Their first year at the American Cancer Foundation came to an end the second week in June. That weekend, Shein held his annual party to welcome the new crop of raw rookies.
Logan elected to miss it. That was all he needed just now—to spend an entire afternoon making nice to Larsen and Stillman and their assorted underlings.
For, increasingly, he was aware that the Hannah Dietz case had left Compound J riper than ever for ridicule. True enough, in a strictly medical sense the protocol was not fundamentally compromised: Dietz’s toxicity having been minimal and eminently treatable.
But—especially coming as it did within weeks of Novick’s fall—there was also the psychological factor. Like it or not, the Compound J protocol was now regarded at the ACF as being in some trouble. Before, its opponents had merely been able to say it was a harebrained idea that amounted to nothing. Now they could say something else—and it made Logan almost physically ill to think of the pleasure they got saying it: It was a harebrained idea that makes people even sicker.
More than ever, Logan knew, time was working against them.
The great irony—at least if Shein could be believed—was that Stillman’s own protocol was already, demonstrably, a complete bust.
Then, again, could Shein be believed? Certainly Stillman gave no sign that his protocol was in trouble. His public posture was that it was proceeding exactly as planned; the drug’s lack of activity described as anticipated, his sole aim at this early stage being to establish nontoxicity.
As much to the point, Shein had said not another word about it. In fact, the next time they saw each other, the conversation might as well never have happened.
“Hey,” the senior man greeted him, “you’re looking good. Good color. Looks like you’ve been getting some sun.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t reach for compliments, Logan. Maybe if you worked a little harder you’d get some results.”
Shein’s return to humiliation mode could not have come at a worse time. With the rookies coming in to take over the hospital scut work, the second-year associates were now moving up to lab work—which, for both Logan and Sabrina, meant going to work directly under Seth Shein.
And, as if his opening put-down hadn’t been enough, ten minutes later, facing his entire flock of second-year associates, the senior man gave an introductory talk that registered as a personal message to the Compound J team.
“Well, boy and girls,” he began, “I know you and you know me, so we can save all kinds of time. The work we’re gonna do here won’t always be fun. And there won’t be a helluva lot of glory.” He glanced at Logan and Sabrina. “Sorry, it’s back to real life.”
That brought smirks from several others in the room. “But here’s the upside,” he continued. “As you all know—as some of you especially know—I do play favorites. So work hard to stay on my good side. And never, ever make me look bad.”
The worst part was that Logan was no longer sure he could blame him. If Compound J failed to pan out, he, Sabrina, and Reston would of course take the hardest hit. Pegged as arrogant kids whose ambition had proven greater than their judgment or skill, they’d be unceremoniously hustled off the fast track, and kept off it for the forseeable future. But as their most ardent supporter, Shein would be in for his share of grief too. Surely it was his prerogative, now, to think about cutting his losses.
The pity, for Logan, was that there’d never been a time when favoritism would have been more welcome. While most other junior associates, including Sabrina, had little experience in organic chemistry beyond a few basic undergraduate courses, he not only held an advanced degree in the field but had trained under a renowned Nobelist; where the others found the routine lab work doled out by Shein instructive, he found it as mind numbing as anything they’d left behind at the hospital.
Not that the project to which Shein assigned them wasn’t ambitious: determining the base sequence of the gene that encodes a protein involved in transforming healthy prostate cells to malignant ones. It was just that he found himself the scientific equivalent of a laborer on the Great Wall of China; doing grunt work on a tiny section of a project so large that its importance to the big picture was almost beyond imagination.
The second-year associates’ role was simply to clone and sequence this gene so that other, more senior people would have material to work with. For Logan, day after day it was like following directions in a cookbook: Add three lambdas of the restriction enzyme Xba to DNA; spin for fifteen minutes; cool at four degrees Celsius; add 300 microliters of chloroform and 150 microliters of phenol; spin for five minutes; remove phenol and chloroform; add 300 microliters of one molar sodium chloride and one milliliter ethanol; keep at minus twenty degrees overnight.
Under the circumstances, he soon began regarding the routine sessions with the protocol patients as a relief; a chance, if only fleetingly, to exercise a little control. Now, even the hours perusing accumulated protocol data became less a chore than a pleasing change of pace. Studying the numbers, trying to discern the significance of modest fluctuations from week to week, was the only creative challenge he had left.
