Four

   8:15 P.M., Thursday, February 21, 2002
   It appeared to Carol that every light was blazing in the senator’s modest Arlington, Virginia, home as she turned into the driveway and came to a stop. She glanced at her watch. With the vagaries of Washington traffic, it wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to manage to arrive at Union Station at exactly nine o’clock. She hoped she’d timed it right, although things were not starting out auspiciously. It had taken ten minutes longer than she’d planned to get from her apartment in Foggy Bottom out to Ashley’s house. Luckily, with her grand plan, she’d given herself an extra quarter-hour leeway.
   Leaving the engine running and setting the emergency brake, Carol prepared to get out of her vehicle. But it turned out that exposing herself to the cold drizzle wasn’t necessary. Ashley’s front door opened, and the senator appeared. Behind him stood his portly wife of forty years, looking like the epitome of solid domesticity, dressed in a white, lace-fringed apron over a paisley housedress. Under the protection of the porch and following her apparent orders, he struggled to open his umbrella. What had started out that day as snow flurries had changed to steady rain.
   With his face hidden beneath the inverted bowl of the black umbrella, Ashley began descending his front steps. He moved slowly and deliberately, giving Carol a moment to study the blocky, slightly stooped, heavyset man who in another life could have been a farmer or even a steelworker. For Carol, it wasn’t a particularly cheerful sight watching her boss approach. There was something distinctly depressing and pathetic about the scene. The misty air and the sepia coloring contributed, as did the monotonous click-clack of the windshield wipers as they implacably traced their repeated arcs across the wet windshield. But for Carol, it was more what she knew than what she saw. Here was a man she had respected almost to the point of reverence, for whom she’d made countless sacrifices for more than a decade, but who was now unpredictable and occasionally even mean. Despite her best efforts with the senator during the day, she still had no idea why he insisted on the upcoming clandestine and politically risky meeting with Dr. Lowell, and due to his insistence on absolute secrecy, she’d not been able to ask anyone else. To make matters worse, she couldn’t escape the feeling that Ashley had kept the reason for the meeting from her out of spite, purely because he instinctually knew how desperately she wanted to know. During the last year, thanks to a number of undeserved sarcastic comments, she sensed he envied her relative youth and good health.
   Carol watched Ashley stop at the foot of the steps to make an adjustment on the flat ground. For a moment, he seemed frozen in place, a metaphor of his bullish stubbornness, a quality Carol had once admired when it involved his populist political beliefs but which now irritated her. In the past, he had fought for power to push his conservative agenda, but now it seemed he fought for power for power’s sake as though he was addicted to it. She’d always thought of him as a great man who’d know when to step aside, but now she was no longer so confident.
   Ashley began walking slowly, and with his black coat, rounded shoulders, and short shuffling steps, he reminded Carol of a large penguin. He gained speed as he moved. Carol expected him to come around to the passenger side, but instead he opened the back door directly behind her. She could feel the car shake gently as he climbed in. The door slammed shut. She heard the umbrella fall to the floor.
   Carol twisted around. Ashley settled back into the seat. In the dim, brownish-gray light of the car’s interior, his face appeared pallid, almost ghostlike, and his coarse features retreated back into his flesh as if dimpled into a loaf of unbaked bread. His thinning gray hair that typically knew its place was frazzled like a clump of steel wool. The lenses of his thick-framed glasses eerily reflected back the lights of his house.
   “You’re late,” Ashley complained, without a trace of his Southern accent.
   “I’m sorry,” Carol responded by reflex. She was always apologizing. “But I think we’ll be fine. Should we talk before we head back into town?”
   “Drive!” Ashley commanded.
   Carol felt a wave of anger wash over her. But she held her tongue, knowing full well what the consequences might be if she voiced her feelings. Ashley had the memory of an elephant for any perceived slights, and the maliciousness of his revenge was legendary. Carol put the hulking Suburban in gear and backed out of the driveway.
   The route was simple with limited access roads most of the way. Carol worked her way over to the 395 highway with reassuring ease by catching all the traffic lights green. On the main artery, she was pleased to find less traffic than there had been fifteen minutes earlier, and she accelerated unimpeded to highway speed. Sensing her timing was going to be fine, she relaxed a degree, but as they neared the Potomac River, a commercial jetliner leaving Reagan National Airport thundered overhead. It sounded to Carol as if it were a mere fifty feet above them. As tense as she was, the sudden, reverberating noise startled her enough to cause the car to momentarily swerve.
   “If I did not know better,” Ashley said, reverting back to his signature Southern drawl and speaking up for the first time since his rude command, “I would have sworn on my mother’s memory that jetliner’s turbulence extended all the way down here to this highway. Are you fully in command of this vehicle, my dear?”
   “Everything is fine,” Carol said curtly. At the moment, she even found Ashley’s theatrical accent aggravating, with the knowledge of how easily he could turn it on and off.
   “I’ve been perusing the dossier you and the rest of the staff put together on the good doctor,” Ashley said after a short pause. “In fact, I’ve darn near committed it to memory. I have to commend you and the others. You all did a fine job. I believe I know more about that boy than he does himself.”
