BLIND TRIAL Page 2

  The vaccine chief’s knuckles tightened white on the rail. “Well, thank you.”

  Woodblock and maracas.

  “This really is so marvelous, and such a personal thrill.” Ms. Gelding lifted a framed and glazed certificate. “I’m so proud, so delighted, to present you, Dr. Gertrude Mayr, our brilliant Director of Vaccine Development, with the BerneWerner Biomed Outstanding Achiever’s Award.”

  Palms slapped palms as Doc Mayr touched the frame. Then the chief executive twisted, stared at him, and raised one eyebrow in command.

  Ben unfolded his arms and accepted the object, as if this was his reason to be. Live from DC… Ben Louviere holding shit… Ben Louviere, the module man.

  “What a real great honor,” Doc Mayr gushed. “My, what a lovely surprise.”

  Now the crowd individualized: sixty faces, sixty noses, one hundred twenty eyes, pointing his way. Over there by reception: the swanky Darlene Ruffin, with whom he shared an office in Atlanta. Over there, serenely smirking: Dr. Viraj Grahacharya, Executive Vice President, Research & Medicine. And over there, with his foot on a brushed steel baggage cart, the man who dropped him in this: Mr. Hoffman.

  Ben leaned back until his shoulder touched the doorframe. But then, straight ahead: an escape.

  It was like one of those mornings on a crowded subway train when you’re close to someone hot: the journey halves. On the far side of the chrysanthemums, he saw a slim and tight lady: foxy enough to front her own band. She looked Japanese, honey-skinned, with backswept hair, in a pale blue business suit, patterned blouse, and flower broach. She was maybe five years older than himself.

  This he could handle. The journey more than halved. He made a quick adjustment in his pants.

  “There is something else Trudy, but I’m not sure I should say.” Ms. Marvelous yelled a corny stage whisper. “A little bird told me… No, I shouldn’t say… Really? Don’t twist my arm.”

  Ben tuned out, and into the foxy lady. She was gazing at the award, or somewhere near it.

  He’d seen her twice before since the conference started Tuesday: sightings that raised hopes but came to nothing. On the first night, she appeared with Dr. Hiroshi Murayama at the Sanomo company’s reception. Yesterday, she crossed this lobby in T-shirt and shorts, spun through the door, and turned right. And now she stood not ten feet in front of him, her brown eyes lit from Twelfth.

  Marcia Gelding’s ears wiggled with all the phony grinning. “Well, Trudy, I think I may be allowed to say this. We’re having an extra-special meeting one week Monday, when our esteemed chairman, Dr. Eberhardt Poyser, will be here in person for, shall we say, a special briefing, at the National Institutes of Health.”

  The crowd erupted: went wild, ecstatic. She didn’t need to say it: they got the message. There was only one thing the CEO could mean: their vaccine for HIV was coming through. Doc Mayr’s big invention—one of the holy grails of biotech—was to be approved by the FDA.

  A forest of phones rose, and a braying broke out like a flock of sheep on crystal meth. “Speech, speech, speech, speech, speech.”

  Now the vaccine chief looked younger. And more than that: bigger. She let go the rail and didn’t fall. Then she launched into a spiel, introducing “our team” in the landmark trial of “WernerVac.” Over here, Simone Thomas (red beehive) from the University of Alabama. Over there, Steve Kwong (an athlete) and Heinz Hendricksen (a cadaver) from Cornell University, New York. By reception, Wang Lei Wu (thick eyeglasses) from Tsinghua, Beijing, and Maureen Valentine (puckered lips) from Cape Town.

  “Finally, of course, the first author of our paper. How are you? Where are you? Frank?”

  A primitive bark broke from a shiny steel wheelchair, and Dr. Frank V. Wilson, the trial’s principal investigator, scooted from a space to Ben’s right. He’d visited the module on Wednesday afternoon: mid-fifties, silver hair, broken veins. His lips: downturned. Eyes: sullen gray. He trailed body odor fit to gas chickens.

  Ben floored the award and joined the splashing palms. Then he caught the foxy lady’s gaze.

  Hard.

