Augustine walked quickly in the warming sun to the ground floor entrance. NIH campus police and newly-hired private security guards stood outside the building, talking in low voices. They were eyeing knots of protesters a few hundred yards away.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Augustine,” the building’s chief of security told him as he carded himself in through the main entrance. “We’ve got the National Guard coming in this afternoon.”
“Oh, goodie.” Augustine drew in his chin and punched the elevator button. In the new office, three assistants and his personal secretary, Mrs. Florence Leighton, matronly and very efficient, were trying to reestablish a network link with the rest of the campus.
“What’s wrong, sabotage?” Augustine asked, a little savagely.
“No,” Mrs. Leighton said, handing him a sheaf of printouts. “Stupidity. The server decided not to recognize us.”
Augustine slammed the door to his office, pulled out his rolling chair, slapped the brief on the desktop. The phone cheeped. He reached over to punch the button.
“Five minutes uninterrupted, please, Florence, to put my thoughts in order?” he pleaded.
“It’s Kennealy for the vice president, Mark,” Mrs. Leigh-ton said.
“Double goodie. Put him on.”
Tom Kennealy, the vice president’s chief of technical communications — another new position, established the week before — was first on the line, and asked Augustine if he had been told about the scale of the protests.
“I’m seeing it through my window now,” he replied.
“They’re at four hundred and seventy hospitals at last count,” Kennealy said.
“God bless the Internet,” Augustine said.
“Four demonstrations have gotten out of hand — not including the riot in San Diego. The vice president is very concerned, Mark.”
“Tell him I’m more than concerned. It’s the worst news I could imagine — a dead full-term Herod’s baby.”
“What about the herpes angle?”
“Screw that. Herpes doesn’t infect an infant until it’s born. They must not have taken any precautions in Mexico City.”
“That’s not what we’re hearing. Maybe we can offer some reassurance on this? If it is a diseased infant?”
“Quite clearly it is diseased, Tom. It’s Herod’s we should be focusing on here.”
“All right. I’ve briefed the vice president. He’s here now, Mark.”
The vice president came on the line. Augustine composed his voice and greeted him calmly. The vice president told him that the NIH was being afforded military security, high-security protected status, as were the CDC and five Taskforce research centers around the country. Augustine could visualize the result now — razor wire, police dogs, concussion grenades, and tear gas. A fine atmosphere in which to conduct delicate research.
“Mr. Vice President, don’t push them off campus,” Augustine said. “Please. Let them stay and let them protest.”
“The president gave the order an hour ago. Why change it?”
“Because it looks like they’re venting steam. It’s not like San Diego. I want to meet with the leaders here on campus.”
“Mark, you aren’t a trained negotiator,” the VP argued.
“No, but I’d be a hell of a lot better than a phalanx of troops in camouflage.”
“That’s the jurisdiction of the director of NIH.”
“Who is negotiating, sir?”
“The director and chief of staff are meeting with the protest leaders. We shouldn’t divide our effort or our voice, Mark, so don’t even consider going out there to talk.”
“What if we have another dead baby, sir? This one came at us out of nowhere — we only knew it was on its way six days ago. We tried to send a team down to help, but the hospital refused.”
“They’ve sent you the body. That seems to show a spirit of cooperation. From what Tom tells me, nobody could have saved it.”
“No, but we could have known ahead of time and coordinated our media release.”
“No division on this, Mark.”
“Sir, with all due respect, the international bureaucracy is killing us. That’s why these protests are so dangerous. We’ll be blamed whether we’re culpable or not — and frankly, I feel pretty sick to my stomach right now. I can’t be responsible where I don’t have input!”
“We’re soliciting your input now, Mark.” The VP’s voice was measured.
“Sorry. I know that, sir. Our involvement with Americol is causing all sorts of problems. Announcing the vaccine…prematurely, in my opinion—”
“Tom shares that opinion, and so do I.”
What about the president? he thought. “I appreciate that, but the cat is out of the bag. My people tell me there’s a fifty-fifty chance the preclinical trials will fail. The ribozyme is depressingly versatile. It seems to have an affinity for thirteen or fourteen different messenger RNAs. So we stop SHEVA, but we end up with myelin degradation…multiple sclerosis, for God’s sake!”
“Ms. Cross reports that they’ve refined it and it’s more specific now. She personally assured me there was never any chance of MS. That was just a rumor.”
“Which version is PDA going to let them test, sir? The paperwork has to be refiled—”
“PDA is bending on this one.”
“I’d like to set up a separate evaluation team. NIH has the people, we have the facilities.”
“There’s no time, Mark.”
Augustine closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He could feel his face turning beet red. “I hope we draw a good hand,” he said quietly. His heart was hammering.
“The president is announcing speedier trials tonight,” the vice president said. “If the preclinical trials are successful, we’ll go to human trials within a month.”
“I wouldn’t approve that.”
“Robert Jackson says they can do it. The decision’s been made. It’s done.”
“Has the president talked to Frank about this? Or the surgeon general?”
“They’re in constant touch.”
“Please have the president call me, too, sir.” Augustine hated to be put in the position of having to ask, but a smarter president would not have needed the reminder.
“I will, Mark. As for your response…follow what the NIH brass says, no division, no separation, understood?”
“I’m not a rogue, Mr. Vice President,” Augustine said.
“Talk with you soon, Mark,” the VP said.
Kennealy came back on the line. He sounded miffed. “Troops are being trucked in now, Mark. Hold on a second.” His hand cupped over the receiver. “The VP is out of the room. Jesus, Mark, what did you do, chew him out?”
“I asked him to have the president call me,” Augustine said.
“That’s a hell of a note,” Kennealy said coldly.
“Will someone please tell me if we learn about another baby, out of the country?” Augustine said. “Or in? Could the State Department please coordinate with my office on a daily basis? I hope I am not treading water here, Tom!”
“Please don’t ever talk to the VP like that again, Mark,” Kennealy said, and hung up.
Augustine pressed the call button. “Florence, I need to write a cover letter and a memo. Is Dicken in town? Where’s Lang?”
“Dr. Dicken is in Atlanta and Kaye Lang is on campus. At the clinic, I believe. You’re supposed to meet with her in ten minutes.”
Augustine opened his desk drawer and took out a legal pad. On it he had sketched the thirty-one levels of command above him, thirty between him and the president — a bit of an obsession with him. He sharply slashed off five, then six, then worked his way up to ten names and offices, tearing the paper. If worst came to worst, he thought that with a little careful planning he could possibly eliminate ten of those levels, maybe twenty.