When the head of security quickly called Berman and said he could “deal with it,” Berman had reluctantly acquiesced. Berman paid people handsomely to take care of problems like this. The security chief had told him not to worry; there was no chance of the incident being deemed anything other than an accident; he could deal with that end of the matter, too, if it came to it.
Later, Berman had heard that Pia was involved in a car accident on that same road, and he quickly deduced that she was in the vehicle with the doctor racing after the cyclist. Berman knew it was Pia who had found the runner who had gone down, and she had asked Mariel Spallek a lot of questions about it, but he convinced himself then that he had nothing to worry about. This time, he wasn’t so sure. Still, he found that he was very glad Pia was alive, because he felt the unfinished business he had with the woman trumped any minor threat she might pose.
More than anything else, Berman wanted to redeem his masculinity with her. At his house, when she had essentially invited herself to dinner, her seductiveness had driven him wild. The fact that he had passed out like some immature teenager was a monumental blow to his ego and self-image. When she was better and out of the hospital he wanted to make up for the lost opportunity, especially replaying in his mind her exotic and erotic dance. As far as her curious streak was concerned, he was confident he could deal with that himself, but in his own way. After all, he had dealt with Whitney and Mariel without a problem after he’d gotten tired of their personal favors.
Berman rubbed his eyes and drank cold coffee from a cup that had been filled about three hours previously. The thought occurred to him that perhaps these apparent cardiac arrests were just anomalies, one-off events that couldn’t be explained and would even out statistically. If that was the case, Berman thought he would be consumed by anxiety waiting for the next one. Berman resolved to have the trainers threaten the subjects more convincingly to make sure they never went out alone, and to have the scofflaws punished more seriously, so that if such medical disasters did reoccur, no one would find out about them to draw attention to Nano.
Berman was snapped out of his troubled musings by Whitney Jones, who suddenly shook him hard by the shoulder. She’d slipped into the lab unseen and unheard by Berman.
“Mr. Berman, are you okay? You look like you’re fading.”
“No, Whitney, I’m fine. Where did you come from? What are you doing still up?”
“I should be up if you are. And I’m glad I was. I was waiting for you in your office and took a call that came in on your direct line. I said to the caller that I’d find you. You have to come back to take the call. He’ll be calling back.”
“What now? Another problem?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it must be. It was Klaastens, the trainer from the cycling team. He said it’s very urgent and involved one of the Chinese cyclists.”
“Shit!” Berman mumbled. “I hope to hell it isn’t another cardiac arrest. Did he say what it was?”
“No, he didn’t, and I didn’t press him. He was insistent about talking directly with you. He said he’d tried your home number, but there was no answer.”
“How the hell did he get the direct-line office number?” Berman had a private phone in his office that was restricted to a very few trusted cohorts and certain high-ranking Chinese dignitaries, but Victor Klaastens was not part of either group. “I’d given him the home number but not the private office number.”
“I don’t know, you can ask him that yourself.” Whitney started to guide Berman out of the room. “He’s calling back in fifteen minutes from now, so you have to move it.”
Berman could hardly put one foot in front of the other, but he knew he had to go back to his office if he wanted to speak with Klaastens. The direct line bypassed the Nano switchboard, so he couldn’t take it in the aerobics lab. On top of that, all cell phone and data transmissions were blocked in this part of Nano, thanks to one of Nano’s own products, a wall paint that blocked radio frequencies.
As soon as Berman dragged himself into his office, the direct-line phone rang. Berman let it ring three times to allow himself to take a deep breath before he picked up.
“Yes?” he said.
“Mr. Berman, it’s Victor Klaastens—”
“How did you get this number?” Berman’s irritation at what he considered a security problem had woken him up. He wanted to be absolutely certain that the direct line was never bugged.
“Mr. Berman, please, I may not have your resources, but I’m not a stupid man. You should listen to what I want to tell you, because it’s more important than a restricted phone number. And don’t worry, no one can trace this phone or where I’m calling from.”
“Okay, so tell me.”
“It’s one of your riders, Han. He’s injured.”
“Injured? How? His heart . . . ?” Berman stopped himself from saying more.
“His heart? That’s curious you should say that. No, not his heart, it’s his Achilles tendon. A complete rupture, I’m afraid.”
“That’s odd,” Berman said. He was relieved it hadn’t been a cardiac problem, which is what he fully expected. An Achilles tendon rupture was an injury that could happen to any athlete who was pushing the limits, and therefore less worrisome vis-à-vis the Chinese. At the same time, it was a problem, and problems were not something he wanted happening now. Was this another anomalous injury? Did cyclists ever have this kind of injury—wasn’t it more associated with contact sports? Even if it wasn’t a direct result of the program, what was China going to say about this? Shit.
“Mr. Berman?” Klaastens said, unsure if Berman was still on the line.
“A complete rupture, you say.”
“Yes, he was doing some aerobic work on the stationary bike this morning, warming up, when it went. He wasn’t even pushing himself particularly hard. One minute everything was fine, the next minute he said it felt like someone kicked him very hard in the back of the leg. I’m sorry, I know this is not what you want to hear.”
