The Cure

By Richard Jagger

Dr. Andrew Moore, a prominent virologist, receives a cryptic postcard from his ex colleague, Roger Northwood, who has just been murdered by an intruder he interrupted stealing research files from the lab. On a journey that takes him around the world, Andrew races against the clock not only to save the love of his life, but to unlock the secret that could cure the world’s greatest epidemic...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Jagger
• Release date: Oct 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452321585

Richard Jagger

Richard Jagger was born in Shepparton, and grew up in a bay side suburb of Melbourne, Australia. His education includes degrees in Science and International Business.Richard has worked in the adolescent biotech industry for over ten years, employed by the world’s most prominent plant biotechnology company. After twenty years of Fortune 500 Company experience – living in Australia and the United Sates – he has witnessed the various politics and agendas of the corporate world. His work has taken him around the globe, and exposed him to research and commercialisation of biotechnology in the world’s major food and fibre crops. He led the commercialisation team of the first genetically modified crop (cotton) approved in Australia.Richard also works as a professional photographer, and enjoys sailing, surfing, painting and travel. With his wife and their black Labrador, he divides his time between Melbourne and the Mornington Peninsula.For more information on Richard’s photography, painting and writing projects, please visit him at richardjagger.com

Book preview

Chapter One

In his peripheral vision, the visitor noticed the man they called ‘Bulldog’ pick up a small table and set it down next to his chair. He could see a leather strap nailed to the badly damaged surface. Sweat began to trickle down from his temple.

You know why you’re here? The source of the voice was a larger man, silhouetted by the sunlight streaming through the windows behind the desk. Smoke rose from the cigar clenched in the man’s mouth and danced in the air currents.

I know you weren’t happy with my last assignment. I let you down. The visitor to the office tried to keep the fear out of his voice, but he failed miserably.

My clients come to me because they know I will deliver the information they require, quickly and quietly. They pay me top dollar for a professional service. I pay you a lot of money to get that information. The last job you did for me was messy and late. You’re becoming careless. That disappoints me, and makes me angry. And I don’t like being angry. My doctor says it’s bad for my blood pressure. Another cloud of smoke billowed from the man’s mouth and blended into the haze above his head.

I… I can explain. There were unusual circumstances.

I’m not one for excuses.

Please give me another chance. I’ve delivered before. Give me a chance to redeem myself. The visitor was pleading now. He knew how powerful this man had become, and how impatient he was with failure.

The man sat motionless, silently puffing out more smoke. Then he spoke. Taking into consideration our long-term relationship, I’m prepared to give you one more chance. There’s some new technology that a very good client is desperate to have. I need you to acquire it for me.

Of course, I’m your man. I won’t let you down this time.

Oh, I know you won’t. You know what the consequences will be. In fact, I have a little incentive program for you.

I assure you, I don’t need an incentive. I won’t fail you this time. A chill ran down his spine, and he shook involuntarily. Instinctively he placed his hands under his legs.

I like to provide people with an incentive. I find it keeps them focused on the task ahead.

Without hesitation, ‘Bulldog’ grabbed the visitor’s right arm with authority, and pressed it to the table surface. With deftness brought on by practice, he quickly brought the strap across the wrist and secured it, rendering the arm immobile.

Please, the visitor said, begging to the man with the cigar. This is not necessary. I’ll do what you ask.

That’s right, you will, he replied. Because you know that if you fail me this time, it will be more than your finger."

The visitor saw Bulldog spring into action. A glint of steel caught the sunlight as it f

lashed silently towards the table – before stopping with a hideous thud. The visitor felt a searing pain and screamed, his eyes clamped shut. For a split second he dared not open his eyes, terrified of what he would see. He held his breath. When he did look, he saw the meat cleaver firmly wedged into the tabletop, precisely between his index finger and thumb. A small pool of blood gathered where the blade had cut into the webbing between the digits.

Bulldog here has a very good aim. Next time I will instruct him to inflict some more permanent damage. I suggest you think about that whilst on your next assignment.

Chapter Two

On the outskirts of Cambridge, England, in one of the newer industrial estates, Roger Northwood was finishing up in his office, completing some notes from the day’s experiments. His desk was dominated by the large computer screen, which was surrounded by mounds of research papers and books of experimental data. A small lamp illuminated an area off to his left where he kept the most relevant information at hand. The remainder of his office was similarly messy. Half the wall space supported bookshelves, filled to overflowing with textbooks, journals and stacks of papers. The remaining walls were covered in framed degrees and diplomas, certificates and awards from various world scientific organisations.

