Next: A Novel (20 page)

First, the gene had to be incorporated correctly into the existing genetic material of the animal.

Sometimes the new gene was incorporated backward, which had a negative effect, or none at all.

Sometimes it was inserted into an unstable region of the genome, and triggered lethal cancer in the animal. That was rather common.

Furthermore, transgenics was never a matter of inserting a single gene. Researchers also had to insert the associated genes necessary for the primary gene to function. For example, most genes had insulators and promoters. The promoters might make proteins that switched off the animal’s own genes, to allow the new addition to take over. Or they might enhance the workings of the injected gene itself. The insulators kept the new gene separated from the genes around it. They also made sure the new genetic material remained available within the cell.

Complex as they were, these considerations didn’t take into account the further intricacies that might arise from messenger RNAs within the cell. Or from the genes that controlled translation.

And so on.

In reality, the task of injecting a gene into an animal and making it work more closely resembled debugging a computer program than it did any biological process. You had to keep fixing the errors, making adjustments, eliminating unwanted effects, until you got the thing working. And then you had to wait for downstream effects to show up, sometimes years later.

That was why the lab felt that Gail Bond should take Gerard home, and keep him as a pet for a while. To see if any positive or untoward effects showed up. Home rearing was especially important because African greys were highly intelligent—generally considered as intelligent as chimpanzees—and with a far greater capacity for language. Using sign language or computer keyboards, a few nonhuman primates had mastered about 150 words. But that was merely average for a grey parrot. Some grey parrots had as many as a thousand words. So they needed the kind of interaction and stimulation found in a human environment. They couldn’t be left in an animal holding facility, around mice and hamsters, or they would go mad from lack of stimulation.

Indeed, animal activists believed that many grey parrot pets were mentally disturbed as a result of insufficient interaction. It was as if they had been held in solitary confinement, year after year.

A grey parrot required at least as much interaction as a human being. More, some scientists argued.

Gerard was finger-trained as a chick, and began talking early. He already had quite a vocabulary when Gail, who was thirty-one and married to an investment banker, brought him home to her apartment. As Gerard came into the living room, he said, “Hey, nice place, Gail. Way to go.” (He had unfortunately picked up bits of American slang from watching television at the lab.)

“I’m glad you like it, Gerard,” she said.

“I was just saying that,” the parrot said.

“You mean you don’t like it?”

“I mean I was just saying that.”

“Okay.”

“Just an observation.”

“Right. Fine.”

She immediately made notations in a logbook. Gerard’s speech might prove highly significant.

One of the goals of the transgenic experiment was to see to what extent scientists could modify the intelligent behavior of non-human animals. Primates were off-limits—too many rules and regulations—but people weren’t so sensitive about parrots. There were no ethics committees to supervise parrot experimentation. So the Grolier lab worked with African greys.

Among the things they were looking for was evidence of self-awareness in the parrot’s speech.

Parrots were known to be self-aware. They recognized themselves in mirrors. But speech was different. Parrots did not reliably use the word I when referring to themselves. Generally, when they used the personal pronoun it was to quote someone else.

The question was whether a transgenic parrot would ever use the word I unambiguously. And it seemed to Gail Bond that Gerard had just done exactly that.

It was a good start.

Her husband, Richard, showed little interest in the new arrival. His sole reaction was to shrug and say, “Don’t look for me to clean that cage.” Gail said she would not. Her son was more enthusiastic. Evan immediately began to play with Gerard, putting him on his finger, and later on his shoulder. As the weeks went on, it was Evan who spent time with the bird, who bonded with it, who kept it on his shoulder much of the time.

And, it seemed, who got help from the bird.

Gail set up the video camera on a tripod, adjusted the frame, and turned the camera on. Some grey parrots were able to count, and there were claims that some had a rudimentary understanding of the concept of zero. But none was able to do arithmetic.

Except Gerard.

She had to work very hard to conceal her excitement. “Gerard,” she said, in her calmest voice, “I am going to show you a picture and I want you to tell me what it says.” She showed him one sheet from her son’s homework, folding it to reveal a single problem. She covered the answer with her thumb.

