80
Building 52, The National Institutes of Health, Bethesda
“Here are your meetings for the next two days.” Florence Leighton gave Augustine a small sheet of paper he could fit in his shirt pocket for instant reference, as he liked. The list was growing; this afternoon he would be seeing the governor of Nebraska, and if there was time, he would meet with a group of financial columnists.
And he was looking forward to dinner at seven with a lovely woman who cared not a damn for his prominence in the news and his reputation as a tireless workaholic. Mark Augustine squared his shoulders and ran his finger down the list before he folded it, which was his way of telling Mrs. Leighton the list was approved and final.
“And here’s an odd one,” she added. “He has no appointment but says he’s sure you’ll want to see him.” She dropped a business card onto his desk and gave him an arch look. “A pixie.”
Augustine stared down at the name and felt a small twinge of curiosity.
“You know him?” she asked.
“He’s a reporter,” Augustine said. “A science writer with his finger in a number of steaming pies.”
“Fruit or cow?” Mrs. Leighton asked.
Augustine smiled. “All right. I’ll call his bluff. Tell him he has five minutes.”
“Bring in your coffee?”
“He’ll want tea.”
Augustine arranged his desk and put two books into a drawer. He did not want anyone snooping on what he was currently reading. One was a thin monograph, Movable Elements as Sources ofGenomic Novelty in Grasses. The second was a popular novel by Robin Cook, just published, about the outbreak of a major and unexplained disease by a new kind of organism, possibly from space. Augustine generally enjoyed outbreak novels, though he had stayed away from them for the past year. Reading this one was a sign of his new confidence.
He stood and smiled as Oliver Merton entered. “Good to see you again, Mr. Merton.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Augustine,” Merton said. “I’ve been through quite the shakedown outside. They even took my notepad.”
Augustine made an apologetic face. “There’s very little time. I’m sure you have something interesting to say.”
“Right.” Merton glanced up as Mrs. Leighton entered with a tray and two cups.
“Tea, Mr. Merton?” she asked.
Merton smiled sheepishly. “Coffee, actually. I’ve been in Seattle the last few weeks and I’m rather off tea.”
Mrs. Leighton stuck her tongue out at Augustine and went back for a cup of coffee.
“She’s bold,” Merton observed.
“We’ve worked together through some tough times,” Augustine said. “Pretty dark times, too.”
“Of course,” Merton said. “First, congratulations on getting the University of Washington conference on SHEVA postponed.”
Augustine looked puzzled.
“Something about NIH grants being withdrawn if the conference proceeded, is all I’ve managed to winkle out of a few sources at the university.”
“It’s news to me,” Augustine said.
“Instead, we’re going to hold it at a little motel off campus.
And maybe have it catered by a famous French restaurant with a sympathetic chef. Sweeten the lemon juice. If we’re going to be complete and unaffiliated rogues, we’ll enjoy ourselves.”
“You sound less than objective, but I wish you luck,” Augustine said.
Merton’s expression shifted to a challenging grin. “I’ve just heard this morning from Friedrich Brock that there’s been a wholesale rearrangement of the staff overseeing the Neandertal mummies at the University of Innsbruck. An internal scientific review concluded that key facts were being ignored and that gross scientific errors had been made. Hen-Professor Brock has been summoned to Innsbruck. He’s on his way there now.”
“I don’t know why I should be interested,” Augustine said. “We have about two minutes.”
Mrs. Leighton returned with a cup of coffee. Merton took a strong swallow. “Thank you. They’re going to treat the three mummies as a family group, related genetically. And that means they’re going to acknowledge the first solid evidence of human speciation. SHEVA has been found in these specimens.”
“Very good,” Augustine said.
Merton pressed his palms together. Florence watched him with a kind of idle curiosity.
“We’ve arrived at the verge of the long fast slope to the truth, Dr. Augustine,” Merton said. “I was curious how you would take the news.”
Augustine sucked in a small breath through his nose. “Whatever happened tens of thousands of years ago doesn’t affect our judgment about what is happening now. Not a single Herod’s fetus has gone to full term, hi fact, yesterday, we were told by scientists working with the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases that not only are these second-stage fetuses subject to first trimester rejection at a catastrophic rate, but that they are especially vulnerable to virtually every known herpes virus, including Epstein-Barr. Mononucleosis.
Ninety-five percent of everyone on Earth has Epstein-Barr, Mr. Merton.”
“Nothing will change your views, Doctor?” Merton asked.
“My one good ear still rings from the bomb that killed our president. I’ve rolled with every punch. Nothing can shake me but facts, present-day, relevant facts.” Augustine came around the desk and sat on the corner. “I wish the Innsbruck people all the best, whoever does the investigating,” he said. “There are enough mysteries in biology to last us until the end of time. The next time you’re in Washington, drop by again, Mr. Merton. I’m sure Florence will remember — no tea, coffee.”
Tray balanced on his lap, Dicken pushed his wheelchair through the Natcher Building cafeteria, saw Merton, and rolled himself to the end of the table. He set his tray down with one hand.
“Good train ride?” Dicken asked.
“Glorious,” Merton said. “I thought you should know that Kaye Lang keeps a photo of you on her desktop.”
“That’s an odd sort of message, Oliver,” Dicken said. “Why in hell should I care?”
“Because I believe you felt something more than scientific camaraderie for her,” Merton said. “She sent you letters after the bombing. You never answered.”
“If you’re going to be bloody-minded, I’ll eat elsewhere,” Dicken said, and lifted the tray again.
Merton raised his hands. “Sorry. My slash and reveal instincts at work.”
Dicken pushed the tray in and arranged his wheelchair. “I spend half my day waiting for myself to heal, worried that I’ll never recover full use of my legs or my hand…Trying to have faith in my body. The other half of the day I’m in rehab, pushing until it hurts. I don’t have time to moon over lost opportunities. Do you?”
“My girl in Leeds dumped me last week. I’m never at home. Besides, I turned positive. Scared her.”
“Sorry,” Dicken said.
“I just stopped by Augustine’s inner sanctum. He seems cocky enough.”
“The polls support him. Public health crisis blossoms into international policy. Fanatics push us into repressive legislation. It’s martial law in all but name, and the Emergency Action Taskforce sets down the medical decrees — which means they rule nearly everything. Now that Shawbeck has stepped down, Augustine is number two in the country.”
“Frightening,” Merton said.
“Show me something now that isn’t,” Dicken said.
Merton conceded that. “I’m convinced that Augustine is pulling strings to get our Northwestern conference on SHEVA shut down.”
“He’s a consummate bureaucrat — which means, he’ll protect his position using all the tools available.”