"That would be an excellent question to ask him.""You're screwing him, aren't you?" she demanded, wrinkled brow furrowed and dim eyes seething. "Like that other little whore of his. That's why he hired you. Well, let me tell you something. I'll outlive you both."Without another word she turned and got into the elevator.Chapter 9Monday, April 612:18 P.M."Hey, how did it go?" Jennifer asked the minute Ally came in the door.She wasn't sure she knew the answer to that. Initially the job looked like a lot of fun, but now she felt the interpersonal dynamics of working inBartlett's home were already a problem even before she started.Also, maybe it was just paranoia, but as she took the cab downtown from the mansion onGramercyPark, she got the impression that somebody was following her in a black SUV. And the stress of that brought on a tightness in her chest. But as she neared their office inSoHo, the vehicle abruptly veered east. She had a nitro tab at the ready, but she didn't have to pop it."There's good news and bad news. The good news is he's practically handing us a sweetheart of a job, and dangling another—designing a whole museum—in our face. The bad news is, I don't know why he suddenly thinks we're so terrific. I mean, you and I know that but how did he figure it out?"Jennifer looked puzzled. "You mean he—""Oh, did I mention that his crazy wife showed up after he left and essentially accused me of being a hooker? I suppose that comes under the heading of bad news.""Great. Does that mean she's going to start second‑guessing whatever we do?""The communication channels between Mr. Bartlett and Mrs. Bartlett don't appear to be all that great. They live on different floors in his place—which really is a huge old mansion onGramercyPark, by the way—and the job would be in his part, the lower level." She explained theBartletts' living arrangements. "He wants to redo the garden‑level floor. It was originally the servants' quarters. Like Upstairs, Downstairs.""So he's upstairs and she's way upstairs.""And let's hope she stays there."Ally fetched herself a cup of coffee, checked in with everybody to see how they were doing, and then settled herself at her computer. She had the latest program in computer‑aided design (CAD) and she wanted to program in the dimensions and layout of the space. And since she had a copy of the blueprints, the first thing she would do would be to run them through her flatbed scanner and incorporate them into the program. She didn't get a chance to take any digital photos with CitiSpace's snazzy (and expensive) new Nikon. But if the job went forward there'd be plenty of time later.Everybody's computers were connected to the Net via a broadband DSL hookup and they were never turned off. Because of that, the computers were vulnerable to being hacked so Jen had installed a firewall program to keep out snoops.She sat down and stared at the screen saver, which was an ever‑changing series of tropical beaches at sunset. She sipped at her coffee—this was the one cup she allowed herself each day, always saved for the moment when she felt she needed to be most alert—and reached to turn on the scanner. The tightness in her chest that she had momentarily experienced in the cab had completely disappeared and she felt perfectly normal.What was she going to do about her mother and the clinic inNew Jersey? Nina certainly appeared to want to go. And with the inevitability of what lay in store for someone with early‑onset Alzheimer's, taking her out there was surely worth doing. But as for her own heart, she wasn't so sure she thought the reward was worth the risk. But she'd decided to hold off on a decision till she could have a firsthand look at the institute.She took another sip of coffee and then tapped the keyboard. When she did that, the screen would normally bring up the "desktop."But not this time. A file was open, and she was certain she hadn't left it open. What's this?"Jen, could you come here a minute? There's something funny."The first page of the file that had been pulled up and opened was an ID photo of herself."This is what was running. Has somebody been fooling around with this computer?"Jennifer looked puzzled when she saw it "Not that I know of.""Then how did this get . . . ?” She just sat staring. "I didn't open this file. Does this thing have a mind of its own?"About eight years ago, Kate Gillis at Manhattan Properties—with whom Ally had an occasional after‑work drink— told her she'd scanned all her vital personal documents into her computer at home. She'd said it was an easy way to make a safety backup.Seemed like a good idea, so Ally had stored a copy of her birth certificate, her driver's license, all her credit cards, her passport, a set of medical records, even the mortgage on her apartment. She'd even scanned in an ID photo, just for the heck of it. She also suggested to Grant that he do the same.Brilliant right? Well, maybe not.The reason was, she'd routinely made an updated copy on a ZIP disk and then copied it onto this computer here in the office. Like a second backup."I had everything ready for you for your meeting withBartlett, so nobody here has touched your computer this morning." Jennifer furrowed her brow. "Could somebody have picked the locks and come in last night and done this, like a prank or something?""Come on. That's totally far‑fetched." She was trying to imagine how somebody could have gotten in and out and left no trace. Impossible. "This must just be something stupid I did when I came down yesterday after seeing Mom. I don't remember it, but I guess I was pretty tired.""I've never seen you that tired."Jen's right, she thought. I was on the city's Web site checking the Department of Buildings' Housing Code, but I certainly didn't pull up my personal data. Computers do strange things, but to open a data file for no reason? That would require a higher intelligence.Right?"Jen, you're our resident computer expert. We leave these things hooked up all the time. I know we have a firewall, but what are the chances that somebody could defeat it somehow and hack into our computers?"Jennifer was a software whiz and she had all the designs for all the clients on their CAD system, which they used to create a virtual‑reality space and allow clients to "walk" through."Well, that's entirely possible. Our firewall software is over a year old. Let me take a look. Maybe I can reverse‑engineer what happened. If somebody went through pulling up files, I might be able to figure it out."Ally relinquished her chair and stood staring as Jennifer started checking the firewall.It was scary to think that some stranger could know everything about you. But on the other hand what difference could it make? She had nothing to hide. Still, it was creepy. Her Social Security and credit card information was in that file. Could that be—"Shit. Ally, you're not going to believe this. Whoever did this was damned good. We've been seriously hacked.""How do you know?" She bent over to look."Our firewall software has been disabled. In fact, the actual program was uninstalled. Jesus, that's cool. I think we'd better shut down everybody's Internet connection right this minute, till we can get some new software.""That's incredible. You mean somebody—""Honey, hackers have gotten into Microsoft's own site. Even the Pentagon, so I've heard. Anything is possible.""This is not good.""What are you thinking?" Jen was still staring at the screen and tapping at the keyboard."I'm thinking what a jerk I was. I keep all my personal information in that file, like a safety backup in case my apartment burned down or something. Scanned it in. My passport, driver's license, credit cards, medical records, everything."Jennifer looked puzzled. "You can just cancel the credit cards. As for the rest of the stuff, what could anybody possibly want with it?""I don't know, Jen. I don't even know if we were hacked by somebody who wants to find out about me, or just look at our designs."She was reflecting that when somebody goes through your files, they want the information for a purpose. And that purpose couldn't be positive for you, or they wouldn't have started their undertaking with a surreptitious act."Well, I'm going to check around and download a new firewall program. Right now.""Shit, I don't need this. I've got enough on my mind already. Mom wants to go out to a clinic in the wilds of northernNew Jerseyand see a doctor there. And the whole thing makes me nervous.""Oh Jesus, is the place called the Dorian Institute by any chance?""How did—?""I'm such a scatterbrain. I took a message for you while you were gone. From a Dr. Van de Something. I think that's the name of the place he's with. He wants you to call him back as soon as possible."Monday, April 611:43a.m.Would she call back? Karl Van de Vliet had to believe she would but nothing in this world was sure.On the nineteen‑inch screen of his office IBM, he was scrolling the medical file that he'd downloaded earlier that morning. How Grant Hampton got his hands on it, he didn't know and didn't want to know.Yes, Alexa Hampton would be perfect. She had aortic valve stenosis, well along, the same condition that had precipitated the coronary destruction that took Camille from him. It was the great tragedy of his life.He studied the charts carefully, trying to assure himself he was making the right choice. What if the stem cell procedure on her