“And Han, what’s happening to him?”
“He was taken to the hospital, of course, but he won’t be there very long. I spoke briefly with one of the doctors. He said that they will wait for the swelling to go down, and then an operation can be done if it is desired, but it can wait a while. It can be treated conservatively as well; it just takes longer to heal.”
“Okay, don’t do anything. I’m coming to Milan for the last stage, on the twenty-seventh, can he wait that long?”
“I am the trainer, not the doctor, I don’t know. It’s a shame, he was performing well, very comfortable. I think he shows more promise than Bo. Next season, he can be back, and stronger.”
“Next season,” said Berman, as much to himself as Klaastens. He knew if the next phase of his master plan wasn’t successful, there would be no next season.
“So I will see you in Milan on the twenty-seventh, Mr. Berman.” Klaastens waited for a reply, but Zach Berman had already ended the call.
34.
BOULDER MEMORIAL HOSPITAL, AURORA, COLORADO
SUNDAY, MAY 19, 2013, 9:10 A.M.
She knows she’s asleep, but she feels awake at the same time. She feels as though she is looking at the world from the bottom of a swimming pool, and she can breathe, but she can’t move. Sounds are oddly muffled. Some familiar faces come to her, as if people are swimming down to meet with her as she lies down here, looking up. She knows they’re familiar, and they’re friendly, so she is content to see them.
Someone else has come to see her. She needs to get away, but she’s held back, as if the fluid in which she is suspended is more viscous than water. Looking down at her arms she can see she’s constrained by straps, like seat belts, and suddenly she’s moving forward quickly, then tumbling down, falling and falling through the bottom of the world. Somehow, she knows that if only she could
open her eyes, she’d be okay. But it’s so hard to do, so hard. . . .
—
“Pia?”
Pia sensed she was in the hospital, and felt more conscious of her surroundings than she had in a long time. There was discomfort, even pain. She tried to move but she couldn’t, at least not her arms. She knew time had passed, but where had she been? Someone was with her in her room. She was aware that people had been coming to see her, and had been comforted by their familiar voices. George. George had been one of them. And her new friend Paul. Pia’s head throbbed, and she knew she was drugged, and there was a dull ache in several parts of her body. But still, she should be able to recognize this new visitor. Then she realized she had yet to open her eyes, so she did.
“Pia? Are you awake? They said you were more awake now than you have been.”
She did feel more awake, the man was right. But who was he? She studied his face.
“Pia. Maybe I should leave you to sleep.”
Suddenly, Pia knew who it was.
“Pia, it’s me, Zach. I wanted to see you before I left. I have to go on a trip, but I will be back.” Berman studied Pia’s face and glanced down at the curves of her body beneath the white bedsheet. She was as alluring as he had remembered, maybe even more so despite the sterile hospital environment. He wanted her. He wanted to own her, to tame her, to control her. She had teased him mercilessly, and it had worked: he was beguiled, enthralled, even bewitched, and he loved it. Screw Whitney and Mariel and their petty jealousies. Berman was going to make it happen. The fact that Pia had survived was an omen he was committed to exploit.
Pia was going to try to speak, but before she could form words, she became dimly aware that another person had entered her room. This time she recognized the voice at once.
“Excuse me, may I ask who you are?” said Paul Caldwell, firmly. “This patient has restricted visiting status.”
“I know,” said Berman, facing Paul and taking measure of the man. He recognized who he was from his name badge and having seen the name in the police report of the accident. “Dr. Caldwell, I am Zachary Berman, president and CEO of Nano. Dr. Grazdani is a highly valued employee, and I wanted to be sure to pay a visit before I have to leave the country on a business trip. My assistant spoke directly with the hospital president, who cleared my quick visit to check on her status. I was assured it was not a problem.”
“Visitors except immediate family are inappropriate, no matter what Mr. Noakes might have said. Did you clear your visit with Gloria Jason, head of nursing? That would have been more appropriate.”
“I believe it was only cleared with Dr. Noakes.”
“It’s Mr. Noakes. He is not a doctor and frankly not involved in patient care.”
“Well, I apologize for the intrusion. I will be leaving right away. May I just inquire how she is doing? Obviously I care.” Berman affected what he thought was a concerned expression.
“You could have found that out with a phone call,” Paul said curtly. “But to answer your question, she’s coming along.” Paul was purposely taciturn. He had taken an instant dislike to Berman. From what Pia had said and from his own questions as to Nano’s possible complicity in the accident as well as his immediate observations, Paul thought he recognized Zachary Berman for what he was: a power-intoxicated male predator, and Paul had met a few in real life.
“May I also inquire how you are?” asked Berman, maintaining his concerned expression. “I understand you were in the same accident as my employee.”
“Yes, I was,” said Paul. He wasn’t surprised Berman would know that he had been. It had been in the papers and even on the evening news. “In comparison to Dr. Grazdani, I am fine.” Paul held up the forefinger and middle finger on his left hand palm toward himself. The fingers were bound together with white adhesive tape. “This is the extent of my injuries.”