It was not unusual for Roger to lose track of time when reviewing his work. His wife, Michelle, was used to him being late home from work, and had long ago stopped worrying about his whereabouts and trying to keep his evening meal warm and edible. He was unaware that it had been snowing outside or even that it was dark. He certainly didn’t realise that people were out there, enjoying the wintry conditions and meeting friends in pubs. When he focused on his work, it was all consuming. Colleagues often complained that he didn’t answer his phone, but the truth was he just didn’t hear it when he became engrossed in his work.

Roger worked at Visionary Labs, a ‘boutique’ research facility that specialised in looking at ways to manage viral infections. In fact, Roger was its leading scientist. A jovial character, he was typical of an accomplished scientist in that he was truly passionate about his work. He was always willing to discuss problems and opportunities with his lab colleagues, who often had to excuse themselves to return to their lab benches after an offhand question directed at Roger turned into an hour-long brainstorming session. Not that they disliked the opportunity to talk with him. He was one of the smartest guys in England when it came to viral biotechnology.

Roger saved the file he was working on, and shut down his computer. He glanced at his watch and showed no surprise when the simple black hands contrasting against the plain white face indicated it was 8:30, a full five hours since he had walked back to his office with a cup of coffee. As he did every night, he locked his filing cabinets in his office, and placed the key under the third book on the second shelf behind his desk. He gathered from the stacks of papers surrounding his computer the documents he wanted for the evening, and loaded up his two briefcases. Picking up the bags, he walked to the door, turned the lock on the handle, and switched off the light. Just before pulling the door closed he remembered the car keys, and marched back to his desk to retrieve them from the top drawer. Keys in hand, he pulled the door closed, checking that the lock had taken hold.

As expected, the rest of the lab was empty as he proceeded down the darkened corridor, illuminated only by the green exit lights. Rounding the corner his body suddenly bounced backwards, having been struck by something hard that wasn’t normally there. For that instant before logic kicked in and his eyes took focus, his mind tried to grapple with the options that would have sent him reeling backwards in a normally empty corridor. When reality did take hold, he was aware there was a shadow in front of him, an equally startled human form that was outlined against the foyer lights in the distance.

Good God, you scared the life out of me! Roger said. Who is that? Is that you, Pete? The shadow offered no response. It was motionless, seemingly stuck to the floor, calculating what its next move should be. Clearly it was not expecting this altercation either.

Who the hell is it? Roger asked again, now feeling a touch of anger. Look here, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but – He was unable to finish his sentence. The shadow had finished thinking and had moved into action. An arm was raised, and the shadow lifted itself up, then forward and down towards Roger. A heavy blunt object at the end of the arm connected with Roger’s head. There was a muffled crunching sound as his skull gave in to the pressure of the blow. Roger stumbled immediately, the force pushing him backwards, and the weight of the briefcases dragging his body to the floor. Even before his head crashed against the floor tiles he had lost consciousness, and death was not far away. A pool of black sticky liquid began to take shape around Roger’s head. The shadow was still once more, back in thinking mode.

After what felt like an eternity, it stepped to the side of the slumped, motionless shape and proceeded to the main filing room. With the assuredness of a well-rehearsed plan, it quickly punched numbers into the keypad to unlock the door, and in less than two minutes re-emerged with an armful of files. Upon passing the inert shape once more, the shadow stopped and stared as if waiting for the body to do something. It glanced at the nearest briefcase, and with a gloved hand reached down, opened it and removed its contents, and replaced them with the stolen files. It then proceeded towards the side entrance, walked outside, and was enveloped by the night.

If Roger had been able to sit up, he could have reached an alarm button on the wall beside him. The alarm would have notified the security company who would have sent a car to the premises and called the police. But Roger could not sit up. The slumped shape was not Roger any more. The thoughts, the dreams, the science were gone.

Chapter Three

Atlanta airport is one of the busiest hubs in the world. It’s an easy place to get lost, which is the last thing you want to do when you’re late for a plane. Andrew had the horrible feeling that whilst he was running to save time, he was running the wrong way. Why couldn’t these damn airport folks put up enough signs? He jostled his way through a sea of travellers, each moving at their own pace, and cursed the fact that there never seemed to be any pattern to airport traffic, which made it difficult to negotiate when you were in a hurry. His satchel banged against his hip as his long legs carried him around each obstacle.