heart didn't work? To fail would mean he couldn't have saved Camille after all. That was actually the main reason he'd kept putting it off. He didn't want to know if he couldn't have rescued her.But Alexa Hampton was the obvious candidate. Her clinical condition had deteriorated to the point that, at some level, you might even say she had nothing to lose by undergoing an experimental procedure.And she was perfect in another way as well. Other than her heart condition, which she could do nothing about, she was in excellent physical shape. Her last blood pressure was 110 over 80 and her pulse was 67. She clearly had been exercising, which had been both good and bad for her heart, though on balance probably a plus. In fact, it was indicative of a strong fighting spirit, which was often the best prognosticator of all.He looked up to see Dr. Debra Connolly walking in. He had just paged her. She was an M.D. who had been his personal research assistant during her grad school days at Stanford. Now she was a full and valued member of the research team. Just turned thirty, she also was a smashing blonde, five‑nine, with a figure that would stop traffic, even in her white lab smock. She held Van de Vliet in the reverence always bestowed on a brilliant, beloved mentor."Hi, Deb, I wanted you to take a look at this." He indicated the screen. She knew all about the Beta and what had happened to Kristen, the Syndrome, but she didn't know about the plan to subject Alexa Hampton to two procedures at once: one for her aortic valve stenosis and another to develop antibodies to combat the looming side effects of the Beta in Winston Bartlett."This is the patient I was telling you about. I wanted you to see this. Let's pray she signs on for the trials, because she looks like she could be perfect, in a lot of ways."But if she doesn't call back, he told himself, what am I going to do?"What am I looking at?" Debra asked, scrolling the page. "Is this what I think it is?""It's her medical history.""How did you get it?" She turned back. "Did she send it?""No, Deb, and I don't think you really want to know.""Somehow, I think I probably should." She looked again at the screen. "We're in this together.""All I know is, I got an e‑mail from Grant Hampton, and this was an attachment. She must have been keeping it on a computer somewhere. I understand he's her brother, but how he got it, I have no idea. He said we're not supposed to let her know we have it.""How recent—""This final battery of tests is less than two weeks old," he said, pointing to the date on the corner of the page. Then he scrolled. "Take a look at her high‑speed CT scan. See that degenerative calcification there. Now look at the same test last year." He scrolled past a number of pages. "See." He tapped the screen, then scrolled back to the first image. "Over the past year there's been a significant buildup. She's made‑to‑ order for the clinical trials."And there was another reason he wanted her, which he was reluctant to admit to himself. There was a photo of Alexa Hampton in her medical files and something about her reminded him of Camille. Her eyes had a lot of spirit. They made you want to root for her. It was nothing short of ironic that this woman had the exact same medical condition that took the life of Camille, who had been at his side during the early stages of the research that now might provide a cure. But for Camille it had come too late. It was more than ironic; it was heartbreaking. Now, though, to save Alexa Hampton would be a kind of circular recompense. He took a last look, then closed the file."Does she want to be in the clinical trials? There's not much time left. We'd have to get her—""I just left a message at her office," he said revolving around in his chair. "Grant has talked to her, and so has W.B. This very morning. She's aware that time is of the essence. But there's no guarantee she'll do it."He glanced at his mute phone. If she didn't call back today, he had a feeling that Winston Bartlett might just have her seized and brought to the institute by force."I see that her blood type is AB," Debra said. "Extremely rare."Funny she should notice, he thought. Is she going to put it together?"That's the same asBartlett's blood type," she continued. "Interesting coincidence, huh?""Right.""You're already fond of her, aren't you?" Deb asked finally. He detected the usual tinge of rivalry seeping into her voice. "Without even meeting her."Dear God, he thought, don't start that. It's the same withevery attractive female patient under the age of fifty. I don't have time for games now.The truth was, Karl Van de Vliet was turned on by Debra Connolly. What red‑blooded primate wouldn't be? But she was half his age and to act on that attraction would be to guarantee trouble. He had enough to worry about without a lab romance. Besides, he was still thinking about Camille. They'd had the kind of long‑lasting, thick‑and‑thin love Debra would never understand.However, she did sufficiently understand the problems with the Beta procedure and the Syndrome, so he had to flirt back. She had to be kept on the reservation. Feign an interest but not enough for it to go anywhere."Deb, she's just an ideal fit for the study, that's all. Nothing more."The stem cell procedure for her stenosis should go forward with only minimal risk. There was every reason to hope he could rejuvenate the tissue in Alexa's left ventricle. It was merely an extrapolation of the kind of heart procedure that had worked such a wonder for Emma Rosen.The real challenge was simultaneously attempting the Beta‑ related procedure. The trick was to stimulate the development of antibodies through a moderate dosage of the special Beta enzyme, tempering it enough that it didn't go critical and begin replicating uncontrollably, the way it had in Kristen, and (probably) very soon in W.B. Not so low as to be inoperative but not so high that it would go out of control. The "Goldilocks dosage," not too much, not too little. The problem was, he wasn't absolutely sure what that dosage was.Should he tell Alexa Hampton the full story about what he was doing? About the Beta? That ethical question, he had decided, he would leave to Grant Hampton,Bartlett's hustler of a CFO. It was his sister, after all. Presumably, he'd tell her whatever she needed to know to make an informed decision. Let the responsibility be on his head.The phone on his desk finally rang.Chapter 10Monday, April 612:57 p.m.Stone Aimes was floating through cyberspace, through the massive data pages of the National Institutes of Health. Since the Gerex Corporation had a complete clampdown on their clinical‑trial results, he was attempting an end run. By going to the source, he was hoping he could find out whether or not Karl Van de Vliet's experiments with stem cell technology were succeeding.He needed that information to finish his book, and he hoped that the remainder of the advance could be used to pay for his daughter Amy's private school inNew York, if he got it in time. He was dreaming of a life in which she could come back to live with him at least part of the year. Sometimes, particularly days like this—Monday was his official day off—he couldn't avoid the fact he was incredibly lonely.But first things first He had gone to the section that described the many and varied clinical trials the NIH had under way. Then he used "scrambled eggs," the entry protocol given to him by Dale Coverton, to circumvent security on the site and get him into the second‑level NIH data files. He was hoping to find the names of patients who had gone through the Gerex stem cell procedure and could be interviewed.It really wasn't all that difficult, or even—he told himself—unethical to get in this far. No big deal. Entry protocols were available to any high‑level NIH employee who had the right security grade. Now he was poking through the reams of proprietary data that the Gerex Corporation had submitted to initiate the clinical trials.It was one of the more ambitious studies he'd ever seen, not in numbers of patients necessarily but certainly in scope. They were indeed running stage‑three clinical trials of their stem cell procedure on a variety of maladies. There was no double‑blind placebo. You either were cured or you were not.Jesus, it was incredible. They were shooting for nothing less than the unified field theory of medicine, aiming not just to patch some failing element of the human body but to regenerate entire organs. Among their stated objectives were building pancreatic islets, reconstructing the ventricles of the heart, reconstituting the damaged livers of individuals with advanced cirrhosis. They were also accepting patients with Alzheimer's and Parkinson's."Christ," he said, scrolling past page after page, "how come they're suddenly so secretive about this?"If Van de Vliet had achieved results in just a fraction of those trials, it would herald the beginning of a new age in medicine.The NIH monitor for the Gerex trials was Cheryl Gates, just as Dale had said. Her photo was featured along with the introductory description of the trials. Nice‑looking, he thought, probably late thirties, dark hair, dark‑rimmed glasses. She wasn't wearing much makeup in the photo, probably to emphasize how serious she was. Sooner or later, he told himself, he had to find a way to meet her. . . .He stared at his IBM Aptiva screen a moment longer, overwhelmed