   Carol nodded but didn’t reply. Silence returned until they entered the tunnel running beneath the grassy expanse of the Washington Mall.
   “I know you are displeased and cross with me,” Ashley said suddenly. “And I know why.”
   Carol glanced back at the senator in her rearview mirror. Flashes of light from the tunnel’s ceramic tiles reflected off his face in a flickering manner, making him appear more ghostlike than earlier.
   “You’re cross with me because I have not divulged my reasons for this imminent meeting.”
   Carol glanced at him again. She was taken aback. Such an admission was totally out of character. Never had he suggested he knew or cared what Carol was feeling. As such, it was more evidence of his current unpredictability, and she didn’t quite know what to say.
   “It reminds me of one time my mama was cross with me,” Ashley said, now adding his anecdotal manner of speaking to his accent. Carol groaned inwardly. It was a mannerism she found equally trying. “This was back when I was knee-high to a grasshopper. I was in a mind to go fishing by myself in a river more than a mile from our home where there were reputed to be catfish the size of armadillos. I left before dawn, before anyone else had stirred, and I caused my mama a good deal of concern. When I returned home, she was fit to be tied and grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and demanded to know why I had not asked her permission to go on such a foolhardy journey at my tender age. I told her I did not ask her because I knew she would say no. Well, Carol, dear, that’s the same situation with this impending meeting with the doctor. I know you well enough to know that you would be of a mind to try to change mine, and I am committed.”
   “I would only try to change your mind if it were in your best interest,” Carol responded.
   “There are times when your emulousness is transparently flagrant, my dear. Most people might not believe your true motivations, considering your apparent selfless devotion, but I know you better.”
   Carol swallowed out of nervousness. She did not know precisely what to make of Ashley’s pompous comment, but she knew she did not want to go in the direction it implied, meaning he sensed her unspoken ambitions. Instead she asked, “Did you at least discuss the meeting with Phil to be certain of its potential political ramifications?”
   “Heavens, no! I have not discussed the meeting with anyone, not even my wife, bless her soul. You, the doctors, and myself are the only people who even know it is about to take place.”
   Carol exited off the freeway and headed for Massachusetts Avenue. She was relieved they were closing in on Union Station to preclude the possibility of the conversation returning to the topic of her tacit goals. She looked at her watch. It was a quarter to nine.
   “We are going to be a little bit early,” she said.
   “Then meander a bit,” Ashley suggested. “I would prefer to be exactly on time. It will set a proper tone for the appointment.”
   Carol turned right on North Capital and then left on D. It was a familiar area because of its proximity to the Senate Office Building. By the time she was heading back to the Union Station, it was three minutes before nine. When she pulled directly in front of the station, it was nine on the dot.
   “There they are,” Ashley said, pointing over Carol’s shoulder. Daniel and Stephanie were huddled beneath a Four Seasons umbrella. They stood out from the crowd because of their immobility. Everyone else in the area was hustling to gain shelter, either in the station or in one of the waiting taxis.
   Carol flicked the high beams up and down to get the doctors’ attention.
   “There’s no reason to cause a scene,” Ashley growled. “They’ve spotted us.”
   Daniel could be seen checking his watch before sauntering toward the Suburban, Stephanie holding on to his left arm.
   The doctors came to Carol’s window. She lowered it.
   “Ms. Manning?” Daniel asked offhandedly.
   “I’m in the backseat, Doctor!” Ashley called out before Carol could respond. “How about you joining me back here and your exquisite collaborator joining Carol up front.”
   Daniel shrugged before he and Stephanie rounded the car. He held the umbrella for Stephanie to climb in, then he did the same himself.
   “Welcome!” Ashley beamed, as he stuck out one of his broad, thick-fingered hands. “Thank you for coming out to meet with me on such a dreadfully wet evening.”
   Daniel eyed Ashley’s hand but made no motion to take it in his own. “What’s on your mind, Senator?”
   “Now here’s a true Northerner,” Ashley said cheerfully, as he withdrew his hand and seemingly took no offense at Daniel’s rebuff. “Always ready to cut to the quick without wasting time on the refinements of life. Well, so be it. There will be time for handshaking later. Meanwhile, my intention is for you and I to get to know each other. You see, I am very much interested in your Aesculapian talents.”
   “Where to, Senator?” Carol questioned, while peering at Ashley in her rearview mirror.
   “Why don’t we take the good doctors on a tour of our fair city,” Ashley suggested. “Head down to the Tidal Basin so they can enjoy our city’s most elegant memorial!”
   Carol put the car in gear and headed south on First Street. Carol and Stephanie exchanged a quick, appraising glance at each other.
   “Here’s the Capitol itself on the right,” Ashley said, pointing. “And on our left is the Supreme Court, which I just personally love architecturally, and the Library of Congress.”
   “Senator,” Daniel said, “with all due respect, which I’m afraid isn’t a lot, I’m not interested in your giving us a tour of the city, nor am I interested in getting to know you better, especially after the sham hearing you put us through this morning.”