There we go, he said to himself as the overhead sign revealed that concourse D was off to the left. He side-stepped past a small group of elderly ladies, and dashed down another cavernous hallway. Glancing at the yellow gate markers he calculated his remaining distance. Only seven more gates to pass.

As he reached his gate, the flight attendant gave him one of those knowing smiles, and he replied with his own apologetic version. She checked his boarding pass and wished him a good flight. He paced down the now empty gangway, and was greeted by the next group of smiling faces at the plane door.

Good afternoon, Dr Moore, you’re in 7B on the right-hand side, the attendant said.

Andrew located his row and managed to find a small amount of space in the overhead locker, and squeezed his leather jacket into it. When he sat down, at first he was puzzled by the smiling face greeting him from the next seat, but then he remembered it as belonging to a journalist he had met at the conference.

Hello, Dr Moore, we meet again! Bob Warren. Bob offered his hand and shook Andrew’s with vigour. Actually, I knew you were heading back to San Francisco today, so I asked when I checked in to see if you were on this flight. They managed to seat us together. I thought that would give us the chance to do the interview you promised.

Andrew groaned inwardly. He vaguely remembered promising an interview to this guy, just to get him off his back. He had hoped that he wouldn’t run into him again. He placed his satchel on the floor of what was supposed to be his legroom, slumped back into his seat and prepared himself for the transition from the tension, anxiety and adrenaline of running late, to the sedentary boredom of flying the four hours back to San Francisco while being grilled by a reporter.

As you recall, my editor is keen to do a piece on the human side of you. Everyone in the industry knows about the work you are doing, and the awards you keep winning, but we want to tell them about the real you. Bob beamed at him from six inches away. Andrew suspected that this guy was thinking he would be thrilled to be interviewed. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I’ll just get out my notepad, Bob said. He then noticed a flight attendant trotting past and added, Miss, would you mind bringing us a couple of drinks? Whisky for me. Andrew?

Nothing thanks, I’m fine, Andrew replied.

As Bob fumbled around in the bag at his feet, Andrew sat back into his chair and resigned himself to the cross examination he was about to endure. Even without sitting next to a nosy journalist, he hated flying. Not that he feared heights, or being out of control, or even clear air turbulence, but just the sheer boredom of having to stay in your seat for an intolerable length of time as governed by others. There was also the heavy atmosphere of airports – too much security, too many wandering children under your feet, and of course the impossible directions to try and find your gate. It just all took too much time. Over the past few years with the increase in concern about airport security, it was getting worse. The fact that you had to think about the type of shoes to wear so you could get them on and off easily at the check points, just proved to Andrew that plane travel was not fun any more.

Having spent three days at the North American Molecular Virology Conference, all he wanted to do was get home. Two presentations, a session as chairperson, and another as a panel representative had taken its toll, not to mention the obligatory meetings in between and after sessions. Whilst Bob was distracted, Andrew decided to unpack his reading material from his Tumi satchel. Maybe it would give Bob the hint that he wanted to be left alone. He pulled out two research papers he was reviewing, a half finished John Grisham novel, and the latest International Sailing magazine, purchased at one of the airport newsstands on the dash to the gate. He tried in vain to stuff them all into the elastic pocket in front of him, but gave up with a sigh and slid them next to his already squashed leg.

The flight attendant returned, and placed Bob’s drink on the armrest, heading off quickly to complete the pre-flight activities. With all the grace of a confined hippo, Bob wrenched his notepad out of his bag, catching the glass with his elbow. Almost in slow motion, Andrew watched the contents arc through the air, and land in his lap.

Ahh! he cried in frustration, trying in vain to stand and let the liquid that had yet to sink into his trousers run off to the floor.

Oh, did I do that? Sorry, Andrew. That’s me, clumsy Bob! Miss! Can we get some napkins here?

Andrew closed his eyes as he felt the coldness trickle around his legs. It was going to be a long flight.

Bob continued as if the incident had never happened. OK, let’s get to it. Now, the basics – early forties, boyish good looks, single. You look like you’re in shape, do you work out?

What’s that got to do with my status as a scientist?

Forgive me, but as I said, we’re looking for a more personal angle on the story. So, exercise?

Andrew sighed. Well, I try to get in the pool two or three times a week. If I’m really motivated, maybe a weight session or two. Usually that only happens after a week or two of overindulgence or travel.

I see. Now, background. You graduated from Princeton twelve years ago, after which you set up West Coast Labs with Roger Northwood.