“I did that already.”

“But what does this say?” Gail asked, pointing to the problem. It was fifteen minus seven.

“You have to say it.”

“Can you look at this paper and tell me the answer?” she said.

“You have to say it,” Gerard repeated. He was hopping from one leg to the other on his perch, getting irritable. He kept glancing at the camera. Gerard didn’t like to be embarrassed.

Gail said, “It says fifteen take away seven.”

“Eight,” the parrot replied, at once.

Gail resisted the temptation to turn to the camera and shriek with delight. Instead, she calmly turned the page to reveal another problem. “Now. What is twenty-three take away nine?”

“Fourteen.”

“Very good. And now…”

“You promised me,” Gerard said.

“I promised you?”

“Yes, you promised me,” he said. “You know…”

He meant the bath.

“I’ll do that later,” she said. “For now…”

“You promised me.” Sulky tone. “My bath.”

“Gerard, I am going to show you this next problem. And ask you: What is twenty-nine take away eight?”

“I hope they are watching,” he said, in an odd voice. “They’ll see. They’ll see and they’ll know and they’ll say, ‘Why, she wouldn’t even harm a fly.’”

“Gerard. Now, please pay attention. What is twenty-nine take away eight?”

Gerard opened his mouth. The front doorbell rang. Gail was close enough to the bird to know that Gerard himself had made the sound. He could imitate all sorts of sounds perfectly—

doorbells, phone rings, toilet flushes.

“Gerard, please…”

The sound of footsteps. A click, and a creak as the front door opened.

“You look good, baby, I’ve missed you,” Gerard said, imitating her husband’s voice.

“Gerard,” she began.

A woman’s voice: “Oh Richard, it’s been so long…”

Silence. Sound of kissing.

Gail froze, watching Gerard. The parrot continued, his beak hardly moving. He was like a tape recorder.

The woman’s voice: “Are we alone?”

“Yes,” her husband said. “Kid doesn’t come back until three.”

“And what about, uh…”

“Gail is at a conference in Geneva.”

“Oh, so we have all day. Oh, God…”

More kissing.

Two pairs of footsteps. Crossing the room.

Her husband: “You want something to drink?”

“Maybe later, baby. Right now, all I want is you. ”

Gail turned, and switched the video off.

Gerard said, “Now will you give me my bath?”

She glared at him.

The bedroom door slammed shut.

Creaking of the bedsprings. A woman squealing, laughing. More creaking springs.

“Stop it, Gerard,” Gail said.

“I knew you would want to know,” he said.

“I hate that fucking bird,” her husband said, later that night. They were in the bedroom.

“That’s not the point,” she said. “You’ll do what you want, Richard. But not in my house. Not in our bed.” She had already changed the sheets, but even so, she didn’t want to sit on the bed. Or go near it. She was standing on the other side of the room, by the window. Paris traffic outside.

“It was just that one time,” he said.

She hated it when he lied to her. “When I was in Geneva,” she said. “Do you want me to ask Gerard if there were other times?”

“No. Leave the bird out of it.”

“There were other times,” she said.

“What do you want me to say, Gail. I’m sorry, all right? I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to say anything,” she said. “I want you not to do it again. I want you to keep your fucking women out of this house.”

“Right. Fine. I will do that. Can we drop it now?”

“Yes,” she said. “We can drop it now.”

“I hate that fucking bird.”

She walked out of the room. “If you touch him,” she said, “I’ll kill you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

She met Yoshi Tomizu at his apartment. They had begun their affair a year before and had resumed it again in Geneva. Yoshi had a wife and child in Tokyo, and he would be returning there in the fall. So it was just a friendship with privileges.

“You feel tense,” he said, stroking her back. He had wonderful hands. “Did you argue with Richard?”

“Not really. A bit.” She looked at the moonlight coming in through the window, surprisingly bright.

“Then what is it?” Yoshi asked.