   “My dear, dear friend…” Ashley began after a short silence.
   “How about cutting out the Southern bombast!” Daniel snapped scornfully. “And for the record, I’m not your dear friend. I’m not your friend at all.”
   “Doctor, with all due respect, which I mean sincerely, you do yourself a great disservice by indulging in such effrontery. If you allow me to offer a bit of advice—you hurt your own cause when you allow your emotions to overpower your considerable intellect as you did this morning. Despite your adequately expressed animosity toward me, I wish to negotiate with you on a man-to-man and preferably gentleman-to-gentleman basis on a most important but sensitive matter. We both have something the other desires, and in order to realize those desires, we each have to do something we would rather not do.”
   “You’re talking in riddles,” Daniel grumbled.
   “Perhaps I am,” Ashley admitted. “Do I have your interest? I shall not proceed unless I am convinced of your interest.”
   Ashley heard Daniel exhale impatiently, and he imagined the doctor had rolled his eyes by his body language, but he couldn’t tell for certain because of the darkness in the car. Ashley waited while Daniel briefly stared out his window at the passing Smithsonian buildings.
   “Merely admitting to your interest will neither obligate you or jeopardize you in any way,” Ashley said. “No other persons than those in this vehicle know that we are chatting tonight, provided, of course, that you have not informed anyone.”
   “I would have been embarrassed to have told someone.”
   “I choose to be immune to your rudeness, Doctor, as I was immune this morning to your lack of courtesy by your attire, your disdainful body language, and your verbal attacks on me. As a gentleman, I could have been insulted, but I am not. So save your breath! What I want to know is whether you are interested in negotiating.”
   “What exactly would I be negotiating?”
   “The viability of your start-up company, your current career, your chance of celebrity, and perhaps most important, an opportunity to avoid failure. I have reason to believe failure is a particular anathema to you.”
   Daniel stared at Ashley in the half-light. Ashley could feel the intensity of the doctor’s eyes, despite being unable to see their details. It made the senator confident that he was indeed striking close to the man’s inner being.
   “You believe I’m particularly adverse to failure?” Daniel questioned, in a voice that was less sardonic than earlier.
   “Absolutely,” Ashley returned. “You are a powerfully competitive person, which, combined with your intellect, has been the driving force of your success. But powerfully competitive people do not like to fail, especially when part of their motivation is to escape their past. You have done well and come a long way from Revere, Massachusetts, yet your biggest nightmare involves a downfall that would force you back to your childhood roots. It is not a rational worry, considering your credentials, but it haunts you nonetheless.”
   Daniel gave a short, mirthless laugh. “How did you come up with this ridiculously bizarre theory?” he questioned.
   “I know a lot about you, my friend. My daddy always told me knowledge was power. And since we would be negotiating, I made it a point to take advantage of my considerable resources, including contacts at the Bureau, to learn as much about you and your start-up company as possible. In fact, not only do I know about you, I know about your family back several generations.”
   “You’ve had me investigated by the FBI?” Daniel demanded. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
   “But you should! Let me give you some high points of what has turned out to be a most interesting story. First of all, you are directly related to the famous New England Lowell family named in the famous description of Boston society where the Lowells only talk to the Cabots and the Cabots only talk to God. Or is it the other way around? Carol, can you help me here?”
   “You have it right, Senator,” Carol said.
   “I am relieved,” Ashley said. “I do not want to damage my credibility so early in my discourse. Unfortunately, Doctor, being related to the famous Lowells has been no help to you. It seems that your alcoholic grandfather was disowned and, more important, disinherited after defying the family wishes first by dropping out of prep school to join the army as a doughboy during World War I, then by marrying a commoner from Medford after his discharge. It seems that he had had such a devastating experience in Europe during his service that he was psychologically unable to reintegrate into privileged society. This, of course, was in sharp contrast to his brothers and sisters, who had not been to the war and who were enjoying the excesses of the roaring twenties and who, even if they too might have risked becoming alcoholics, were at least finishing their schooling and marrying socially acceptable spouses.”
   “Senator, I’m not finding this amusing. Can we get to the point?”
   “Patience, my friend,” Ashley said. “Let me bring the history to the present. It seems that your alcoholic paternal grandfather was also not a particularly good father or role model for his ten children, one of whom was your daddy. Like father like son is certainly applicable to your father, who suffered through service in World War II. Although he avoided alcoholism for the most part, he was hardly a good father or role model to his nine children, as I am sure you would agree. Happily, with your competitiveness, intellect, and opportunity to avoid a war experience in Vietnam, you have broken this generational self-fulfilling downward spiral, but not without some scars.”
   “Senator, for the last time, unless you tell me what is on your mind in plain English, I will insist we be taken back to our hotel.”
   “But I have told you,” Ashley stated. “When you first got into the car.”
   “You’d better run it by me again,” Daniel sneered. “Apparently, it was so subtle I completely missed it.”
   “I told you I was interested in your Aesculapian talents.”
