Heywood spoke in a low rumble. There was something overcast about him. A storm cloud at dawn, Andrea thought. “The results so far, well, we’re not seeing any breakthroughs on the horizon. Nobody wants to over-promise. The whole field has been a series of high hopes and dashed hopes. But there we are.” His eyes roamed around the long table, inviting questions.
Andrea set down her teacup with an audible clink—Spode on Spode, politer than clearing her throat, she thought. “Forgive me—I’m new to all this—but we’d been told earlier that the foundation looks for areas that are underserved by the marketplace.” She paused meaningfully.
“And vaccines are a good example,” Heywood said, nodding sagely. “The value of an inoculation is greater than its value to any one individual, because if I’m inoculated, it helps you, too. I can’t spread a pathogen to other people, and, of course, society doesn’t have to pay the cost of my sick days, absences from school, hospitalization. Any health economist would say that its value to the community could be twenty times greater than what an individual would pay for it. That’s why governments have always directly invested in vaccination. It’s ultimately a public good, same as public sanitation, clean water, or what have you. In this case, though, the disease is worst in the most impoverished places in the world, where there simply aren’t the resources necessary. Places like Uganda, Botswana, or Zambia have an annual health-care budget that comes to maybe fifteen dollars per capita. Here, it’s closer to five thousand dollars.”
Andrea’s eyes focused on Heywood as he spoke. His ruddy complexion made the paleness of his eyes all the more striking. He was powerfully built, had large hands, nails bitten to the quick. A type, then, with whom she had some experience: a man’s man…with a nervous stomach. A bruiser with a glass jaw.
“That puts things into perspective,” Andrea said.
“It’s a dollars-and-cents calculation. Drug companies are terrific at drug development when there’s a real market for it. But they don’t have a financial incentive to spend huge sums to develop treatments for people who can’t afford to pay for them.”
“Which is where the Bancroft Foundation comes in.”
“Which is where we come in,” Heywood said, nodding somberly. The neophyte was up to speed. “Basically, what we’re trying to do is prime the pump.”
He started to shuffle his papers, but Andrea was not finished yet. “Forgive me,” she said. “I’ve been in commercial finance, so maybe I’m looking at this cockeyed. But instead of trying to pick the winning team ahead of time, why not provide an incentive for any research team that licks the problem?”
“I’m sorry?” Heywood massaged the bridge of his nose.
“Put a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.” A quiet titter went around the table, and Andrea could feel herself blushing. She regretted having spoken up. But I’m right, she thought fiercely. Aren’t I? “It’s hard to direct innovation. But I’m guessing there are hundreds of laboratories and research groups—in universities, in nonprofit research institutes, at biotech firms, too—that could hit on something real if they tried to. You make it worthwhile for all of them to compete, and you can harness all that creativity. You said the drug companies and biotech firms are great at drug development. Why not give them an incentive to get there first, too? Promise to buy a million or so doses of an effective vaccine at a fair price. Which means giving every potential investor that incentive as well—effectively magnifying the sums you put in.”
The program officer’s ruddy face bore a look of suppressed exasperation. “What we’re trying to do,” he explained, “is get people off the starting block.”
“And you’re choosing the candidates you think have the best chance of winning.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re placing a bet.”
The program officer fell silent for a moment.
From across the table, a distinguished-looking man with a full head of wavy gray hair caught Andrea’s eye. “And your model is—what?” he asked her. “A sort of Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes for medical researchers? ‘You may already be a winner’—that sort of thing?” His voice was smooth, almost honeyed. The challenge was in his words, not his tone.
Andrea Bancroft’s face went hot. But the objection was off-base. Something she’d read in one of her history books came to her. She met her challenger’s gaze. “Is the idea so new? In the eighteenth century, the British government offered a prize for anyone who could figure out how to measure longitude at sea. If you look into it, I think you’ll find that the problem was solved and the prize money collected,” She forced herself to take another sip of tea, hoped nobody noticed the tremble in her hand.