Thus it was that he and Sabrina happened to be in the chart reading room—the librarylike chamber in the hospital basement—when Logan started going over the numbers of a patient named Marjorie Rhome. By the luck of the draw, he hadn’t seen Mrs. Rhome, a forty-eight-year-old dental assistant from Dover, Delaware, in over a month; on each of her last three visits, Reston had handled her.
Her file, like that of every other patient in the protocol, was now massive: over a hundred pages of printouts, nurses’ notes, and comments by the examining physician in the outpatient clinic. Every medicine she had ever taken was listed here, as well as the result of every test; for blood work alone, that meant thirty-three individual results for each semiweekly visit.
For fifteen minutes, sitting in a wooden carrel, he scanned the file. Then, on the fourth to last page, listing the results of her blood work from three weeks before, something caught his eye: the woman’s creatinine level, a measure of kidney function, was at 1.7. Immediately, he skipped ahead to the final page, listing the results of last week’s visit. The level had jumped to 1.8. Normal is 1.4.
“Sabrina!”
Sitting five feet away at the adjacent carrel, she was startled. “What is it, Logan?”
“Look at this.”
She, too, immediately grasped its significance. “My God,” she said softly.
An elevation of the blood creatinine level meant the kidneys were not clearing it properly. Which meant that in all probability they were not clearing far more dangerous substances; particularly potassium, which can make the human heart flutter chaotically or even come to a dead standstill.
“That idiot must’ve missed it,” said Logan bitterly. As far as Logan was concerned, the final straw on Reston—the definitive proof that he’d turned his back on the protocol—had been his erstwhile friend’s decision to do his lab work under Larsen’s associate, Kratsas. “He didn’t give a damn. For him it was just busywork.”
“No,” countered Sabrina who, now that Logan had adopted her own view of Reston, was prepared to be fair. “There were hundreds of lab values. It could have been any of us.”
They spent the next hour going over the files of all of the other patients on the protocol, looking for the same syndrome. They found it in one: Faith Byrne was also at 1.8.
“This is a problem, Dan,” said Sabrina intently. “A real one.”
“Yep,” he grimly agreed.
“If the level goes to two point zero or two point one …”
“They’ll have to leave the protocol. And if the creatinine level continues to rise, we may be talking a worst-case scenario of chronic renal failure, or even permanent hemodialysis.” He shook his head. “Kidney failure—not one of your better outcomes.”
“And this time there are no magic solutions.”
Looking at her, he was struck by how weary she looked; and, worse, how uncharacteristically discouraged.
“Come,” he said, “we have to go somewhere to talk.”
The fact was, Logan had been turning the idea over in his mind for a while—since Hannah Dietz’s toxicity. Only now, suddenly, it began to look less like just an intriguing possibility than like an imperative.
They retreated to a small restaurant in Alexandria. A classic Yuppie hangout down to the single flower vases on marble-topped tables, it was the sort of place that no one they knew at the ACF would ever go near.
“I really don’t think that we can be surprised by this,” he began deliberately. “There’ll always be unexpected toxicities with new therapeutic agents.”
A waitress came by and they ordered a couple of beers.
“Please, Logan,” she picked up, “I know that. Yes or no, do you have a way to treat this creatinine problem?”
“Uh-uh.” He hesitated; it sounded crazy even to him. “What I’m thinking is we should take this drug back to the lab.”
“Try to change Compound J?”
“Not entirely. Take it apart, look at it in new ways. Try to find some way to cut down on its damn toxicity!”
She looked at him quizzically; he was talking high-level chemistry, far beyond anything in her experience. “How does one even start?”
“It’s not as tough as it sounds. I’m not talking anything drastic, just a slight adjustment in the molecule. I’ve got some ideas.”
“But what is the point?” she asked. “The drug we are using—that Compound J—by the terms of the protocol, it’s the one we must stay with. Even if we make something better, we cannot use it.”
They fell silent as the waitress placed their beers before them.
“You’re right,” he said when she was gone, “but I’m trying to think beyond that. Look, the fundamental idea is sound—we know that, right?”
She nodded.
