The Magic Bullet (48 page)

But it was already past four o’clock. In less than half an hour, Logan headed from the building and hailed a cab. He couldn’t chance missing her again.

He had the driver let him off at the Foggy Bottom Metro station on Twenty-third Street and moved around a nearby corner. The spot allowed him an unimpeded view of pedestrians approaching the station from the direction of Amy’s building on M.

He waited about ten minutes, and there she suddenly was; moving briskly but, as he had hoped, alone. He began walking slowly toward her.

“Amy?” he said, feigning delight at a chance encounter.

Startled, she reflexively smiled. “Hi.” Then, she recognized him; and to his surprise, the smile turned genuine. “I had a feeling you were coming.”

Taking his elbow, she led him briskly back around the corner.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m trying to figure out where we can talk.”

“I got the idea you didn’t want to.”

“You caught me at a bad time—at home.” She glanced over her shoulder.

“What, you think you’re being followed?”

“I don’t know. Probably we should just keep walking.” She laughed uneasily. “You can tell I’m not very good at this.”

“Amy, what happened to John?”

She said nothing, merely increased her pace, making a left onto L, then another onto Twenty-second; then turning quickly to look behind her again. “What’d Atlas say to you?”

“That they found him in his office. That he’d done it with pills.”

“That’s what they told me too.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I guess I do.” She looked deeply pained. “Dan, you knew John, did he ever seem the suicidal type to you?”

“No. That’s what struck me.” Hell, he’d rarely known anyone so astonishingly unburdened by self-doubt or moral unease—even when he should have been.

“I don’t know, I don’t know what to believe.” She said nothing for half a block. “They were after him for information. About Compound J. They were pushing him really hard.”

Logan’s blood went cold. “Stillman?”

She nodded. “They wanted to know how the stuff worked, things he just couldn’t tell them. Because—let’s face it—he hadn’t been that involved.”

“Right.” Logan could almost see it: the cocky, insecure Reston—that
jerk
—eager to give them what they wanted, desperate to play the big man, but powerless to do so. He tried to make the question sound innocuous. “Why did they want to know?”

She shrugged. “But obviously, they thought more of Compound J than they pretended. And you know John, that’s how he got back at them.”

“What do you mean?”

“He challenged them about it,
taunted
them.” She smiled mirthlessly. “At least that’s what he told me. He might have been exaggerating.”

Having walked five blocks, turning corners apparently at random, they suddenly found themselves on busy Connecticut Avenue.

Now that she’d let it all out, Amy was visibly more relaxed. Even her apprehension about being trailed seemed gone. She indicated a nearby bar-restaurant. “I think I need a drink.”

But the conversation had had the opposite effect on Logan. Though years of medical training had taught him to maintain a calm front, his mouth was dry and he felt weightless on his feet. “Not me, I’ll take a rain check.”

She started to turn away. “Don’t be too hard on him, Dan. He was a bastard, but he never hurt anyone intentionally.”

What the hell did
that
mean? “See you, Amy. Watch yourself.”

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing to you.”

As soon as she’d disappeared into the bar, he jerked around, scanning the busy street. Nothing—but how would he know otherwise?

It was early evening now. This was a hip area, lots of nice shops and good restaurants. Couples fresh from work were everywhere; the men with loosened ties, many of the women having exchanged their work shoes for comfortable running shoes. Without thinking about it, he darted into a bookstore.

At least he’d be safe here. But abruptly he thought of Georgi Markov, the Bulgarian dissident murdered by the KGB in London. He’d read a good deal on the case: how they’d stuck him at a bus stop with the point of an umbrella,
using a plant lectin called ricin, almost undetectable by traditional forensic techniques. What, he wondered, had they used on Reston?

What had Atlas fed him?

It could have been anything. Toxins distilled from near-extinct Amazonian plants, retrieved by botanists contracted by the ACF to scavenge for new anticancer drugs. Materials so rare and poisonous that millionths of a microgram could kill, and yet leave no apparent trace. He knew full well higher-ups at the ACF had readier access to such compounds than any intelligence branch of any government on earth.

