As always, it felt great to work in Sales. David could see pens scribbling on paper and numbers being punched in the calculators.
"That's a lot of money," someone said.
Heads were nodding.
David looked around at the faces. "And who in this room is not part of our profit-sharing?"
The murmurs were starting to take on a more positive note.
"Of course, we all are," the California sales manager said in his booming voice. "But what's the rush? Is there a fire they're trying to put out? We've been hearing that DM8A isn't scheduled for FDA approval for another five months. So what's it about?"
"DM8A is a new antibiotic," David replied. "It's better than anything out there and they want it."
"Yes, but HHS doesn't spend this kind of money without months of red tape… unless there's some emergency disaster relief in the works. What's going on?"
David shook his head and deferred to the VP of Sales, who shrugged his shoulders. No one had the answer to the question… not even Bill or Ned Reynolds, as far as he knew. That did bother him somewhat, but he wasn't about to let his emotions be a distraction here.
David tapped his finger on his open notepad. "The answer to that question falls outside of our purview. The government is insisting on complete confidentiality. This is nothing new. We've done it before. We get paid generously to meet their demands and keep quiet about it. And it's not like we're making some kind of chemical weapon. They're asking for antibiotics. I say we do our part in supporting this large order."
The fight seemed to have seeped out of them. There were a few nods, no objections.
"Since this is obviously a done deal," the East Coast director said calmly, "we should be spending our time now coming up with a strategy on how to deal with preorders on Strep-Tester. Our customers won't be happy."
"Preorders of Strep-Tester aren't the only problem. How about the standing orders on existing products?" another person added.
"We're putting together numbers on warehoused product right now," the VP of Sales replied. "We'll have an impact report later today. With regard to the Strep-Tester, we've arranged for some ten thousand additional sample-size packages of testers to run through this coming week as we gear up for DM8A. Use these as giveaways. We're raising the ceiling on your expense budgets for the next two months. Wine and dine the big accounts. Do what you're good at. District sales managers will provide information sheets to the reps regarding what we'll call a possible delay at this point. Tell them that we'll be shipping production lots before October 1. You all know the drill. Keep them happy, whatever it takes."
In addition to a year's worth of promotional brochures and literature, advertisements in key publications and months of beating the pavement, only five hundred samples of Strep-Tester had been distributed by the sales force. David knew the ten thousand additional samples would definitely be a help.
He also knew that everyone in this room, along with the entire sales force, would have medicine cabinets full of samples of DM8A, in case of an emergency. They weren't fools, and this was one perk that went with being in this line of business. The general public might have to wait in lines and pay an exorbitant price for new medications, but not drug company reps.
"Okay." The VP of Sales stood up. "We all know the routine. Production information is not to leave this room. Now, let's get to work."
Chapter Seven
For five years, she'd kept up the lie and not one person had questioned her identity. There'd never been any hint of a doubt. No one had ever asked if she wasn't the person she claimed to be. Until now.
Rahaf hadn't been found because the Americans thought they had her in their prison. Fahimah had no doubt that if they went searching for her sister, they'd find her. There were so many informers. From the little news that had been trickling inside, she knew the country was in the middle of a civil war. There were so many desperate people that could be bought for so little. There would be no sense of loyalty toward an Iraqi scientist from Saddam's regime, especially when that scientist was a woman and a Kurd.
No one knew how much Rahaf had risked in attempting to save her people. No one knew what she had sacrificed.
Now that the Americans knew, no place would be safe for her sister. Rahaf would never have a chance.
Fahimah pressed her forehead against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to block out the pictures the American agent had shown her. She couldn't forget. She had seen the wounds herself… in real life. She'd seen what that microbe or bacteria or whatever they called it could do to a person in such a short time.
Her sister's leg had been exposed to the bacteria in the lab. As Fahimah watched and listened to her sister's cries, a retired Kurdish doctor had amputated Rahaf's leg. She still would have died from the disease without the serum she had to inject in herself continuously over the following days. If what the agent was saying was true, the same serum could have possibly saved the lives of those American children — the ones in the pictures. Perhaps the same serum could have stopped the bacteria from emerging into something much more contagious.
Abruptly, she turned away from the wall. She didn't want to feel sorry for them. Fahimah told herself she had no sympathy left in her, not after all the years that they had left her to rot in one prison cell after another, left her locked up without ever being charged for any crime. The twisted irony was that Rahaf had never committed any crime, either.
Fahimah had never seen the hallways they'd passed through to get to this room. She looked up at the high ceiling, the whitewashed walls. The door had a small window with some kind of silver glazing that blocked any view of the hallway. She guessed they were probably watching her through it. She looked up. A lightbulb dangled from the middle of the ceiling. The cot in the corner had clean sheets, blankets and a pillow. The room was unlike any cell they had ever locked her in. On the table next to it, a tray of food sat untouched. This was nothing like the food she'd been fed for all these years. It looked like ghormeh sabsi, a Persian dish of greens served over rice. The smell made her remember Oxford, of the little restaurant on Cowley Road.
Fahimah hadn't thought of those days for a long while. It seemed like another lifetime.
The photos came into her mind's eye again. She'd been told they were only children. She and her sister had suffered when they were that young. After all that had been done to them and to their family, after all that they had witnessed, she'd had many occasions in her life to wish that they had died. The old anger rose up in her, and she hated her inability to stop it. All her life, Fahimah had forced herself not to feel the past, not to care about it. For longer than she'd been held prisoner by these people, she'd taught herself how to be indifferent, not to remember. But the floodgate was bursting open, the pain was rushing in, the memories were all around her. The helplessness was overwhelming, but she couldn't fight it. The burning in her brain was too much. She couldn't escape it.
The closest thing within her reach was the tray of food. She pushed it from the table with one sweep of her hand, sending everything flying into the middle of the room. Fahimah listened to the clatter of the metal dishes, eyed the scattered food. There was strength in the release of anger.