Shadow of Eden (44 page)

“Great to see you, Robert. How are things?” Tom appraised his old friend, looking him over carefully. Tom did not actually think of him as the President, he had known him too long as Robert.

“Shitty. It’s this China thing, you know. I can’t seem to let it go. All those innocent people, you know.”

“Terrible,” Tom agreed.

Dixon turned back to his desk and looked at his schedule. “I’ve got about 20 minutes. You timed your visit perfectly. What do you want to drink?”

“Just water, thank you,” Tom said feeling a little guilty. Jeff Bell had carefully planned his perfectly timed visit in advance—a visit initiated by a call from Vice President John Sullivan. Dr. Green remembered yesterday’s call clearly, as much for its disturbing portent as for the office of the caller.

The President pressed a button. “Joan, can you bring in water for the good doctor and a cranberry juice for me?” He grinned with delight. “So what brings you here? You’ve never lobbied me before for anything. It must be important to drag you away from your precious viruses.”

“Uhh,” Tom was never good at lying, particularly to a friend who trusted him over nearly anybody else in Washington. “Valerie and I wanted to invite you and Elise to dinner Saturday night.”

The President looked genuinely puzzled for a moment, then he laughed. “Tom, you had me there. You know I have no control over my life. Either Jeff or Joan completely manage my schedule, at least the part Elise lets them have. I haven’t made plans for a night’s engagement myself in almost eight years.”

Joan walked in with the drinks on a silver tray and put them down on the desk. Dixon handed Dr. Green his water and took his own juice.

Tom took a drink. “I did check with Joan and she said you were free.”

“And Elise? She would love to see Grace again, but she probably has plans this late in the week.”

“Joan checked with her, too. You are free, my man. I hope you accept.”

“I don’t know. Uh—” Dixon looked puzzled again and sat down.

Then Tom saw it. The right side of Dixon’s face twitched several times.
What was it?

Dixon’s eyes looked confused and then brightened. “Sure, I just seemed to get lost there for a minute. Gee, that was a tough decision. Not that I had any difficulty visiting with you, Tom, just—” His arm twitched this time. No rhythm, just an irregular shoulder jerk.

“What was that, Robert?”

“What? Oh, that. Just something that’s come on over the past few days.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No.”

“Can you tell when it is about to happen?”

“No.”

“How many times a day do you have them?”

“Tom, this is a social visit, remember. Not an office visit.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” Tom tried to sound reassuring. “Why don’t you come over to my office and let me take a look at you.” He held his breath.

“Nah. I just saw you. Remember? You gave me a clean bill of health.”

“But,” Tom tried to keep the urgency out of his voice. “Perhaps you should drop over and let me poke at you a few minutes. I’ll have Jeff arrange it.”

“Tom, in case you haven’t realized it, I’m the President of the United States. I can’t just drop over anywhere, especially in this town. Can’t you see the headlines now? President makes unexpected trip over to his doctor’s office. Before I get back, the rumors would be all over about the treatment for cancer you discovered on my last visit.”

“Well, since I’m here, can I ask you a few more questions?”

The President narrowed his eyes. “Why exactly did you come in here? Not to ask me to dinner. No one drops in on the President. What is it?”

Tom wanted to disappear. This was not going the way he had discussed with Bell and Sullivan. “I did just come by. I was in the area after lunch and thought a personal invitation would be nice.” It sounded completely inadequate and Green knew Dixon wouldn’t fall for it.

“Thanks,” Dixon said sarcastically. “Always the considerate friend. But something’s fishy about your just popping in and then asking me all sorts of questions, pushing doctor visits and—”

“Don’t get so bent out of shape, Robert. It’s me, Tom, your old chemistry buddy.”

Dixon eyed him suspiciously. “You wouldn’t lie to me would you? No one put you up to this? Everyone wants something in this town. You learn to smell it, like a sixth sense. Come clean, my friend.”

Tom cringed inside, but the words of Sullivan came back to him. ‘He cannot know I put you to this task. If he does, it will completely undermine all our efforts to get him help. I must tell you in the strongest terms how serious it is not to let him know.’

Tom had spent the night trying to think how Sullivan might be playing him against Dixon. But Sullivan refused to tell him even what he suspected, insisting Tom make up his own mind.

In the end, Jeff Bell tipped the scales in favor of the ploy. Jeff had known Robert for at least twelve years and Robert trusted him as a brother. Jeff, too, said it was important for Tom to make his assessment, saying only that Robert had changed.

Well, he had changed. His friend was more paranoid, more confused, less decisive and with those twitches, there might be something medically wrong. But what? He needed more information and the key to that information was to get Robert to cooperate.

“Robert, don’t even think like that. We’ve been through too much together. But from what I’ve seen of those twitches, I definitely think we need to get some more information.”

“What information? I have a foreign policy crisis with China and an election coming up. I can’t fuck that up with rumors of a lingering illness. I can’t.”

Tom thought of a compromise. “Look, Robert, I can do most of what I need to at my home. I can do a physical and take some blood. If I come up with anything we can discuss it at my house.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Tom what do you think?” A momentary look of helplessness crossed Dixon’s face.

“I definitely think you should come over to dinner.” Tom set down his water glass.

Dixon’s face began twitching again. “Do you think praying would help?’

“I’m sure it would. But—”

“Okay, I’ll pray.”

