The Immortalist (5 page)

“It's all right, Mrs. Walls. We were just wrapping up.” As Gifford spoke, a slim, balding man in a black turtleneck peered around the edge of a high-backed leather chair in front of the desk. “Jack,” said Gifford, beckoning toward Niedermann, “I'd like you to meet Lou Alberts, the science editor for the
New York Times
.”

Niedermann shook hands, then drew up a smaller chair from beside the window and set the two file folders on the floor.

The editor tapped the stylus of an electronic notepad on the arm of his chair. “Just one last question, Dr. Gifford. How does the Methuselah Vector compare to, say, resveratrol, or any of the current antiaging drugs?”

“Like a jet airplane to a kid's birthday balloon! The Vector is resveratrol's great-great-granddaddy. It controls the sirtuin genes, heat shock proteins, superoxide dismutase, DNA repair genes, telomerase, a hundred things we don't even know the names of yet. The Vector expresses the master gene. Everything else is downstream from it.

“Now, mind you, I've been taking resveratrol myself for a number of years. Nearly everyone researching this field has either been drinking a lot of red wine or taking resveratrol. I've taken vitamin E and chondroitin, too. All this stuff was good when there was nothing else. But now we have the real thing.”

Gifford stood up, cuing Alberts to offer his hand over the blotter. Hannibal, lying in a patch of sunlight below the window, lifted his massive gray head for a moment, pricked his black ears, and then went back to sleep.

“Thanks for your time, Dr. Gifford.” Alberts slipped his notepad into its leather case and exited smoothly.

“I liked this one,” said Gifford to Niedermann after the door had shut. “He knew what a transactivating domain was. I didn't have to explain telomeres or DNA regulation by methylation like he was a freshman biology student. The one from the
Wall Street Journal
was sharp, too.”

Gifford resettled himself behind his desk and fell to studying a sheaf of papers. They were multicolored tracings of DNA sequence data—red, green, yellow, and blue—that were used to guarantee the purity of each batch of the Methuselah Vector in the production lab.

“What happened to those special guests of yours?” asked Gifford without looking up.

“I left them in the lounge of Grainger House. Buffet brunch and a fully stocked bar.” Niedermann couldn't resist a smile. There were a few other treats, too, tailored to their special needs. Mancus, for example. OxyContin addict. That's where research came in. The first rule of handling people was to know more about them than they knew themselves.

Gifford frowned. “What's with all these Hollywood and Washington types, anyway? I didn't see any doctors on your list. Shouldn't you have invited the surgeon general?”

“Doctors don't make public opinion. As for the surgeon general—he's forty-eight years old. He runs five miles a day and thinks he'll live forever.”

“So you picked these people because they're . . .
old
?”

“I picked them because they have power. Plus they'll understand the urgency of the work we're doing. At the end of the day, they'll be motivated to help us.”

“I didn't realize that we needed so much help.”

“That's because you live in an ivory tower, Doctor. Trust me, this is how the world works.” Niedermann smiled impatiently
.
“So, about that other matter. The proxies—have you given them any thought?”

Gifford seemed not to hear him. “Jack, what was the problem with batch forty-six?” he blurted out. “The Vector yield was only seven hundred picograms. That's less than one dose.”

Niedermann bit his lower lip. He had seen Gifford slip into his own train of thought like this before. He knew it was useless trying to dislodge him. It was an occupational disease of scientists. “They grow this stuff out of cultured cells,” he told Gifford a little gruffly. “It's pretty tricky. The people in the lab say there wasn't enough magnesium in the culture medium and the cells wouldn't divide. It was just a glitch—but we caught it.”

“Not acceptable. This is what I get for letting your production engineers set up the reactors.”

“The other batch yields are on-target. We'll just mix forty-six with one of the others.”

“No. Destroy it.”

“Are you serious? That's nearly two hundred thousand dollars' worth of product.”

“Everything has to be perfect, Jack. We're creating history here. We have a responsibility—to the public, to ourselves. To mankind.”

Niedermann chuckled. All the colored sequence charts in the world wouldn't put Gifford wise to what had really happened to batch 46. “You're going to drive yourself crazy worrying like this. Why don't you just relax for a few hours and enjoy the show.”

“You could be right. The stress . . . I haven't slept in days. But I'm not tired. Really, I'm not.”

Niedermann noticed Gifford moving his pen over the sheets of DNA sequence printouts. When Niedermann looked more closely, he saw that the pages were covered with little black doodles. That was odd. Gifford was no doodler.

Gifford threw down his pen. “Have you talked to the people on the New York end? Phone lines and websites are up?”

“Up and ready. Radio City Music Hall is available, too, and our people have started planning decorations for it.”

“Radio City?” Gifford frowned. “I told you I wanted the ceremonies outside, in the Lower Plaza. I want that gilded statue of Prometheus framing the dais from every camera view. ‘Prometheus, teacher in every art, who brought the fire that hath proved to mortals a means to mighty ends.' Do you not understand the symbolism?”

“We need Radio City in case it rains. There's a sixty percent chance of—”

“Never mind the rain. Just ask your people to carry out their instructions.”

Niedermann laughed. He resented Gifford's arrogance, but still needed to humor him
.
For now. “Relax. The plaza is ours. Radio City is just for backup.”

Gifford went back to looking at his DNA sequence charts.

“You haven't answered my question about the proxies.”

“I have to think about it,” Gifford muttered.

“It's in your interest, Charles.”

“How so?”

“When Phillip Eden signed the deal for the Methuselah Vector, he bought out your start-up company, Aeterna Enterprises, in exchange for thirty percent of the voting stock of Eden Pharmaceuticals. He made you an instant billionaire.”

“Yes. He was very generous.”