   “Evoking the Roman god of healing is still making this into a riddle that I have no patience for. Let’s be specific, particularly since you were talking about this being a negotiation.

  “Specifically, I want to barter your powers as a physician with my powers as a politician.”
   “I am a researcher, not a practicing physician.”
   “But you are a physician nonetheless, and the research you do is to cure people.”
   “Keep talking.”
   “What I am about to tell you is central to why we are here talking together. But I must have your absolute word as a gentleman that what I am about to tell you will remain confidential, irrespective of the outcome of this meeting.”
   “If it is truly personal, I have no problem keeping it a secret.”
   “Excellent! And Dr. D’Agostino! Do I have your word as well?”
   “Of course,” Stephanie stammered, surprised at being suddenly addressed. She was twisted in her seat, looking back at the men. She’d been in that position ever since the senator had started talking about Daniel’s fear of failure.
   Carol was struggling with her driving and had slowed considerably. Mesmerized by the conversation unfolding in the backseat, her eyes were more on Ashley’s image in the rearview mirror than on the road. She was certain she knew what Ashley was about to say and now had an inkling of Ashley’s plan. She was appalled.
   Ashley cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, I have been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. To make matters worse, my neurologist believes I have a rapidly progressive variant, which seems to be the case. On my last visit he even raised the specter the malady may soon begin to effect my cognitive abilities.”
   For a few moments there was absolute silence in the car.
   “How long have you known about this?” Daniel questioned. “I’ve not noticed any tremor.”
   “About a year. The medication has helped, but as my neurologist predicted, it is rather quickly losing its effectiveness. Thus, my infirmity will soon become public knowledge unless something is done and done soon. I’m afraid my political career is at stake.”
   “I hope this whole charade is not leading up to what I think it is,” Daniel stated.
   “I imagine it is,” Ashley admitted. “Doctor, I want to be your guinea pig or, more precisely, your surrogate mouse. You’ve been having such good luck with your mice, as you proudly reported this morning.”
   Daniel shook his head. “This is absurd! You want me to treat you like I have treated our mice!”
   “Precisely, Doctor. Now, I knew you would not want to do it for a variety of reasons, and that is why this discussion is a negotiation.”
   “It would be against the law,” Stephanie blurted. “The FDA would never allow it.”
   “I was not intending to inform the FDA,” Ashley said calmly. “I know how meddlesome they can be on occasion.”
   “It would have to be done in a hospital,” Stephanie said. “And without the FDA’s approval, no hospital would allow it.”
   “No hospital in this country,” Ashley added. “Actually, I was thinking of the Bahamas. It is a rather nice time of the year to go to the Bahamas. Besides, there is a clinic there that would serve our needs beautifully. Six months ago, my Health Policy Subcommittee had a series of hearings on the inappropriate lack of regulation of infertility clinics in this country. A clinic by the name of Wingate came up during the hearings as an example of how some of these clinics are ignoring even minimal standards to make enormous profit. The Wingate Clinic had recently moved to New Providence Island to avoid the few laws applicable to their operation, which included some very questionable undertakings. But what had caught my attention particularly was that they were in the process of building a brand-spanking-new, twenty-first-century research center and hospital.”
   “Senator, there are reasons medical research starts out with animals before moving on to humans. To do otherwise is unethical at best and foolish at worst. I cannot be part of such an undertaking.”
   “I knew you would not be excited about the idea at first,” Ashley said. “Again, that is why this is a negotiation. You see, I am willing to promise you as a gentleman that my bill, S.1103, will never leave my subcommittee if you agree to treat me with your HTSR in total secrecy. That means that your second round of financing will come through and your company will go forward, and you will become the wealthy biotechnology celebrity entrepreneur that you aspire to be. As for myself, my political power is still ascendant and will remain so, provided this Parkinson’s threat is removed. So… as a consequence of each of us doing something we would rather not do, we both win.”
   “What are you doing that you do not want to do?” Daniel questioned.
   “I am accepting the risk of being a guinea pig,” Ashley stated. “I am the first to admit I wish our roles were reversed, but such is life. I am also risking political consequences from my conservative constituents who expect S.1103 to be voted out of subcommittee.”
   Daniel shook his head in amazement. “This is preposterous,” he commented.
   “But there is more,” Ashley said. “Knowing the degree of risk I am assuming in this new therapy, I do not think our exchange of services is equal. To rectify that imbalance and to help with the risk, I demand some divine intervention.”
   “I’m afraid to ask what you mean by divine intervention.”
   “As I understand it, if you were to treat me with your HTSR, you would need a segment of DNA from someone who does not have Parkinson’s disease.”
   “That’s correct, but it doesn’t matter who the person is. There is no tissue matching involved, like with organ transplants.”
   “It matters to me who the person is,” Ashley said. “I also understand you could get this little segment of DNA from blood?”
   “I couldn’t get it from red blood cells, which have no nuclei,” Daniel said. “But I could get it from white cells, which you can always find in blood. So, yes, I could get it from blood.”