Logan walked quickly from the shop. His car was still in the underground garage by the National Archives. When the cabbie dropped him at the entrance, he ran to it without looking back.

Seated behind the wheel, he tried to collect himself. This was crazy, he wasn’t doing himself any good.

Maybe it was simply his state of mind, but suddenly he knew what he had to do.

It took him no more than twenty minutes to reach Seth Shein’s home in Arlington. Pulling up before the large Tudor, he saw Shein’s red Range Rover at the head of the driveway. The car, seemingly so out of character, was a source of immense pride to the senior man.

Heading up the walk, Logan knew he still wasn’t thinking clearly. What did he expect to come of this? An honest explanation? Reassurance of some kind?

He was still considering when Alice Shein opened the door. He saw her shocked dismay. “Seth,” she shouted. “Seth, come here!”

“What the hell is it?” Logan heard him shout back. “I’m busy.”

A moment later he appeared at the door in baggy trousers and a work shirt, hammer in hand. Seeing Logan, he recoiled—but recovered immediately. “Logan, you look like shit.”

Just for an instant, the younger man was overwhelmed
by doubt. “I need to know what’s going on,” he said, fighting for control.

“With you?” Shein replied. “Not much, from the looks of it.” He looked his visitor over contemptuously. “Don’t think I’m gonna ask you in. No one invited you here.”

Defiantly, Logan elbowed past him into the house, then wheeled on him. “What happened to Reston?”

“You’re trespassing, Logan,” Shein said mildly. “And you still look like shit.”

“What happened to Reston? What’d they give to him?”

“Reston finally figured out what a nothing he was and did something about it. End of story.” He snorted. “We’re all better off without him, including him.”

“Why’re they killing my lab animals?”

“Killing your lab animals?”
Shein laughed out loud. “You got it wrong, Logan—
you
killed those animals. What the hell’s happening to your mind, you’re embarrassing yourself!”

Logan’s response was spontaneous, almost primal. “You motherfucker!” he shouted. “You say you’re interested in helping people! You don’t give a fuck about anyone but yourself!”

“So what? Look at you—obviously, you don’t even give a fuck about that.”

The sight of Shein standing there with that smug smile was too much; abruptly, Logan snapped. Knocking the hammer from his hand, he slammed Shein against the open front door. “You bastard,” said Logan, breathing hard. “You wreck people’s lives and don’t give it a second thought!”

Pinned tight against the door, Shein was still smiling. “Untrue. I only wreck ’em if it’s the most attractive alternative.” He looked into his eyes. “What are you gonna do, Logan, beat me up? That’s your whole problem, you’re outta control. You’re worse than just a loser, you’re a crybaby.”

Logan’s fingers dug into Shein’s arms as he tightened
his grip. Shein winced—but his voice didn’t waver. “Accept it, Logan, you just weren’t good enough.”

“You fucker. You know damn well that Compound J works!”

“My God,” taunted Shein, “I never thought my judgment could be so off—you’re pathetic.”

“Why else are you still interested? Why else was Stillman after Reston about it?”

“You’re outta your head, Logan, you’re a fuckin’ maniac.”

Logan shook him violently. “Tell me, goddamn you!”

“Let go of me,” he shouted.

Logan did so.

“Good,” said Shein, rubbing his upper arm. “Now get the hell outta here and crawl back in your hole. I got a kitchen cabinet to fix.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me the truth!”

“Alice,” he suddenly called out.

Looking up, Logan saw Mrs. Shein standing at the top of the staircase, terrified.

“Call the cops,” instructed Shein. “No, make it the federal marshals … tell ‘em we got a psycho here threatening a guy with security clearance.”

Quickly, Alice darted into another room.

“I swear,” said Logan softly, “you’re not going to get away with this.”

“Of course I will. Some of us are just winners.”

Suddenly, Logan lashed out with his fist, hitting him square in the face. Shein crumpled to the floor, a thin stream of blood trickling from his nose.

“Nice,” said Shein, wiping his nose deliberately with his sleeve, “a sucker punch. You’re as honest in a fight as you are in the lab.” He called again to his wife. “Tell ’em to hurry. Also that he’s driving a beat-up white Ford—a real piece of crap.”

