Enever smiled thinly, as he sat stiffly in one of his armchairs.
Art caught his attention. 'Thomas, before you start, I wonder if you could just explain to Lynette here what neuroxil-5 does, and how it is progressing.'
'Why certainly,' said Enever, smiling thinly at Gil and Mauer. Alzheimer's disease is a complicated illness that no one really understands at the moment.' His accent was a hybrid of American and his native Australian. 'It strikes with increasing frequency as people get older. Over a period of many years, Alzheimer's kills millions of brain cells. At first the effect is too small to be noticed. Then the patient begins to forget small things, then larger things until they forget their own name, or the faces of their family. Eventually the body forgets how to function, and the patient dies. It's a horrible disease, for the sufferer who becomes increasingly confused by the world around him, and for the sufferer's family, who see their loved one's personality disappear with their memory'
I remembered Carl's story about a woman at the Alzheimer's clinic whose husband had lost his smile, and his fear that that would happen to Aunt Zoe.
'There are a number of processes that develop in the brain of an Alzheimer's patient,' Enever went on. 'The pathways of one of the brain's neurotransmitters become blocked. A twisted plaque builds up in certain parts of the brain releasing molecules known as free radicals that attack the brain cells. Then the brain cells themselves become flooded with calcium. The result of all this is that the brain cells die, although it's hard to tell what is cause and what is effect. Most treatments focus on one or other of these processes.'
Enever's face was animated, as he talked fluently and coherently.
'But these are the symptoms, not the cause. What we have managed to do is identify a gene that, at a certain stage in a patient's life, begins to emit messages to the body that set in train these various effects. These messages are carried by molecules of ribonucleic acid or RNA. We have developed a molecule that neutralizes the RNA emitted by this gene, thus preventing the Alzheimer's from developing further. This is neuroxil-5.'
'So the patient is cured?' Mauer asked.
'Not exactly. Once the brain cells are dead, we can't resurrect them. But we can prevent the death of more brain cells, and hence slow down or even stop the progression of the disease.'
'And how many Alzheimer patients are there?'
'It's difficult to say. The government estimates there are four million in the US alone. They figure the cost to society at about eighty billion dollars a year. And of course those numbers will grow as other medical advances allow people to live longer and the population as a whole ages.'
'That's a huge market.'
Enever twitched a smile. This time his eyes smiled too. 'Billions of dollars.'
Lynette Mauer paused, blinking through her glasses. Gil shifted in his seat, unsure whether she was about to say something, or if he could safely interrupt. Eventually, she spoke. 'Couldn't you give this drug to people with the Alzheimer's gene to prevent them from developing the disease? You know, almost a vaccine?'
Another smile. 'You're very perceptive,' Enever said. 'I couldn't possibly comment.'
God. I could see what Lynette Mauer was driving at. BioOne really could be worth billions if they were able to sell neuroxil-5 to any fifty-year-old who was worried about developing Alzheimer's in old age. I was pretty sure I hadn't heard Art mention that prospect for the company. It was obviously something Enever had up his sleeve for the future.
'And how is the drug progressing?' Mauer asked.
'The clinical trials are going excellently at the moment, although as you know, they are double blinded, which means we won't have a real idea of the results until the trials are completed next year. I'm afraid I can't go into anything more specific. We take confidentiality very seriously here at BioOne. But provided the trials don't throw up any problems, and frankly I don't expect them to, neuroxil-5 will be on the market by the end of next year.'
'Thank you, Dr Enever,' Art said. 'Now, perhaps you can tell us something about Boston Peptides.'
Enever launched into a similar description of BP 56. He was enthusiastic about its prospects for treating Parkinson's disease, but somehow managed to imply that the drug itself had been developed by accident. Then Jerry talked about the deal itself, and Daniel handed round his figures.
They showed strong revenues for BP 56 starting in year seven. As Lisa had always told me, biotechnology is a long-term business.
'How are you going to integrate Boston Peptides into your business?' Ravi asked.
'That won't be a problem,' said Enever. 'We're really just buying the drug. Many drugs are discovered like this, more or less by accident, but they need professional guidance to get them to market.' I stiffened. I didn't like this.
'Although Boston Peptides does have a very exciting new treatment for Parkinson's disease, it doesn't have the capital or the infrastructure or, quite frankly, the management expertise to develop this treatment to its full potential.'
My colleagues tensed. Art threw me a worried glance. I didn't like this at all.
I knew I should keep my mouth shut, but I couldn't. 'Management expertise?' I asked as innocently as I could. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Art's glance turn into a glare.
'Yes. There are very few scientists who are able to take a drug all the way through from the discovery stage to marketing. At BioOne we are fortunate that we have people who can do that.' Meaning Enever himself, I assumed. 'Boston Peptides has a different culture. Less rigorous, less disciplined.'
'So you will have to make changes at Boston Peptides?'
'Oh, undoubtedly. We'll have to let some scientists go. They've done their part, now it's time for others to take over.'
Done their part! Lisa, had devoted many years of her life to BP 56, as had her colleagues, and Enever was planning to shuffle them off before they had had a chance to see the fruit of their work. I did not like this man.
Art stepped in with a question about synergies or paradigm shifts or something. I fumed.
Although it was Friday, Lisa didn't return home until after nine again. She looked shattered.
She turned on the television, and said she didn't want any supper. So I cooked myself an omelette and ate it at the kitchen table.
Just as I was finishing, she came in.
'Hi,' I said. 'Change your mind about supper?'
She ignored me and put a muffin in the toaster.
'Are you going into the lab tomorrow?' I asked her.
She sighed. 'Yes. And Sunday too. I've no choice. There's so much to get done.'
I was worried that she was working too hard. Perhaps the work was helping her deal with her father's death, taking her mind off him. But she didn't look good at all. Her face was pinched into an expression of fatigue and cold despair.
'How are you feeling?'
'I feel really bad, Simon,' she snapped. 'My father's dead, I'm tired, my head hurts, and I just wish I was someone else someplace else.'
I shut up, finished my omelette, and fled from the silence to the chatter of the television in the living room.
I heard a cry from the kitchen. 'Damn!' A pause. 'Damned piece of shit toaster!' and then a crash.
I rushed through to see Lisa scowling at our toaster, which was lying on its side against a wall, smoke pouring out of it.
'What's the matter?'
'That stupid toaster's a piece of crap.' Lisa was shaking with anger. 'It's burned the damned muffin!'
I pulled the plug out of the wall socket, and looked in the toaster. The muffin was indeed stuck. I grabbed a knife and forced it out, sending the blackened bread spinning across the kitchen counter. I turned to see Lisa trying to hold back tears, her face red.
'I'm sorry, Simon,' she said.
I put my arms around her, and she buried her head in my shoulder. She began to sob.