we've had such a good first quarter.”

She waited a few seconds. “And what would the other part be?”

He looked confused for a second. “How's that?”

“You said
partly
because of your earnings. That would indicate there's another aspect.”

He smiled. “Yes, there is, Jennifer. The other part is simple. I want you at Veritas. I'm no fool. You are going to have a stack of offers to choose from once you've made your rounds of available employers, and I want you to pick us. That's why I had the board okay an initial offer of three hundred and sixty thousand a year, plus bonuses.”

“What are the bonuses based on?” she asked, her mouth suddenly very dry.

“Timely Phase I and Phase II trials. We can sell a new drug in the pipeline to Wall Street once we have good Phase II results, and that buoys investor confidence. Even if we're still five years from putting a new Alzheimer's drug on the shelves, you'll have earned every cent we're paying you and your team in increased stock prices.”

“You sound confident I can deliver,” she said.

He shifted slightly in his chair, leaned his elbows on his desk, and steepled his fingers. “I have a lot of respect for anyone coming over from Marcon. Especially a team leader with eight years under her belt. Who knows what insights you've managed to garner over that eight years.”

Jennifer leaned back in her chair. This was the one constant in every interview she had had in the last two weeks. What was she bringing with her from Marcon? Did she have something that could translate to a fast-track Phase II trial? To date, her interviewer's tactics in broaching the subject had varied from aggressive to mouselike. She liked Andrews's approach—subtle, but on the table.

“I have some ideas that may seem a little out of the box,” she responded. “Would it bother you if my team were to investigate a new approach to the beta amyloid buildup?”

Andrews didn't give anything away with his body language. “Not if the approach was well grounded. That's how new drugs are discovered, Jennifer. By researchers thinking outside the box.”

She was thoughtful for a moment. “Should I assume that you're offering me a position, Bruce?”

He nodded. “Yes. The salary I mentioned and six weeks holidays. Plus you'll need to relocate to Richmond. We'll cover all costs of your move, including the sale of your house.”

“All right,” she said. “I'll give your offer serious consideration. I'd like to take about a week to make my decision. By, say, May twentieth. Does that work for you?”

“Absolutely,” Andrews said, rising from behind his desk and extending his hand. They shook, and he gave her a business card. “My direct line is on the card if you need to speak further.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Jennifer left BioTech Five feeling upbeat. She liked the building, the company, and she liked Bruce Andrews. And what he was offering was exactly what she was looking for: her own team, autonomy to move her research the direction she wanted, and excellent money. She knew Richmond a bit, having visited a few times, and she liked the city. It was vibrant and progressive, with a thriving theater scene. She would be leaving New Jersey and a lot of very good friends, but with six weeks holidays, she could visit home whenever she felt the urge. And with three-sixty plus bonuses, money wouldn't be an issue.

She reached her rental car at the same time she reached a decision.

She was moving to Richmond.

12

BioTech Five was in its nightly hibernation, the tardiest lab techs gone for the weekend for over an hour. Hallways were dimly lit with emergency lighting and faint night-lights cast eerie shadows through the laboratories. Armed security guards sat chatting at the front doors, making their rounds on the top of each hour. A lone light burned in Bruce Andrews's corner office.

Andrews's exterior door opened quietly, then closed. A solitary figure, dressed entirely in black, crossed the carpet with stealth. The CEO felt another presence and turned away from his laptop. His visitor sat on the edge of the desk, a silenced pistol in hand.

“What the hell?” Andrews said, leaping from his chair.

“Sit down,” the man said, leaning forward into the glow from the computer monitor.

“Evan Ziegler,” Andrews said, an audible sigh escaping as he recognized his hired killer.“What's with the theatrics? And what the hell are you doing here?”

“I've got a couple of questions, Bruce,” Evan said, the gun horizontal and unwavering.

“Evan, it's incredibly dangerous for you to come here.”

“Dangerous for whom?” Evan asked. “I don't see how coming here could be dangerous for me. Maybe for breaking and entering, but who's going to press charges?”

Andrews sat and folded his arms on his chest. “What do you want, Evan?”