  Three

  DR. SUMIKO HONDA stared at the guy stood grinning between Marcia Gelding and Trudy Mayr. Since the conference started Tuesday, she’d seen him twice before and still didn’t know who he was. He was obviously on the inside with BerneWerner Biomed but looked too young and fresh for senior management.

  If he wasn’t so keen to clap that asshole Wilson, he might be exactly the right person to approach.

  Wilson. Wilson. All roads led to Wilson. God, how she hated that man.

  “Thank you,” the CEO oozed. “That really was marvelous.”

  “I will treasure it for always. Oh, my.”

  The guy looked so professional in his sharp navy suit: minimalist lines, draping coat, worsted serge. Her gaze skipped in micromovements: from his coal black hair to his puppydog-sized hands, and fresh-faced cheeks shadowed with stubble. He glanced, left–right, then, yes, straight ahead. She saw his eyes flash. So fast. They were a funny shade of blue, and kept dancing here and there, as if he was reading his life off cue cards.

  Then her gaze dropped to where she feared it shouldn’t go: a gentle curve of cloth below the award.

  “Marvelous. That’s lovely. Thank you all so much. Now, let’s do some business. Chop, chop.”

  In the corner of an eye, Sumiko tracked the presentation party: Marcia Gelding and Trudy Mayr to a pair of leather armchairs; the guy the other way, toward reception. He carried the award and dragged a purple trolley-case to a roped-off line at the desk.

  The first time she’d see him was Tuesday night in the ballroom, at a Sanomo company reception. He arrived in that suit and, without breaking apart his chopsticks, stabbed four onigiri into his mouth. The second time was yesterday, right here in the lobby, as she left the hotel to run. If she hadn’t been determined that she wouldn’t look insane, she’d have spun a full circle in the door.

  But here was an opportunity she’d been waiting on for months. She focused on Ms. Gelding and Dr. Mayr. They were settling into the armchairs, beside a glass coffee table, only paces from the chrysanthemum pot. Steve Kwong took a third chair, but a fourth remained empty, partly obstructed by a Kentia palm.

  Sumiko ran her hands down her best blue dress. Now was her chance. This was it. She’d walk right up, slip into that empty chair, and tell the Atlanta people what she knew.

  First step… Second step… Another… And another…

  Then she paused to reevaluate her plan. Marcia Gelding was a player with a notorious disposition. Her reputation could curdle distilled water. When the Swiss-based Werner Laboratories swallowed Berne Therapeutics of Rahway, New Jersey, people said she personally signed four hundred terminations and described it as better than sex.

  Sumiko felt gripped by a familiar tension. She seemed to live under the spell of secret sisters. An inner voice said this. Then another said that. They were incapable of agreeing on anything. If one were to settle with Sense and Sensibility, the other craved The Silence of the Lambs. If one went shopping for organic cotton tampons, the other returned with boil-clean sponges. Right now, one told her, “Walk up and shaft Wilson.” The other, “Skip it honey, you’ll lose.”

  Two steps more… She dodged a bellhop pushing baggage. She nodded to Maureen and Wang Lei Wu. She approached the glass table—her goal that chair—and continued down the lobby.

  Chickened out.

  At a coffee stand counter, she ordered an espresso and sat to check her profile on Twitter. When last she looked, Monday, she’d gained three new followers. But none were good-looking men.

  She tapped her phone. Bangles jingled from a wrist. Then she spotted the guy, coming her way. His eyes swept the floor, as if hunting dropped nickels, then her legs, her phone, and her face.

  He glanced away and back. He stroked his tie under his jacket. Then he veered sharp right toward a rising flight of stairs where a pink and gray sign with an a
rrow pointing upward read:

  ↑

  BERNEWERNER INFORMATION POINT

  THIS WAY

  SHE GAVE it five minutes before making up her mind. Ms. Gelding and Dr. Mayr, or the guy with the eyes? She sprinted up the stairs, followed more arrows to the second-floor Montreal Room, pushed open the door and ambled, so casually, toward the BerneWerner promotions module B.

  Resting on an apron of pale gray laminate, the module most resembled a Scandinavian summerhouse: about twelve by nine feet of clinical white fiberboard with pink and gray highlights and trim. LED display panels flashed from two of its four sides, while pairs of chrome poles flanked a rounded-arch entrance and supported a flat gray roof.