at what he was seeing, then got up and walked into the kitchen and made a peanut butter sandwich, whole wheat. It was a rehearsal for the possibly hard times to come. Then he retrieved a Brooklyn Lager from the fridge. It was his day off and the sun was over the yardarm.He lived on the fourth floor of a brownstone in Yorkville, inNew York's East Eighties. The apartment was small, but it was rent stabilized which meant he was paying well under market value—$1,128 a month on a place that probably could go for close to twice that on the open market. He'd lucked into it after he and Jane split—even though they weren't married they'd bought a condo in the West Fifties, and at the breakup they'd switched the mortgage to her name—but the problem now was, how was he going to pay even this piddling rent (not to mention child support for Amy) after he got fired from the Sentinel? That day, he sensed was fast approaching. And if it happened before the book was finished he was just three months away from going back to freelancing. That was how long his "nest egg" would last.Carrying the sandwich and beer, he walked back to his "office," a corner of the cramped living room that had an Early American desk, and sat down at the frayed chair in front of his IBM.So here he was, past the first level of security of the NIH site, zeroed in on the Gerex clinical trials. Somewhere here had to be all the data about the patients who had been, and currently were, participating.He moved on to the results section and opened the first page. Yes.Then he looked more closely.Hello, we've got a problem. The patient data he was looking at had only code numbers for names. The categories of trials also were just numbers. Without a key, there was no way to get a single patient name or differentiate Alzheimer's from fallen arches. Then he saw the notice at the top of the page: As part of the NIH policy on privacy, all patient data are aggregated and anonymous.Shit.This was as far as "scrambled eggs" would take him. He needed a higher security protocol to get into individual‑case data. Dale either didn't have it or didn't dare give it out.Well, he thought, at least I've got information on the structure of the clinical trials. I should print that before the system realizes it's been hacked. He clicked on the print icon. Let the games begin.His real objective was to try to wangle an interview with Karl Van de Vliet, an interview that would have to be approved by Winston Bartlett. Maybe what could be gleaned from this level of the NIH site would be enough to bluffBartlettinto thinking he knew more than he really did. In truth, interviewing discharged patients would have meant anecdotal information, probably not rigorous enough for use in a definitive book. But at the moment, that would have been a start.He lifted the first printed page and studied it.Stone Aimes had seen enough clinical trials over the years to know that the data were reported according to an established schedule. Obviously, the schedule was always adapted to fit the nature of the trials under way, but studies that produce the kind of short‑term results Gerex hinted at in their early press releases—before they clammed up—would probably have a tight reporting schedule, possibly even weekly.He stared at the page for a moment, then lifted out another. He wasn't sure just yet what it all meant, but he might be able to infer something. He was still puzzling over the columns of numbers as the data finished printing.What was it telling him?He went back and clicked onstudy procedures. This section explained how the reporting was structured. He still held out hope that the names of the discharged patients in the clinical trials could be accessed somehow. In the past, when the FDA tested drugs, it often happened that the names of the participants were not revealed to the monitor, or to anybody. The policy was intended to preserve the privacy of study participants. But lately it had been under review. All that secrecy and non‑accountability had permitted some spectacular fabrication of test data.Surely the NIH had taken this into consideration by now and come up with a system whereby the identities of the participants could be checked and verified. That information had to be stored somewhere.No such luck. It appeared the NIH had begun using a modified version of the new FDA sunshine policy. NIH clinical trials had a "one week of sunshine" provision, during which the suitability of test subjects could be evaluated by a review procedure. During that time, their real identity was in the database. But after that, the identity information of any patient actually selected for inclusion in the clinical trials was encoded—where thenceforth it could only be accessed through a lengthy legal process.Screwed again.At this late date, the Gerex Corporation surely was not going to be adding any new names and giving them that week of sunshine. According to press releases at the beginning of the clinical trials, when Gerex was a lot more communicative, at this date the entire study should be just days away from being wrapped up.He went back to the patient files one last time, out of frustration. As he continued to scroll, he noticed that although the identities of patients and crucial personal data were encrypted, the dates on which they entered and finished the trials were all supplied.Hmmm. It was actually more detailed than that. There were dates for when a patient entered each stage of the procedure: Screening, Initial Evaluation, Admitted into Program, Procedure Under Way, Procedure Monitoring, Results Evaluation, Patient Release, Patient Follow‑up.The time between screening and patient release averaged around five weeks, six weeks at mostLooking at the time‑sequenced data, you couldn't avoid the conclusion that the clinical trials had been a spectacular success. No doubt the specific data would reveal whether there had been any adverse reactions, but as clinical trials go, these seemed to have been without major incident. He had a nose for trouble, and these looked as rigorous as clockwork. . . .Hold on a second. . . .That’sodd.What the data structure did not have was a category for Termination. Yet one of the patients had been listed with dates leading up to and including Procedure Under Way, but after that the patient was noted parenthetically as having been "terminated." That was all the information given.What could that mean?He leaned back with a sigh and pulled on his Brooklyn Lager. Okay, patients frequently got dropped from clinical trials because some underlying condition suddenly manifested itself and made them unsuitable trial subjects. In fact, that was preferable to keeping them in a study when they were no longer appropriate. But the thing about clinical trials was, there always had to be a compelling, fully explained reason for terminating a test subject. Otherwise you could just "terminate" non‑responsive participants and skew the results. No reason was given here.He thought again about the "one week of sunshine," and as a long shot checked to see if anyone had been admitted this week.Nada, but again that was reasonable. The entire study was wrapping up.Which meant, in short, that he had nothing to work with in terms of people. All he had were dates and encrypted names.What now?He finished the beer and was preparing to go off‑line when a drop‑down screen flickerednew data.He was being directed to the new applicants' "sunshine" page.He clicked back, then stared at the screen.A name had appeared.He couldn't believe his luck. For some unknown reason,they must still be adding new test subjects at this late date in the trials.nina hampton.Finally he had a name. This was an incredible stroke of...Wait. A second name was appearing now, the letters popping up one by one as they were being typed in.He rolled the mouse to print, and felt his hopes surge.Then his heart skipped a beat. The second name was . . .alexahampton.Jesus, could it be?No way. Too big a coincidence. But wait, the other was Nina Hampton. Isn't that the name of her Brit mum? That unredeemable piece of work.Impossible.If it was the Ally Hampton he knew, she was a woman he still thought of every day. It went back to when they were both undergraduates. She was taking a degree in architecture atColumbiaand he had just switched from premed to the Columbia School of Journalism.Wasn't there a Cole Porter lyric about an affair being too hot not to cool down? They undoubtedly were in love, but they both were too strong‑willed to cede an inch of personal turf. It was a combustible situation.When they decided to go their own way, it was done under the agreement that they would make a clean break and never see each other again. Be adult and hold your head high and look to the future. No recriminations and no second thoughts. In respecting that agreement, he had gone out of his way not to keep track of her. He particularly didn't want to know if she'd gotten married had a family, any of it.Thinking back now, he remembered that she had had some kind of heart condition. She refused to talk about it, and now he couldn't remember exactly what it was. But that could possibly explain her entry into the clinical trials, though it didn't clarify why she was only being added now, at the last minute.If it was actually her.And if so, how would he feel talking to her? He hoped time had mellowed her, though he