Andrew winced. He hated talking about his early professional years – considering where they had led. That’s right. Looking back on it now it was through the ignorance of youth that we thought we could make it work. Extrapolating the response to our post grad work, we felt there was a real opportunity to capitalise on the lack of work being focused on Hepatitis C cures. So many people were focused on the AIDS virus, and yet Hepatitis C has the potential to devastate mankind. It’s currently estimated that over 3% of the world’s population are infected by Hep C, and nearly half a million die each year from liver failure directly attributed to the disease. While the majority of the world’s viral labs are focusing on AIDS and the bird flu, Hep C flies under the radar and is likely to cause the most devastation.

And there’s no known cure?

Results of current treatments are sporadic at best. The potential for the disease to spread is monumental. Carriers may take years to show symptoms, during which time they could infect many, many others. A simple blood test would show the presence of the disease, but why would a doctor order the test if the patient doesn’t show any symptoms? By the time any symptoms are visible, the damage is done, and treatment is usually discouraging.

So on the basis of this you started your company?

From our post grad work we had developed many theories for developing cures. We took these ideas to a number of financial backers, and we found some that were willing to throw a pile of money our way. Before we knew it we had a staff of twenty, and enough sophisticated equipment to make any Ivy League college jealous.

So what happened?

Andrew paused, recalling the last few months of his failed business. Well, it’s a long way from theories to commercially viable products. We were constantly faced with stumbling blocks, and after about three years the financiers became restless, and took their money in search of more exciting ventures. Without the dollars to support them, we had to let the staff go, and the research ground to a halt.

And you and Roger?

Andrew frowned. We were forced to walk away from the project, and accept work in other labs. Roger ended up in Cambridge, and I made San Francisco my home. Basically we failed.

But you have gone on to a successful career since?

Some would say so.

Well, let’s see. Bob reviewed some of his old notes. Cover article in ‘Science’ magazine, over fifty journal articles in the past six years alone, chair of the international viral research committee, regular guest speaker around the globe, and receiver of more government research grants than any other viral scientist in North America. Rumour has it the President is about to add you to his scientific advisory board.

Andrew hated having the statistics of his career fed back to him. He never felt it was a true reflection of his own assessment of his career. I suppose that’s right, although I haven’t had any calls from the President.

No need to be modest, Andrew! But back to your relationship with Roger. Are you two still friends?

Andrew thought for a moment. The failure of the business had hit both of them hard, and it was a long time until either of them could bring it up in conversation. Being on separate continents helped with that, but it also made it harder to stay in touch. He still considered Roger a close friend, but email and the odd dinner at conferences didn’t make up for sharing a dorm room and dreaming up wild plans.

Of course we are. We’re very close.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, eh?

I guess so. Andrew took the opportunity to bring the interview to a halt. He was worried that this guy was about to venture into the failures in his personal life from the same period. Are we about done? I’m really tired, and I’d like to catch up on some sleep. I’m sure you’ve got enough there to satisfy your editor.

Well, there were a lot of other points I wanted to cover with you. But, if you’re tired… Perhaps I could stop by your office in the next day or so?

Andrew closed his eyes and tried to settle back in his seat. At six feet two inches his legs were always nudging the seat in front of him. No matter how much the airlines prided themselves on the comfort of their seats, they just never seemed to be able to offer a nice comfortable chair. His skin was still warm and clammy from the dash through the airport, and the whisky Bob had spilt on his trousers was becoming sticky. What really frustrated him was he was wearing what he considered one of his ‘better’ casual outfits, reserved for functions such as conferences. Around the lab and at home he was comfortable in basic gear from Banana Republic and Gap, but he recognised the need for his casual wardrobe to go a little upmarket for the right occasion. His new Boss slacks were a mess. He reached for the air vent and swivelled it in his direction, trying in vain to cast a cooling airflow over his neck. He settled back into the seat and tried to repress the memories of his business failure brought back to the surface by the reporter’s questions.

Chapter Four

The offices of Millennium Corporation are suitably imposing. Located on the western end of Long Island, N.Y., they sprawl across a hundred acres of woodlands, through which security fences are cleverly disguised. Once past the gatehouse and the first inspection point, the long bitumen driveway meanders up to the main car park. Further up the slope, the purpose-built office and laboratory buildings form an impressive backdrop to greet the visitor. The entrance is reached via a serious set of steps, so any caller arrives somewhat out of breath, and a little off guard. In the foyer three security guards treat every unknown face as a likely terrorist, until proven otherwise. Nobody makes it beyond their station until they are satisfied – regular Joe, media personality, or President. The main entrance hallway extends for forty yards, and has thirty-five-foot high ceilings. The walls are adorned with oversized canvases depicting magnificent scenes of battles from the Middle Ages. Knights fight it out with their enemies, while women, children and the old cower in their wake. As the visitor makes their way down this hall, any feelings of assuredness are stripped from their minds, and they arrive at the appointed meeting room feeling somewhat daunted and struggling just to get back on even ground.

