“Precisely, Doctor. Now, I knew you would not want to do it for a variety of reasons, and that is why this discussion is a negotiation.”
“It would be against the law,” Stephanie blurted. “The FDA would never allow it.”
“I was not intending to inform the FDA,” Ashley said calmly. “I know how meddlesome they can be on occasion.”
“It would have to be done in a hospital,” Stephanie said. “And without the FDA’s approval, no hospital would allow it.”
“No hospital in this country,” Ashley added. “Actually, I was thinking of the Bahamas. It is a rather nice time of the year to go to the Bahamas. Besides, there is a clinic there that would serve our needs beautifully. Six months ago, my Health Policy Subcommittee had a series of hearings on the inappropriate lack of regulation of infertility clinics in this country. A clinic by the name of Wingate came up during the hearings as an example of how some of these clinics are ignoring even minimal standards to make enormous profit. The Wingate Clinic had recently moved to New Providence Island to avoid the few laws applicable to their operation, which included some very questionable undertakings. But what had caught my attention particularly was that they were in the process of building a brand-spanking-new, twenty-first-century research center and hospital.”
“Senator, there are reasons medical research starts out with animals before moving on to humans. To do otherwise is unethical at best and foolish at worst. I cannot be part of such an undertaking.”
“I knew you would not be excited about the idea at first,” Ashley said. “Again, that is why this is a negotiation. You see, I am willing to promise you as a gentleman that my bill, S.1103, will never leave my subcommittee if you agree to treat me with your HTSR in total secrecy. That means that your second round of financing will come through and your company will go forward, and you will become the wealthy biotechnology celebrity entrepreneur that you aspire to be. As for myself, my political power is still ascendant and will remain so, provided this Parkinson’s threat is removed. So . . . as a consequence of each of us doing something we would rather not do, we both win.”
“What are you doing that you do not want to do?” Daniel questioned.
“I am accepting the risk of being a guinea pig,” Ashley stated. “I am the first to admit I wish our roles were reversed, but such is life. I am also risking political consequences from my conservative constituents who expect S.1103 to be voted out of subcommittee.”
Daniel shook his head in amazement. “This is preposterous,” he commented.
“But there is more,” Ashley said. “Knowing the degree of risk I am assuming in this new therapy, I do not think our exchange of services is equal. To rectify that imbalance and to help with the risk, I demand some divine intervention.”
“I’m afraid to ask what you mean by divine intervention.”
“As I understand it, if you were to treat me with your HTSR, you would need a segment of DNA from someone who does not have Parkinson’s disease.”
“That’s correct, but it doesn’t matter who the person is. There is no tissue matching involved, like with organ transplants.”
“It matters to me who the person is,” Ashley said. “I also understand you could get this little segment of DNA from blood?”
“I couldn’t get it from red blood cells, which have no nuclei,” Daniel said. “But I could get it from white cells, which you can always find in blood. So, yes, I could get it from blood.”
“Thank the good Lord for white blood cells,” Ashley said. “Now, the source of the blood is what has captured my interest. My father was a Baptist minister, but my mother, rest her soul, was an Irish Catholic. She taught me a few things that have stayed with me all my life. Let me ask you a question: Are you acquainted with the Shroud of Turin?”
Daniel glanced at Stephanie. A wry smile of disbelief had appeared on his face.
“I was raised a Catholic,” Stephanie offered. “I’m familiar with the Shroud of Turin.”
“I know what it is as well,” Daniel said. “It’s a religious relic purported to be the burial shroud of Jesus Christ, which was proven a fake about five years ago.”
“True,” Stephanie said. “But it was more than ten years ago. It was carbon-dated to the mid-thirteenth century.”
“I have no interest in the carbon-dating report,” Ashley said. “Especially since it was debunked by several eminent scientists. Even if the report had not been challenged, my interest would be the same. The shroud held a special place in my mama’s heart, and some of the devotion rubbed off on me when she took me and my two older brothers to Turin to be in its presence when I was no more than an impressionable moppet. Concerns about its authenticity aside, what is incontrovertible is that there are bloodstains on the cloth. Most everyone agrees about that. I want the little section of DNA needed for HTSR to come from the Shroud of Turin. That is my demand and my offer.”
Daniel laughed derisively. “This is more than preposterous. It’s crazy. Besides, how would I get a blood sample from the Shroud of Turin?”
“That is your responsibility, Doctor,” Ashley said. “But I am willing and able to help. I am certain I can get details about access to the shroud from one of my archbishop acquaintances, who are always willing to exchange favors for special political consideration. I happen to know there are samples of the shroud containing bloodstains that had been taken, given out, then recalled by the church. Perhaps one of those could be made available, but you would have to go and get it.”
“I’m speechless,” Daniel admitted, trying to suppress his amusement.
