The Delta Factor (10 page)

Fernando Aristide Montoya de Cunhor surveyed his kingdom with a very disapproving gaze. A frown sharpened his aquiline features. He was actually very pleased, but Fernando de Cunhor had long ago learned that people moved much faster if they feared his wrath.

De Cunhor's kingdom of some seven thousand souls lay in the heart of Sao Paulo, a city that came second in any number of categories. The industrial center of Brazil, Sao Paulo was second only to Poland's “Triangle of Death” in air and water pollution. It was second only to the turbulent native townships outside Johannesburg in nightly murders. It was second to Medellin, the world's capital of cocaine production, in street battles between armed gangs. It was second to its more temperate neighbor to the north, Rio de Janiero, in the number of homeless street kids under the age of nine.

Sao Paulo was home to more than ten million people, eighty percent of whom were considered by United Nations' standards to live below the poverty line. Shanty towns crawled about the hills surrounding the city's industrial complexes like rapidly growing cancers. Entire families lived in one-room hovels constructed from corrugated metal and plastic sheeting. The unpaved streets were constantly awash with sewage, so that from a distance the rubble-strewn lanes looked like bleeding veins.

Sao Paulo proper was a city of walls. Factories and homes and crumbling apartment buildings were all lined by high concrete battlements topped with barbed wire and shards of glass. The walls acted as dikes against the rising flood of crime. The city's newspapers were daily full of warnings against the problem. The issue was constantly on everyone's lips.

Fernando de Cunhor also hated crime. He had a security staff of one hundred armed men and fifty attack dogs to protect his factories and his family and his three private villas. He traveled everywhere in a bulletproof limousine, accompanied by three bodyguards. He worried constantly that he or a member of his family might be kidnapped. He paid protection money every month to the local mob.

Yes, Fernando de Cunhor hated crime as much as any of his countrymen. But he did not mind the poverty. Not at all. Fernando de Cunhor loved the freedom and the flexibility that a city of poverty gave to a man of wealth.

To the developed world, Fernando de Cunhor would have been known by his title of Chairman and Managing Director of the Medyka Pharmaceutical Company. But to the seven thousand people who relied on him for their daily bread, Fernando de Cunhor was known simply as
Padron
. The boss. Or more accurately, the king, for his was literally a life-and-death power over his employees and their families.

With an unemployment rate approaching thirty percent, a man or woman fired from Medyka stood little chance of finding a job elsewhere. And with a national social-security system swamped by an inflation rate of more than 600 percent per year, life without a job meant a daily threat of starvation.

Rare was the man or woman who dared cross or question Fernando de Cunhor. He was accustomed to being obeyed.

Now he turned his dark gaze from the window and focused upon the young man standing before his desk. “You say the information is valid?”

“Yes, Padron. The scientist we hired in Washington has checked it carefully and says that it all fits together well.”

“And the FDA man is to obtain the production specifications for you next week?”

“On Wednesday, Padron.”

Fernando de Cunhor permitted himself a thin-lipped smile. “You have done well, Luis.”

The young man gave a stiff little bow. “Thank you, Padron.”

Fernando de Cunhor studied the young man standing before his desk. He had initially had great reservations about taking Luis on. The young man was a distant relative, a nephew several times removed, from a branch of the family that had previously produced nothing but troublemakers and spendthrifts. But the request had come from de Cunhor's aging mother. Blood is blood, the old woman had said. And the young man has studied in America. How often I have heard you wish for someone trustworthy who knew that country? Just see him, talk with him. Is that too much for a mother to ask?

For the sake of peace, he had reluctantly agreed. But at their first meeting, Fernando de Cunhor had detected something unusual in the young man. Something familiar. A hint of the same ruthless drive that had propelled a druggist's son to become the ruler of the nation's third largest pharmaceutical empire.

Yes. The young man had promise.

De Cunhor asked, “What else did our scientist tell you?”