  She’d seen it before: as part of a much bigger structure only assembled at major conventions. Bolted to modules A, C, and D, it was scaled like a rural airport terminal, with a video lounge, breakout booth, and juice bar. But module B—the “doctor’s office”—was the all-events essential: the place where hearts were won.

  At first, Sumiko thought the unit was deserted. The focus was a pink desk with square chrome legs, supporting a monitor sized for a nightclub. Behind it, a video wall pictured a pretend examination room, with scrubs, sphygmomanometer, and X-rays. Three big cardboard cartons were stacked by the desk, and two rotating racks were loaded with brochures for the company’s big-push products. But, although the information point should be open all day, she saw no sign of the guy.

  She reached for a copy of InderoMab: Setting the Standard, setting a rack clanking on its axis. Then she heard a scrape and noticed a pair of black Oxfords attached to white socks and navy pants.

  He was sprawled almost flat, his feet on the desk, knees turned out, heels touching. His torso was invisible—hidden behind the monitor—so she took another step, and all was plain. He lay, eyes shut, in a gray swivel-and-tilt chair, his arms hanging like a sleeping gorilla’s.

  She watched him breathe. There was strength in that breath.

  She coughed.

  No reaction. Still breathing.

  “Excuse me.” She coughed again. “I was looking for information.”

  The feet disappeared. The eyes appeared.

  “I wonder if you could help me at all.”

  He leaned forward, rubbed his nose, rested his chin in his palms, stretched his lips to a smile, and said nothing.

  “I was hoping to get a word with Dr. Mayr. And I saw you were together downstairs.”

  Now he replied. “Uh-huh.” If that counts. He’d a smile to break hearts or sell condos.

  “I was wondering if you knew how I could do that, possibly.”

  As she spoke, she realized that now she could smell him: a musky fresh smell. He smelled amazing.

  He blinked at her name tag and conference credential, hanging from a red ribbon around her neck. “Hi, Dr. Honda. San Fran, huh? You want an iPad then? They’re free.”

  He raised a puppydog hand toward the cardboard cartons. “Contains comprehensive data on all our products. You can wipe the memory clean when you’re done.”

  Sumiko grinned and fingered her hair. “That would be great. Very kind. Yes please.”

  “I’m Ben. You want it now? Or I can deliver it to your room. I can demo you its functions if you need that.”

  “That would be lovely. Thank you. But what I really hoped was I was looking to speak with Dr. Mayr, if that’s actually possible before she leaves. She’s with Ms. Gelding now, so I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  His fingers hammered the desk like he was playing piano. “Doc Wilson’s our guy in San Fran. Right?”

  Wilson. Ugh. She felt a shiver of disgust. “You know him?”

  “Big shot. Key guy.”

  “He’s a loathsome toad.” She threw the brochure onto the desk. “He’s why I want to speak with Dr. Mayr.”

  Ben rubbed his face, glanced through the entrance arch, then stood, letting the chair thump upright. He stepped round the desk and hooked a leg across the corner. “Don’t get along, huh? I can empathize with that. Don’t office politics suck?”

  “They do.” She stepped back. “But it’s not office politics at the Clinical Evaluation Center. That man’s incompetent, abusive, definitely unethical. Everything he touches falls apart.”

  Ben’s gaze traversed her like a CT scanner. His foot swung and brushed her knee. “Doc Mayr’s pretty big on old Frankie, you know? Like downstairs, didn’t you think? Pretty big.”

  “Oh, I know what they’re like. She’s probably as bad as he is.”

  He returned to the chair, restored his palms under his chin, and slid a middle finger into his mouth. “Hey, thass not fwair. We’re talking about the first AIDS vaccine.”

  Sumiko felt a rush—that familiar tension—a moment for her secret sisters. One spotted an opportunity. Give him your room number. But the other seized control of her mouth. “Well, you should come to our center and see how Wilson runs the place. Frankly, I’m telling you it’s a joke.”

  Ben leaned back and clasped his fingers behind his head. “Bad manager, huh? We got plenty in Atlanta. So, he’s your boss then is he?”