“I want some answers, Bruce. Like why do you have me killing people in your statin department? Perhaps you can explain to me how cholesterol drugs are tied in with brain chips.”

“You're talking about Albert Rousseau,” Andrews said, his mind racing through his options. Trying to take Evan Ziegler by force was totally out of the question. The man was a killing machine, with or without the gun. Lying to him would only infuriate the man, and he already looked extremely pissed off. But telling him the truth wasn't a good idea either. “Rousseau was getting ready to release information to the press unless we paid him off.”

“What sort of information?”

“Highly classified, Evan,” Andrews said, piecing together his train of thought as he went. “Rousseau was a researcher working on one of our cholesterol drugs, but he also had access to confidential computer systems outside his department. Someone was hacking into the highly secure files in our brain chip lab, and we traced it back to Rousseau's computer. Once we suspected it was Rousseau, we attached a sniffer pack to his office and home computers and monitored both of them for over a month. There was no doubt in our minds that Albert Rousseau was preparing to either blackmail us or go to the press.”

“With what, Bruce? What are you hiding?”

Good question
, Andrews thought. He didn't have a clue. He was ad-libbing his way through this mess. Ziegler had caught him flat-footed. “Evan, we are moving through the exploratory stages of the brain chip development at an extreme pace. We are bypassing federal guidelines that insist we spend a certain amount of time on each of the Phase I tests. If we were to comply with the government regulations, it would add months, maybe years, to the development of a brain chip that will give your son upper-body movement. I'm pushing the envelope, Evan. And I'm sticking my neck out for Ben.”

The gun barrel angled down toward the carpet. “How did Rousseau get this information? I mean, if the systems are so secure.”

Andrews was relaxing now, knowing that he had disarmed the situation. “Come on, Evan, the guy was a computer programmer and a research scientist with master's degrees in computers and microbiology. He was no dummy. Once he saw how we were circumventing the federal laws, he saw an opportunity. Whether he was going to go to the police or blackmail us, I have no idea. But we saw it coming and brought you in to stop him.”

“You keep saying
we.
Who is the we?”

“That is none of your business, Evan,” Andrews said, now taking control of the conversation. “And what's with the gun? You going to shoot me?”

Evan glanced at the silenced pistol. “No, of course not. It was in case I ran into some of the guards.”

“Then put it away,” Andrews said curtly. “And don't shoot any of my security guards on the way out.”

“I've got another question, Bruce,” Ziegler said, slipping the pistol under his sweater. “How many more people do I have to kill for you? When we first spoke, I thought this would entail removing one of two people, but this is getting ridiculous. I've killed four people in cold blood. That's not what the American government trained me to do. That's not what I want to do with my life.”

“I pay you well to remove obstacles, Evan,” Andrews retorted.

“I don't do it for the money,” Evan replied, knowing that his quality of life and his copier business in Denver had profited greatly from the cash Andrews forwarded to him after each hit. “I just want Ben out of that chair.”

Andrews nodded and leaned forward. “That's why I approached you, Evan. The SEALs gave you certain skills that I need, and I have what it will take to get your son walking again. I would never have asked you to help me if Ben didn't desperately need the technology Veritas is developing. I knew when I embarked on the brain chip program that I would face heavy opposition, that there would be people who would do anything to stop it. Some people feel a moral obligation to oppose it; others want to stop it for economic reasons. It's a drain on our finances, Evan. It reduces research in other sectors. Scientists don't like watching their funding go somewhere else. They're funny that way. And sometimes they react much differently than an ordinary person with a normal IQ would. And when those threats become real, I call you.”

“How much longer, Bruce?” Evan asked in a hushed tone.

Andrews shrugged. “We're close to beginning Phase I trials on humans. Perhaps another year, maybe two. I will make sure Ben's application to be in the first test group is approved.”

Evan Ziegler was quiet, reflecting on Andrews's words. One year, maybe two. Ben would be twenty or twenty-one. And if the brain chip did stimulate the neural pathways as Andrews had promised, Ben would almost certainly regain movement in the upper portion of his body, possibly in the legs as well. His spinal cord was not so severely damaged that the amplified signals wouldn't make it through. And once those synapses were functioning again, he would walk. Christ, his son would be cured. A normal life, not one as a thinking vegetable, locked in a prison on wheels. Ben would be back.