Turning, totally spent, Logan walked quickly out the door.

Shein remained on the floor, watching Logan drive off.

But now, staggering to his feet, he headed for his office.
Did he have the home number of the ACF pharmacist in his address book?

Yes, there it was! Seizing the phone, Shein punched it in.

S
omeone was following him—he was sure of it! For nearly fifty miles, from the start of the New Jersey Turnpike leaving Delaware to beyond Trenton, the headlights remained constantly at the same distance behind him; switching lanes as he did, seeming to mirror his every change of speed.

Pulling off at a rest stop, he did not leave the car—just sat and waited, staring into his rearview mirror, the exit ramp in full view behind him. Nothing—just a steady flow of cars driving up to the pumps and then off into the night. After ten minutes, he eased back onto the turnpike.

He snapped on the radio. Listening—even to a late-night talk-radio crazy going on about the JFK assassination—steadied his nerves. It at least provided the illusion he wasn’t entirely alone.

Then, suddenly, just outside of New Brunswick, it was back. Or—he couldn’t be sure—maybe this was a different car. This one stayed with him for ten minutes, fifteen. But when he slowed down to take the exit, it zoomed right past him, a boxy Volvo wagon. A family car.

Had his eyes been playing tricks on him? Or—worse—was it his mind?

It occurred to him, an oddly comforting thought, that he’d had only four or five hours’ sleep over the past two days; his perceptions might be off simply as a physiological result. Thinking about it, he was hit by a wave of exhaustion.

Briefly, he considered spending the rest of the night at a motel. But, no, he was no more than an hour and a half
from the city. And—if they were out there—why make it easier on them?

He traveled the rest of the way in the right-hand lane, at a steady fifty-five. Dropping off the car at the lot, he caught a cab and made it home by 1:30
A.M
.

The flashing red light at his bedside indicated he had only one message. He was not surprised it was from Perez.

“Hey, Logan, what are you doing to me, man? Lemme hear from you as soon as you get back.
Immediately!
I don’t care how late!”

Kicking off his shoes, Logan collapsed on the bed.
What time is it in Italy?
he wondered. But before he’d even done the math, he was asleep.

At that moment, Seth Shein was wide awake, his every sense on full alert. His eye moved from one to another of the four files open before him on his desk at the ACF, each distinctly labeled in black marker:
RHOME, KOBER, WILLIAMS, DIETZ
.

Again, he picked up the Dietz autopsy report, almost identical to those of Williams and Rhome: “Fulminent hepatic necrosis … pleural effusion … question of pericardial tamponade.” Each of these women had gone from apparent good health to total physiological decompensation and death in a matter of a few hours; their livers shut down, their lungs no longer performing, their hearts weakened beyond hope.

But what about Kober? She’d had the same initial positive reaction to the drug as the others. Why in her case had there been no comparable devastation afterward?

He chuckled to himself. In a way, it was too bad she
hadn’t
died—that way he’d have an autopsy report on
her
for comparative purposes.

Already, he’d carefully examined all the women’s treatment schedules. They’d been close to identical. Kober had not missed any treatments, as one line of inquiry had led him to speculate; nor had her dosage ever been even marginally reduced. Like the others, she’d received her full
complement of Compound J—two grams’ worth, every other week for over four months.

Idly, he flipped through the Kober file; then, for the third time, pulled out her CAT scan.

He held the film over his head so it was illuminated by the overhead light. There were eight pictures, each representing a slice of the patient’s body at a different level. The liver, homogeneous, took up almost one entire picture; in the next, he once again noted the upper pole of the left kidney, the kidney hilum, the indentation in it where the blood vessels enter and exit. Then … wait a minute, what was this? Where was the upper pole of the
right
kidney?

Quickly, he turned to the notes on her initial examination. Here was confirmation: this woman has only one kidney!

Shein laid the file aside and leaned back in his chair. On the face of it, this made no sense at all. In fact, it was
backward
. Like many drugs, Compound J was eliminated via the kidneys. Lacking a kidney, she’d have had
more
drug in her body than the others, not less. Given the drug’s established toxicity, she should’ve gotten sick and died sooner!