A literal gasp went up from around the table.
"We've been upping our sponsorship of AAT deficiency patient-advocacy groups over the past year to ensure they have a voice, which we'll continue to make use of. In a few months, we'll do a big fat airlift to a few poor countries. That'll make 'em teary even in the red states, gets us a hundred million bucks in publicity for a million in cost. In the meantime, we'll keep booking local network and nationals and continue to spin marketing off the advertising to pick up extra mileage. Our polling showed that the KCOM news segment last month made a favorable market impression."
"The story about the kid?" Jenner asked. "That was great. Really moving."
"And we found our new mascot." Chase held up a design layout of the corporate brochure. The boy's picture on the cover had been replaced by a doe-eyed girl, strawberry blond pigtails, lopsided smile, smear of chocolate artfully positioned on her chin. "Cute as hell, and they don't break the bank."
Dean punched the button on the table, the door clicked, and the assistant again slid into view. "Summon Dolan from the Ivory Tower."
"I'm here already, sir." The door creaked open another fifteen degrees, and Dolan stepped into the boardroom, a spray of Coomassie blue staining his lab coat from pocket to hem.
"Glad you dressed for the occasion." A few laughs, and then Dean added, with manufactured pride, "The absentminded professor."
"Sorry I'm late."
"You're not late. You were joining us at seven-thirty. It's seven-ten. But have a seat. We're always eager to talk Vector."
All the plush leather chairs around the table were occupied. Dolan tugged over the stool from the telephone nook. Jenner and Bernie made a show of shifting their chairs to make space, but there was nowhere for them to go.
Dolan folded his hands over a knee and stared down the spit-shined length of mahogany.
"I have good news," Dean said. "The business and legal counterparts have reached an equitable and mutually beneficial arrangement. Beacon-Kagan will pay Vector a licensing fee-a significant licensing fee-to become the exclusive worldwide manufacturer for Xedral. Your first eight-figure deal. Nine by this time next year. How does it feel?"
"Great." Dolan mustered a smile. "What are the terms?"
Chase slipped his BlackBerry into a pocket and tapped the circle of his fingertips on the three-inch-thick document before him. "Sucker boilerplate."
"Vector obviously doesn't have the infrastructure to manufacture big numbers," Dean added, "and big numbers we'll be doing. This is a fine deal, and you're to be congratulated."
"We can't put it out until after the IPO of course," Chase said, "which brings us to our big news. We got approval for the S-1. Vector goes public a week from Wednesday."
A round of congratulations. Dean was smiling now, a genuine grin. "Vector will be upping laboratory tours for patients and key investors as a ramp-up to Friday's pre-IPO presentation." His eyes found Dolan. "Be cordial. And dress. But remember, you're in the quiet period until the stock's been trading twenty-five days. No leaks, no asides, no press releases." Chase rolled his eyes at Jane-like Dolan's plugged in tight at CNBC. "For the next month, accessible but low-profile is the rule. We'll celebrate tonight at the house." His head cocked, his grin fading. "You're not jumping up and down?"
The other eighteen sets of eyes shifted to Dolan. "I think we have a window to bring Lentidra through another stage, see if we can attain permanent transgene integration."
"Chase says the numbers-"
"He's not a scientist, sir," Dolan said.
Chase's posture firmed, bringing him out of his slump. Jane coughed into a curl of manicured fingers. The other execs got busy examining papers and PalmPilots.
Dean glowered at Dolan. "There is more than one kind of numbers."
The fair skin of Chase's face had colored. "While you're busy stamping out disease, we're building an infrastructure around you and other researchers so we can effectively deliver your theragenes to patients in need."
"They're actually called transgenes," Dolan said.
"Not anymore. Show some appreciation for the work the rest of us do. Without us you're a guy with an idea and a university stipend."
Dean watched Dolan squirming in his chair. Dolan's birthright and duty as the elder Kagan offspring should have been to inherit one day the helm of the vast family-run corporation, but he'd eschewed business for science. As a sacrifice of sorts, on the eve of acquiring his doctorate and a humble NIH STTR grant, Dolan had offered up his gene-therapy research to his father in the form of an amateurish business pitch. After a consult with the director of UCLA's Office for Technology and Trademark Licensing, a gray old friend, Dean had taken over Vector Biogenics as he took over most matters, funding it in return for owning it lock, (especially) stock, and barrel.
Dean had raised two sons, one in his mold, the other who still required molding. But it was the latter who'd come up with the winning lottery ticket.
Dolan lifted his hands, palms out. "I guess I'm just disappointed in myself. For Lentidra's failure. For Vector's."
Winifred said, "You've done top-notch work, Dolan, on a remarkable timeline."
"We have an eager market and dying kids," Chase added. "Plus. We're on a clock with the IPO. That is gonna give you and Vector the longevity to pursue twenty-five times what your present resources would."
"Let's get to new business." Dean's festive mood had dissipated. He waved a pale, smooth hand at his younger son. "Chase, please?"
This was also Dolan's exit cue.
Offering a curt nod, Dolan withdrew. Dean waited impatiently for the door to close behind him.
It was early, and there was much work to be done.
Chapter 17
Tyler's sturdy legs flexed as he tried to reverse his head out of the railing of the plastic slide. His face turned red, his ears poking forward like a monkey's. Tim heard the deep breath but couldn't get there quick enough to avert the wail. He guided Ty's head through the gap and held him, standing on the dew-wet grass and checking his son's soft skin for scratches.
"Come on, bub. Let's go draw."
He stepped back into the living room and set Tyler on the plastic sheet laid down between Magic Marker and carpet. Distracted by scribble potential, Ty finally stopped crying, trading tears for a fist grip on Blinding Yellow. He attacked a length of butcher paper with vigor.
"Kaiyer draw Daddy."
Evidently Tim was an anatomical freak, stick legs and bread-loaf feet topped by a head like a nineteen-inch Trinitron. He tried to help Tyler clutch the marker effectively but had trouble translating finger placement to his son's left-handed grip.
Muffin stuck in her mouth, Dray came around from the kitchen, bringing Tim a smoothie and a piece of peanut butter toast. She halved her muffin, offered Tyler a chunk he inverted on the mat beside him, and turned a quizzical gaze to Tim's manipulation of their son's tiny splayed fingers.
Tim said, "Can't we just force him to be right-handed?"
"Bind his left arm behind his back and call him a devil child? I've read that's bad for self-esteem these days." She took a bite of Tim's toast before handing it to him. "You got him his OJ?"
"Right over there." Tim checked his watch-a little past 7:00 A.M. Eager to start digging into Walker's background, he'd do better at the office than at home on just a few hours' sleep. His colleagues could be distracting as hell, but they didn't cry and spill things. Well, Bear spilled things, but at least he didn't cry.