“That is entirely understandable,” Ashley said. “I am certain this opportunity I have proposed has caught you unawares. I do not expect you to respond immediately. As a thoughtful man, I was confident you would like to mull it over. My suggestion is that you call me, and I will give you a special number to call. But I would like to say that if I do not hear from you by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, I will assume you have decided not to take advantage of my offer. At ten o’clock, I will order my staff to schedule a subcommittee vote on S.1103 as soon as possible so that it can be moved on to the full committee and on to the Senate. And I already know the BIO lobby has informed you that S.1103 will pass with ease.”
five
10:05 P.M., Thursday, February 21, 2002
The taillights of Carol Manning’s Suburban faded as the vehicle moved down Louisiana Avenue and then merged with the other traffic before disappearing into the general gloom of the night. Stephanie and Daniel had watched them until the point that they were no longer discernable, then looked into each other’s faces. Their noses were mere inches apart, since their bodies were pressed together beneath their umbrella. They were once again standing motionless at the curb in front of Union Station, just as they had been an hour earlier when they were waiting to be picked up. Then they had been curious with anticipation. Now they were dumbfounded.
“Tomorrow morning, I’m going to swear this was all a delusion,” Stephanie said, with a shake of her head.
“There’s definitely a dreamlike unreality to it all,” Daniel admitted.
“Bizarre is a better adjective.”
Daniel lowered his eyes to the senator’s business card he had clutched in his free hand. He turned it over. Scribbled in the senator’s erratic handwriting was a cell phone number to be used to contact him directly in the next twelve hours. Daniel stared at the number as if committing it to memory.
A gust of wind erupted and changed the drizzle momentarily from vertical to horizontal. Stephanie shivered as the moisture peppered her face. “It’s cold. Let’s get back to the hotel! There’s no sense standing here and getting soaked.”
As if waking from a trance, Daniel apologized and glanced around the plaza in front of the station. A taxi stand was off to one side, with several cabs conveniently waiting. Angling the umbrella into the wind, he urged Stephanie forward. Arriving at the first taxi in line, Daniel held the umbrella for
Stephanie before climbing in himself.
“Four Seasons hotel,” Daniel said to the driver, who was watching his rearview mirror.
“Tonight was ironic as well as bizarre,” Stephanie said suddenly, as the cab pulled away. “The same day I hear a smidgen about your family from you, I hear the whole story from Senator Butler.”
“I find that more irritating than ironic,” Daniel said. “Hell, it’s an out-and-out violation of my privacy that he had me investigated by the FBI. It’s also appalling that the FBI would do it. I mean, I’m a private citizen under no suspicion of any crime. Such abuse smacks of the days of J. Edgar Hoover.”
“So everything Butler said about you is true?”
“Essentially, I suppose,” Daniel responded vaguely. “Listen, let’s talk about the senator’s offer.”
“I can tell you my reaction to it right off the top. I think it stinks!”
“You don’t see any positive aspects?”
“The only positive aspect I can see is that it has confirmed our impressions of the man as a quintessential demagogue. He’s also a detestable hypocrite. He’s against HTSR purely for political reasons, and he’s willing to ban it and its research despite its potential to save lives and relieve suffering. At the same time, he wants it for himself. That’s obscene and inexcusable, and we’re certainly not going to be a party to it.” Stephanie gave a short derisive laugh. “I’m sorry I gave my word to keep his illness a secret. This whole thing is a story the media would die for, and I’d love for them to have it.”
“We certainly can’t go to the media,” Daniel stated categorically. “And I don’t think we should be rash. I think Butler’s offer deserves consideration.”
A surprised Stephanie turned to look at Daniel. She tried to see his face in the dim light. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“Let’s list the knowns. We’re well acquainted with growing dopaminergic neurons from stem cells, so it’s not as if we’ll be floundering around in the dark in that regard.”
“We’ve done it with murine stem cells, not human cells.”
“The process is the same. Colleagues have already done it with human stem cells using the same methodology. Making the cells is not going to be a problem. Once we have the cells, we can follow the exact protocol we used for the mice. There’s no reason it wouldn’t work for a human. After all, every last mouse we’ve treated has done remarkably well.”
“Except for the ones that died.”
“We know why the ones that didn’t make it died. It was before we perfected the injection technique. All the mice that we injected properly have survived and have been cured. With a human volunteer, we would have available a stereotaxic device that doesn’t exist for rodents. That will make the injection more exact, infinitely easier, and hence safer. Besides, we wouldn’t do the injection ourselves. We’d find a neurosurgeon who’d be willing to lend a hand.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Stephanie said. “It sounds like you’ve already talked yourself into doing this crazy, unethical experiment, and that’s what it would be: an uncontrolled, risky experiment on a single human subject. No matter what the outcome, it would be devoid of value, except possibly for Butler.”
“I don’t agree. By doing this procedure, we will save CURE and HTSR, meaning millions of people will ultimately benefit. It seems to me a minor compromise in ethics is a small up-front price to pay for an enormous back-end payoff.”
“But we’ll be doing exactly what Senator Butler accused the biotech industry of doing in his opening statement this morning: using ends to justify means. It would be unethical to experiment on Senator Butler, plain and simple.”
“Yeah, well, perhaps to some degree, but who are we putting at risk? It’s the villain! He’s the one asking for it. Worse yet, he’s conniving for it by extorting us with information he got by somehow coercing the FBI to do an illegal investigation.”
“That all may be true, but two wrongs don’t make a right, and it doesn’t absolve us of our complicity.”
