Robin Cook - Seizure

“Wherever,” Daniel said vaguely. “ Science or Nature. Wherever you’d like. I don’t imagine it would be difficult to place.”

“Would HTSR work with blood from the Shroud of Turin?” Spencer asked. “As I recall, that thing is about five hundred years old.”

“How about around two thousand years old,” Paul said.

“Wasn’t it proved to be a medieval forgery?” Spencer questioned.

“We’re not going to get involved in argument about its authenticity,” Daniel said. “For our purposes, it doesn’t matter. If the patient wants to believe it’s real, it’s fine with us.”

“But would it work, as a practical matter?” Spencer asked again.

“The DNA would be fragmented, whether it’s five hundred or two thousand years old,” Daniel said. “But that shouldn’t be a problem. We only need fragments, which our HTSR probes will seek out after PCR amplification. We’ll enzymatically patch together what we need for whole genes. It will work fine.”

“What about The New England Journal of Medicine ?” Paul suggested. “That would be a coup for the clinic! I’d love to get something into that highfalutin publication.”

“Sure,” Daniel said, cringing at the idea. “Why not?”

“I’m beginning to like it too,” Spencer said. “That’s the kind of article that would get picked up by the media like it was pure gold! It would be all over the newspapers. Hell, I can even see all the network anchors talking about it on the evening news.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Daniel said. “But remember, until the article comes out, there’s got to be absolute secrecy about the whole affair.”

“We understand,” Spencer said.

“How are you going to get a sample from the Shroud of Turin?” Paul asked. “I understand the Catholic Church has it locked up in a kind of space-age vault over there in Italy.”

“We’re looking into that as we speak,” Daniel said. “We have been promised high-level clerical assistance.”

“I’d think you’d have to know the Pope!” Paul commented.

“Perhaps we should talk about costs,” Daniel said, eager to change the subject now that the crisis had been averted. “We don’t want any misunderstandings.”

“What kind of services are we talking about?” Paul asked.

“The patient we’ll be treating has Parkinson’s disease,” Daniel explained. “We will need a staffed OR and stereotaxic equipment for the implantation.”

“We have the OR,” Paul said. “But not stereotaxic equipment.”

“That’s not a problem,” Spencer said. “We can borrow it from Princess Margaret Hospital. The Bahamian government and the medical community on the island have been very supportive of our relocation. I’m sure they will be happy to help. We just won’t tell them what we’re going to do with it.”

“We’ll need the services of a neurosurgeon,” Daniel said. “One who is capable of being discreet.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem either,” Spencer said. “There are several on the island who are, in my opinion, un-derutilized. I’m sure we could make arrangements with one of them. I don’t know exactly how much he’d charge, but I can assure you, it will be a lot less than it would be in the States. My guess would be in the neighborhood of two or three hundred dollars.”

“You don’t think the confidentiality issue will be problematic?” Daniel asked.

“I don’t,” Spencer said. “They are all looking for work. With fewer tourists renting mopeds, head trauma has dropped off precipitously. I know, because two surgeons have come out to the clinic to leave their business cards.”

“Sounds serendipitous,” Daniel said. “Other than that, all we need is space in your lab. I assume you have a lab to do your reproductive work.”

“You will be amazed at our lab,” Paul said proudly. “It is state-of-the-art and a lot more than just an infertility lab! And in addition to myself, we have several talented technicians at your disposal who are experienced at nuclear transfer and who are eager to learn HTSR.”

“We won’t need the assistance of any lab personnel,” Daniel said. “We’ll do our own cellular work. What we do need are human oocytes. Is it possible for you to supply them?”

“Of course!” Paul said. “Oocytes are our specialty and soon to be our bread and butter. We’re intending to supply them for all of North America in the future. What is your time frame?”

“As soon as possible,” Daniel said. “This might sound overly optimistic, but we’d like to be ready to implant in a month. We’re under a time constraint, with a short window of opportunity imposed by the patient volunteer.”

“No problem on this end,” Paul said. “We can supply you with oocytes tomorrow!”

“Really?” Daniel questioned. It seemed too good to be true.

“We can get you oocytes whenever you want,” Paul said. Then he added with a laugh, “Even on holidays!”

“I’m impressed,” Daniel said sincerely. “And relieved. I was worried that procuring oocytes might hold us up. But that brings us back to costs.”

“Except for the oocytes, we have no experience what to charge,” Spencer said. “To tell you the truth, we never anticipated someone using our clinic. Let’s make it simple: How about twenty thousand for using the operating room, including its staff, and twenty thousand for the lab flat rate.”

“Fine,” Daniel said. “What about the oocytes?”

“Five hundred a pop,” Paul said. “And we guarantee at least five divisions with each one or we replace it.”

“That sounds fair,” Daniel said. “But they have to be fresh!”

“They will be as fresh as a daisy,” Paul said. “When can we expect you?”

“I’ll get back to you either later today or tonight,” Daniel said. “Or, at the latest, by tomorrow. We really have to get moving on this.”

“We’ll be here,” Spencer said.

Daniel slowly replaced the telephone receiver. When it was safely in its cradle, he let out a whoop. He had a strong feeling, despite the recent setbacks, that CURE, HTSR, and his own destiny were back on track!

Dr. Spencer Wingate had left his tanned hand on the telephone receiver after hanging up while his mind mulled over the conversation he’d just had with Dr. Daniel Lowell. It had not gone as he’d imagined or hoped, and he was disappointed. When the issue of the famous researcher wanting to use the Wingate Clinic had unexpectedly surfaced two weeks previously, he’d thought it providential since they’d just opened their doors after eight months of construction and confusion. In his mind, a professional association with a man who Paul said might win a Nobel Prize would have been a superb way to announce to the world that the Wingate was back in business after the regrettable fracas in Massachusetts the previous May. But as things stood, there could be no announcement. Forty thousand dollars might be nice, but it was a mere pittance in comparison to the money they had just spent getting the clinic built and equipped.

Spencer’s office door, which had been slightly ajar from when Spencer had recently rushed back in from locating his second-in-command, was pushed open to its full extent. Filling the doorway was Dr. Paul Saunders’s short, square frame. A broad smile displayed his equally square, widely spaced teeth. He obviously did not share Spencer’s disappointment.

“Can you imagine?” Paul blurted. “We’re going to have a paper in the New England Journal of Medicine !” He threw himself into a chair facing Spencer’s desk and punched the air with upraised fists like he’d just won a stage of the Tour de France. “And what a paper: ‘The Wingate Clinic, the Shroud of Turin, and HTSR Combine for the First Cure of Parkinson’s Disease.’ It’s going to be fantastic! People will be beating a path to our door!”