“No, he shortchanged you, if the truth be told. The Methuselah Vector is the most important drug in the history of mankind. You could have gotten a much better deal.”

Gifford shrugged. “Even if you're right, so what? The contract's been signed.”

“Contracts can be rewritten. What would you say to three billion dollars in construction capital for our joint venture with Acadia Springs? Plus five hundred million a year for research—for anything at all; you would have absolute discretion—guaranteed for ten years? This, of course, would be on top of the billion and a half we've already spent or committed to the Methuselah Vector itself. It would all be yours, free and clear. That, plus a permanent seat on the board of directors.”

“In exchange for . . .”

“A simple signature on the shareholder's proxy form.”

Gifford smiled and sighed. “Ah, yes, the proxies.”

“All it does is transfer your voting rights at the next shareholders' meeting of Eden Pharmaceuticals, Incorporated.”

“At which I shall wield thirty percent of the votes, if I understand correctly. Second only to Phillip Eden and the Eden family bloc.”

“Yes.”

Gifford leaned back in his chair. “And what do you intend to do with my proxy votes?”

“The company needs new leadership, Charles. The Methuselah Vector is a new drug for a new age. It begs for a CEO who isn't afraid to go where no one's gone before.”

Gifford smiled. “You?”

Niedermann stiffened. “After the ceremonies today, I intend to issue a call for an emergency meeting of the Eden stockholders. A coup d'état, if you will.”

“With only thirty percent of the votes?”

“There are others with a stake in the company who will join me.”

“I see. Might one perhaps find them gathered this very moment in the lounge of Grainger House?”

Niedermann smiled but said nothing.

Gifford drew his hands over his face and sighed. “Jack, you were the first person to recognize the unique promise of the Methuselah Vector. I acknowledge that. But Phillip Eden's been very fair to me. I don't see how I could double-cross him.”

“Fair? Hah! He's double-crossed
you
, Charles.”

“How?”

“Look at this.” On cue, Niedermann scooped up the thicker of the two manila folders from under his chair. “These are confidential files from the Aeterna acquisition. Secret memos. Minutes of late-night meetings. They'll open your eyes. You'll see the hardball tricks Eden played with you. The maneuvers of his army of lawyers. The Doomsday Plan he had to tear the Vector out of your hands if you didn't play along. Look at it, Charles. Then tell me how much you owe it to him to be fair.”

Niedermann held out the folders, but Gifford made no move to take them. “I'm sorry, Jack. I can't accept that. It wouldn't be ethical.”

How could Gifford be so naive?
His air of superiority set Niedermann's teeth on edge. Brainy guys like him never acknowledged that they had started out life as lottery winners. Sure, Gifford was just the son of a couple of schoolteachers in South Podunk, Indiana. But his IQ set him up as securely as any trust fund. Look at his trajectory: University of Indiana for his bachelor's; UCLA for his MD; Stanford for his PhD; Johns Hopkins for his postdoc; a hotshot section directorship at the NIH; and then his own lab at Acadia Springs, all before he was thirty-five years old. Niedermann had never had advantages like that. He got where he was by taking risks and putting his life's blood on the line for every deal and every promotion.

Now was no exception. He had hocked himself up the wazoo to buy stock options in the company. His bank account had less liquidity than a mirage in the Sahara. So far, he had managed to hide the situation from Elaine, but with a son in the Francis Parker School, a daughter at Brown, and an astronomical mortgage on a nine-bedroom Tudor in Glencoe, the repercussions of a screw-up would be instantaneous. And brutal. Eden could go into full Caligula mode if you crossed him. Blacklists. Lawsuits. News leaks. Criminal prosecutions. One plant manager in Chicago was rumored to have committed suicide over what Eden did to him. Gifford would never understand pressures like that.

Niedermann set the thick file on his lap and reached down to pick up the thin one. “At least look at this.” He extended it to Gifford. “This is my offer to you. Everything I've promised. In writing.”

“I'll look at it. But don't get your hopes up.”

Niedermann's fingers dented the folder as he held it out, so much so that Gifford had a hard time pulling it from his grip.

“Dr. Gifford,” came Mrs. Walls's scratchy voice over the intercom, “your next interviewer is ready. Ms. Betty Osterson, from
People
magazine.”

“Science editor from
People
?”

“I don't think
People
has a science editor, Dr. Gifford.”

Gifford sighed. “All right. Show her in.”

Gifford stood up as the door opened and a pert redhead in a blue pantsuit came through. She was followed by Mrs. Walls, who brought with her a plastic bottle of spring water, its screw-top preloosened, carrying it not in her hand but on a silver tray. Niedermann sneered at the sight of it. He knew that Gifford made a fetish of drinking eight twelve-ounce bottles of water every day.

Fuck it,
thought Niedermann. The conversation wasn't over—not by a long shot. When Gifford accepted thirty percent of the company from Eden, he became a player, like it or not.

Niedermann shoved the thick folder under his arm. As he stood up to go, his eye was caught once again by Gifford's doodles on the sheets spread out on his desk. It was the same thing over and over: a small black insect, with oversize hind legs bent like a Greek letter, lambda.

What was the name of that woman out by the gate? Rensselaer-Wright.
But Gifford had called her something else.

Cricket.

Niedermann smiled as he realized that he had just cracked the code of Gifford's private thoughts. He had heard of Cricket, but always in connection with her father. It had never occurred to him that she might have had an emotional hold on Gifford himself.

Here was a new deal in the game. The spell of a woman was one of the most powerful ways to get inside a man's head. It could work to his advantage, if he played it right.

Hmmm.
This called for a little “research” on Cricket Rensselaer-­Wright.

Fortunately, he knew just the right man for that.

Five