NEAL CLARK IS ON HIS Harley 750 speeding along Route 7, heading north, past the Winnipeg suburbs. Is there anything more exhilarating than being on a bike, going eighty miles an hour, whipped by the wind, feeling the power of the machine between your legs merging with your own power, your own strength? It’s pure freedom.
He’s on his way to visit Prairie Health, his vitamin and supplement operation (not to mention the unmentionable). It’s a surprise visit. The best kind. Catch everyone unaware. See what’s really going on. Of course, production has been running smoothly, the numbers are great, he has built Prairie Health into the largest vitamin and supplement manufacturer in Canada. Neal believes that the body is a temple and that supplements are an offering. They keep us rockin’ and rollin’—young and vital and virile. He’s a running, swimming, motorcycle-riding, lovemaking testament to his ethos.
The only thing missing is the woman he loves. If only Mary were on the back of the bike, her hands around his torso, moving with him like his shadow.
Patience, Neal, patience.
He exits the highway and heads east for eight miles on Route 17 before reaching the vast Prairie Health complex, which is set back from 17 and reached by an access road. He pulls into the parking lot, dismounts, takes off his helmet, and surveys the property. His property. With graceful landscaping, immaculate buildings, lots of glass and steel, it projects health and serenity and strength. And it’s safe—there are a half dozen Province Security cars parked strategically around the campus. His own private police force. All of them trained, armed, and ready. Nobody messes with Neal Clark.
Set about a quarter of a mile past the main building is the laboratory, a sprawling low-slung, single-story building. The lab is top secret—the supplement industry is famously cutthroat and competitive—and set behind a high fence, reached through a manned gatehouse. It’s where his scientists are inventing new tools for better, healthier, longer living.
Neal laughs out loud at the beauty of it all.
Tools for better, healthier, longer living.
Well, I suppose you could say that. Depends whose living you’re talking about. He keeps laughing. It’s so funny. And so beautiful. And so powerful. And so close. So tantalizingly close.
He’ll visit the lab second—save the best for last. As he walks toward the main building he feels like the Master of the Universe. And why shouldn’t he? Wherever he goes in the province he sees land, businesses, and buildings that he owns. And he built the empire himself; he’s not one of those coddled types (like Sturges) who was born on third base and thinks he hit a triple. And after Mary wins the election, his empire is going to have a new crown jewel—he’s going to tap into the mother lode. Let it flow, let it flow, let it flow—he’s going to ride that inky tide right into the Buffett/Gates/Koch league.
Once inside headquarters, Neal is greeted by the usual obsequious array of middle managers. Such a sad lot, like little lapdogs, so eager to please, so transparent, so easy to manipulate that there’s no challenge really. They bore him. But he feigns interest—because it’s in his own interest. He visits various departments—operations, quality control, IT, public relations, the assembly line—nodding his head, asking the occasional question and offering praise when earned. Praise is a wonderful tool of manipulation. If he’s the Master of the Universe—and he is—they’re his slaves. Working their tragic little butts off to pay the mortgage, get the kids through school, take a little vacay in August. It’s poignant really. Almost touching. But ultimately pathetic.
When he’s done talking about calcium and melatonin and some new study on the benefits of milk thistle and whether the Newfoundland market is big enough to warrant investment, he takes his leave.
That chore out of the way, he walks back toward the laboratory building, his excitement growing with every step. He passes through the gatehouse, where another slave waves him through. Inside the building, Anton Vershinin is waiting to greet him. Anton isn’t a slave, he’s an equal, a better even, one of the most brilliant scientists on the planet. And he works for Neal. And for the Homeland, of course. Luring him over from Russia took some doing, but James—amazing James—handled it so beautifully, doing his research on Anton, finding out he felt unappreciated and unpaid by the Kremlin. Then making the connection, the clandestine meetings, slowly seducing Anton with visions of glory and freedom. And, of course, it’s amazing what a suitcase filled with five million dollars in cash can accomplish.
The building is an engineering marvel. It’s one story above ground and four stories below. Anton, as always, insists that Neal don a hazmat suit. He’s so meticulous. As they ride down in the elevator, Anton is keyed up, his gray eyes alight with scientific fervor.
The main lab, four stories down, never fails to awe Neal. It’s a mass of pipes and tanks and vats and compressors and refrigeration rooms, with a low, soothing hum that belies the power of what is being created. Anton excitedly details their progress. Neal listens and nods and pretends to understand. The science is gibberish to him, but he knows enough to stroke his resident genius.
After the tour they go into Anton’s office and take off their hazmat suits.
“I know what you are going to ask me, Neal: When will we be ready?”
“We’re under the gun here.”
“I understand this fact.”
“And?”
“Soon.”
“Soon is too indefinite,” Neal presses.
Anton looks down at his hands. He’s a lean, almost gaunt, man, in his forties with close-cropped gray hair, and—as his psychological profile detailed—he’s an obsessive compulsive with no hobbies or interests outside his work. Anorexic, asexual, and amoral. Perfect for the job. When he looks up, his eyes are electric with excitement. “Very soon.” He smiles, a dry smile of imminent accomplishment. “Unfortunately I cannot give you a minute or an hour, but I will give you a day: July 15th.”
That’s two weeks before the recall election. Perfect timing.
The men shake hands. “You’re a genius, Anton.”
Anton looks down in a failed attempt at modesty.
On the ride back to Winnipeg, Neal feels like he could raise the handlebars of the Harley and lift off into the ether, ecstatic.