“There’s just something about this molecule that makes it toxic. We’ve got to redesign the molecule.”
“Can you do this all by yourself?”
He gave her a look.
“Logan, you know I cannot help with this.”
“You? Don’t you dare give me the helpless bit, it won’t wash. You got a pen?”
She handed him one.
“Now, then,” said Logan, sketching on a cocktail napkin, “this is the Compound J we’ve got, right?” He produced an awkward rendering of two spheres, with three spikes protruding from each, connected by a long, thick tube. “Basically, we’ve got three parts that more or less fit together: two naphthalene rings, each bound to three sulfonate groups—those are the spikes; and connected to one another by an organic polymer. Think of it as a modular couch thing, with the larger section in the middle.”
He looked up and she nodded. “To me it looks more like a lobster.”
He laughed. “You should see me try to draw a female nude.” He paused. “Anyway, to simplify things, what I’m thinking—what I think our problem is—is that the bridge between the two outer modules might be too long. If we could shorten it …”
For five more minutes he went on, explaining how, in scientific terms, what he proposed to try was quite elementary; how, in fact, under the right circumstances, it could be achieved in a matter of days.
“And what about lab space?” came her typically pragmatic question.
“First things first. Are you with me?”
She gave a wan smile. “Yes, of course.”
“Well, we’re working in a lab, that’s not a bad start.” He paused uncertainly. “I guess I’ll feel Shein out tomorrow.”
Logan waited till a little past noon, when most of the others had departed for lunch, to approach the senior man.
“What the hell do you wanna hang around the lab for after hours?” he demanded. “Don’t I give you enough shit work around here?”
When Logan explained that his intent was to look more closely at the Compound J molecule, the senior man was a picture of consternation. “What’s wrong with you, Logan? Hasn’t your little life been screwed up by this thing enough?”
Logan blanched. “Well, then, what does it matter if I screw it up a little more?”
He was startled to see Shein’s face erupt in a grin. “Thattaboy, I was waitin’ for you to ask.”
“You were?”
“No initiative—that’s what makes me despair for so many of you damn kids. You think I like coddling you every step of the way?”
They got the lab to themselves the following Friday evening—by happy coincidence, the start of the three-day Independence Day weekend. Logan figured they would need at least that much time to do the necessary tinkering on the molecule.
All was in readiness, including a dozen lab rabbits bearing tumors induced by a carcinogen and waiting to be dosed with the new drug. All that remained was to create it.
Now that the moment was at hand, Logan found himself considerably less certain. The procedure he had in mind required no fewer than six chemical reactions in a preset sequence. If they were to succeed in concocting the slightly altered compound—Compound J-lite, as they’d begun referring to it—each step had to go flawlessly.
“Part one,” he noted at the start, feeling oddly professorial, “basically involves creating the two modules. Each is made up of aminonaphthalenetrisulfonic acid. To do it, we combine naphthalene and—”
“This is what I hate,” she interrupted, “these words …!”
“Relax, Sabrina, don’t let that scare you. This part is nineteenth-century chemistry. The Victorians used to do it before breakfast—probably instead of making love. Trust me, it’s idiot proof.”
“Do not patronize me, Logan, this is not a lesson. I don’t have to know the words. Just tell me what to pour and what to mix and what to heat.”
And that, essentially, was the basis on which they proceeded. It was intense and grueling work—punctuated by long, frustrating breaks as they waited for one or another chemical reaction to reach completion.
In fact, the first evening they decided to break for dinner and a movie: the mix they’d concocted needed to heat for four and a half hours.
Returning close to 1:00 A.M., Logan noted approvingly the brown gelatinous liquid bubbling away in the heating mantle. “You want to take a break, go ahead.” He indicated a small room off the lab; inside was a cot, precisely for times like these. “I’ll do the next part myself.”
He threw back his head in a maniacal laugh, Dr. Frankenstein at play. “Me? Nah! This is fun!”
She moved beside him and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “Good. Thank you. I will take this nap.”
He kept at it through the night. By the time this aspect of the procedure was complete it was early Saturday morning, and he was out on his feet.
“Good morning, Logan,” she announced, sauntering back into the lab. “How is the work?”
She looked completely fresh. He’d had no idea she’d brought along a change of clothes.
