“As you know, about five million people suffer Alzheimer’s in the States alone—a figure that’s going to double by 2020. The current market is twelve billion dollars for AD meds. We’ve created a special unit to market Memorine, lined up the third largest pharmaceutical company in the country to distribute, plus a sales force of seven hundred reps on a sales-based bonus system to promote it to practitioners. We’ve got a projection of three million prescriptions the first year on the shelves, twice that the next year, and multiples once our foreign subsidiaries kick in. Nick, this is a fifty-billion-dollar pill. And for the clinical director and the researchers associated with it, the benefits are incalculable.”
Nick smiled. “At least you’re not turning up the pressure.”
“Hell, I’m just winding up. Your imaging lab is a critical tool toward our end, and our board has authorized a ten-million-dollar grant for its application in the trials, which should cover overhead and salaries, blah blah blah. What do you say?”
Nick was aware of the prestige of being part of the development of a potential miracle drug. But at his age he was not out for glory or the financial rewards—and he could do the math. Being a millionaire several times over did not move Nick. He and Thalia did not have extravagant tastes. They lived comfortably in Wellesley and drove a seven-year-old Saab. They vacationed in Fresno because Thalia had family there and Nick liked to hike the Sierras with his cameras. Because of ill health, Thalia no longer worked, nor did they miss her income now that their children were on their own. Money was never a motivating force in Nick’s life. And, like René, he harbored old-fashioned academic cynicism toward clinicians participating in studies with drug companies.
But the majority of physicians conducted trials for higher ethical reasons: to benefit humankind. And Nick was one of them. As embarrassing as the financial benefits would be, Nick was hearing that he could be part of a team that might cure Alzheimer’s disease—a nemesis that he personally had confronted for most of his professional life—a disease more vicious than cancer since it robbed a victim first of selfhood, then of life.
“You should know that I’ve been cutting back on my practice and research.”
“Christ, you’re only sixty-two-too early to be retiring. Think of the hundreds, maybe thousands of people and patients you’ve watched waste away with dementia. Two or three years from now, when the world is singing ‘hallelujah’ because the scourge of the aging world has been defeated, where you going to be, huh?—on top of some mountain taking snaps of yellow-belly sapsuckers.”
Nick laughed. “All work and no play—”
“Bullshit! I want you on this, and so do you.”
“All right, all right, give me a chance to catch my breath.” Nick had seen Moy worked up before, but not like this. His face looked like a giant tomato.
“Catch your friggin’ breath and tell me yes, you’ll head this up.”
“If I agree, all proceedings will be according to protocol.”
“Goes without saying.”
“Fine.”
“Monday.”
Moy stood up and shook Nick’s hand. As Nick headed for the door, Gavin said, “Believe me, it’s the Holy Grail—what you’ve been chasing all your life. You deserve to share in the victory.”
GAVIN MOY’S WORDS ECHOED IN NICK’S mind as he took the elevator down to the lobby—a high-glassed interior and the main entrance to GEM’s state-of-the-art complex. Given the surrounding acreage, there was room for expansion to meet the anticipated demands of the drug for years to come.
Nick crossed the lobby, which was appointed in marble and brass, red oriental rugs, and gold leather sofas and chairs. As was characteristic, Gavin himself had worked with designers. Basically it was a Gavin Moy decor. So was the large aquarium in the middle of the floor, its brightly colored sea life looking like Christmas ornaments floating in the air.
Nick’s heels clicked on the marble as he walked to the structure that sat like a fairyland column of coral, anemones, sea fans, long diaphanous grasses, and a bewildering variety of polychrome tropical fish. It was GEM’s showpiece, which Gavin Moy had specially designed and which cost a small fortune. According to him, this was one of the few Kreisel nonpublic aquariums. And what distinguished the setup were its unique water inlets and outlets—essential so that its special residents were suspended in the middle of the tank and didn’t get sucked into the filters. To add to the complicated filtration and fluid dynamics, sophisticated monitors maintained the proper temperature as well as delicate chemical and biological levels. In addition to the special filter system and chilling unit, a separate breeder tank provided brine shrimp as a substitute for plankton, the creatures’ natural diet. This was not your average pet shop fish tank.
Nor were those pulsing bulbs with the meter-long tentacles your average fish tank denizen. These creatures were the real celebrities of this bottled reef and the secret source of the endless blue skies above, the iconic genus of GEM Neurobiological Technologies—the elusive Solakandji.
The fifty-billion-dollar jellyfish.
18
RENÉ FOUND JACK KORYAN IN THE intensive care unit of Mass General Hospital.
Sitting with him was his wife, Beth, a slender, attractive woman with thick dark shoulder-length hair that was streaked blond. Her complexion was pale, as if she were getting over the flu. Her brown eyes were bloodshot—probably from a lack of sleep—giving her a muddy glance.
René introduced herself and explained that she was the consulting pharmacist and an associate of Dr. Nicholas Mavros. “I just wanted to come by to see how he was doing.” And to put a face to the brain images.
The woman didn’t seem to care who she was or why she was there. “This is Jack.” Her voice was flat.
On the windowsill sat a double frame containing two color photographs of Jack—one of him standing with a male friend, the other a close-up solo that made René aware of how handsome he was—a man with black curly hair, a disarming smile, and lively exotic eyes. He was dressed in a black T-shirt that showed a well-built upper body. It was difficult to believe it was the same man in the bed. What struck her about the close-up photo were Jack Koryan’s eyes. They looked like shards of peridots and vaguely familiar.
“That’s his friend Vince Hammond,” Beth explained, watching René examining the photos. “They were business partners, or would have been.” Then Beth muttered “Shit!” under her breath and looked away.
Nearly two weeks had lapsed since the accident and, according to the nurse, the news was good. Jack Koryan was off the ventilator. But he was still a shocking sight. His body was slightly bloated, and the silver nitrate for his open sores had turned his skin black. The blisters across his torso and legs had eventually dried up and had to be surgically debrided—the dead skin being cut away, leaving red patches against the yellow. He looked as if he had been painted for camouflaging. His scalp and ears were scabbed, and his lips were gray. His feet and fingers had been freshly dressed against lesions. His arms were connected to IVs, and a percutaneous gastrostomy tube had been surgically inserted through the wall of his stomach so he could feed—standard for unconscious patients. Machines monitored his vital functions including his brain waves. It was hard to believe he had survived the attack.