Michael Palmer - Fatal

Matt's pulse began to race.

"What do you mean 'crap'?" he asked.

"Chemicals, jes like ya sed. Barrels of 'em."

"Hot damn. Lewis, can you take me there?"

Lewis sighed.

"Inside the mountain? Ah s'pose Ah kin."

"When?"

"When ya thinkin' ya'll be done with Kyle?"

"I don't know. Maybe late this afternoon."

"Then we'll talk late this afternoon."

"But you know about this poison the note talks about?"

"Ah know."

"And you'll take me to see it firsthand?"

"Ah 'spect Ah will, but Ah cain't say rot now. It's sorta up ta m' brothers, too."

"Lewis, surely you knew I've been trying to get something on BC and C. Why haven't you said something to me about this before?"

"We lak ya, Doc. But we lak eatin', too."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means Stevenson an' them people at the mine bin paying us ta keep quiet 'bout what we know."

"I don't understand. What connection do they have with you?"

Lewis rubbed at his chin, then sighed again.

"Per a time, we done hauled the stuff in thar fer 'em," he said.

For two and a half years, nearly all of the Omnivax commission meetings had been held in one or the other of the two main conference rooms located on the third floor of the Parkman Building, FDA headquarters in Rockville, Maryland. When Lynette Marquand made her speech later in the day, the sliding partition between the rooms would be open, allowing seating for the press, the Omnivax panel, the First Lady's staff, and those hundred or so dignitaries who had managed to procure invitations.

For the moment, though, the partition was closed so that the commission could hold its meeting in private. From what Ellen knew, this gathering was probably the last one before the session to vote formal approval for the distribution and general use of the supervaccine.

She scanned the first room as she passed by. Television camera crews were preparing to beam Marquand's message to the world, and several Secret Service agents were carefully inspecting the walls, podium, and beneath the chairs. Most of the Omnivax commission members were already in the other room, mingling in twos and threes. A few were settling down in front of their computer-generated cardboard place cards at the gleaming, football field-sized cherry conference table. Most of the members were men, and all of the members except for Ellen held either an M.D. degree, a Ph.D., or in a number of instances, both. Beneath their names were printed their titles, specialties, and agencies. Ellen's identified her simply as "Ellen Kroft, M.S.; Consumer."

Within weeks following Ellen's first meeting, Cheri and Sally-gave her a detailed briefing on each and every one of the other members of the panel, including, where appropriate, the sources of their research funds, and any known stock holdings in the pharmaceutical industry. Ellen was stunned at how much information the two housewives had amassed. They were serious, big-time players in this game, and the worldwide impact they had made in a relatively short time reflected that. She was also astonished at the extent and complexity of the connections between the members of the committee and the drug industry. If Cheri and Sally's information was accurate, and nothing had come to light to make her think otherwise, too many of them had some sort of link.

Of those in the room, only a few took notice of Ellen with a smile or a nod. By and large, as usual, she was ignored. Moments after she took her place at what would have been about the ten-yard line, Dr. George Poulos, Director of the Institute for Vaccine Development, took his seat directly to her right. Poulos, one of those with dual degrees, was a darkly handsome man with classic Greek features. He was always elegantly dressed, and today, possibly in honor of the occasion, wore a crimson handkerchief tucked neatly in the breast pocket of his suit coat. Somewhere in a file folder in Ellen's study, the dossier Sally and Cheri had generated on him reported that he was a highly regarded clinician, researcher, and businessman, as well as a big-time supporter of President Jim Marquand. He could be swayed on some issues, but only if he thought making a concession would improve his position.

Unpredictable, and generally not to be trusted, it read. Looked like a hero when he helped halt the experimental combined chicken pox and MMR vaccine testing in South America in the mid-1980s, after deaths and immune suppression in a number of female babies, but turned his back six months later when slightly altered versions of the vaccine — were used.

The last line in the report read simply, Drives a red Porsche 911 Turbo.

"So, Ellen," he said, gesturing vaguely at those assembling in the elegant room, "you have come a long way from teaching middle-school science."

Ellen stifled a number of retorts, ranging from quick and very funny to downright nasty and offensive.

"It certainly has been an experience," she settled on.

"And how does it feel to have worked hand in hand with such an accomplished group of scientists?"

"It… certainly has been an experience," she said again, backing up her attempt at humor with what she hoped was a warm grin. "Are you excited about the First Lady's visit?"

"Oh, very. Lynette and I are old friends. I consulted for her on the vaccination section of her book Citizen Pioneers. Omnivax is her baby, so to speak."

"So it seems."

"And after we vote, she will be sharing that baby with the nation and maybe the world."

"Is that why the vote was moved up?"

"Perhaps. With the outcome foregone, many people in very high places would like this to be a done deal as soon as possible."

Ellen felt her composure begin to shrivel.

"I wish I agreed with them," she said. "Have you seen how many letters from parents and grandparents have been written to congressmen protesting that Omnivax hasn't been studied long enough? Or how many op-ed pieces have been published warning against moving ahead with this project too prematurely? Why, even I have been getting letters and e-mail — five or ten a day for the past few months. There are very strong feelings about this project among the public."

"Tree huggers," Poulos said with undisguised scorn. "This is only one of a dozen issues they write about and write about. I assure you, the vast majority of Americans are totally behind this project. They're just not the ones who write letters."

Ellen had never felt too comfortable around Poulos, but now she was beginning to feel a legitimate dislike.

"I still think we're moving way too fast on this thing," she replied. "There are unanswered questions."

"Specifically?"

Ellen cautioned herself not to be drawn into a discussion of Lasaject until Rudy had completed his research. She had purposely refrained from discussing with Sally and Cheri the work he was doing. Bringing it up now with a company man like Poulos would be reckless and dumb.

Lasaject, a vaccine against the horrible hemorrhagic disease Lassa fever, was one of the last components to be voted for inclusion in Omnivax. Endemic to the West African country of Sierra Leone, Lassa fever had been appearing in the U.S. with increasing frequency over the past few years.

"Specifically," she replied, "the question of why the current administration is putting pressure on us to approve this vaccine when there are so many unanswered questions and so many consumers who would like to see it scaled down or shelved altogether."

There! I said it and I'm glad.

Ellen was continuing to research the disease even as Rudy was analyzing the clinical data accumulated for the vaccine. Lassa fever, caused by a virus similar to the deadly Ebola virus, showed up in Chicago and Milwaukee a decade ago, rapidly causing more than two dozen deaths. With the possibility of a major epidemic looming, Columbia Pharmaceuticals, a Maryland-based company, quickly developed and successfully tested a vaccine. But then, as suddenly as they began, the Lassa cases petered out. The potential for an epidemic vanished, and impending mandatory vaccination with Lasaject was tabled indefinitely by the FDA. For its hard work, Columbia was left holding a very expensive bag. Their subsequent attempts to market the vaccine in Sierra Leone were thwarted by political unrest and an economy that was one of the weakest in Africa. The World Health Organization simply refused to send its people into an area so volatile. So, for seven years the attenuated virus comprising the vaccine languished in the incubators of its creator.