Mount Dragon (35 page)

“Bannister. With the
Globe
,” he said, not bothering to look at the guard.

“Yes sir.” The gate hummed open, and Bannister noted with amusement that the rustic logs of the gate were backed with bars of black steel.
No car bombers crashing this party
, he thought.

The mansion's oak-paneled foyer seemed empty, and Bannister walked through to the lounge. A fire blazed in an enormous hearth, and a long series of casement windows looked out over the sea, sparkling in the morning light. The faint sound of music could be heard in the background.

At first, Bannister thought he was alone. Then, in a far corner, he spotted a man in a leather armchair, drinking coffee and reading a paper. The man was wearing white gloves. The newspaper rustled between them as its pages were turned.

The man looked up. “Edwin!” he said, smiling. “Thank you for coming.”

Bannister immediately recognized the unkempt hair, the freckles, the boyish looks, the retro sports jacket over black T-shirt. So he
had
come, after all.

“Good to see you, Brent,” Bannister said, taking the proffered armchair. He automatically glanced around for a waiter.

“Coffee?” Scopes asked. He had not offered to shake hands.

“Yes, please.”

“We help ourselves here,” Scopes said. “It's over by the bookcase.”

Bannister hauled himself to his feet again, returning with a cup that promised to be less than satisfactory.

They sat in silence for a moment, and it dawned on Bannister that Scopes was listening to the music. He sipped his coffee and found it surprisingly good.

The piece ended. Scopes sighed with satisfaction, folded the newspaper carefully, and placed it next to an open briefcase beside his chair. He removed his ink-stained reading gloves and placed them on top of the paper.

“Bach's
Musical Offering
,” he said. “Are you familiar with it?”

“Somewhat,” said Bannister, hoping that Scopes wouldn't ask a question that would reveal the lie. Bannister knew next to nothing about music.

“One of the canons of the
Offering
is entitled ‘Quaerendo Invenietis.' ‘By seeking, you will discover.' It was Bach's puzzle, asking the listener to see if he could tell what intricate canonical code was used to create the music.”

Bannister nodded.

“I often think of this as a metaphor for genetics. You see the finished organism—such as a human being—and you wonder what intricate genetic code was used to create such a marvelous thing. And then you wonder, of course: If you were to change a tiny piece of this intricate code, how would that translate into flesh and blood? Just as changing a single note in a canon can sometimes end up transforming the entire melody.”

Bannister reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a tape recorder, and showed it to Scopes, who nodded his approval. Turning on the device, Bannister settled back in his chair, his hands folded.

“Edwin, my company is in a bit of a predicament.”

“How so?” Bannister already knew this was going to be good. Anything that brought Scopes out of his aerie had to be good.

“You know about the attacks Charles Levine has been making against GeneDyne. I hoped that people would recognize him for what he is, but that's been slow to happen. By hiding under the skirts of Harvard University, he acquired a credibility I wouldn't have thought possible.” Scopes shook his head. “I've known Dr. Levine for over twenty years. I was once a close friend of his, in fact. It pains me a great deal to see what has happened to him. I mean, all those claims about his father, and then it turns out he was an SS officer. Now, I don't begrudge a man for protecting the memory of his father, but did he have to lionize him with such an offensive story? It just shows that this man holds truth secondary to achieving his own ends. It shows that one must scrutinize every word he utters. The press hasn't really done that. Except for the
Globe
, thanks to you.”

“We never publish anything without verifying the facts.”

“I know, and I appreciate that. And I'm sure the people of Boston appreciate it, given that GeneDyne is one of the state's larger employers.”

Bannister inclined his head.

“In any case, Edwin, I can't sit still and take these scurrilous attacks any longer. But I need your help.”

“Brent, you know I can't
help
you,” Bannister said.

“Of course, of course,” Brent waved his hand dismissively. “Here's the situation. Obviously, we're working on a secret project at Mount Dragon. It isn't secret because of any particular danger factor, but because we face tremendous competition. We're in a winner-take-all business. You know how it works. The first company to patent a drug makes billions, while the rest eat their R-and-D investments.”

Bannister nodded again.

“Edwin, I want to assure you—as someone whose judgment I respect—that nothing uncommonly dangerous is going on at Mount Dragon. You have my word on that. We have the only Level-5 facility in existence, and our safety record is the best of any pharmaceutical company in the world. Those are facts of record. But don't take my word for it.”

He slid a file out of his briefcase and placed it before Bannister.

“This folder contains the entire safety record of GeneDyne. Normally, this information is proprietary. I want you to have it for your story. Just remember: It didn't come from me.”

Bannister looked at the file without touching it. “Thanks, Brent. You know, however, that I can't just take your word for it that you aren't working on dangerous viruses. Dr. Levine's charges—”

Scopes chuckled. “I know. The
doomsday
virus.” He leaned forward. “And that's the primary reason I've asked you here. Would you care to know just what this terrible, inconceivably deadly, virus is? The one that Dr. Levine says may end the world?”

Bannister nodded, the many years of professionalism successfully concealing his eagerness.

Scopes was looking at him, grinning mischievously. “Edwin, this is off the record, of course.”

“I would prefer—” Bannister began.

Scopes reached over and turned off the tape recorder. “There is a Japanese corporation working on a very similar line of research. On this particular type of germ-line research, they're actually ahead of us. If they realize its ramifications before we do, then we're dead. Winner take all, Edwin. We're talking about a fifteen-
billion
-dollar annual market here. I'd hate to see the Japanese increase their trade deficit with us, and have to close down GeneDyne Boston, all because Edwin Bannister at the
Globe
revealed what virus we were working with.”

