Next: A Novel (12 page)

One of the Japanese team slipped through the group and stood beside Hagar. He whispered,

“When does the animal come?”

“When it’s silent.”

“So, you mean not today?”

Hagar made a helpless gesture, palms upward.

“We are too many?”

Hagar nodded.

“Perhaps tomorrow, we will come alone.”

“All right,” Hagar said.

Just then a ripple of excitement ran through the crews; they jumped to their cameras, adjusted their tripods, and began to film. Hagar heard the soft murmur of voices in many languages.

Nearby, the Sky TV man held his microphone close to his lips and spoke in a stage whisper: “We are standing here deep in the remote jungles of Sumatra, and there, just across the way, we see the creature that has aroused the speculation of the entire world—the chimpanzee that is said to talk and, yes, even to swear.”

Christ, Hagar thought. He turned to see what they were filming. He caught a glimpse of brownish fur and a dark head. The animal was clearly no larger than two feet tall, and almost immediately gave the low moaning call of the pig-tailed macaque.

The camera crews were electrified. Microphones pointed like so many gun barrels toward the quick-moving animal. They heard more moans from the distant foliage. Obviously a good-size troop was here.

The Germans recognized it first.“Nein, nein, nein!” The cameraman stepped irritably away from the camera.“Es ist ein macaque.”

Soon the canopy overhead was thrashing as a dozen macaques swung through the area and headed north.

One of the Brits turned to Hagar. “Where’s the chimp, then?”

“Orangutan,” Hagar said.

“Whatever. Where is he?” His voice was impatient.

“He doesn’t keep an appointment calendar,” Hagar said.

“Is this where he’s usually found? Yes? Can we put some food out for him, something to attract him? Make some mating call?”

“No,” Hagar said.

“No way to attract him, is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“We just sit here and hope for the best?” The journalist glanced at his watch. “They want tape by noon.”

“Unfortunately,” Hagar said, “we’re in the jungle. It happens when it happens. It’s the natural world.”

“Not if it talks, it’s not natural,” the cameraman said. “And I haven’t got all fucking day.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Hagar said.

“Find me the fucking monkey!” the guy yelled. His shout agitated the macaques in the trees, made them scamper and moan.

Hagar looked at the others. The French cameraman said, “Perhaps quieter? For everybody.”

“Bugger off, you miserable fuckwit,” the Brit said.

“Easy, mate.” A huge man from the Australian crew stepped forward and put his hand on the Brit, who swung a roundhouse to his jaw. The Australian caught his hand, twisted it, and shoved him into his tripod. The tripod went down, the cameraman sprawling. The rest of the British crew jumped the Aussie, whose teammates rushed to his defense. So did the Germans. Soon three crews were swinging wildly. When the French tripod fell, and their camera was splattered with mud, other crews began to fight as well.

Hagar just stared.

No orang today, he thought.

CH017

Rick Diehlof 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 alot 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 howRick 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

It wasjust 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.