   “Thank the good Lord for white blood cells,” Ashley said. “Now, the source of the blood is what has captured my interest. My father was a Baptist minister, but my mother, rest her soul, was an Irish Catholic. She taught me a few things that have stayed with me all my life. Let me ask you a question—are you acquainted with the Shroud of Turin?”
   Daniel glanced at Stephanie. A wry smile of disbelief had appeared on his face.
   “I was raised a Catholic,” Stephanie offered. “I’m familiar with the Shroud of Turin.”
   “I know what it is as well,” Daniel said. “It’s a religious relic purported to be the burial shroud of Jesus Christ, which was proven a fake about five years ago.”
   “True,” Stephanie said. “But it was more than ten years ago. It was carbon-dated to the mid-thirteenth century.”
   “I have no interest in the carbon-dating report,” Ashley said. “Especially since it was debunked by several eminent scientists. Even if the report had not been challenged, my interest would be the same. The shroud held a special place in my mama’s heart, and some of the devotion rubbed off on me when she took me and my two older brothers to Turin to be in its presence when I was no more than an impressionable moppet. Concerns about its authenticity aside, what is incontrovertible is that there are bloodstains on the cloth. Most everyone agrees about that. I want the little section of DNA needed for HTSR to come from the Shroud of Turin. That is my demand and my offer.”
   Daniel laughed derisively. “This is more than preposterous. It’s crazy. Besides, how would I get a blood sample from the Shroud of Turin?”
   “That is your responsibility, Doctor,” Ashley said. “But I am willing and able to help. I am certain I can get details about access to the shroud from one of my archbishop acquaintances, who are always willing to exchange favors for special political consideration. I happen to know there are samples of the shroud containing bloodstains that had been taken, given out, then recalled by the church. Perhaps one of those could be made available, but you would have to go and get it.”
   “I’m speechless,” Daniel admitted, trying to suppress his amusement.
   “That is entirely understandable,” Ashley said. “I am certain this opportunity I have proposed has caught you unawares. I do not expect you to respond immediately. As a thoughtful man, I was confident you would like to mull it over. My suggestion is that you call me, and I will give you a special number to call. But I would like to say that if I do not hear from you by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, I will assume you have decided not to take advantage of my offer. At ten o’clock, I will order my staff to schedule a subcommittee vote on S.1103 as soon as possible so that it can be moved on to the full committee and on to the Senate. And I already know the BIO lobby has informed you that S.1103 will pass with ease.

Five

   10:05 P.M., Thursday, February 21, 2002
   The taillights of Carol Manning’s Suburban faded as the vehicle moved down Louisiana Avenue and then merged with the other traffic before disappearing into the general gloom of the night. Stephanie and Daniel had watched them until the point that they were no longer discernable, then looked into each other’s faces. Their noses were mere inches apart, since their bodies were pressed together beneath their umbrella. They were once again standing motionless at the curb in front of Union Station, just as they had been an hour earlier when they were waiting to be picked up. Then they had been curious with anticipation. Now they were dumbfounded.
   “Tomorrow morning, I’m going to swear this was all a delusion,” Stephanie said, with a shake of her head.
   “There’s definitely a dreamlike unreality to it all,” Daniel admitted.
   “Bizarre is a better adjective.”
   Daniel lowered his eyes to the senator’s business card he had clutched in his free hand. He turned it over. Scribbled in the senator’s erratic handwriting was a cell phone number to be used to contact him directly in the next twelve hours. Daniel stared at the number as if committing it to memory.
   A gust of wind erupted and changed the drizzle momentarily from vertical to horizontal. Stephanie shivered as the moisture peppered her face. “It’s cold. Let’s get back to the hotel! There’s no sense standing here and getting soaked.”
   As if waking from a trance, Daniel apologized and glanced around the plaza in front of the station. A taxi stand was off to one side, with several cabs conveniently waiting. Angling the umbrella into the wind, he urged Stephanie forward. Arriving at the first taxi in line, Daniel held the umbrella for Stephanie before climbing in himself.
   “Four Seasons hotel,” Daniel said to the driver, who was watching his rearview mirror.
   “Tonight was ironic as well as bizarre,” Stephanie said suddenly, as the cab pulled away. “The same day I hear a smidgen about your family from you, I hear the whole story from Senator Butler.”
   “I find that more irritating than ironic,” Daniel said. “Hell, it’s an out-and-out violation of my privacy that he had me investigated by the FBI. It’s also appalling that the FBI would do it. I mean, I’m a private citizen under no suspicion of any crime. Such abuse smacks of the days of J. Edgar Hoover.”
   “So everything Butler said about you is true?”
   “Essentially, I suppose,” Daniel responded vaguely. “Listen, let’s talk about the senator’s offer.”
   “I can tell you my reaction to it right off the top. I think it stinks!”
   “You don’t see any positive aspects?”
   “The only positive aspect I can see is that it has confirmed our impressions of the man as a quintessential demagogue. He’s also a detestable hypocrite. He’s against HTSR purely for political reasons, and he’s willing to ban it and its research despite its potential to save lives and relieve suffering. At the same time, he wants it for himself. That’s obscene and inexcusable, and we’re certainly not going to be a party to it.” Stephanie gave a short derisive laugh. “I’m sorry I gave my word to keep his illness a secret. This whole thing is a story the media would die for, and I’d love for them to have it.”