somehow doubted it. Not Ally.What an irony. If it was the same Alexa Hampton, she could end up being his entree into the secretive world of Winston Bartlett's Gerex Corporation. The trouble was, he wasn't sure he actually wanted to see her again. Even after all the years, the wounds still felt fresh.He closed out the NIH file and opened People Search, which he often used to look up phone numbers. He started withNew YorkStateas a criterion. The names Alexa and Nina undoubtedly belonged to women, so they might be listed merely by their initials. But start with Alexa and be optimistic.He got lucky. Three names and phone numbers popped up.One was inManhattan, and Ally was a dyed‑in‑the‑wool New Yorker, but he wasn't sure he was psychologically prepared to speak to her. That number he decided to save for last, though it was by far the most plausible.The next Alexa Hampton lived inSyracuse, with area code 315. He was still shook up as he dialed the number."Yeah, who's this?"Sure didn't sound like Ally. But he was playing this straight. As a reporter he always started a conversation by identifying himself, so naturally he answered, "Stone Aimes, New York Sentinel.""The fuck you want?" came the voice. It was female but it definitely was not ladylike. "I don't need any newspapers."Whoa, that definitely didn't sound like Ally. She was direct but she didn't talk like a sailor."Sorry, ma'am. I have a few questions about your participation in some clinical trials. Sorry to bother you, but I have a deadline. Shouldn't take a minute.""You a fucking reporter?""I'm doing a story on the Gerex Corporation. Are you—?""The what corporation? The fuck you talking about?""Seems like I'm calling the wrong number. I'm very sorry and I apologize.""Listen, if you're some kind of weirdo, I'm going to call the cops and have this call traced.""I said I apologize." He hung up and thought about another beer. This was beginning to feel like the moment.But he resisted the urge and called the next number. Come on. Be the right one and don't be Ally.This one had a 516 area code. That meantLong Island."Hello," came a rusty old voice that had to be in its seventies. It sounded oversmoked and just hanging on. Again definitely not the Ally he knew."Hello, ma'am," he said "I'm sorry to bother you, but—""Are you trying to sell me something, young man," the woman asked. "It's not going to do you much good. I live on a Social Security check, and it's all I can do to make ends meet as is. You sound nice, but—""No, ma'am, I'm a newspaper reporter. I'm doing a story on ... I just wanted to follow up on your admission to the clinical trials for the Gerex Corporation." He felt a surge of hope. It wasn't Ally, but she did sound like a woman who might well be a candidate for medical treatment. "Do you know what day you plan to start?""What on earth are you talking about?" she asked. "Young man, it's ill manners to start asking a body silly questions, no matter how nice you might be otherwise. I've never heard of this, whatever you called it, corporation." Click.She sure didn't sound like a patient. Or maybe she was too far gone to even know if she was a patient or not. In any case, this was not a promising lead.Okay, he thought, go with the one you should have in the first place.Blast. He wanted this to be the one, but he just didn't want it to be Ally. Or maybe he did.He took a deep breath and punched in the last number, which had aManhattanarea code, 212. The phone at the other end rang five times and then an answering machine came on. At this hour, she would most likely be at work."Hello, this is Alexa Hampton. I'm sorry I can't come to the phone now, but if you'll leave your name and number, I'll get back to you as soon as possible. If you're calling about design work, the number of CitiSpace is 212‑555‑8597."He felt his heart flip, then sink. It was Ally. It was a voice he had heard for years in his reveries—or were they the nightmares of roads not taken?She still might not be the new patient in the clinical trials, but at least he knew he could reach her.The sound of her voice. After all this time he didn't realize it would still affect him the way it did.So, he thought, clearing his head, she's running a design business now. He wondered how that had happened. The last time he saw her, she was a single‑minded student of architecture. Intensely focused.No message. Don't leave a message. It probably would freak her out. Actually, it might freak them both out.Assuming she was the new patient, how the hell did Ally get involved with Winston Bartlett? It probably would have something to do with that heart condition she didn't like to talk about.He clicked off the phone and settled it onto the desk. Then he glanced again at the computer screen and decided to go back to the NIH files. The other woman, Nina, he would look up later. Ally's Brit mum must be getting on by now, but still it was hard to imagine anything being wrong with her; as he remembered Nina, the woman was well nigh indestructibleWhen he got back to the NIH Web site and went to the "sunshine" page, it was again blank. The two new names, Nina Hampton and Alexa Hampton, were not there anymore. They must have been entered immediately into the clinical trials. But why now? If Van de Vliet kept to the original schedule, the trials would be over in a matter of days.Maybe, he thought, this was a momentary screw‑up. I just happened to be at the right place at the right fleeting moment, when somebody, somewhere, was entering those names. Maybe some NIH bureaucrat hit the wrong key on a keyboard someplace inMaryland.But it was the break he'd been waiting for.He turned off the IBM and headed for the fridge and another Brooklyn Lager. Ally, Ally, Ally. Can it be you? This is so weird.Worse than that, it was painful. There was that immortal line fromCasablanca: "Of all the gin joints in all... she walks into mine."Why you, dear God?Coming back, he sat down, took a long hit on the icy bottle, and reached for the phone.Chapter 11Monday, April 61:29 p.m.As she hung up, Ally wondered again what she was getting into. But she did want to meet this miracle worker. The kind of thing Van de Vliet was talking about sounded as much like science fiction as anything she’d ever heard. Still, his voice was reassuring, even mesmerizing, and there seemed no reason not to at least check out the Dorian Institute firsthand. But then what? Help!She looked at her coffee cup and wished she dared have a refill. But that much caffeine always made her heart start to act up. And maybe she didn't need it. The conversation with Karl Van de Vliet had energized her and sharpened her senses quite enough.She was still thinking about that when the phone rang again. There was an electronic voice directory, but her own phone was the default if a caller did not care to use it."CitiSpace.""Hi, Ally. Tell me if you recognize the voice. Just please don't hang up."Who was it? The intonations were bouncing around somewhere in the back of her brain, as though they were a computer file looking for a match. The one her unconscious mind was making was being rejected by her conscious mind. Then finally the match came through and stuck.My God, it couldn't be. The last time she’d talked to him was ... what? Almost two decades ago.The irony was, she’d been thinking about him some lately, as part of taking stock of her life. She’d been meditating over all the roads not taken, and he’d been the last man she’d actually loved or thought she loved before Steve."What . . . How did . . . ?" She found she was at a loss for words. She figured he’d have been the same way if she’d called him out of the blue."Hey, this isn't easy for me either. But I have a pretty good reason for breaking our vow of silence."She was immediately flooded with mixed emotions. Stone Aimes. She already knew he wrote for the Sentinel. Or at least she assumed the irreverent reporter by that name who did their medical column was him. The tone sounded so much like the way she remembered him. There was a lot of passion and he was always editorializing against "Big Medicine." He had plenty of raw courage, but sometimes he had too much edge. That was one quality he had that had eventually gotten to be nerve‑racking back when they were together.Now, in hindsight, she remembered their breakup with both anger and regret. She was angry that, even though she tried like hell, she could never really connect with him at the level she yearned for. He always seemed to be holding something back, some secret he was afraid to divulge. Truthfully, they both were grand masters at never allowing vulnerability. In short, they were overly alike. They shared the same flaws.Still, after Steve was taken away, it was hard not to think of Stone now and then. Before Steve, Stone was the only sane lover she'd ever been close to.But she also knew the bit about letting sleeping dogs lie. Sometimes that was the better part of wisdom. This conversation, she finally decided, was just going to open old wounds. Better to nip it right now.
"That would be an excellent question to ask him."
"You're screwing him, aren't you?" she demanded, wrinkled brow furrowed and dim eyes seething. "Like that other little whore of his. That's why he hired you. Well, let me tell you something. I'll outlive you both."
Without another word she turned and got into the elevator.
Chapter 9
Monday, April 6
12:18 P.M.