The gray-haired man gave her a long, appraising look. His features were sharp and symmetrical, given warmth by his brown eyes; his attire—a charcoal tweed jacket, a buttoned sweater-vest with a houndstooth pattern—distinctly professorial. One of the program consultants?
Now she lowered her gaze to the tea in her cup, suddenly abashed. Way to go, Andrea, she thought. Making enemies on your first day here.
But her larger sense was one of excitement: These were people who didn’t just talk about changing the world, the stuff of a million freshman dorm conversations—these were people who were actually doing it. And they were smart about it. Very smart. If she ever had a chance to meet Dr. Bancroft herself, she would have to stop herself from gushing.
The program officer gathered his papers. “We’ll certainly take your remarks under consideration,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. It was neither dismissal nor acquiescence.
“My, my,” said the bronzed man to Andrea’s left. Simon Bancroft, she remembered. He gave her a quick smile: mock congratulations, perhaps, though ambiguous enough to be represented, later, as the real thing.
A half-hour recess was called. The other trustees drifted off in clusters, some to a room downstairs where coffee and pastries were served; others walked around the gallery or sat outside, settling on parasol-sheltered chairs, straining to read the little displays of their BlackBerrys and wireless PDAs. Andrea herself wandered aimlessly, feeling suddenly alone: the transfer student freshly arrived at school. Wouldn’t want to sit down with the wrong crowd at the cafeteria, she thought sardonically. She was pulled out of her reveries by a smooth baritone.
“Miss Bancroft?”
She looked up. The professor guy in the tweed and vest. Something unclouded about his gaze. He had to be around seventy, but his face, in repose, was scarcely lined, and the way he moved conveyed a certain vitality. “Would you join me for a stroll?”
They ended up walking together down a slate path behind the house, descending down several terraced gardens and across a small wooden bridge over a stream, and then through a maze of privet hedges.
“It’s like another world here,” Andrea said. “Plunked down in the middle of another one. Like a restaurant on the moon.”
“Oh, that place. Great food, but no atmosphere.”
Andrea giggled. “So how long have you been with the Bancroft Foundation?”
“Long time,” the man said. He stepped lightly over small branches. Corduroy trousers and sturdy brogues, Andrea noticed. Professorial but elegant.
“You must like it.”
“Keeps me out of trouble,” the man said.
He seemed in no hurry to bring up their disagreement, but she still felt awkward about it. “So,” she said after a pause, “did I make a fool of myself?”
“I’d say you made a fool of Randall Heywood.”
“But I thought—”
“You thought what? You were absolutely right, Miss Bancroft. Pull, not push—that’s going to be the most efficient use of foundation resources when it comes to medical research. Your analysis was completely on the money. So to speak.”
Andrea smiled. “I wish you’d tell the big guy that.”
A questioning look from the older man.
“I mean, when do I get to meet Dr. Bancroft anyway???
? As she spoke the words, she had an inkling that she had already made a misstep. “Okay, let me back up for a sec—who did you say you were?”
“I’m Paul.”
“Paul Bancroft.” Comprehension arrived like heartburn.
“Afraid so. Bound to be a disappointment, I know. Apologies, Miss Bancroft.” A smile played around his mouth.
“Andrea,” she corrected. “I feel like such a idiot, is all.”
“If you’re an idiot, Andrea, we need more idiots. I found your remarks to be exceptionally astute. You immediately set yourself apart from the fine ruminants around you, distinguished cud-chewers all. I daresay some were impressed. You even held your ground against me.”
“You were playing devil’s advocate, then.”
“Wouldn’t put it that way.” He arched an eyebrow. “The devil doesn’t need an advocate. Not in this world, Miss Bancroft.”
The senior guard Yusef Ali rounded the corner of the darkened hallway, the powerful beam of his flashlight sweeping through every corner of the villa on via Angelo Masina. There could be no lapse of thoroughness, even now. Especially now. There had been so much uncertainty since the demise of their master. But the new master, he knew, was no less demanding. The physical security of any facility was no greater than the vigilance with which it was inspected.