   “We certainly can’t go to the media,” Daniel stated categorically. “And I don’t think we should be rash. I think Butler’s offer deserves consideration.”
   A surprised Stephanie turned to look at Daniel. She tried to see his face in the dim light. “You’re not serious, are you?”
   “Let’s list the knowns. We’re well acquainted with growing dopaminergic neurons from stem cells, so it’s not as if we’ll be floundering around in the dark in that regard.”
   “We’ve done it with murine stem cells, not human cells.”
   “The process is the same. Colleagues have already done it with human stem cells using the same methodology. Making the cells is not going to be a problem. Once we have the cells, we can follow the exact protocol we used for the mice. There’s no reason it wouldn’t work for a human. After all, every last mouse we’ve treated has done remarkably well.”
   “Except for the ones that died.”
   “We know why the ones that didn’t make it died. It was before we perfected the injection technique. All the mice that we injected properly have survived and have been cured. With a human volunteer, we would have available a stereotaxic device that doesn’t exist for rodents. That will make the injection more exact, infinitely easier, and hence safer. Besides, we wouldn’t do the injection ourselves. We’d find a neurosurgeon who’d be willing to lend a hand.”
   “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Stephanie said. “It sounds like you’ve already talked yourself into doing this crazy, unethical experiment, and that’s what it would be—an uncontrolled, risky experiment on a single human subject. No matter what the outcome, it would be devoid of value, except possibly for Butler.”
   “I don’t agree. By doing this procedure, we will save CURE and HTSR, meaning millions of people will ultimately benefit. It seems to me a minor compromise in ethics is a small up-front price to pay for an enormous back-end payoff.”
   “But we’ll be doing exactly what Senator Butler accused the biotech industry of doing in his opening statement this morning—using ends to justify means. It would be unethical to experiment on Senator Butler, plain and simple.”
   “Yeah, well, perhaps to some degree, but who are we putting at risk? It’s the villain! He’s the one asking for it. Worse yet, he’s conniving for it by extorting us with information he got by somehow coercing the FBI to do an illegal investigation.”
   “That all may be true, but two wrongs don’t make a right, and it doesn’t absolve us of our complicity.”
   “I think it would. We’ll make Butler sign a release, and we’ll put everything in the release, including the fact that we are fully aware that doing the procedure would be considered unethical by any research advisory board in this country, because it’s being done without an appropriately approved protocol. The release will state unequivocally that it was Butler’s idea to do the procedure and to do the procedure outside of the country. It will also state that he used extortion to get us to participate.”
   “Do you think he’d sign such a release?”
   “We won’t give him any choice. Either he signs it or he doesn’t get the benefit of HTSR. I’m comfortable with the idea that we’ll be doing the procedure in the Bahamas, so we won’t be violating any FDA rules, and we’ll have a rock-solid release in case we need it. The onus will be squarely on Butler’s shoulders.”
   “Let me think about it for a few minutes.”
   “Take your time, but I really think the moral weight favors our doing it. It would be different if we were forcing him in any way, shape, or form. But we’re not. It’s the other way around.”
   “But it could be argued that he’s uninformed. He’s a politician, not a doctor. He doesn’t truly know the risks. He could die.”
   “He’s not going to die,” Daniel said emphatically. “We’ll err on the conservative side, meaning the worse-case scenario is that we won’t give him enough cells to get his dopamine concentration high enough to get rid of all his symptoms. If that happens, he’ll be begging us to do it again, which will be easy, since we’ll maintain the treating cells in culture.”
   “Let me mull it over.”
   “Sure,” Daniel said.
   They rode the rest of the way in silence. It wasn’t until they were going up in the hotel elevator that Stephanie spoke up: “Do you honestly think we would be able to find an appropriate place to do the procedure?”
   “Butler spent a good deal of effort on all this,” Daniel said. “He wasn’t leaving anything to chance. Frankly, I’d be shocked if he didn’t have the clinic he mentioned investigated for appropriateness at the same time he had me investigated.”
   “I suppose that’s possible. Actually, I remember reading about the Wingate Clinic about a year ago. It was a popular, unaffiliated infertility clinic out in Bookford, Massachusetts, before it moved under pressure to the Bahamas. It was quite a scandal.”
   “I remember it too. It was run by a couple of maverick infertility guys. Their research department was doing unethical reproductive cloning experiments.”
   “Unconscionable is a better description, like trying to get human fetuses to gestate in pigs. I remember they were also implicated in the disappearance of a couple of Harvard coed egg donors. The principals had to flee the country and barely managed to avoid extradition back to the States. All in all, it sounds like the absolute opposite of the kind of place and people we should get involved with.”
   “We wouldn’t be getting involved with them. We’d do the procedure, wash our hands, and leave.”
   The elevator doors opened. They started down the hall toward their suite.