  “Actually, I have complete clinical independence. He’s only the center director and principal investigator on the phase III study, God help us.”

  “Okay. I know. First author of that research paper they were talking about downstairs.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Sounds like awesome stuff. So, if there’s anything I can help with, you let me know… I mean, I work with these people all the time.”

  “It’s just the way he treats everyone. Especially the volunteers. It’s awful. Shocking. If you heard it from my room, you wouldn’t believe it. I’m amazed we haven’t had a lawsuit.”

  He unclasped his hands. “Course, it might be confidential. But I’m just helping out on the information side. This gig, it’s not my regular job. I’m an attorney.”

  “I’d better be careful then.”

  “Always.”

  She fingered an ear. “Could I ask your advice then? On a confidential basis?”

  “Course you can. Between us, professionally.”

  “Let me just tell you this then and see what you think.” She sank onto a chair beside the desk. “And this is just one example of the things he says. Just one. Okay?”

  “Gotcha.”

  “So, a young guy came into our center. Okay? A volunteer randomized in the trial. Turns out he’s seroconverted: a breakthrough infection. So he’s positive for HIV. Okay? And he comes in to see Wilson for a clinical consultation.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re not going to believe this. But you know what Wilson said to him? He’s actually giving the volunteer his test results. HIV-positive. And it’s not only me who heard this. You know what he said?”

  “Hit me.”

  She turned and looked through the arch. The Montreal Room was empty. All the same, she lowered her voice. “He said… And I quote. He said… Wilson said, ‘Should have thought about that when you were taking it up the ass.’”

  Ben’s teeth flashed. “Come again?”

  “I knew you’d laugh. This isn’t funny, you know.”

  “I’m not laughing. Honest. He said what?”

  “So he, Wilson, told a volunteer, after giving him his test results, ‘Should have thought about that when you were taking it up the ass.’”

  “Hold on now, hold on. Let’s back up a bit, can we? This is Frank V. Wilson, MD?”

  “Correct.”

  “Leading the landmark phase III clinical trial of the world’s first effective vaccine against HIV?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And was the volunteer…”

  “Taking it up the ass? I think that would be a reasonable possibility. This is San Francisco.”

  “Actually, I was gonna ask if the volunteer was gay. Or a male having sex with males, I guess I should say.”

  “MSM, ye
s.”

  He picked up a ballpoint and pressed it to a notepad.

  “And he said what?”

  Sumiko repeated all thirteen words.

  Ben wrote them down. “And there’s more?”

  “More? More than you can begin to imagine. But it’s not only the abuse he deals out, the plain nastiness of the man. It’s the effect he’s had on the trial.”

  “In what way?”

  “Volunteers miss appointments, no-shows, wasting session time. And that’s if they come back at all. Our drop-out rates are the worst of any center. Lost to follow-up data are awful.”

  “Bad, is it?”

  “So, for the entire enrollment, averaged for all centers—United States, China, and South Africa—the number of volunteers the trial completely lost track of has been excellent: one-and-a-half percent. Really quite good. San Francisco? Three point four-nine.”

  “Okay, I’m not like an epidemiologist or anything. But I guess there’s gotta be variation from center to center. Gotta be random variation, hasn’t there?”

  “Except it’s not random. It’s him. People used to come in for enrollment, come for one or maybe both shots, then half of them never even came back for blood tests. Just disappeared.”

  Ben stroked beneath his chin, nails rasping stubble, then tapped his lips and grimaced. “Three point four-nine percent? I don’t think that’s quite half.”

  “Alright, it’s not half. But our volunteers are a precious resource. We need those people.”

  She leaned away from the desk and looked around the module. Along the top of the video wall ran a ticker tape newsfeed with the latest from Medscape and WebMD. A digital thermometer read 72°F. A stethoscope lay displayed beside the monitor.

  “I’m telling you—and I think it’s my professional duty to tell Dr. Mayr—the whole place is a shambles. A disgrace. Ardelia’s always complaining about his record-keeping. And, let me tell you, one of our data people told me Wilson was changing clinical case reports. Retrospectively. Months later.”

  Ben lifted the stethoscope, clipped it to his ears, and slid the chest-piece under his jacket.