“What are you doing that you do not want to do?” Daniel questioned.
“I am accepting the risk of being a guinea pig,” Ashley stated. “I am the first to admit I wish our roles were reversed, but such is life. I am also risking political consequences from my conservative constituents who expect S.1103 to be voted out of subcommittee.”
Daniel shook his head in amazement. “This is preposterous,” he commented.
“But there is more,” Ashley said. “Knowing the degree of risk I am assuming in this new therapy, I do not think our exchange of services is equal. To rectify that imbalance and to help with the risk, I demand some divine intervention.”
“I’m afraid to ask what you mean by divine intervention.”
“As I understand it, if you were to treat me with your HTSR, you would need a segment of DNA from someone who does not have Parkinson’s disease.”
“That’s correct, but it doesn’t matter who the person is. There is no tissue matching involved, like with organ transplants.”
“It matters to me who the person is,” Ashley said. “I also understand you could get this little segment of DNA from blood?”
“I couldn’t get it from red blood cells, which have no nuclei,” Daniel said. “But I could get it from white cells, which you can always find in blood. So, yes, I could get it from blood.”
“Thank the good Lord for white blood cells,” Ashley said. “Now, the source of the blood is what has captured my interest. My father was a Baptist minister, but my mother, rest her soul, was an Irish Catholic. She taught me a few things that have stayed with me all my life. Let me ask you a question: Are you acquainted with the Shroud of Turin?”
Daniel glanced at Stephanie. A wry smile of disbelief had appeared on his face.
“I was raised a Catholic,” Stephanie offered. “I’m familiar with the Shroud of Turin.”
“I know what it is as well,” Daniel said. “It’s a religious relic purported to be the burial shroud of Jesus Christ, which was proven a fake about five years ago.”
“True,” Stephanie said. “But it was more than ten years ago. It was carbon-dated to the mid-thirteenth century.”
“I have no interest in the carbon-dating report,” Ashley said. “Especially since it was debunked by several eminent scientists. Even if the report had not been challenged, my interest would be the same. The shroud held a special place in my mama’s heart, and some of the devotion rubbed off on me when she took me and my two older brothers to Turin to be in its presence when I was no more than an impressionable moppet. Concerns about its authenticity aside, what is incontrovertible is that there are bloodstains on the cloth. Most everyone agrees about that. I want the little section of DNA needed for HTSR to come from the Shroud of Turin. That is my demand and my offer.”
Daniel laughed derisively. “This is more than preposterous. It’s crazy. Besides, how would I get a blood sample from the Shroud of Turin?”
“That is your responsibility, Doctor,” Ashley said. “But I am willing and able to help. I am certain I can get details about access to the shroud from one of my archbishop acquaintances, who are always willing to exchange favors for special political consideration. I happen to know there are samples of the shroud containing bloodstains that had been taken, given out, then recalled by the church. Perhaps one of those could be made available, but you would have to go and get it.”
“I’m speechless,” Daniel admitted, trying to suppress his amusement.
“That is entirely understandable,” Ashley said. “I am certain this opportunity I have proposed has caught you unawares. I do not expect you to respond immediately. As a thoughtful man, I was confident you would like to mull it over. My suggestion is that you call me, and I will give you a special number to call. But I would like to say that if I do not hear from you by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, I will assume you have decided not to take advantage of my offer. At ten o’clock, I will order my staff to schedule a subcommittee vote on S.1103 as soon as possible so that it can be moved on to the full committee and on to the Senate. And I already know the BIO lobby has informed you that S.1103 will pass with ease.”
five
10:05 P.M., Thursday, February 21, 2002
The taillights of Carol Manning’s Suburban faded as the vehicle moved down Louisiana Avenue and then merged with the other traffic before disappearing into the general gloom of the night. Stephanie and Daniel had watched them until the point that they were no longer discernable, then looked into each other’s faces. Their noses were mere inches apart, since their bodies were pressed together beneath their umbrella. They were once again standing motionless at the curb in front of Union Station, just as they had been an hour earlier when they were waiting to be picked up. Then they had been curious with anticipation. Now they were dumbfounded.
“Tomorrow morning, I’m going to swear this was all a delusion,” Stephanie said, with a shake of her head.
“There’s definitely a dreamlike unreality to it all,” Daniel admitted.
“Bizarre is a better adjective.”
Daniel lowered his eyes to the senator’s business card he had clutched in his free hand. He turned it over. Scribbled in the senator’s erratic handwriting was a cell phone number to be used to contact him directly in the next twelve hours. Daniel stared at the number as if committing it to memory.
A gust of wind erupted and changed the drizzle momentarily from vertical to horizontal. Stephanie shivered as the moisture peppered her face. “It’s cold. Let’s get back to the hotel! There’s no sense standing here and getting soaked.”
As if waking from a trance, Daniel apologized and glanced around the plaza in front of the station. A taxi stand was off to one side, with several cabs conveniently waiting. Angling the umbrella into the wind, he urged Stephanie forward. Arriving at the first taxi in line, Daniel held the umbrella for Stephanie before climbing in himself.
“Four Seasons hotel,” Daniel said to the driver, who was watching his rearview mirror.
“Tonight was ironic as well as bizarre,” Stephanie said suddenly, as the cab pulled away. “The same day I hear a smidgen about your family from you, I hear the whole story from Senator Butler.”
“I find that more irritating than ironic,” Daniel said. “Hell, it’s an out-and-out violation of my privacy that he had me investigated by the FBI. It’s also appalling that the FBI would do it. I mean, I’m a private citizen under no suspicion of any crime. Such abuse smacks of the days of J. Edgar Hoover.”
“So everything Butler said about you is true?”
“Essentially, I suppose,” Daniel responded vaguely. “Listen, let’s talk about the senator’s offer.”
“I can tell you my reaction to it right off the top. I think it stinks!”
“You don’t see any positive aspects?”
“The only positive aspect I can see is that it has confirmed our impressions of the man as a quintessential demagogue. He’s also a detestable hypocrite. He’s against HTSR purely for political reasons, and he’s willing to ban it and its research despite its potential to save lives and relieve suffering. At the same time, he wants it for himself. That’s obscene and inexcusable, and we’re certainly not going to be a party to it.” Stephanie gave a short derisive laugh. “I’m sorry I gave my word to keep his illness a secret. This whole thing is a story the media would die for, and I’d love for them to have it.”