   “What about a neurosurgeon?” Stephanie asked. “Do you honestly think we’d be able to find someone to take part in this shenanigan? He or she will know there’s something fishy about it.”
   “With the proper incentive, that shouldn’t be a problem. Same with the clinic.”
   “You mean money.”
   “Of course! The universal motivator.”
   “What about Butler’s demand for secrecy? How would we handle that?”
   “Secrecy is more his issue than ours. We won’t use his real name. Without those glasses and dark suit, I imagine he’s a rather nondescript, nebbish sort of guy. With a splashy short-sleeved shirt and a pair of sunglasses, maybe no one will recognize him.”
   Stephanie used her keycard to open their door. They took off their jackets and went into the sitting room.
   “What about something from the minibar?” Daniel suggested. “I’m in the mood to celebrate. A couple of hours ago, I thought we were stuck beneath a black cloud. Now there’s a ray of sunshine.”
   “I could use some wine,” Stephanie responded. She rubbed her hands together to warm them before curling up in the corner of the couch.
   Daniel popped the cork on a half bottle of cabernet and poured a hefty portion into a balloon goblet. He handed it to Stephanie before getting himself a neat Scotch. He sat down in the opposite corner of the couch. They touched glasses and took sips from their respective drinks.
   “So, you want to go ahead with this crazy plan?” Stephanie said.
   “I do, unless you can come up with some compelling reason not to.”
   “What about this Shroud of Turin nonsense? I mean, divine intervention! What a preposterous and presumptuous idea!”
   “I disagree. I think it is a stroke of genius.”
   “You have to be joking!”
   “Absolutely not! It would be the ultimate placebo, and we know how powerful placebos can be. If he wants to believe he’s getting some of Jesus Christ’s DNA, it’s fine by me. It would give him a powerful incentive to believe in his cure. I think it is a brilliant idea. I’m not suggesting we have to get DNA from the shroud. We could just tell him we have, and it would afford the same result. But we can look into it. If there is blood on the shroud like he contends and we can get access to it like he suggests, it would work.”
   “Even if the bloodstain is from the thirteenth century?”
   “The age shouldn’t make any difference. The DNA would be in fragments, but that wouldn’t be a problem. We’d still use the same probe we’d use on a fresh DNA sample to form the segment we need, and then augment it by PCR. In a lot of ways, it would add a bit of challenge and excitement. The hardest part will be resisting the temptation to write the procedure up for Nature or Science after the fact. Can you imagine the title: ‘HTSR and the Shroud of Turin Combine to Produce the First Cure of Human Parkinson’s Disease.’ ”
   “We’re not going to be able to publish this affair,” Stephanie said.
   “I know! It’s just fun to think about it being a harbinger of things to come. The next step will be a controlled experiment, and we’ll certainly be able to publish that. At that point, CURE will be in the limelight, and our funding miseries will be long gone.”
   “I wish I could share your enthusiasm.”
   “I think you will, once things start falling into place. Even though timing wasn’t mentioned tonight, I’m going to assume the senator would be eager to do it sooner rather than later. That means we should start with the preliminaries tomorrow when we get back to Boston. I’ll look into making the arrangements with the Wingate Clinic and lining up the neurosurgeon. How about you take on the Shroud of Turin portion?”
   “That should at least be interesting,” Stephanie said, trying to generate some eagerness about the thought of treating Butler, despite what her intuition was telling her. “I’ll be curious to find out why the church still considers it a relic after it was proved to be a fake.”
   “The senator obviously thinks it’s real.”
   “As I recall, the carbon dating was confirmed by three independent labs. It would be hard for that to be debunked.”
   “Well, let’s see what you find out,” Daniel said. “In the meantime, we better start planning some serious travel.”
   “You mean Nassau?”

   “Nassau and probably Turin, Italy, depending on what you find out.”
   “Where are we going to get the money for such travel?”
   “From Ashley Butler.”
   Stephanie’s eyebrows lifted. “Maybe this escapade isn’t going to be so bad after all.”
   “So, are you with me on this?” Daniel questioned.
   “Yeah, I suppose.”
   “That’s not very positive.”
   “It’s the best I can do at the moment. But I imagine I’ll come around as things progress, like you suggested.”
   “I’ll take what I can get,” Daniel announced. He got up from the couch and gave Stephanie’s shoulder a squeeze in the process. “I’m going to have another Scotch. Let me fill your glass.”
   Daniel poured the additional drinks, then sat back down. After glancing at his watch, he put Butler’s business card down in front of him and lifted the phone onto the coffee table. “Let’s tell the senator the news. I’m sure he’ll be irritatingly smug, but to borrow his phrase, Such is life.” Daniel used the speakerphone button to get a dial tone. The call went through and was picked up quickly. Ashley Butler’s baritone Southern drawl inundated the room.
   “Senator,” Daniel called out, interrupting Ashley’s verbose hello. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s late and I just wanted to let you know that I have decided to take you up on your offer.”