“That whatever the process, it will be very difficult to produce these compounds. Some of the molecular chains are extremely complex.”

Fernando de Cunhor nodded. It was to be expected. Those American scientists were clever. “We must begin on the paperwork immediately.”

“I will initiate the process before my return,” his nephew agreed.

De Cunhor and his colleagues in the Brazilian pharmaceuticals industry were no respecters of international patents. They did not ignore U.S. patent laws, however; the United States was too strong a political and economic force for them to publicly flaunt their disregard. Instead, they maneuvered around the laws in a uniquely Brazilian manner.

Every major Brazilian drug manufacturer had at least one government patent official on their payroll. For suitable sums, that official would be most willing not only to backdate an application, but also to “lose” the international paperwork that notified other countries. A new Brazilian drug could thus be copied from an existing one, the production process begun, and the market penetrated before an official protest from the United States could be lodged. Legal challenges to such abuses of patent infringement were expensive and often futile. International tribunals were slow to take action, and Brazilian courts moved on such complaints at the pace of arthritic snails. In many instances, by the time the case was actually tried, the patent's validity had already expired.

Most of the American pharmaceutical giants responded to this threat by establishing their own Brazilian factories, protecting themselves and their patents by operating within the same corrupt system. The Brazilian drug companies thus focused their search-and-copy missions to second-tier companies that did not produce in their market.

Pharmacon was a perfect target.

Fernando de Cunhor inspected his manicured hands. He wore a heavy gold ring bearing the family crest and a gold watch with the same crest emblazoned upon the face with diamonds. He asked, “You return when?”

“Monday, Padron.”

“We will have to find some way to slow this Pharmacon down.”

The subordinate nodded. He had thought of the same thing. “I have an idea.”

Fernando de Cunhor looked up. “Yes?”

Luis explained his concept. The chairman heard him out, thought it over for a long moment, then nodded. “It solves our problem. See that it is done.” He inspected the young man and said, “Your efforts will be properly rewarded, Luis.”

Again the slight bow. “Thank you, Padron.”

The hand motioned a dismissal. As his nephew turned for the door, de Cunhor added as in afterthought, “There must be no tongues left to wag.”

“I shall see to it, Padron. Personally.”

Fernando de Cunhor watched as the young man quietly closed the door behind him. The Padron nodded his satisfaction. Great promise indeed.

6

Cliff Devon walked the halls of the FDA on Wednesday morning, and reflected that he was one lucky CSO.

His FDA drug review team worked exceptionally well together. In a federal organization, especially one staffed primarily with brains, such synergy was nothing short of miraculous.

Cliff's actual title was Consumer Safety Officer for the team. In truth, Cliff functioned as chief grunt. The others were all specialists—a chemist, a pharmacologist, a physician, a biostatistician, and a microbiologist. Cliff had majored in business at college and taken only those biology courses that Deborah had taught. That unusual mixture, however, had proven ideal for his work as CSO. Cliff learned early on that his duties consisted of everything that nobody else wanted to do.

Cliff worked with all the drug companies' representatives, kept up with all the incoming documents, moved all applications through the process, fielded all complaints and demands for more speed in processing, and made all requests for more information from the applicants. In other words, Cliff was the team's chief go-between, facilitator, and wheel-greaser.

The fact that Cliff did not mind dealing with federal administrivia was one reason their team ran so smoothly. He recognized his own limitations. He admired the others for their talents. And they in turn were delighted to have an administrator who was neither bitter nor bored.

Cliff's team looked to him for guidance. They trusted his word. As a result, they granted him more freedom to maneuver than any other CSO within the organization—a fact that Sandra Walters positively loathed.

It had taken until Wednesday for Cliff to bring the team together to discuss the situation at Pharmacon. Arranging a full-level team meeting on such short notice meant canceling half a day's work on other urgent matters. At any one time, each team member worked on up to a dozen drug applications. Each new drug application contained several hundred thousand pages of reports and trial data through which they had to sift. Such unscheduled team meetings meant pressing matters being pushed aside. Still, they did it for him.