Berman looked at the fingers. Was the doctor giving him the middle finger, knowing the digits were attached? Berman allowed himself to smile. In spite of the situation, he liked the guy. He had an attitude that Berman could appreciate. “I’m glad there were no other consequences,” added Berman.
“Other than this,” said Paul indicating Pia with a nod of his head.
“Perhaps her driving skills are not what they should be, or maybe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. When she’s better, we’re looking forward to having her back at Nano, where she belongs.”
“We’ll see,” said Paul. This man was truly reprehensible, he thought.
“If there’s anything I can do, please let me know,” said Berman, looking back at Pia. He smiled to himself, knowing what he’d like to do.
“There is one thing,” said Paul. “You can stop sending the flower arrangements. It’s a bit much. Too funereal. And particularly the lilies are stinking up the place.”
Berman smiled again. This guy was a trip, but he held his tongue. Instead he just nodded and left.
Paul looked back at Pia, who surprised him by staring at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Well, hello, stranger. What a nice surprise. How do you feel?”
“Paul! Where am I?” Her voice was hoarse. She tried to cough but it was feeble.
“You’re in the Memorial. You’ve been here a week.”
“A week?” Pia managed with consternation. “What happened?”
“There was an accident. A car accident.”
“I’m starting to remember. We were looking for the white van.”
“We were,” Paul agreed. “But I don’t think you should be worrying about it now. There will be time. How do you feel in general?”
“I hurt. I feel groggy and like I’ve been run over by a garbage truck.”
“I can imagine. I’m sorry. Listen, we kept you in a drug-induced coma for a few days because we were a little worried about you. Among other things, you had a bad concussion. But you’re going to be fine. You’ll feel progressively less groggy as the drugs wear off.”
“My head hurts.”
“I’m not surprised. You probably hurt elsewhere, too. We’ll have a self-administered narcotic piggybacked into your intravenous line as soon as I let your hospitalist know you are awake. But don’t worry about it now, just rest.” He stepped up alongside the bed and lifted the call button attached by a safety pin to Pia’s pillow. He showed it to her. “If you need pain medication before the do-it-yourself is in place, just push the button.”
“Why are my arms tied up?” Pia had tried to raise her arms but couldn’t.
“They are just wrist restraints,” Paul said as he undid Velcro straps. “We didn’t want you pulling out your IV.”
“Tell me! Was that Zachary Berman who was just here?”
“It was.”
“What was he doing here?”
“Beats me!”
“Was George here while I’ve been out of it or was I dreaming? I seem to remember his voice.”
“You’re right. He is here in Boulder. At the moment I made him go get something to eat. He’s going to be very pleased you are awake.”
“Why on earth did Berman come here? That makes me feel . . . I’m not sure how it makes me feel. But it’s not good.” Pia’s speech was getting clearer, and Paul could tell from its timbre that she was getting agitated.
“Try to stay calm! Don’t worry about anything for now. If you’d like, I’ll tell the powers that be that you don’t want any visitors except George and me. You should just concentrate on feeling better. Berman will not be allowed back in, trust me!”
“Thank you, Paul. I appreciate it.”
35.
PIAZZA DEL DUOMO, MILAN, ITALY
SUNDAY, MAY 26, 2013, 5:00 P.M. (ONE WEEK LATER)
Zach Berman knew his rider wasn’t in contention to win the rather short final stage that was t
he finish of this year’s Giro d’Italia, let alone the race itself, but he felt extremely nervous nonetheless. A huge crowd had gathered in Milan’s main square, which was dominated by the massive yet somewhat delicate cathedral. Berman had marveled at the structure on a visit with Jimmy Yan earlier that day, not least because it had taken six hundred years to complete. The fourteenth-century stonemasons and artists would probably have loved to know that their work was going to be part of a team effort that would go on for literally hundreds of years, all for the glorification of their God. Berman felt his task of marrying nanotechnology to medicine was as monumental as the cathedral, but unlike the builders of the cathedral, he had so little time to finish his own work.
Berman looked at his watch. The riders had left the Piazza Castello fifteen minutes before, and if they rode at forty to fifty kilometers per hour, they would come into sight in ten minutes or so. From his aluminum bleacher seat next to Berman in the temporary grandstand, Jimmy Yan stood and tapped his watch. Berman nodded and stood up. Yan was prepared, as Berman knew was his habit.
“They are close,” said Jimmy, watching events through a small pair of opera glasses. The throngs of people were waving flags of all the nations represented in the race, but they were all outnumbered by Italian flags. The loud cheering of the boisterous crowd was punctuated by klaxons and car horns, and even some fireworks, which made the din deafening.
Jimmy stood on his tiptoes, looking at the lead group. This last short stage was mostly a formality. A dominant Spanish rider was going to win the Giro overall, as long as he didn’t fall down, but three Italians were vying for second, and it was these riders who were causing the crowd’s excitement. From the spectators’ point of view it was a great way to finish the nearly monthlong race. Now everyone in the grandstand was on his feet, and Berman couldn’t see through the phalanx of raised arms. Then he caught a glimpse of the peloton as they made their circuit of the piazza—did he see the blue, red, and green of his team? He couldn’t be sure.