“Terrific.” He held aloft a beaker bearing yellowish liquid. “My turn. I’ve written down instructions for you for the next step. It’s simple as pie, but you know where to find me.”
Six hours later she gently jostled him awake. “I have finished,” she said softly.
It took him an instant to get his bearings. Right—Saturday afternoon, still in the lab. “It worked out okay?”
She nodded uncertainly. “Come see.”
The container of liquid she held aloft seemed to be of precisely the right hue.
He beamed. “See that? You’re a natural.”
“Thank you,” she said, genuinely flattered.
“After we boil off the liquid and recrystallize the residue, we’ll be left with a nice, high pile of white powder. That’s the material that will make up the modules.”
“What now?” she asked.
He stretched. “Now we start on the material that will make up that damn bridge. Here’s where we get to work with thiophosgene. You know what that is?”
“Another name.”
“It’s the liquid version of a poison gas they used in the First World War. We’re going to have to be extremely careful here.”
But to his surprise, she only smiled. “You’re right, Logan, this work is interesting. Why did I not know this earlier?”
The procedure that followed took most of the next two days. Basically, as Logan told it, the various elements they were fitting together were analogous to pieces in a Tinkertoy set. “We may not be able to see the pieces, but essentially the same rules apply. Certain pieces fit neatly together and others never will. You can’t make an amide out of a carboxylic acid and a tertiary amine. Yet under the right conditions, a carboxylic acid and a primary amine will fit together as neatly as a key in a lock.”
By the end, they were left with a second batch of white powder, identical, at least in appearance, to the first. It was seventy-five hours after they’d started. Outside, on this early Monday evening—the Fourth of July!—the sun was starting to set.
Logan, exhausted, gazed at Sabrina and allowed himself a small smile. “Just one more step. Combining them to make the Compound J-lite molecule.”
“How do we do this?”
“It’s the simplest part. Just mix it all together with a condensing agent. It’ll only take an hour.” He paused. “Any interest in celebrating?”
“Very much. Only, Logan …”
“Yes?”
“You need a shave. Badly.”
He ran his hand over the stubble on his cheek. “That’s part of what I have in mind.…”
Taking her hand, he led her from the lab into the dimly lit corridor.
“Where are we going?”
Logan just looked at her and smiled.
They turned a corner, passed down another corridor, then made a sharp right into a narrower, more private hallway. At its end stood an imposing door. Affixed to it on a copper plate was a single word: DIRECTOR.
“Logan,” she hissed, “this is Dr. Markell’s office!” But even in the dim light, he could see that her eyes were alive with excitement.
He tried the door—and was not surprised to find it locked. But directly to the right was another. It was open.
Markell’s private bathroom!
Only now did Logan begin to have qualms. Over this long weekend they had spotted only one other person on the premises, and then only once—the night watchman, two evenings before.
But now Sabrina was urging him within. “Come …” she said, tugging his hand, “… darling.”
She turned on the light and quickly locked the door behind them. By Fortune 500 standards the facility might not have been considered extraordinary—no sauna, no gold plating on the fixtures, not even a phone alongside the toilet—but it was top-of-the-line institutional issue. Everything was in marble, and there were a separate tub and shower; the latter featuring heads on three sides in addition to the one overhead. Whipping off her clothes, Sabrina turned on the shower and stepped inside. Ten seconds later, Logan was with her, arms around her, pressing her tight, totally aroused.
She brushed her lips lightly against his, the evidence of her own excitement clear in her heavily lidded eyes, the hardness of her nipples, her lower body grinding into his. But now she pulled back slightly. “Shhh,” she said, her voice low. “Slowly, my love.”
From the raised ledge she produced a bar of soap and began deliberately lathering his body. His chest. His sides. His penis.
“Oh, God, I needed this,” he managed. “I’m feeling so dirty.”
“Shhh.” Now she was soaping his face, her long fingers massaging his beard, his temples, his hair. And, now, with a disposable razor from a cupful on the ledge, she began giving him the shave of his life.
Only when she finished did they finally let loose. For a full twenty minutes they went at each other, forgetting everything else. Where they were. How they sounded. Even the extraordinary achievement that had brought them to this moment, to these extremes of passion and love.