“Robert,” Dr. Green interrupted. The President looked up. “I’ll tell Joan we’re on for Saturday night. That’s three days from tonight.”

“Okay, sure.”

Tom offered his hand to his friend. “I’ll see you then, Robert.”

The handshake was limp.

Chapter 94

“J
acob, Dick Samuels says you’re pushing for your housing bill.” Bell had finally reached Castell on his cell phone.

“Of course I am. The President himself says he wants it.”

Bell didn’t doubt Castell, but there was more to the story here. Politics being what they were, he would never find the truth, nor would it change what he needed to say.

“Jacob, I don’t know what he told you, but we’ve got to deep six the housing bill or we lose the budget agreement.”

“Too late, Jeff. I’ve been lining up the votes. I’ve got about six committee members on board and three on the fence.”

Bell knew what he was about to ask, but the budget had been a hard fought compromise giving Dixon money for his key priorities in a tight budget year and the housing bill wasn’t a priority. “Jacob, I’m telling you we cannot support your housing bill.”

Castell’s voice took on an edge. “What are you telling me? Did you trash my bill to him?”

“I didn’t need to. It was DOA. And you should have known it. You were fully briefed on the legislative strategy.”

“You can’t do this. You cut my legs out from under this and my effectiveness is shot.” Castell’s voice rose. “The President doesn’t want that.”

“Mr. Secretary,” Bell felt like he was lecturing. “You just can’t push this. Not this year.”

“I want to hear that from the President.”

“You just did.” Bell hung up frustrated. He didn’t mind the hardball, but he hated wasting it on internal politics.

But a much larger issue remained. Why was Robert Dixon screwing up like this?

Chapter 95

T
he Philadelphia Four Seasons Hotel ballroom was filled to capacity with the expensively dressed representatives of the principal stockholders and analysts, the less expensively dressed reporters and the blue jean and plaid shirt clad cameramen and Internet broadcast technicians, all bumping elbows in an egalitarian porridge.

The lights dimmed, hushing the audience. Gidget Daws, head of Trident’s PR department, stepped to the microphone to master the ceremonies. She would build suspense for Vicktor Morloch’s sudden appearance on stage—he insisted on entering only as he was announced. Gidget swiftly worked through the preliminaries, announcing the retirement of Chief Scientist and Trident founder Dr. Samuel Blumenthal. Better news followed, including the near completion of a new manufacturing facility in Puerto Rico to keep pace with increasing demand. “And, she said, “the new facility will also make Trident’s new drug, Paradise, once it gets approved by the FDA.”

Generous applause marked her comments as she spoke, but everyone knew the real news would be from Morloch. The ballroom lights dimmed further until Gidget’s face and dazzling smile shone in a solitary spotlight.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen—” Before she could even announce Morloch’s name, the applause began. Gidget raised her voice. “I have the pleasure and privilege to introduce Vicktor Morloch, Chairman and CEO of Trident Pharmaceuticals.”

From behind one of the giant projection screens, out stepped Morloch. The spotlight caught him as he emerged, smiling and nodding to the audience. The two screens each showed videos of him in action: in the Trident board room, striding through the Trident research laboratories and talking to workers in the production plant with his necktie loosened, all just like a major political candidate.

Morloch walked around the stage pointing at people in the audience and waving, fully at ease. He wore his trademark crisply pressed navy suit, with subtle pinstripes cut to accentuate his lean body and his patrician good looks. The applause was an unabashed tribute to the man who had made them a lot of money.

Once the ovation finally died down, Morloch stepped to the lectern. As he prepared to speak, Morloch smiled to himself. On paper, he was worth almost nine billion dollars. After today’s announcements and the expected stock jump tomorrow, he could well be worth over ten. Not bad for a day’s work.

“Eden has FDA approval for nine conditions, a feat never matched by any other prescription medication, and covering more lives than any drug in history.”

“In short, if you are overweight, have diabetes, elevated cholesterol, or have had a heart attack or are at increased risk for a stroke, you need our drug.” Then like a candidate on the stump, he punched the next sentence, “The rest of you,
what are you waiting for?”
At the enthusiastic applause, Morloch allowed a smile to show.

FDA rules forbade Morloch’s mention of Eden’s widespread off-label use; nevertheless, he was fully aware that up to a third of Eden prescriptions were used by people who did not fit into any of the FDA authorized categories—including slightly overweight people who did not reach the official guidelines for obesity and a burgeoning reputation for lifestyle enhancement. Like Prozac in its heyday, segments of the population used Eden for all sorts of reasons, including depression and athletic enhancement. Tales of Eden increasing sexual performance, recited by popular magazines and TV talk shows, added to its mythos—and propelled still more sales.

“And—” Morloch motioned with his hands for silence. “And, in discussions just concluded in secret, now approved by the boards of both companies and pending regulatory approval, Trident is purchasing Bristol Myers Squibb Pharmaceuticals.”

A stunned silence followed. Morloch smiled; he had really surprised them.

Then the jaded investors and advisors leapt to their feet cheering.

Following his remarks and the question and answer session afterwards, Karen, standing in the dark shadow behind a large screen grabbed Morloch’s arm as he walked off the stage. His eyes, accustomed to the spotlight, relied on her to guide him out of the dark ballroom and into the food service access corridor.