Now, in a small room in the rear of the ground floor, the Tunisian checked a screen that displayed the status of the perimeter sensors. The electronic sensors reported themselves to be in a “normal” state, but Yusef Ali knew that human observation could only be supplemented, never supplanted, by the methods of electronic detection. His evening walk-through was not complete.
It was in the basement that he finally noticed something distinctly awry. The door to the stanza per gli interrogatori was ajar. Light spilled out of it, piercing the gloom.
It was not supposed to have been left like that. A pistol in one hand, Yusef Ali strode over to the chamber, opened the heavy door—it glided slowly on powerful, soundless hinges—and stepped inside.
At once, the lights went out. A powerful blow knocked the weapon from his right hand, while another blow swept his legs from under him. How many assailants were there? Disoriented by the sudden darkness, he could not tell, and when he tried to lash out, he found that his hands had been manacled. Another forceful blow, at the square of his back, sent the guard staggering to the floor.
Then the door to the interrogation chamber sucked shut behind him.
“Okay, now I’m really confused,” said Andrea Bancroft.
An elegant shrug. “I was merely curious to see whether you’d hold your ground when you were in the right.” The man’s gray hair turned silver in the midafternoon sun.
“I can’t believe it—I can’t believe I’m here, walking along a path with the Paul Bancroft. The guy who invented Bayesian networks. The Bancroft’s Theorem Bancroft. The guy who—oh, God, I’m having flashbacks to graduate school. Forgive me. I’m embarrassing myself again. I’m a bobbysoxer meeting Elvis.” She could feel herself blushing.
“Elvis has left the building, I’m afraid.” Paul Bancroft laughed, a low musical laugh, and they turned right on the flagstone path.
The sylvan grounds gave way to meadow—ryegrass and yarrow and nameless wildflowers of all varieties, yet no thistles or burrs, no poison oak or ragweed. A meadow without noxious weeds: Like so much at the Katonah estate, it looked natural, effortless, and yet it had to be the result of a great deal of unseen attention. Nature perfected.
“Those things you mentioned—I feel like someone who penned a few catchy pop songs in the early sixties,” Paul Bancroft said after a while. “As an older man, I find that the real challenge is to put precepts into practice. Enlist the mind to serve the heart—get those theories into the harness.”
“They’ve taken you a long way. Starting with the basic notion of utilitarian ethics. Let’s see if I’ve got it right: Act so as to produce the greatest good for the greatest number.”
A low chuckle. “That’s how Jeremy Bentham put it in the eighteenth century. The phrase, I believe, originated in the writings of the scientist Joseph Priestley, and of the moral philosopher Francis Hutcheson. Everyone forgets that modern economics is, technically speaking, concerned precisely with the maximization of utility, which is to say happiness. Applying the welfare functions of Marshall and Pigou to the axioms of neoutilitarianism should have been an obvious exercise.”
Andrea fought to dredge up the classroom memories—knowledge and skills quickly mastered for exams and papers, just as quickly forgotten. “The urban legend, as I remember, was that you formulated the Bancroft Theorem as a homework assignment in an undergraduate course. A term paper for a sophomore seminar, something like that. Is that really true?”
“Well, yes,” the hearty gray-haired man replied, his unlined face now lightly gleaming with perspiration. “As a stripling lad, I was clever enough to have worked it out, not clever enough to have realized that it hadn’t been worked out a thousand times before. The problems were easier back then. They had solutions.”
“And now?”
“They seem only to lead to more problems. Like Russian nesting dolls. I’m seventy, and looking back I find it hard to value that sort of technical cleverness as much as others do.”
“That’s quite a recantation, coming from you. Didn’t you get a Fields Medal?” The Fields Medal was the most prestigious award in mathematics, the discipline’s equivalent of the Nobel. “For some early work in number theory, if I’m remembering right. Back when you were at the Institute for Advanced Study.”
