“There are. That’s why I spoke to Clelland. I don’t pretend to understand how all this came about but there are very definite similarities.”
Kate sank down into the chair in front of Neef’s desk and rubbed her forehead nervously. “My God, Charlie. He’s going to die, isn’t he?”
“I could still be wrong.”
Kate shook her head wistfully. “But you’re not,” she said. “I can feel it. My Charlie is going to die.”
Neef felt totally helpless. Kate knew as much about Charlie’s chances of surviving extensive lung cancer as he himself. They were virtually zero. “I don’t know what to say, Kate,” he confessed. “I can’t bullshit you. You know too much.”
“When will they know for sure?”
“I’ll call Clelland around four.”
Kate nodded and got up to go. “You’ll tell me?”
Neef saw the look of naked vulnerability on Kate Morse’s face and felt a lump come to his throat. “Of course.”
Lawrence Fielding came in when Kate had left. He looked very uncomfortable. “I’m afraid I rather put my foot in it, I’m afraid.”
“Not your fault,” said Neef. “Trying to keep a secret from a friend, even for the best of intentions, is usually doomed to failure.”
“You really think that Charlie has the same thing as Jane Lees?”
Neef nodded. “I’m afraid I do although, at this moment, I think I would give everything I own just to be wrong.”
“Amen to that. Mind you, statistics must be on the side of being wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“If Charlie Morse has the same condition as Jane Lees and Melanie Simpson it means that he’s been exposed to the same carcinogen.”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t you think it’s the strangest of coincidences that the third person to present with this condition happens to be one of the staff when in theory it could have been anyone in the city?”
Neef nodded and said, “I think you have just put your finger on what’s been making me feel distinctly uncomfortable about this whole business. There’s something just not right about it if Charlie Morse really is the third case.”
“It would be different if cancer was an infectious condition but it isn’t,” said Fielding.
“No, it isn’t,” agreed Neef. “So it would be so much easier all round if I was just plain wrong.”
“Agreed,” said Fielding.
“We’ll know later this afternoon. How are our patients?”
“I’ve just been assessing their scans,” said Fielding. “I suppose it’s a bit early to reach any firm conclusions but I would say that four of them are not showing any signs of improvement as yet while one is looking more hopeful.”
“Which one?”
“Thomas Downy. I think there may even be a slight reduction in the size of his tumour.”
“That must be the first piece of good news I’ve heard in a long time,” said Neef. “Can I see the scan?”
“I’ll get it,” said Fielding. He left the room and was back within a few moments carrying two CT scans. He also carried a clear plastic ruler. He spread them on Neef’s desk where a space had been cleared for them.
“If you measure Thomas’ tumour along this axis,” said Fielding, placing the ruler on the surface of the scan, “it measures 13 mm. That was taken before his op to introduce the Menogen virus. Now if you measure the tumour across the same axis on this scan done this morning I think you will find it slightly smaller.”
Neef placed the ruler across the image of the tumour and measured. “Eleven and a half, maybe twelve?” he said.
“But not thirteen,” said Fielding.
“Definitely not thirteen,” agreed Neef, sounding pleased. “A regression!”
“Looks like it, although it could be just a positioning artefact of the scan. We’ll find out when we do the next one on Tuesday.”
“Personally, I’m going to believe this is a true regression. I need to have some good news in my life. Pity about the others, but as you say, there’s time enough yet.”
“Will you tell, Max?”
“When I see him,” replied Neef. “Maybe we shouldn’t spread this around in case Tim Heaton gets wind of it and puts it in the Sunday papers.”
“Good point,” agreed Fielding. “He’d overlook the fact that we have four other patients who aren’t making progress at all.”
“Exactly. When all five are in regression we can call in the Press.”
“That would be just so good,” said Fielding with such obvious feeling that it made Neef smile. “It certainly would,” he agreed.
Neef found himself becoming more and more anxious as the time grew closer to four o’clock. He was just about to pick up the phone when a knock came to his door. It was Max Pereira.
“Can I come in?”
Neef looked at the receiver in his hand and then decided to put off the moment. “Of course,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder when we’d see you again.”
“I went back to the lab and did some work. I guess I was having withdrawal symptoms.”
“What are you working on?” asked Neef.
“The next generation of virus vectors.”
“You’re not happy with the ones you’ve got?”
“Not by a long shot,” replied Pereira. “If you have to open up the back of a kid’s head to deliver the vector there’s plenty of room for improvement.”
“I suppose when you put it that way,” agreed Neef.
“The real goal is to be able to deliver gene therapy by a simple one-off injection in the arm and have the bloodstream deliver the gene to exactly the right kind of stem cell so that the new gene is expressed in only the cells you want it expressed in and it will be maintained in these cells for the rest of the patient’s life.”
“How far are you away from that?” asked Neef.
“With the competition as fierce as it is and the prize that big, I would guess at three to five years.”
“That soon?”
“I think so. A lot of guys are burning the midnight oil.”
“For all the wrong reasons,” said Neef.
“Like I said before, it doesn’t matter. If you are the patient, why should you care what the motivation was? Stop fighting human nature, Mike. It’s easier to go along with it. Don’t expect too much of your fellow man and you won’t be disappointed, well, not as often.”
“I’ll try to bear that in mind,” said Neef.
“How are our guinea pigs doing?”
“One of our guinea pigs is showing signs of tumour regression already. Nothing from the others just yet.”
“Which tumour?”
“The cerebellar. Thomas Downy.”
“Wow,” said Pereira. “I didn’t think he’d be the first. I thought maybe the hepatoma. Any pictures?”
Neef pointed to the scans lying on the side of his desk. “It’s not much but I think it’s definite.”
Pereira, who still had his beret on, pushed it back a little so he could slip his glasses on over his ears. He used the ruler and a magnifying lens. “About a millimetre and a half, right?”
“That’s what we made it,” agreed Neef.
“Ace!” said Pereira.
“Ace,” agreed Neef with a smile.
“Is the kid OK? I mean no ill effects from the surgery or the injection?” asked Pereira.
“He seems fine,” said Neef. “David Farro-Jones came by to ask how things were going. Thomas was laughing and joking with him. David sends his regards, by the way. He and his wife extend a dinner invitation to you.”
“That’s nice,” said Pereira.
Neef glanced up at the clock on the wall and saw that it was a quarter past four. Pereira noticed him do it and got up from his chair. “I’ll get out of your way,” he said. “I’m taking up your time.”
“I’ve just got some calls to make,” said Neef. “Why don’t you stick around? Maybe we could have a drink together. Celebrate Thomas’ progress.”