Robin Cook - Fever

The row of administrative secretaries warily monitored his progress down the hall. The entire group knew that he had been ordered to take over the Canceran study and that he wasn’t happy with the idea.

Charles ignored the stares although he felt like a wolf in a chicken coop as he approached Dr. Carlos Ibanez’s secretary, Miss Veronica Evans. Befitting her status, her area was separated from the rest of the room with paneled dividers. She’d been at the Weinburger even longer than Ibanez. She was a well-groomed woman of hefty proportions and indeterminate late middle age.

“I’d like to see the director,” said Charles in a no-nonsense voice.

“Do you have an appointment?” No one intimidated Miss Evans.

“Just tell him I’m here,” said Charles.

“I’m afraid…” began Miss Evans.

“If you don’t tell him I’m here, I’m going to barge right in.” Charles’s voice was stiffly controlled.

Marshaling one of her famous, disdainful expressions, Miss Evans reluctantly got up and disappeared within the inner office. When she reappeared, she merely held the door ajar and motioned Charles inside.

Ibanez’s office was a large, corner room that faced south and east. Besides the Boston University campus, part of the Boston skyline could be seen across the partially frozen Charles River. Ibanez was seated at a monstrous, antique Spanish desk. The view was at his back. Seated in front of the desk was Dr. Thomas Brighton.

Laughing at some conversational point made before Charles arrived, Dr. Carlos Ibanez gestured with the long, thin cigar he was smoking for Charles to take a chair. A halo of gray smoke hung above the director’s head like a rain cloud over a tropic island. He was a small man in his early sixties, given to sudden rapid movements, particularly of his hands. His perpetually tanned face was framed by silver hair and a silver goatee. His voice was surprisingly robust.

Charles sat, disturbed by Dr. Brighton’s presence. On one hand, he was furious with the man, both on professional and personal grounds. On the other, he felt sorry for the doctor, having to face up to a scandal and the sudden dissolution of his life.

Dr. Brighton gave Charles a rapid but unmistakably disdainful glance before turning back to Dr. Ibanez. That single look was enough to undermine Charles’s empathy. Charles studied Brighton’s profile. As far as Charles was concerned, he was young: thirty-one years old. And he appeared younger than that: blond and handsome in an effete Ivy League sort of way.

“Ah, Charles,” said Ibanez with some embarrassment. “I was just saying good-bye to Thomas. It’s a shame that in his zeal to finish the Canceran project he acted foolishly.”

“Foolishly,” Charles burst out. “Criminally would be more accurate.” Thomas flushed.

“Now, Charles, his motives were of the best. We know he did not mean to embarrass the institute. The real criminal is the person who leaked this information to the press, and we have every intention of finding him and punishing him severely.”

“And Dr. Brighton?” asked Charles as if the man were not in the room. “Are you condoning what he did?”

“Of course not,” said Ibanez. “But the disgrace he has suffered at the hands of the press seems punishment enough. It will be hard for him to get a job worthy of his talents for the next few years. The Weinburger certainly can’t finance his career any longer. In fact, I was just telling him about an internal medical group in Florida in which I’m quite sure we can get him a position.”

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“Well,” said Dr. Ibanez, getting to his feet and coming around his desk. Brighton stood up as Dr. Ibanez approached him. Dr. Ibanez put his arm on Brighton’s shoulder and walked him to the door, ignoring Charles.

“I’d appreciate any help you can give me,” said Brighton.

“I hope you understand the reasons behind making you leave the institute so quickly,” said Ibanez.

“Of course,” returned Brighton. “Once the press gets onto something like this, they want to suck it dry. Don’t worry about me, I’m glad to get out of the spotlight for a while.”

Closing the door behind Brighton, Ibanez came back to his desk and sat down. His mood had abruptly switched to tired irritation. “Actually there are two people I’d like to strangle. The person from here who leaked the story and the reporter that wrote it. The press has a habit of blowing things out of proportion and this is a good example. Front page New York Times ! Absurd!”

“It seems to me,” said Charles, “that you’re blaming the wrong people. After all, this is a ‘moral issue,’ not just an inconvenience.”

Dr. Ibanez eyed Charles across the expanse of his desk. “Dr. Brighton should not have done what he did, but the moral issue does not bother me as much as the potential damage to the institute and to the drug, Canceran. That would change this from a minor affair to a major catastrophe.”

“I just don’t think that professional integrity is a minor affair,” said Charles.

“I hope you’re not lecturing me, Dr. Martel. Let me tell you something. Dr. Brighton was not motivated by any evil intent. He believed in Canceran and wanted to speed up its availability to the public. His fraud was the result of youthful impatience, which we’ve all been guilty of in one degree or another. Unfortunately in this case his enthusiasm got out of hand with the result being we’ve lost a very talented man, a phenomenal money raiser.”

Charles moved to the edge of his seat. For him the issue was crystal clear and he was astounded that he and Ibanez could view the event from such fundamentally different perspectives. On the verge of unleashing a diatribe on the difference between right and wrong, Charles was interrupted by Miss Evans.

“Dr. Ibanez,” called Miss Evans from the doorway. “You told me to tell you the moment Mr. Bellman arrived. He’s here.”

“Send him in!” shouted Ibanez, leaping to his feet like a boxer at the sound of the bell.

Jules Bellman, the institute’s public relations man, came through the door like a puppy with his tail between his legs. “I didn’t know about the Times until this morning,” he squeaked. “I don’t know how it happened, but it didn’t come from anyone in my office. Unfortunately a great number of people knew.”

“My assistant said it was the gossip of the institute,” said Charles, coming to Bellman’s rescue. “I think I was the only one who didn’t know anything about it.”

Ibanez glowered for another moment. “Well, I want the leak found.” He didn’t ask the P.R. man to sit down.

“Absolutely,” said Bellman, his voice stronger. “I already think I know who was responsible.”

“Oh?” said Ibanez, his eyebrows raising.

“The animal keeper who reported to you about Brighton originally. I heard that he was pissed that he didn’t get a bonus.”

“Christ! Everybody wants a medal for doing their job,” said Ibanez. “Keep at it until you’re sure. Now we have to talk about the press. Here’s how I want you to handle it. Schedule a conference. Acknowledge that errors were found in the Canceran experimental protocol due to a severe time constraint, but don’t admit to any fraud. Just say that mistakes were uncovered by the usual supervisory process that the administration routinely follows, and that Dr. Brighton has been granted an unspecified leave of absence. Say that he has been under great pressure to speed the delivery of the drug to the public. Above all, emphasize that Canceran is the most promising anticancer drug to come along in a long time. Then emphasize that the error here was Brighton’s and that the Weinburger Institute still has full confidence in Canceran. And the way you’re going to do this is by announcing that we are putting our most renowned scientist on the project, Dr. Charles Martel.”