It was only when they were done, cradled in one another’s arms, the warm water still coming from all sides, that they finally took stock. Turning off the water, Sabrina peered from the shower stall. Amazingly, there was almost no water on the floor. Laughing, they ran their hands over one another’s bodies, trying to run off excess water; then settled for tamping it off with his cotton shirt.
They were still damp when they made it back to the lab, Logan carrying in his pocket the one item that might have made for incriminating evidence: a used Bic razor.
“Okay,” he said, “where were we?”
She nodded at the twin beakers of white powder, side by side on the lab table. “Now they are going to mate also, I think.”
“Right.”
The process didn’t even require an outside heat source. Logan merely mixed the two powders in a two-liter flask with a condensing agent and the reaction generated its own power. Within two minutes, the flask was so hot that he had to stick it in ice to cool it down.
Now it was only a matter of purifying the stuff, separating the various products of the reaction by means of a long glass vessel, and discarding the chaff. It took less than two hours.
They were done. Compound J-lite was a reality. On the table before them was fully one hundred grams of it.
“Well,” Logan said, “if nothing else, we probably set some kind of speed record.”
He picked up the phone and called down to the animal holding facility in the basement. He was not surprised when it was answered on the first ring; there was a veritable menagerie down there—monkeys, goats, sheep, even a couple of llamas, in addition to the mice, rats, rabbits, and dogs that are stocked in most such facilities—and they didn’t know it was a national holiday.
“Good evening,” said Logan, “this is Dr. Daniel Logan in Dr. Shein’s lab.…”
“Yessir. How may I help you, sir?” It was the young Bangladeshi guy, part of a crew of four or five that ran the place.
“It doesn’t sound like you’ve had much of a holiday.”
“Yessir,” he answered seriously. “Do not worry, I have a TV down here. How may I help you, Doctor?”
“My colleague Dr. Como and I will be down shortly. I believe we have twelve rabbits with induced tumors …?”
“Yessir. Please, just one moment, sir. I must check the book.”
Usually Logan found obsequiousness both unnerving and counterproductive. But given that the experiment at hand was rather unorthodox, especially for a couple of junior associates, he was not sorry to be dealing with someone more eager to please than to ask questions.
“Yessir,” he came back an instant later, “I have found it. Twelve rabbits. Would you like me to prepare them for you, sir?”
“Yes, please. I’d appreciate that.”
By the time they made it down to the basement, the animals had been moved from the holding area to an adjacent lab space for treatment. The young Bangladeshi—he introduced himself as Mr. Hassan—gestured toward it. “Please, sir, let me know if I can be of further assistance.”
The rabbits, each in its own cage, were a sorry-looking bunch, grotesque versions of the adorable creatures found in pet shops every Easter. There was an ineffable sadness about them, their eyes not shiny bright but dead, like crocodile eyes. How could it be otherwise? For the fur of each was pocked with pink tumors—rough to the touch and rock hard. Untreated, none would live longer than three weeks.
Logan turned to Sabrina. “Which one first?”
She gazed dolefully at the miserable creatures. “Look at them, Logan. It always makes me so sad.”
“Well, pick out a favorite. It helps to have a rooting interest.”
He was sorry he’d said it. Though he’d never regarded lab animals with anything more than academic interest, she clearly did.
“That one,” she said after a moment, pointing at the miserable-looking specimen in the first cage.
“Okay. Get it out.”
Logan drew a syringeful of the new compound and shot it directly into the animal’s peritoneum.
Quickly, now, they repeated the process eleven times; then summoned Hassan. “You can put these back now.”
“Yessir.” He nodded. “Tell me, do you have any special instructions for their care? Any dietary supplements you wish or the like?”
Logan looked at Sabrina and shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“Only to let us know if there is anything unusual in their behavior,” she noted.
“Yes. I will write it in the book.”
“Listen, Mr. Hassan, just one more thing.” He smiled, as if making a joke of it. “This experiment we’re working on is kind of offbeat. Not too many of our colleagues know about it.”
At this, the other winked knowingly. “Yessir. I understand.”
“Good. I was hoping you would.”
Unexpectedly, Mr. Hassan laughed. “You would be surprised, Doctor, how many of you people make such requests.”