"Hey, how did it go?" Jennifer asked the minute Ally came in the door.
She wasn't sure she knew the answer to that. Initially the job looked like a lot of fun, but now she felt the interpersonal dynamics of working inBartlett's home were already a problem even before she started.
Also, maybe it was just paranoia, but as she took the cab downtown from the mansion onGramercyPark, she got the impression that somebody was following her in a black SUV. And the stress of that brought on a tightness in her chest. But as she neared their office inSoHo, the vehicle abruptly veered east. She had a nitro tab at the ready, but she didn't have to pop it.
"There's good news and bad news. The good news is he's practically handing us a sweetheart of a job, and dangling another—designing a whole museum—in our face. The bad news is, I don't know why he suddenly thinks we're so terrific. I mean, you and I know that but how did he figure it out?"
Jennifer looked puzzled. "You mean he—"
"Oh, did I mention that his crazy wife showed up after he left and essentially accused me of being a hooker? I suppose that comes under the heading of bad news."
"Great. Does that mean she's going to start second‑guessing whatever we do?"
"The communication channels between Mr. Bartlett and Mrs. Bartlett don't appear to be all that great. They live on different floors in his place—which really is a huge old mansion onGramercyPark, by the way—and the job would be in his part, the lower level." She explained theBartletts' living arrangements. "He wants to redo the garden‑level floor. It was originally the servants' quarters. Like Upstairs, Downstairs."
"So he's upstairs and she's way upstairs."
"And let's hope she stays there."
Ally fetched herself a cup of coffee, checked in with everybody to see how they were doing, and then settled herself at her computer. She had the latest program in computer‑aided design (CAD) and she wanted to program in the dimensions and layout of the space. And since she had a copy of the blueprints, the first thing she would do would be to run them through her flatbed scanner and incorporate them into the program. She didn't get a chance to take any digital photos with CitiSpace's snazzy (and expensive) new Nikon. But if the job went forward there'd be plenty of time later.
Everybody's computers were connected to the Net via a broadband DSL hookup and they were never turned off. Because of that, the computers were vulnerable to being hacked so Jen had installed a firewall program to keep out snoops.
She sat down and stared at the screen saver, which was an ever‑changing series of tropical beaches at sunset. She sipped at her coffee—this was the one cup she allowed herself each day, always saved for the moment when she felt she needed to be most alert—and reached to turn on the scanner. The tightness in her chest that she had momentarily experienced in the cab had completely disappeared and she felt perfectly normal.
What was she going to do about her mother and the clinic inNew Jersey? Nina certainly appeared to want to go. And with the inevitability of what lay in store for someone with early‑onset Alzheimer's, taking her out there was surely worth doing. But as for her own heart, she wasn't so sure she thought the reward was worth the risk. But she'd decided to hold off on a decision till she could have a firsthand look at the institute.
She took another sip of coffee and then tapped the keyboard. When she did that, the screen would normally bring up the "desktop."
But not this time. A file was open, and she was certain she hadn't left it open. What's this?
"Jen, could you come here a minute? There's something funny."
The first page of the file that had been pulled up and opened was an ID photo of herself.
"This is what was running. Has somebody been fooling around with this computer?"
Jennifer looked puzzled when she saw it "Not that I know of."
"Then how did this get . . . ?” She just sat staring. "I didn't open this file. Does this thing have a mind of its own?"
About eight years ago, Kate Gillis at Manhattan Properties—with whom Ally had an occasional after‑work drink— told her she'd scanned all her vital personal documents into her computer at home. She'd said it was an easy way to make a safety backup.
Seemed like a good idea, so Ally had stored a copy of her birth certificate, her driver's license, all her credit cards, her passport, a set of medical records, even the mortgage on her apartment. She'd even scanned in an ID photo, just for the heck of it. She also suggested to Grant that he do the same.
Brilliant right? Well, maybe not.
The reason was, she'd routinely made an updated copy on a ZIP disk and then copied it onto this computer here in the office. Like a second backup.
"I had everything ready for you for your meeting withBartlett, so nobody here has touched your computer this morning." Jennifer furrowed her brow. "Could somebody have picked the locks and come in last night and done this, like a prank or something?"
"Come on. That's totally far‑fetched." She was trying to imagine how somebody could have gotten in and out and left no trace. Impossible. "This must just be something stupid I did when I came down yesterday after seeing Mom. I don't remember it, but I guess I was pretty tired."
"I've never seen you that tired."
Jen's right, she thought. I was on the city's Web site checking the Department of Buildings' Housing Code, but I certainly didn't pull up my personal data. Computers do strange things, but to open a data file for no reason? That would require a higher intelligence.
Right?
"Jen, you're our resident computer expert. We leave these things hooked up all the time. I know we have a firewall, but what are the chances that somebody could defeat it somehow and hack into our computers?"
Jennifer was a software whiz and she had all the designs for all the clients on their CAD system, which they used to create a virtual‑reality space and allow clients to "walk" through.
"Well, that's entirely possible. Our firewall software is over a year old. Let me take a look. Maybe I can reverse‑engineer what happened. If somebody went through pulling up files, I might be able to figure it out."
Ally relinquished her chair and stood staring as Jennifer started checking the firewall.
It was scary to think that some stranger could know everything about you. But on the other hand what difference could it make? She had nothing to hide. Still, it was creepy. Her Social Security and credit card information was in that file. Could that be—
"Shit. Ally, you're not going to believe this. Whoever did this was damned good. We've been seriously hacked."
"How do you know?" She bent over to look.
"Our firewall software has been disabled. In fact, the actual program was uninstalled. Jesus, that's cool. I think we'd better shut down everybody's Internet connection right this minute, till we can get some new software."
"That's incredible. You mean somebody—"
"Honey, hackers have gotten into Microsoft's own site. Even the Pentagon, so I've heard. Anything is possible."
"This is not good."
"What are you thinking?" Jen was still staring at the screen and tapping at the keyboard.
"I'm thinking what a jerk I was. I keep all my personal information in that file, like a safety backup in case my apartment burned down or something. Scanned it in. My passport, driver's license, credit cards, medical records, everything."
Jennifer looked puzzled. "You can just cancel the credit cards. As for the rest of the stuff, what could anybody possibly want with it?"
"I don't know, Jen. I don't even know if we were hacked by somebody who wants to find out about me, or just look at our designs."
She was reflecting that when somebody goes through your files, they want the information for a purpose. And that purpose couldn't be positive for you, or they wouldn't have started their undertaking with a surreptitious act.
"Well, I'm going to check around and download a new firewall program. Right now."
"Shit, I don't need this. I've got enough on my mind already. Mom wants to go out to a clinic in the wilds of northernNew Jerseyand see a doctor there. And the whole thing makes me nervous."
"Oh Jesus, is the place called the Dorian Institute by any chance?"
"How did—?"
"I'm such a scatterbrain. I took a message for you while you were gone. From a Dr. Van de Something. I think that's the name of the place he's with. He wants you to call him back as soon as possible."
Monday, April 6
11:43a.m.
Would she call back? Karl Van de Vliet had to believe she would but nothing in this world was sure.
On the nineteen‑inch screen of his office IBM, he was scrolling the medical file that he'd downloaded earlier that morning. How Grant Hampton got his hands on it, he didn't know and didn't want to know.
Yes, Alexa Hampton would be perfect. She had aortic valve stenosis, well along, the same condition that had precipitated the coronary destruction that took Camille from him. It was the great tragedy of his life.
He studied the charts carefully, trying to assure himself he was making the right choice. What if the stem cell procedure on her heart didn't work? To fail would mean he couldn't have saved Camille after all. That was actually the main reason he'd kept putting it off. He didn't want to know if he couldn't have rescued her.