“I see your point,” Bannister said, swallowing hard. Sometimes it was necessary to work off the record.

“Good. It's called
influenza
.”

“What is?” Bannister said.

Scopes's grin widened. “We're working with the flu virus. And that is the
only
virus we are working with at Mount Dragon.
That
is Levine's so-called doomsday virus.”

Scopes sat back with a look of triumph.

Bannister felt the sudden, desperate emptiness of a lead story disappearing beneath his fingers. “That's it? Just flu viruses?”

“That's right. You have my solemn promise. I want you to be able to write with a clear conscience that GeneDyne is not working with dangerous viruses.”

“But why the
flu?
”

Scopes looked surprised. “Isn't it obvious? Countless dollars in productivity are lost every year because of flu. We are working on a
cure
for the flu. Not like these flu shots that you have to take every year, and that don't work half the time. I'm talking about a permanent, onetime cure.”

“My God,” said Bannister.

“Just think what that will do to our stock price if we succeed. Those who own GeneDyne stock are going to become rich. Especially considering how cheap the stock has become recently, thanks to our friend Levine. Not rich tomorrow, but in a few months, when we announce the discovery and go into phased FDA testing.” Scopes smiled, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “And we're
going
to succeed.” Then he reached over and switched on the tape recorder.

Bannister said nothing. He was trying to imagine just how large a number fifteen billion was.

“We are taking vigorous action against Dr. Levine and his libelous statements,” Scopes continued. “You've done an excellent job so far in reporting our lawsuits against Dr. Levine and Harvard. I have news on that front. Harvard has revoked the university charter for Levine's foundation. They've been keeping the revocation under wraps, but it's about to be made public. I thought you might be interested. We will be dropping our lawsuit against Harvard, of course.”

“I see,” said Bannister, thinking quickly.
There might be a way to salvage this, after all
.

“The Faculty Committee on Tenure is reviewing Dr. Levine's contract. There is a clause in all university contracts allowing tenure to be revoked in cases of ‘moral turpitude.'” Scopes laughed softly. “Sounds like something out of the Victorian Age. But it's cooked Levine's goose, I can tell you.”

“I see.”

“We're not yet sure how he did it, but certain grains of truth in his otherwise false allegations prove he used illegal, not to mention unethical, methods to gain confidential information from GeneDyne.” Scopes slid another folder toward Bannister. “You'll find the details in here. I'm sure you will find out more in your own fashion. Obviously, my name must not appear in connection with any of this. I'm only telling you this because you're the one reporter whose ethics I most respect, and I want to help you write a balanced, fair article. Let the other newspapers write down everything Levine says without fact-checking. I know the
Globe
will be more careful.”

“We
always
check our facts,” said Bannister.

Scopes nodded. “I'm counting on you to set the record straight.”

Bannister stiffened slightly. “Brent, all you can count on is a story that presents a strictly objective, accurate rendition of the facts.”

“Exactly,” Scopes said. “That is why I'm going to be totally honest with you. There is one charge Levine made that is partially true.”

“And that is—?”

“There
was
a death at Mount Dragon recently. We were keeping the matter quiet until the family could be notified, but Levine somehow found out about it.” Scopes paused, his face growing serious at the memory. “One of our best scientists was killed in an industrial accident. As you'll see in the first folder I gave you, certain safety procedures were not followed. We immediately notified the necessary authorities, who dispatched inspectors to Mount Dragon. It's a formality, of course, and the lab remains open.”

Scopes paused. “I knew the woman well. She was—how shall I say it?—an original. Dedicated to her work. In certain ways, perhaps a bit difficult. But undeniably brilliant. You know, it's very difficult to be a brilliant woman in science, even today. She had a rough time of it until she got to GeneDyne. I lost a friend as well as a scientist.” He looked briefly at Bannister, then dropped his eyes. “The CEO is ultimately responsible. This is something I'll have to live with for the rest of my life.”

Bannister watched him, genuinely moved. “How did she—?” he began.

“She died of a head injury,” Scopes said. Then he looked at his watch. “Damn! I'm running late. Anything else you'd care to ask, Edwin?”

Bannister picked up his tape recorder. “Not at the moment—”

“Good. I hope you'll excuse me. Call me if you have any questions.”

Bannister watched the thin, slight figure of Scopes walk out of the room, toes pointing toward the walls, lugging the briefcase that seemed three sizes too large for him. An amazing fellow. Worth an amazing amount of money.

As Bannister wound his way back along the Atlantic headlands, he kept returning to that fifteen-billion-dollar figure, and what such an announcement would do to the value of GeneDyne stock. He wondered what GeneDyne was trading at right now. Come to think of it, he'd have to check that out. It wouldn't hurt to put in a call to his broker and stick his money in something a little more exciting than tax-free munis.

Carson glanced up, peering through his visor at the oversized clock on the lab wall. The amber LED display read 10:45
P.M.

An hour earlier, the Fever Tank had been full of frenzied sound, as the shriek of the alert siren sounded the drill and the suited bodies tramped down the low corridors. Now the lab was once again deserted and almost preternaturally quiet, the only audible sound the whisper of air in Carson's bluesuit and the faint hum of the negative-airflow system. The chimpanzees, disturbed by the drill, had finally ceased their hooting and screaming and had fallen into troubled sleep. Outside his own brightly lit lab, the corridor glowed a subdued red, and the cramped spaces of the Fever Tank were full of shadows.