“Now, now,” Burchfield said. “You really mean he put too many atheists on it.”
Forsyth harrumphed as if he saw no difference in the two. “A good scientist can work God into anything. Especially if it makes better people.”
“Save it for the council, Wallace,” Burchfield said. “We’re all on the same page here. Right, Mark?”
“Right.”
A pane of soundproof glass separated the driver’s compartment from the rear. Winston settled behind the wheel and negotiated a turn between the hotel shuttle vans.
Mark had planned to take a taxi. Alexis had left the previous evening, and Mark had an extra stop on his itinerary. He didn’t feel he could trouble a U.S. senator to make a pit stop, however. He decided to get to business.
“We can give the FDA-”
Forsyth held up a chapped palm. “Is the car clean?” he asked Burchfield.
Mark didn’t comprehend the remark. The interior still had that acrid chemical scent of new upholstery.
Burchfield nodded. “Secret Service swept it.”
“You trust the Service?”
“You know me better than that. I had my own people go over it after that, in case the NSA wants a piece. Defense has been sniffing around, too.”
Mark finally understood they were talking about bugs. He’d never considered that a senator’s car might be bugged, especially by the very federal agencies whose budgets passed through one of Burchfield’s other committees.
“Okay,” Forsyth said with a crooked grin. “Now that Mr. Morgan knows we’re not playing matchstick poker here.”
“The subcommittee on health care is meeting Thursday,” Burchfield said.
“They moved it up a week?” Mark asked. Congress usually moved at glacial speed on legislative matters.
“I had to call in some favors. There’s a certain blowhard Democrat who is scheduled to be in Afghanistan this week, and I wouldn’t mind if he misses a few votes. One thing you can count on in the current political environment-no politician dares cancel a photo op in Afghanistan.”
The limousine merged into afternoon traffic, took an exit, and was soon on the freeway headed for Dulles International. Mark looked out at passengers in nearby cars, who stared back at the dark glass and no doubt tried to guess what type of important person was shielded from their view.
He’d noticed the same phenomenon in Los Angeles, where stargazers imagined Tom Cruise or Sandra Bullock behind every tinted windshield.
Only in New York did people not give a damn one way or another, as long as you weren’t cutting them off in traffic. In that case, it wouldn’t matter whether you were a pope or a polar bear, you’d be in for a horn blast and a middle finger.
“Where are we on Halcyon?” Burchfield asked.
“We’ve got our best people on it,” Mark said.
“How long have the trials been going on? FDA doesn’t like to fast-track. It’s been bitten on the ass too many times. Look at the Vioxx mess.”
“Well, there’s a minor problem with that, sir.” Mark resorted to the salutation because it might soften the bad news. Burchfield didn’t buy it.
“Problem? Hell, Morgan, I thought the problem was getting this through the red tape and putting Halcyon on those blocks of sticky pads in your friendly neighborhood doctor’s office. Don’t tell me we’re shaky on the approach?”
“We’ve had some trials and rigorous testing. We’re doing a double-blind study right now.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Ain’t it obvious?” Forsyth said. “The boy’s walking on mule eggs. He has no idea what Halcyon can do.”
“I have a real good idea, Mr. Forsyth.” Mark looked past Burchfield to the wispy-haired fundamentalist. “Trouble is, I’m not sure we want the whole story out there.”
“Now, now,” Burchfield said. “Either you can deliver the damn drug or you can’t.”
“We’ve had the trials. Years of trials. Our lead researcher has been on it for a decade. But not all of it’s documented.”
“What do you mean, ‘not documented’?”
“There are gaps in the record. The FDA likes a timeline, the introduction, the animal testing, the check for cross-reactions, all that. But we kind of skipped a step.”
“It’s a little late for surprises.” Burchfield had the politician’s knack of changing moods quickly, at least when not in front of the camera or on the Senate floor. His cheeks blotched with anger. “Fill me in.”
“Well, it’s an offshoot of a drug we had in trials a decade ago, before I joined CRO. The original testing was a little…” Mark shopped around for the right word.
“Squirrel-eyed,” Forsyth finished. “You got some bad results and you chucked them off the back porch.”
“The results were mostly positive,” Mark said. “But the testing started with human trials.”
“Goddamn it,” Burchfield said, unapologetic for cussing in front of his Christian ally. “Can the FDA trace that to Halcyon?”
“Not likely. The only link is Sebastian Briggs, the doctor who-”
“I know Briggs. He gave a briefing to the subcommittee years ago on the ethics of mood-enhancing drugs. Before he went in the shitter.”
“That was before the creation of the bioethics council,” Forsyth said. “The Senate would let any nutcase present evidence.”
“You were in the House at the time,” Burchfield said. “And I didn’t hear you raise any objections.”
“Briggs is a heathen,” Forsyth said. “Can’t keep his fingers out of God’s pie.”
“Save it for the pulpit,” Burchfield said. “Or your next campaign, if you ever have one.” To Mark, he said, “So, is that the worst of it? Clinical trials without FDA approval?”
“As if that ain’t bad enough,” Forsyth said.
The limousine weaved in traffic and Mark glanced at the driver, who appeared to be checking his rearview and side mirrors. They were on the Beltway, making decent time for late afternoon, maybe half an hour from the airport. Mark was eager to get out of the car. The air seemed stifling, and Forsyth’s cologne was giving him a headache.
“Well, Briggs had a few offshoots in the works,” Mark said. “As you know, researchers often don’t look for just one single thing. A lot of times, it’s a case of seeing what pops up.”
“I don’t care about that end of it,” Burchfield said. “I just want to know if any of this can come back on me.”
“Briggs was studying serum levels in Gulf War veterans with PTSD. He found elevated levels of certain neuroactive steroids correlating with a high rate of suicides and-”
“Get to the point. Don’t play Michael Crichton with me.”
“Basically, Briggs wasn’t satisfied with his test pool. After all, you can’t very well wait around for the next war for a decent supply of near-death accident survivors. So he found ways to elevate normal serum levels. In effect, he created a drug that caused fear.”
“You’re telling me he had to create the disease so he could find a cure?”
“Fear is not exactly a disease,” Mark said. “It’s simply a condition, a state of awareness, a feeling. Some would argue it’s a valuable survival mechanism.”
“If you’re scared, you run like hell,” Forsyth said. “We had this debate on the council. The consensus was that human emotions were natural, a gift of God.”
Because of his wife’s membership, Mark was well aware the bioethics council wasn’t designed to reach a consensus, merely to serve as an advisory board that addressed potential concerns.
And although God had a rightful place in the council’s deliberations, the government God was a theoretical, all-encompassing, and even generic deity, not the punitive, white-bearded denizen of the Old Testament. Not that Forsyth appreciated the subtle distinctions.
“So Briggs was messing with some fear stimulants,” Burchfield said. “Nothing much new there. The DOD has been working on that since the LSD and mescaline experiments. The trouble is they’ve never found a drug that has the same effect on every person. If you dose your enemy, you’re just as likely to create a savage, bloodthirsty war machine as you are a man-mouse. Same with your own people.”