But Alexa Hampton was the obvious candidate. Her clinical condition had deteriorated to the point that, at some level, you might even say she had nothing to lose by undergoing an experimental procedure.
And she was perfect in another way as well. Other than her heart condition, which she could do nothing about, she was in excellent physical shape. Her last blood pressure was 110 over 80 and her pulse was 67. She clearly had been exercising, which had been both good and bad for her heart, though on balance probably a plus. In fact, it was indicative of a strong fighting spirit, which was often the best prognosticator of all.
He looked up to see Dr. Debra Connolly walking in. He had just paged her. She was an M.D. who had been his personal research assistant during her grad school days at Stanford. Now she was a full and valued member of the research team. Just turned thirty, she also was a smashing blonde, five‑nine, with a figure that would stop traffic, even in her white lab smock. She held Van de Vliet in the reverence always bestowed on a brilliant, beloved mentor.
"Hi, Deb, I wanted you to take a look at this." He indicated the screen. She knew all about the Beta and what had happened to Kristen, the Syndrome, but she didn't know about the plan to subject Alexa Hampton to two procedures at once: one for her aortic valve stenosis and another to develop antibodies to combat the looming side effects of the Beta in Winston Bartlett.
"This is the patient I was telling you about. I wanted you to see this. Let's pray she signs on for the trials, because she looks like she could be perfect, in a lot of ways."
But if she doesn't call back, he told himself, what am I going to do?
"What am I looking at?" Debra asked, scrolling the page. "Is this what I think it is?"
"It's her medical history."
"How did you get it?" She turned back. "Did she send it?"
"No, Deb, and I don't think you really want to know."
"Somehow, I think I probably should." She looked again at the screen. "We're in this together."
"All I know is, I got an e‑mail from Grant Hampton, and this was an attachment. She must have been keeping it on a computer somewhere. I understand he's her brother, but how he got it, I have no idea. He said we're not supposed to let her know we have it."
"How recent—"
"This final battery of tests is less than two weeks old," he said, pointing to the date on the corner of the page. Then he scrolled. "Take a look at her high‑speed CT scan. See that degenerative calcification there. Now look at the same test last year." He scrolled past a number of pages. "See." He tapped the screen, then scrolled back to the first image. "Over the past year there's been a significant buildup. She's made‑to‑ order for the clinical trials."
And there was another reason he wanted her, which he was reluctant to admit to himself. There was a photo of Alexa Hampton in her medical files and something about her reminded him of Camille. Her eyes had a lot of spirit. They made you want to root for her. It was nothing short of ironic that this woman had the exact same medical condition that took the life of Camille, who had been at his side during the early stages of the research that now might provide a cure. But for Camille it had come too late. It was more than ironic; it was heartbreaking. Now, though, to save Alexa Hampton would be a kind of circular recompense. He took a last look, then closed the file.
"Does she want to be in the clinical trials? There's not much time left. We'd have to get her—"
"I just left a message at her office," he said revolving around in his chair. "Grant has talked to her, and so has W.B. This very morning. She's aware that time is of the essence. But there's no guarantee she'll do it."
He glanced at his mute phone. If she didn't call back today, he had a feeling that Winston Bartlett might just have her seized and brought to the institute by force.
"I see that her blood type is AB," Debra said. "Extremely rare."
Funny she should notice, he thought. Is she going to put it together?
"That's the same asBartlett's blood type," she continued. "Interesting coincidence, huh?"
"Right."
"You're already fond of her, aren't you?" Deb asked finally. He detected the usual tinge of rivalry seeping into her voice. "Without even meeting her."
Dear God, he thought, don't start that. It's the same with
every attractive female patient under the age of fifty. I don't have time for games now.
The truth was, Karl Van de Vliet was turned on by Debra Connolly. What red‑blooded primate wouldn't be? But she was half his age and to act on that attraction would be to guarantee trouble. He had enough to worry about without a lab romance. Besides, he was still thinking about Camille. They'd had the kind of long‑lasting, thick‑and‑thin love Debra would never understand.
However, she did sufficiently understand the problems with the Beta procedure and the Syndrome, so he had to flirt back. She had to be kept on the reservation. Feign an interest but not enough for it to go anywhere.
"Deb, she's just an ideal fit for the study, that's all. Nothing more."
The stem cell procedure for her stenosis should go forward with only minimal risk. There was every reason to hope he could rejuvenate the tissue in Alexa's left ventricle. It was merely an extrapolation of the kind of heart procedure that had worked such a wonder for Emma Rosen.
The real challenge was simultaneously attempting the Beta‑ related procedure. The trick was to stimulate the development of antibodies through a moderate dosage of the special Beta enzyme, tempering it enough that it didn't go critical and begin replicating uncontrollably, the way it had in Kristen, and (probably) very soon in W.B. Not so low as to be inoperative but not so high that it would go out of control. The "Goldilocks dosage," not too much, not too little. The problem was, he wasn't absolutely sure what that dosage was.
Should he tell Alexa Hampton the full story about what he was doing? About the Beta? That ethical question, he had decided, he would leave to Grant Hampton,Bartlett's hustler of a CFO. It was his sister, after all. Presumably, he'd tell her whatever she needed to know to make an informed decision. Let the responsibility be on his head.
The phone on his desk finally rang.
Chapter 10
Monday, April 6
12:57 p.m.
Stone Aimes was floating through cyberspace, through the massive data pages of the National Institutes of Health. Since the Gerex Corporation had a complete clampdown on their clinical‑trial results, he was attempting an end run. By going to the source, he was hoping he could find out whether or not Karl Van de Vliet's experiments with stem cell technology were succeeding.
He needed that information to finish his book, and he hoped that the remainder of the advance could be used to pay for his daughter Amy's private school inNew York, if he got it in time. He was dreaming of a life in which she could come back to live with him at least part of the year. Sometimes, particularly days like this—Monday was his official day off—he couldn't avoid the fact he was incredibly lonely.
But first things first He had gone to the section that described the many and varied clinical trials the NIH had under way. Then he used "scrambled eggs," the entry protocol given to him by Dale Coverton, to circumvent security on the site and get him into the second‑level NIH data files. He was hoping to find the names of patients who had gone through the Gerex stem cell procedure and could be interviewed.
It really wasn't all that difficult, or even—he told himself—unethical to get in this far. No big deal. Entry protocols were available to any high‑level NIH employee who had the right security grade. Now he was poking through the reams of proprietary data that the Gerex Corporation had submitted to initiate the clinical trials.
It was one of the more ambitious studies he'd ever seen, not in numbers of patients necessarily but certainly in scope. They were indeed running stage‑three clinical trials of their stem cell procedure on a variety of maladies. There was no double‑blind placebo. You either were cured or you were not.
Jesus, it was incredible. They were shooting for nothing less than the unified field theory of medicine, aiming not just to patch some failing element of the human body but to regenerate entire organs. Among their stated objectives were building pancreatic islets, reconstructing the ventricles of the heart, reconstituting the damaged livers of individuals with advanced cirrhosis. They were also accepting patients with Alzheimer's and Parkinson's.
"Christ," he said, scrolling past page after page, "how come they're suddenly so secretive about this?"
If Van de Vliet had achieved results in just a fraction of those trials, it would herald the beginning of a new age in medicine.
The NIH monitor for the Gerex trials was Cheryl Gates, just as Dale had said. Her photo was featured along with the introductory description of the trials. Nice‑looking, he thought, probably late thirties, dark hair, dark‑rimmed glasses. She wasn't wearing much makeup in the photo, probably to emphasize how serious she was. Sooner or later, he told himself, he had to find a way to meet her. . . .