“I think it would. We’ll make Butler sign a release, and we’ll put everything in the release, including the fact that we are fully aware that doing the procedure would be considered unethical by any research advisory board in this country, because it’s being done without an appropriately approved protocol. The release will state unequivocally that it was Butler’s idea to do the procedure and to do the procedure outside of the country. It will also state that he used extortion to get us to participate.”
“Do you think he’d sign such a release?”
“We won’t give him any choice. Either he signs it or he doesn’t get the benefit of HTSR. I’m comfortable with the idea that we’ll be doing the procedure in the Bahamas, so we won’t be violating any FDA rules, and we’ll have a rock-solid release in case we need it. The onus will be squarely on Butler’s shoulders.”
“Let me think about it for a few minutes.”
“Take your time, but I really think the moral weight favors our doing it. It would be different if we were forcing him in any way, shape, or form. But we’re not. It’s the other way around.”
“But it could be argued that he’s uninformed. He’s a politician, not a doctor. He doesn’t truly know the risks. He could die.”
“He’s not going to die,” Daniel said emphatically. “We’ll err on the conservative side, meaning the worse-case scenario is that we won’t give him enough cells to get his dopamine concentration high enough to get rid of all his symptoms. If that happens, he’ll be begging us to do it again, which will be easy, since we’ll maintain the treating cells in culture.”
“Let me mull it over.”
“Sure,” Daniel said.
They rode the rest of the way in silence. It wasn’t until they were going up in the hotel elevator that Stephanie spoke up: “Do you honestly think we would be able to find an appropriate place to do the procedure?”
“Butler spent a good deal of effort on all this,” Daniel said. “He wasn’t leaving anything to chance. Frankly, I’d be shocked if he didn’t have the clinic he mentioned investigated for appropriateness at the same time he had me investigated.”
“I suppose that’s possible. Actually, I remember reading about the Wingate Clinic about a year ago. It was a popular, unaffiliated infertility clinic out in Bookford, Massachusetts, before it moved under pressure to the Bahamas. It was quite a scandal.”
“I remember it too. It was run by a couple of maverick infertility guys. Their research department was doing unethical reproductive cloning experiments.”
“Unconscionable is a better description, like trying to get human fetuses to gestate in pigs. I remember they were also implicated in the disappearance of a couple of Harvard coed egg donors. The principals had to flee the country and barely managed to avoid extradition back to the States. All in all, it sounds like the absolute opposite of the kind of place and people we should get involved with.”
“We wouldn’t be getting involved with them. We’d do the procedure, wash our hands, and leave.”
The elevator doors opened. They started down the hall toward their suite.
“What about a neurosurgeon?” Stephanie asked. “Do you honestly think we’d be able to find someone to take part in this shenanigan? He or she will know there’s something fishy about it.”
“With the proper incentive, that shouldn’t be a problem. Same with the clinic.”
“You mean money.”
“Of course! The universal motivator.”
“What about Butler’s demand for secrecy? How would we handle that?”
“Secrecy is more his issue than ours. We won’t use his real name. Without those glasses and dark suit, I imagine he’s a rather nondescript, nebbish sort of guy. With a splashy short-sleeved shirt and a pair of sunglasses, maybe no one will recognize him.”
Stephanie used her keycard to open their door. They took off their jackets and went into the sitting room.
“What abo
ut something from the minibar?” Daniel suggested. “I’m in the mood to celebrate. A couple of hours ago, I thought we were stuck beneath a black cloud. Now there’s a ray of sunshine.”
“I could use some wine,” Stephanie responded. She rubbed her hands together to warm them before curling up in the corner of the couch.
Daniel popped the cork on a half bottle of cabernet and poured a hefty portion into a balloon goblet. He handed it to Stephanie before getting himself a neat Scotch. He sat down in the opposite corner of the couch. They touched glasses and took sips from their respective drinks.
“So, you want to go ahead with this crazy plan?” Stephanie said.
“I do, unless you can come up with some compelling reason not to.”
“What about this Shroud of Turin nonsense? I mean, divine intervention! What a preposterous and presumptuous idea!”
“I disagree. I think it is a stroke of genius.”
“You have to be joking!”
“Absolutely not! It would be the ultimate placebo, and we know how powerful placebos can be. If he wants to believe he’s getting some of Jesus Christ’s DNA, it’s fine by me. It would give him a powerful incentive to believe in his cure. I think it is a brilliant idea. I’m not suggesting we have to get DNA from the shroud. We could just tell him we have, and it would afford the same result. But we can look into it. If there is blood on the shroud like he contends and we can get access to it like he suggests, it would work.”
“Even if the bloodstain is from the thirteenth century?”
“The age shouldn’t make any difference. The DNA would be in fragments, but that wouldn’t be a problem. We’d still use the same probe we’d use on a fresh DNA sample to form the segment we need, and then augment it by PCR. In a lot of ways, it would add a bit of challenge and excitement. The hardest part will be resisting the temptation to write the procedure up for Nature or Science after the fact. Can you imagine the title: ‘HTSR and the Shroud of Turin Combine to Produce the First Cure of Human Parkinson’s Disease.’ ”