“Now you’ve really got me feeling my age,” her companion said with a grin. “I’ve still got the actual medal in a shoebox somewhere. It bears a quote from the Roman poet Manilius: ‘To pass beyond your understanding and make yourself master of the universe.’ Haunting.”
“And humbling,” she added.
A wind rustled the tall meadow grasses and Andrea shivered briefly. They were walking toward a stone wall. It was ancient-looking, like the sort of pastureland divisions that crisscrossed the English Cotswolds.
“But now you’re able to put all that greatest-good-for-the-greatest-number stuff into practice,” she went on. “Having a foundation at your disposal must make it easy.”
“Do you really think so?” A hint of a smile. Another test.
Andrea paused, and gave a serious answer. “Not easy, no. Because there’s the issue of opportunity costs—of what else you could have done with any grant. And there’s the question of downstream consequences.”
“I knew I saw something in you, Andrea. A quality of mind. A genuine measure of independence. An ability to think through problems by yourself. But as for what you were saying—you know, you put your finger on it exactly. Downstream consequences. Perverse effects. It’s the snare of all ambitious attempts at philanthropy. Our greatest battle, really.”
Andrea nodded vigorously. “Nobody wants to be the pediatrician who saved the life of little Adolf Hitler.”
“Precisely,” Paul Bancroft answered. “And sometimes an effort to ameliorate poverty results only in more poverty. You dump free grain on an area—and put the farmers out of business. Next year, the Western aid agency isn’t around, and neither are the local farmers, who were forced to eat their seed grain. We’ve seen this sort of thing happen again and again over the past decades.” Bancroft’s gaze was alert and focused on her.
“And with disease?”
“Sometimes you have treatments that, by addressing the symptoms of an infectious disease, end up by increasing the transmission rate.”
“You don’t want to be the doc who gives Typhoid Mary an aspirin so she can go back to work in the kitchen,” Andrea said.
“My God, Andrea, you were born to this.” The laugh lines around his eyes gathered into a smile.
Once more she found herself blushing. A reclaimed birthright—was that what it was? “Oh, come on,” she said quickly.
“
I just mean you have a knack for thinking about these things. Perverse consequences come in all shapes and sizes. That’s why the Bancroft Foundation always has to think five steps ahead. Because every action has an effect, yes—but those effects, too, have effects. Which have yet further effects.” She felt the force of a powerful intellect directed toward a deep problem, and determined not to be defeated by it.
“It must be enough to induce paralysis. You start thinking about these knock-on effects, and you wonder about doing anything at all.”
“Except”—there was an intellectual fluidity and grace to the way Paul Bancroft spoke now, gliding in and out of her sentences—“that there’s no exit from the conundrum.”
“Because there are consequences to inaction, too,” Andrea put in. “Doing nothing has knock-on effects as well.”
“Which means you can never decide not to decide.”
It wasn’t sparring; it was more like dancing, the back and forth, the to and fro. She was exhilarated. She was talking with one of the great minds of the postwar era about the greatest issues of the day and she was holding her own. Or was she flattering herself? A tabby dancing with a lion?
They moved along a gentle incline, a knoll flecked with bluebells and buttercups, and did not speak for a bit. She found herself in a sort of fugue. Had she ever met anyone so extraordinary? Paul Bancroft had all the money in the world; he didn’t care about money. He only cared about what money could do, if targeted with extraordinary care. In college and in grad school, Andrea had spent time with academics who were desperate to get their papers published in the right journal, to get included on the right academic panels at the right conferences—needily, hungrily pursuing the most withered laurel. Yet here was Paul Bancroft, who had published enduring work before he was old enough to purchase alcohol, who, in his mid-twenties, received an appointment to the Institute for Advanced Study, once the lair of Einstein, Gödel, and von Neumann, and the country’s most illustrious research center—and who, a few years later, gave it up in order to devote his energies to the foundation and its expansion. The man was hardheaded and big-hearted: a truly rare combination, and a thrilling one.