He stared at his IBM Aptiva screen a moment longer, overwhelmed at what he was seeing, then got up and walked into the kitchen and made a peanut butter sandwich, whole wheat. It was a rehearsal for the possibly hard times to come. Then he retrieved a Brooklyn Lager from the fridge. It was his day off and the sun was over the yardarm.
He lived on the fourth floor of a brownstone in Yorkville, inNew York's East Eighties. The apartment was small, but it was rent stabilized which meant he was paying well under market value—$1,128 a month on a place that probably could go for close to twice that on the open market. He'd lucked into it after he and Jane split—even though they weren't married they'd bought a condo in the West Fifties, and at the breakup they'd switched the mortgage to her name—but the problem now was, how was he going to pay even this piddling rent (not to mention child support for Amy) after he got fired from the Sentinel? That day, he sensed was fast approaching. And if it happened before the book was finished he was just three months away from going back to freelancing. That was how long his "nest egg" would last.
Carrying the sandwich and beer, he walked back to his "office," a corner of the cramped living room that had an Early American desk, and sat down at the frayed chair in front of his IBM.
So here he was, past the first level of security of the NIH site, zeroed in on the Gerex clinical trials. Somewhere here had to be all the data about the patients who had been, and currently were, participating.
He moved on to the results section and opened the first page. Yes.
Then he looked more closely.
Hello, we've got a problem. The patient data he was looking at had only code numbers for names. The categories of trials also were just numbers. Without a key, there was no way to get a single patient name or differentiate Alzheimer's from fallen arches. Then he saw the notice at the top of the page: As part of the NIH policy on privacy, all patient data are aggregated and anonymous.
Shit.
This was as far as "scrambled eggs" would take him. He needed a higher security protocol to get into individual‑case data. Dale either didn't have it or didn't dare give it out.
Well, he thought, at least I've got information on the structure of the clinical trials. I should print that before the system realizes it's been hacked. He clicked on the print icon. Let the games begin.
His real objective was to try to wangle an interview with Karl Van de Vliet, an interview that would have to be approved by Winston Bartlett. Maybe what could be gleaned from this level of the NIH site would be enough to bluffBartlettinto thinking he knew more than he really did. In truth, interviewing discharged patients would have meant anecdotal information, probably not rigorous enough for use in a definitive book. But at the moment, that would have been a start.
He lifted the first printed page and studied it.
Stone Aimes had seen enough clinical trials over the years to know that the data were reported according to an established schedule. Obviously, the schedule was always adapted to fit the nature of the trials under way, but studies that produce the kind of short‑term results Gerex hinted at in their early press releases—before they clammed up—would probably have a tight reporting schedule, possibly even weekly.
He stared at the page for a moment, then lifted out another. He wasn't sure just yet what it all meant, but he might be able to infer something. He was still puzzling over the columns of numbers as the data finished printing.
What was it telling him?
He went back and clicked onstudy procedures. This section explained how the reporting was structured. He still held out hope that the names of the discharged patients in the clinical trials could be accessed somehow. In the past, when the FDA tested drugs, it often happened that the names of the participants were not revealed to the monitor, or to anybody. The policy was intended to preserve the privacy of study participants. But lately it had been under review. All that secrecy and non‑accountability had permitted some spectacular fabrication of test data.
Surely the NIH had taken this into consideration by now and come up with a system whereby the identities of the participants could be checked and verified. That information had to be stored somewhere.
No such luck. It appeared the NIH had begun using a modified version of the new FDA sunshine policy. NIH clinical trials had a "one week of sunshine" provision, during which the suitability of test subjects could be evaluated by a review procedure. During that time, their real identity was in the database. But after that, the identity information of any patient actually selected for inclusion in the clinical trials was encoded—where thenceforth it could only be accessed through a lengthy legal process.
Screwed again.
At this late date, the Gerex Corporation surely was not going to be adding any new names and giving them that week of sunshine. According to press releases at the beginning of the clinical trials, when Gerex was a lot more communicative, at this date the entire study should be just days away from being wrapped up.
He went back to the patient files one last time, out of frustration. As he continued to scroll, he noticed that although the identities of patients and crucial personal data were encrypted, the dates on which they entered and finished the trials were all supplied.
Hmmm. It was actually more detailed than that. There were dates for when a patient entered each stage of the procedure: Screening, Initial Evaluation, Admitted into Program, Procedure Under Way, Procedure Monitoring, Results Evaluation, Patient Release, Patient Follow‑up.
The time between screening and patient release averaged around five weeks, six weeks at most
Looking at the time‑sequenced data, you couldn't avoid the conclusion that the clinical trials had been a spectacular success. No doubt the specific data would reveal whether there had been any adverse reactions, but as clinical trials go, these seemed to have been without major incident. He had a nose for trouble, and these looked as rigorous as clockwork. . . .
Hold on a second. . . .That’sodd.
What the data structure did not have was a category for Termination. Yet one of the patients had been listed with dates leading up to and including Procedure Under Way, but after that the patient was noted parenthetically as having been "terminated." That was all the information given.
What could that mean?
He leaned back with a sigh and pulled on his Brooklyn Lager. Okay, patients frequently got dropped from clinical trials because some underlying condition suddenly manifested itself and made them unsuitable trial subjects. In fact, that was preferable to keeping them in a study when they were no longer appropriate. But the thing about clinical trials was, there always had to be a compelling, fully explained reason for terminating a test subject. Otherwise you could just "terminate" non‑responsive participants and skew the results. No reason was given here.
He thought again about the "one week of sunshine," and as a long shot checked to see if anyone had been admitted this week.
Nada, but again that was reasonable. The entire study was wrapping up.
Which meant, in short, that he had nothing to work with in terms of people. All he had were dates and encrypted names.
What now?
He finished the beer and was preparing to go off‑line when a drop‑down screen flickerednew data.
He was being directed to the new applicants' "sunshine" page.
He clicked back, then stared at the screen.
A name had appeared.
He couldn't believe his luck. For some unknown reason,
they must still be adding new test subjects at this late date in the trials.
nina hampton.
Finally he had a name. This was an incredible stroke of...
Wait. A second name was appearing now, the letters popping up one by one as they were being typed in.
He rolled the mouse to print, and felt his hopes surge.
Then his heart skipped a beat. The second name was . . .alexahampton.
Jesus, could it be?
No way. Too big a coincidence. But wait, the other was Nina Hampton. Isn't that the name of her Brit mum? That unredeemable piece of work.
Impossible.
If it was the Ally Hampton he knew, she was a woman he still thought of every day. It went back to when they were both undergraduates. She was taking a degree in architecture atColumbiaand he had just switched from premed to the Columbia School of Journalism.
Wasn't there a Cole Porter lyric about an affair being too hot not to cool down? They undoubtedly were in love, but they both were too strong‑willed to cede an inch of personal turf. It was a combustible situation.
When they decided to go their own way, it was done under the agreement that they would make a clean break and never see each other again. Be adult and hold your head high and look to the future. No recriminations and no second thoughts. In respecting that agreement, he had gone out of his way not to keep track of her. He particularly didn't want to know if she'd gotten married had a family, any of it.
Thinking back now, he remembered that she had had some kind of heart condition. She refused to talk about it, and now he couldn't remember exactly what it was. But that could possibly explain her entry into the clinical trials, though it didn't clarify why she was only being added now, at the last minute.
If it was actually her.
And if so, how would he feel talking to her? He hoped time had mellowed her, though he somehow doubted it. Not Ally.
