Louis thought about making a run for the water, but either they’d nail him in the back or the gunners in the duck boats would get him. The gook on the horse radioed for support while the other kept interrogating him.
“Can you tell me your name, sir?” The soldier took Louis’s arm and inspected his wrist.
They were trying to steal his watch. “Louis Martinetti. Corporal. US41349538.” They’d have to shoot him before he named his company and location.
“Some uniform,” the first soldier said. “Pretty old.”
“Go to hell,” Louis said.
“Mr. Martinetti, where do you live?”
Louis looked defiantly at the small crowd. Some took photos of him to show their relatives a real American POW. In the distance he heard sirens, and his heart leapt up. An air raid. U.S. planes were approaching, and they’d blast these animals to smithereens. But nobody seemed concerned. They just mumbled and shot pictures.
“It’s a medical tag. Alzheimer’s,” said the first Commie, still trying to steal his watch.
Louis did not resist. He had nothing else to lose. But he’d hold tight when they brought him to the Red Tent. He’d die before he’d reveal anything about the mission. And if he ever got out alive, he’d finish it. Oh, yeah! And he glanced at the high statue of the horseman. Someday, you son of a bitch.
The soldiers began to lead Louis away, when from the mob of peasants a woman burst forth.
“Dad!” She ran to the soldiers and took Louis’s hand. “I’m sorry, officers. We were in line for the swan boats, and he just wandered off. I’ll take him, he’s fine.” Then to Louis, “Dad, you’ve got grass stains all over you. What’ve you been doing?”
Louis looked at the woman, and for a long moment he had no idea who she was.
72
TO CELEBRATE THE END OF THE trials, the GEM Tech clinical team and executive administrators met at the Red Canyon Resort Hotel, a rustic but grand hundred-year-old lodge located near Bryce Canyon and Capital Reef on Route 12. It had been selected for its privacy and because it was located within driving distance of the splendid canyon and Rocky Mountain scenery crisscrossed with endless hiking trails and whitewater rapids. It was also near Gavin Moy’s ski condo.
Although people had arrived on Friday, the official opening of the conference was Saturday at noon with a formal kickoff luncheon and talk, followed by the clinical investigators’ meeting behind closed doors for the FDA strategy session.
Nick’s overriding impression of the conference was the expense. Little had been spared. GEM had flown in sixty people from various parts of the country—execs, medical officers, marketing VPs, legal staffers, clinicians from outside the company, as well as the twenty-three clinical physicians who, for nearly two years, had headed up various trial sites. They had rented out half the lodge and the adjoining Mountain Lion Room, where later in the day the principal investigators would determine the final application report to the FDA. In the balance lay the hopes and fate of millions of Alzheimer patients, their families, and caregivers. Also billions of dollars.
The afternoon began with a five-course meal served in the elegantly appointed Ponderosa Room, where a SWAT team of waiters had assembled. Dinner consisted of leek and potato soup, carpaccio of tuna, salad greens, a choice of filet mignon, salmon, or lobster tail served in elegant presentations, assorted spring vegetables, and fancy Italian desserts. There were the finest wines from Napa Valley as well as endless bottles of Taittinger champagne. Table conversation sparkled with talk of skiing in Utah versus Gstaad and Chamonix, diving on the Great Barrier Reef, trekking in New Zealand’s Milford Sound, the comparative virtues of Mercedes and BMWs.
It was an afternoon of well-decorated egos assembled in celebration of scientific success, of historic possibilities, and, of course, high personal rewards. While the setting and glittering promise were very alluring, Nick could almost hear folks calculating how many millions they were about to make in the next few years. If the projection of GEM’s bean counters was accurate, the value of Nick’s own shares would top ten million dollars in two years, maybe twice that when the European markets opened up. Then there was Asia, the Middle East, and the rest of the world.
What ate at him was how all the others would react once, with the backing of Brian Rich, Paul Nadeau, and Jordan Carr, he dropped a bomb.
AFTER LUNCH, MARK THOMPSON, GEM TECH medical director, introduced Gavin Moy, reminding the audience of his humble beginnings as a medical resident who decided to start his own lab in a cramped basement behind MIT.
“What separates Gavin Moy from the rest of us mere mortals is the genius to recognize possibilities. What to a lesser man would have been merely a happy accident was to Gavin a discovery humming with neuropharmacological benefits. And he was clever enough to get patents on a whole family of base compounds from the jellyfish toxin.
“Not only did he believe in himself, but he also had the courage and tenacity to pursue a dream that led to this very room. Yes, it took years of isolation and synthesis, research and development. But over those years Gavin raised enough capital to expand his labs and to create a certain esprit de corps, a palpable feeling of shared enthusiasm that may not be found in every such scientific enterprise. That energy and sheer pride is a reflection of the man who resides at the top.”
More applause and cheers filled the air.
“It has been nearly four decades since young Gavin Moy and a couple of local grad students first fired up their Bunsen burners in that small room below Junior Dee’s Auto Parts Store. Today we are at the culmination of that determination, vision, and genius as we are about to give to the world the fruits of such great labor and science—the world’s first cure for Alzheimer’s disease, a scourge of aging humanity for generations and generations. Ladies and gentleman, I am proud to introduce Gavin Moy.”
To a thunderous standing ovation Gavin Moy rose to the podium, looking elegant in his black pinstripe suit and tanned shiny head. Nick looked around the room. Brian Rich and Paul Nadeau shared a table with Jordan Carr, who had told Nick that he had reconsidered the data and was behind him in his recommendations for an extension.
Jordan caught Nick’s eyes and nodded. And Nick felt a warm rush of gratitude.
“For the first time in history,” Moy began, “we have demonstrated a plaque eradicator in the treatment of mild to severe Alzheimer’s disease, thus representing the world’s first treatment …”
And he cited impressive statistics on patient improvement while faces glowed with wine and expectation. “In one study alone, one hundred and sixty patients with moderate to severe dementia had experienced an average of seventy percent improvement in cognitive behavior as measured by various mini-mental and higher cognitive tests …”
Bolstering Moy’s claims was a video of AD patients moving about the wards of different nursing homes looking purposeful and alert. Other patients answered the questions of interviewers. Responses were sometimes halting but focused and generally lucid. In one sequence, subjects—including Louis Martinetti—happily explained how wonderful it was to regain their memory. But what the video did not show was that Louis, home on furlough, was having continuous and traumatic flashbacks to his POW days, and yet for some mysterious reason he resisted taking medications prescribed to control those flashbacks.
The video segued into testimonials by members of the Alzheimer’s Association who had witnessed miraculous improvements. Also tearful and touching reports of nurses, home staffers, and family members who expressed profound gratitude that their loved ones were improving. Heartfelt applause followed the testimonials.