Rob Dawson designed it that way intentionally. He was a man who left nothing to chance, and used intimidation to overpower his opposition at any opportunity. If they wished to tackle him on his own turf, then he was going to start with the upper hand. It was a technique that he had employed all his life, and it had served him well. He was even cocky enough at high school to ensure he intimidated his teachers, and therefore guaranteed that his academic record was exemplary.

Even though his passion and studies were in science, he was lured to the Internet after leaving university as a way to build his empire. Founder of three successful dot com companies, he was wise enough to see when the bubble was about to burst, and walked away from each of them by the age of thirty-five worth a cool $300 million. Of course this didn’t mean retirement for Rob. It was merely the beginning of his impact on the world. His goal was to join the billionaire club, and to give some of those guys a run for their money as well. He switched back to his formal training, and saw a future in the development of vaccines. The world would always be sick, he figured, and there was plenty of money to be made through the commercialisation of novel pharmaceuticals. Rob quickly assembled an impressive group of scientists, businessmen and lawyers, and within five years of registering their name, Millennium Corporation was firmly entrenched in the Fortune 500. The overriding vision of the company – known by every employee – was the discovery, patenting, and commercialisation of blockbuster drugs. Drugs that became household names and added an extra zero to the bottom line. They were always assessing their candidates as the next Viagra, or the next Celebrex. ‘Nice to have’ products tended to be sold off to companies who saw value in being also-ran. It helped fund the unquenchable thirst for cash required by such a sophisticated organisation. It was a sort of Disneyland for scientists. Absolutely every technology known to man was made available to the staff if it would in any way help with the discovery of the next major molecule. An extra $10 million could make the difference between making Rob a billionaire in ten years’ time, or by next Christmas. Millennium Corp. was never short of visitors wishing to tour the facilities, and the human resources department had a filing cabinet full of resumes from people who would give anything to work in the centre of the pharmaceutical universe.

Rob’s office was guarded by his administrative assistant’s office, which was in turn protected from the general administration region by another corridor and a set of impressive double doors. Rob wanted people to know that it was hard to reach him. He sat at his desk, which itself was naturally commanding, and was surrounded by collectables and awards that added to his imposing figure. As he was reviewing the latest laboratory progress reports, he was interrupted by his assistant on the intercom.

What? Rob asked.

I have Mr. Webster on the line.

About time! Rob snatched the receiver and started talking. Where the hell is the monthly financial report!

I’m sorry, Mr. Dawson, we experienced some problems with the data input. We’ve had to re-run the figures and check them with the department heads.

Sounds like bullshit to me. Whose fault is this?

I’m not sure we should be pin-pointing blame sir, its just one of those things that happen. There was an unforseen delay.

I’ll ask you again, whose fault is this?

I really don’t know. I’ve just been given the update from my assistant.

Rob leapt from his chair, and with a violent backhand sent a pile of documents flying from his desk. Well if you’re that out of touch, you idiot, what are you doing on my staff! I expect those reports to be here at three p.m. every Friday, not three-thirty or four o’clock. That’s the second week in a row they’ve been late. Clear out your desk and get out of my building. I’m sure someone with your skills will find a top-flight job in the food service industry!

As he slammed down the phone, his assistant scurried in, trying in vain to pick up the scattered documents without being noticed.

What now? he said.

Mr. Green’s here, Mr. Dawson. Ready for your four o’clock meeting. Would you like me to chase down the update report for you?

Well, don’t expect me to do it! Jesus, isn’t there anyone around here who can come close to doing their job!

As his assistant hurried off, the chairman of the Millennium board walked through the doors to Rob’s office. Good afternoon, Rob. We need to talk about the figures. For six months now they’ve been going south, and all I’m getting is excuses. I hope you’ve got something better for me today.

Brian, good to see you. Take a seat. You know Rome wasn’t built in a day. I’m waiting for the latest figures to come in now. Some dip shit is still putting them together. Rob watched the chairman take a seat on the sofa, and sensed he was