What an irony. If it was the same Alexa Hampton, she could end up being his entree into the secretive world of Winston Bartlett's Gerex Corporation. The trouble was, he wasn't sure he actually wanted to see her again. Even after all the years, the wounds still felt fresh.
He closed out the NIH file and opened People Search, which he often used to look up phone numbers. He started withNew YorkStateas a criterion. The names Alexa and Nina undoubtedly belonged to women, so they might be listed merely by their initials. But start with Alexa and be optimistic.
He got lucky. Three names and phone numbers popped up.
One was inManhattan, and Ally was a dyed‑in‑the‑wool New Yorker, but he wasn't sure he was psychologically prepared to speak to her. That number he decided to save for last, though it was by far the most plausible.
The next Alexa Hampton lived inSyracuse, with area code 315. He was still shook up as he dialed the number.
"Yeah, who's this?"
Sure didn't sound like Ally. But he was playing this straight. As a reporter he always started a conversation by identifying himself, so naturally he answered, "Stone Aimes, New York Sentinel."
"The fuck you want?" came the voice. It was female but it definitely was not ladylike. "I don't need any newspapers."
Whoa, that definitely didn't sound like Ally. She was direct but she didn't talk like a sailor.
"Sorry, ma'am. I have a few questions about your participation in some clinical trials. Sorry to bother you, but I have a deadline. Shouldn't take a minute."
"You a fucking reporter?"
"I'm doing a story on the Gerex Corporation. Are you—?"
"The what corporation? The fuck you talking about?"
"Seems like I'm calling the wrong number. I'm very sorry and I apologize."
"Listen, if you're some kind of weirdo, I'm going to call the cops and have this call traced."
"I said I apologize." He hung up and thought about another beer. This was beginning to feel like the moment.
But he resisted the urge and called the next number. Come on. Be the right one and don't be Ally.
This one had a 516 area code. That meantLong Island.
"Hello," came a rusty old voice that had to be in its seventies. It sounded oversmoked and just hanging on. Again definitely not the Ally he knew.
"Hello, ma'am," he said "I'm sorry to bother you, but—"
"Are you trying to sell me something, young man," the woman asked. "It's not going to do you much good. I live on a Social Security check, and it's all I can do to make ends meet as is. You sound nice, but—"
"No, ma'am, I'm a newspaper reporter. I'm doing a story on ... I just wanted to follow up on your admission to the clinical trials for the Gerex Corporation." He felt a surge of hope. It wasn't Ally, but she did sound like a woman who might well be a candidate for medical treatment. "Do you know what day you plan to start?"
"What on earth are you talking about?" she asked. "Young man, it's ill manners to start asking a body silly questions, no matter how nice you might be otherwise. I've never heard of this, whatever you called it, corporation." Click.
She sure didn't sound like a patient. Or maybe she was too far gone to even know if she was a patient or not. In any case, this was not a promising lead.
Okay, he thought, go with the one you should have in the first place.
Blast. He wanted this to be the one, but he just didn't want it to be Ally. Or maybe he did.
He took a deep breath and punched in the last number, which had aManhattanarea code, 212. The phone at the other end rang five times and then an answering machine came on. At this hour, she would most likely be at work.
"Hello, this is Alexa Hampton. I'm sorry I can't come to the phone now, but if you'll leave your name and number, I'll get back to you as soon as possible. If you're calling about design work, the number of CitiSpace is 212‑555‑8597."
He felt his heart flip, then sink. It was Ally. It was a voice he had heard for years in his reveries—or were they the nightmares of roads not taken?
She still might not be the new patient in the clinical trials, but at least he knew he could reach her.
The sound of her voice. After all this time he didn't realize it would still affect him the way it did.
So, he thought, clearing his head, she's running a design business now. He wondered how that had happened. The last time he saw her, she was a single‑minded student of architecture. Intensely focused.
No message. Don't leave a message. It probably would freak her out. Actually, it might freak them both out.
Assuming she was the new patient, how the hell did Ally get involved with Winston Bartlett? It probably would have something to do with that heart condition she didn't like to talk about.
He clicked off the phone and settled it onto the desk. Then he glanced again at the computer screen and decided to go back to the NIH files. The other woman, Nina, he would look up later. Ally's Brit mum must be getting on by now, but still it was hard to imagine anything being wrong with her; as he remembered Nina, the woman was well nigh indestructible
When he got back to the NIH Web site and went to the "sunshine" page, it was again blank. The two new names, Nina Hampton and Alexa Hampton, were not there anymore. They must have been entered immediately into the clinical trials. But why now? If Van de Vliet kept to the original schedule, the trials would be over in a matter of days.
Maybe, he thought, this was a momentary screw‑up. I just happened to be at the right place at the right fleeting moment, when somebody, somewhere, was entering those names. Maybe some NIH bureaucrat hit the wrong key on a keyboard someplace inMaryland.
But it was the break he'd been waiting for.
He turned off the IBM and headed for the fridge and another Brooklyn Lager. Ally, Ally, Ally. Can it be you? This is so weird.
Worse than that, it was painful. There was that immortal line fromCasablanca: "Of all the gin joints in all... she walks into mine."
Why you, dear God?
Coming back, he sat down, took a long hit on the icy bottle, and reached for the phone.
Chapter 11
Monday, April 6
1:29 p.m.
As she hung up, Ally wondered again what she was getting into. But she did want to meet this miracle worker. The kind of thing Van de Vliet was talking about sounded as much like science fiction as anything she’d ever heard. Still, his voice was reassuring, even mesmerizing, and there seemed no reason not to at least check out the Dorian Institute firsthand. But then what? Help!
She looked at her coffee cup and wished she dared have a refill. But that much caffeine always made her heart start to act up. And maybe she didn't need it. The conversation with Karl Van de Vliet had energized her and sharpened her senses quite enough.
She was still thinking about that when the phone rang again. There was an electronic voice directory, but her own phone was the default if a caller did not care to use it.
"CitiSpace."
"Hi, Ally. Tell me if you recognize the voice. Just please don't hang up."
Who was it? The intonations were bouncing around somewhere in the back of her brain, as though they were a computer file looking for a match. The one her unconscious mind was making was being rejected by her conscious mind. Then finally the match came through and stuck.
My God, it couldn't be. The last time she’d talked to him was ... what? Almost two decades ago.
The irony was, she’d been thinking about him some lately, as part of taking stock of her life. She’d been meditating over all the roads not taken, and he’d been the last man she’d actually loved or thought she loved before Steve.
"What . . . How did . . . ?" She found she was at a loss for words. She figured he’d have been the same way if she’d called him out of the blue.
"Hey, this isn't easy for me either. But I have a pretty good reason for breaking our vow of silence."
She was immediately flooded with mixed emotions. Stone Aimes. She already knew he wrote for the Sentinel. Or at least she assumed the irreverent reporter by that name who did their medical column was him. The tone sounded so much like the way she remembered him. There was a lot of passion and he was always editorializing against "Big Medicine." He had plenty of raw courage, but sometimes he had too much edge. That was one quality he had that had eventually gotten to be nerve‑racking back when they were together.
Now, in hindsight, she remembered their breakup with both anger and regret. She was angry that, even though she tried like hell, she could never really connect with him at the level she yearned for. He always seemed to be holding something back, some secret he was afraid to divulge. Truthfully, they both were grand masters at never allowing vulnerability. In short, they were overly alike. They shared the same flaws.
Still, after Steve was taken away, it was hard not to think of Stone now and then. Before Steve, Stone was the only sane lover she'd ever been close to.
But she also knew the bit about letting sleeping dogs lie. Sometimes that was the better part of wisdom. This conversation, she finally decided, was just going to open old wounds. Better to nip it right now.