“That's encouraging, Bruce,” Evan said. “One or two years. That's very encouraging.”

Andrews smiled, reached out, and set his hand gently on Evan's shoulder. “Yes, Evan, it's incredible. We just have to keep things on track.”

“Right,” Evan said. He stood slowly, then walked to the door. “I'll talk to you later, Bruce.”

“Okay, Evan. Your money will be in Denver in a couple of days. I'll call down to the guards and tell them you're on your way out. They won't bother you.”

Evan waved his hand nonchalantly and closed the office door behind him. He didn't like Bruce Andrews, and he certainly didn't trust him. But the man was a necessary evil. No other company was pressing forward in brain chip technology as quickly as Veritas. They were the leader, and he would do what he could to ensure they stayed on target.

Even if it meant killing people.

The door closed behind Evan Ziegler and Bruce Andrews's face darkened. Ziegler's statement that he had brought the gun with him in case he ran into a security guard was a total crock of shit. Andrews knew his hired killer had brought the gun with every intention of either forcing some sort of a confession from him or killing him. Which meant Ziegler was quickly becoming a liability. And liabilities were dangerous. Especially when they were capable of walking and talking.

But was killing Ziegler the right course of action? He had the resources in place to remove the man if he desired, but Ziegler was defused for the time being, and was still an asset in some ways.

Things were getting complicated. He was starting to feel like one of those jugglers spinning plates on dowels. And if he got too many plates spinning, they would all crash. He had to settle things down, get a grip on things. And fast. At some point, the press would sniff out the subtle signs that the brain chip division was being terminated. There was no money in helping the one-in-a-million cases out there. And that's exactly what Ben Ziegler was, one in a million. The prognosis for most paraplegics or quadriplegics was hopeless, their spinal cords damaged beyond repair. Ben Ziegler and others like him were the lucky ones. The ones who could actually walk again if enough was invested to see the technology come to fruition. But Veritas was not going to be the company that invested two or three hundred million dollars to reap a few million in rewards. No charity cases here. No orphan drugs—that was for Marcon and the other do-gooders. But that left him with a problem. A very real problem.

If Evan Ziegler somehow learned that the brain chip program was slowly being dismantled, the man would explode. And when a former Navy SEAL exploded, people were sure to die. And Bruce Andrews harbored no doubts that he would be first on Ziegler's list. The man was a time bomb.

He picked up the phone and dialed a number. A man answered. “It's me,” Andrews said. “I had a visit from someone tonight, and I need you to put surveillance on him.”

“Who?” the voice asked.

“Evan Ziegler.”

“I told you bringing him in was a bad idea,” the man said. “We never needed him. I could have taken care of everything he did.” He sounded irritated.

“What I do not need right now is someone telling me ‘I told you so,' ” Andrews said. “Just get someone on him. If he books a flight to Richmond without my invitation, kill him. I don't want him near me again.”

“Why don't we just take him out now?”

“No, not yet. He may prove to be useful.”

“You're playing with fire,” the man said, much more than just irritated now. “He's going to fuck things up, Bruce. Mark my words.”

“Just get someone to tail him and submit reports. Leave him alone for now. I'll let you know when I want him killed.”

“You do that.” The line went dead.

“Asshole,” Andrews said to the dial tone. He switched off his computer and locked his office for the evening. The guards smiled and told him to have a good night. He smiled back, all the while wanting to beat the stupid grins off their faces. He was beginning to feel the stress. Maybe he had stretched things too thin. Maybe the plates were beginning to crash.

He reached his Cadillac and sat behind the wheel, breathing deeply and reminding himself of the resources he had in place. He had not reached this position in life without risk. The only difference now was that the risk was coming at him from numerous fronts. All he had to do was weather the turbulence. Four or five months, six tops, and the corrections would be in place. It was going to be a rough ride, but he could weather it.

As he started his car, he noticed something. He was smiling. And somehow that made him feel better.