“I’m worried about Gerard.”

“Why?”

“Richard hates him. Really hates him.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t do anything. It’s such a valuable animal.”

“He might,” she said. She sat up in bed. “Maybe I should go back.”

Yoshi shrugged. “If you think…”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He kissed her lightly. “Do what you think is best.”

Gail sighed. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m being silly.” She slid back down under the covers.

“Tell me I am being silly. Please.”

CH033

Brad Gordon clicked off the TV and yelled, “It’s open. Come in.”

It was noon. He was lounging in his third-floor apartment in Sherman Oaks, watching the ball game and waiting for the pizza delivery guy. But to his surprise, the door opened and in walked the best-looking woman he had ever seen in his life. She had elegance written all over her—

thirtyish, tall, slim, European clothing, heels that were not too high. Sexy, but in control. Brad sat forward in his lounger chair and ran his hand over his chin, feeling the stubble.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t expect any visitors—”

“Your uncle, Mr. Watson, sent me,” the woman said, walking directly toward him. He hastened to stand. “My name is Maria Gonzales.” She had a slight accent, but it didn’t sound Spanish.

More German. “I’m involved with the firm that does your uncle’s investment work,” she said, shaking his hand.

Brad nodded, inhaling her light perfume. He wasn’t surprised to hear she worked for Uncle Jack: the old guy surrounded himself with good-looking, extremely competent businesswomen. He said, “What can I do for you, Ms. Gonzales?”

“Nothing for me,” she answered smoothly, looking around the apartment for a place to sit. She decided to remain standing. “But you can do something for your uncle.”

“Well, sure. Anything.”

“I don’t need to remind you that your uncle has paid your bail, and will be assuming the cost of your legal defense. Since the charge involves sex with a minor, the defense will be difficult.”

“But I was set up—”

She raised her hand. “It’s none of my affair. The point is this: your uncle has helped you many times over the years. Now he needs your help—confidentially—in return.”

“Uncle Jack needs my help?”

“He does.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“In strict confidence.”

“Right. Yes.”

“You will discuss this with no one. Ever.”

“Right. Understood.”

“Word of this must never get out. If it did, you would lose your legal defense funding. You’d spend twenty years in prison as a child molester. You know what that means.”

“Yes.” He wiped his hands on his trousers. “I understand.”

“No screwups this time, Brad.”

“Okay, okay. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“Your favorite company, BioGen, is about to announce an important new discovery—a gene that cures drug addiction. It’s the first step toward a huge commercial product, and it will attract a lot of financing. Your uncle currently holds a large position in the company, and he does not want his position diluted by additional investors. He wants them scared off.”

“Yes…”

“By some bad news coming out of BioGen.”

“What kind of bad news?”

“At the moment,” Maria Gonzales said, “BioGen’s most important commercial product consists of a cell line, the Burnet line, which the company bought from UCLA. The cell line produces cytokines, important in cancer treatment.”

“Yeah…”

“Contamination of those cell lines would be disastrous.”

She reached into her purse and brought out a small plastic bottle of a well-known brand of eye drops. The bottle contained clear liquid. She unscrewed the cap and put a single drop of liquid on the tip of each finger of her other hand. “Got it?”

“Yes,” he said.

“One drop on each finger. Let it dry.”

“Okay.”

“Go into BioGen. Your swipe cards still work. Check the database for storage locations and research lockers containing the Burnet line. The storage number is on this card.” She handed him a small card with the number BGOX6178990QD. “There are frozen samples and there are live in-vitro incubators. You go to each one and…just touch them.”

“Just touch them?” Brad looked at the bottle. “What is that stuff?”

“Nothing that will hurt you. But the cells won’t like it.”

“The security cameras will record me. Card swipes are recorded. They’ll know who did it.”

“Not if you go in between one and two a.m. The systems are down for backup.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Yes, they are. This week only.”

Brad took the plastic bottle from her and turned it over in his hand.

“You realize,” he said, “they have off-site storage for that cell line, too.”