Cliff's chief ally on the team was a no-nonsense physician named Dana Browning. Dana was a pediatric oncologist, a childhood cancer specialist, attempting to recover from an advanced case of burnout. Two years before, worn down by the regular experience of watching children die, she had taken a leave of absence from her regular work and buried herself in the comparative safety of new drug applications. She had insisted on working with a drug review team that had as little as possible to do with children, and this had landed her on Cliff's team. He considered her a treasure.

As was his habit, Cliff arrived early at the conference room. Granting the rest of the team status through knowing he had waited for them. Counting their time as more important than his own. Taking the extra moments to review what needed to be covered. Thinking back to the weekend before.

Sunday had been a disappointment. Deborah had called his guesthouse while he was still in bed to tell him, “I had a great dream. I was in my favorite opera,
La Bohème
. I gave Mimi a pill, and she recovered.”

Cliff rolled over and rubbed his face. “I think coffee would help me make sense of that one.”

“I guess you had to be there.”

He swung his feet to the floor. “I always wished Bogie had gotten on the plane with Ilsa and left Casablanca for good.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Or maybe tonight you could walk into
Love Story
and convince Ryan O'Neil to fall in love with somebody who doesn't die. Instead, she gets fat and has nine kids and makes pot roast every night.”

“Can we please change the subject?”

“Sure. When are you coming over?”

“I'm not. This day looks like a nonstarter. Sorry, Junior.”

“Don't be. Do you need anything?”

“To be alone. To get better. To have this medicine work on me as well as it has on some of the others. To be given a miracle healing.” She paused, then went on, “Have I forgotten anything? No, I guess that pretty well sums things up.”

“I just wish I could do something.”

“You can,” she said. “Come back down again soon.”

“How about next weekend?”

“That would be great. Would you really?”

“I was thinking about it. That friend of yours sure is a handful.”

“Had a nice time last night, did we?”

“A beauty, but a handful. She gave me a lot to think about.”

“How nice for you.” Deborah's smile came over the telephone. “Well, I want you to come stay with me this time. There's no need for you to spend money on a guesthouse when I've got a perfectly good spare room going to waste.”

On his way out of town, Cliff had driven by to see Blair. This time, instead of hurrying up on the porch, he stopped and savored the picture the old house presented.

The houses to either side were much more impressive. To the left was a staid Jacobean manor, standing white and strict and proper, granted stodgy support by four external brick chimneys. To the right was a Victorian house, glorious in cream and ivory, lavishly embellished with peaks and trellises.

Miss Sadie's house stood between them but farther back from the road, as though it were a tad bashful to stand between such fine examples of the builder's craft. The carved wooden posts supporting her double balcony were in dire need of painting. The front steps sagged a trifle under their weight of years and feet and memories. The trio of front-porch rockers looked scarred and worn and humble. Yet the trellises climbing both side walls were heavy with bougainvillaea. The front yard was crowded with ancient magnolia and blooming crepe myrtle trees. Twining roses clambered for space on the porch handrails. Nesting birds sang the glory of a warm welcome.

“What on earth are you doing out there, young man,” Miss Sadie called out from her place on the porch. “Ladies with proper upbringing do not appear unless the young man comes up the steps and asks for her.”

Cliff climbed from his car and walked up to the house. “I've been looking for a home like this all my life.”

“My goodness, this house is falling down around my ears,” Miss Sadie retorted, easing herself back into the rocker. “But I reckon it will last as long as I do. Care to set a spell?”

“Thank you.” He sat and looked out across the street to where the placid waters of Edenton Bay joined with the morning mists. The bay's shores were heavily forested, the nearby waters adorned with tiny islands just large enough to support half a dozen cypress trees. “This is beautiful.”