   “Well, glory be!” Ashley intoned. “And so soon! I was afraid you were going to let this simple decision spoil your slumber and that you would not be calling until the morning. Well, I am pleased as punch! Can I assume Dr. D’Agostino has agreed to participate as well?”
   “I have agreed,” Stephanie said, trying to sound positive.
   “Excellent, excellent!” Ashley echoed. “Not that I am surprised, since this affair is to all our benefit. But I most sincerely do believe that being of the same mind and having unanimity of purpose is key to success, and we most certainly want success in this endeavor.”
   “We assume you would like to do this straightaway,” Daniel said.
   “Most assuredly, my dear friends. Most assuredly. I’m on borrowed time in terms of concealing my infirmity,” Ashley explained. “There is no time to lose. Conveniently for our purposes, a Senate recess is coming up. It commences about a month from now on March twenty-second and runs through April eighth. Normally I head home to politick, but instead it is the period of time I have had my heart set upon for my treatment. Is a month an adequate amount of time for you scientists to formulate the appropriate curative cells?”
   Daniel glanced at Stephanie and spoke to her softly, just above a whisper: “That’s quicker than I thought he’d have in mind. What do you think? Could we do it?”
   “It’s a long shot,” Stephanie whispered with a shrug. “First, we’d need a few days to culture his fibroblasts. Then, assuming a successful nuclear transfer creating a viable pre-embryo, we’d need five or six days for the blastocyst to form. After that, we’d need a couple of weeks of culturing on feeder cells after harvesting the stem cells.”
   “Is there a problem?” Ashley questioned. “I cannot for the life of me hear what you good folks are discussing.”
   “Just a second, Senator!” Daniel said into the speakerphone. “I’m talking with Dr. D’Agostino about timing. She would be doing most of the actual hands-on work.”
   “Then we’d have to get them to differentiate into the proper nerve cells,” Stephanie added. “That will take another couple of weeks, or maybe a little less. The mouse cells were fine after only ten days.”
   “So what would you guess, if all goes well?” Daniel asked. “Would a month work?”
   “It’s theoretically possible,” Stephanie said. “It could be done, but we’d have to start almost immediately with the cellular work, like tomorrow! The problem with that idea is that we’d have to have human oocytes available, and we don’t.”
   “Oh, jeez!” Daniel mumbled. He bit his lower lip and furrowed his brow. “I’m so accustomed to working with a surfeit of cow eggs that I forgot about the supply problem with human eggs.”
   “It’s a major stumbling block,” Stephanie admitted. “Even in the best of circumstances where we already had a egg donor waiting in the wings, we’d need a month or so to stimulate her and retrieve them.”
   “Well, perhaps our maverick infertility friends can help us in this regard as well. As a functioning infertility center, they’d surely have a few extra eggs available. Considering their unethical reputation, I bet with the right inducement we could talk them into providing us with what we will need.”
   “It’s possible, I suppose, but then we’d be even more beholden to them. The more they do for us, the less easy it will be to wash our hands and leave like you so blithely suggested a moment ago.”
   “But we don’t have a lot of choice. The alternative is giving up on CURE, HTSR, and all our blood, sweat, and tears.”
   “It has to be your call. But for the record, it makes me feel uncomfortable to be obligated to the Wingate people in any form, knowing their history.”
   Daniel nodded a few times as he mulled over the issues, sighed, and then turned back to the speakerphone. “Senator, there’s a chance we can have some treatment cells in a month. But I have to warn you that it’s going to require effort and a bit of luck, and we have to start immediately. You’ll have to be cooperative.”
   “I will be as cooperative as a baby lamb. I’ve already started the process a month ago by making plans to arrive in Nassau on the twenty-third of March and to stay on the island for as much of the recess period as needed. I have even made a reservation for you. That’s how confident I was about your participation. It is important to have done this early, because it is high season in the Bahamas at this time of the year. We’ll be staying at the Atlantis resort, where I had the pleasure of staying last year with this plan in mind. It is a hotel complex sizable enough to provide adequate anonymity of coming and going without raising suspicions. They also have a casino, and as you might imagine, I do enjoy gambling when I am fortunate enough to have a few extra dollars in my pocket.”
   Daniel exchanged glances with Stephanie. On the one hand, he was glad Ashley had made early reservations to help the project, but on the other hand, he was irritated at having been taken for granted.
   “Will you be registered under your own name?” Stephanie questioned.
   “Indeed I will,” Ashley said. “But I will be using an assumed name for my trip to the Wingate Clinic.”
   “What about this clinic?” Daniel demanded. “I trust that you have looked into it as carefully as you have looked into my past.”
   “Your trust is well placed. I think you will find the clinic well suited for our purposes, although the personnel less so. The purported head of the clinic is Dr. Spencer Wingate, who is something of a blowhard, although apparently well qualified in the field of infertility. He seems more interested in being an island socialite and looks forward to flying off to the continent to drum up business in the courts of Europe. The man in secondary command is Dr. Paul Saunders, and he runs the show on a day-to-day basis. He is a more complicated individual who sees himself as a world-class researcher despite his lack of appropriate training beyond clinical infertility. I’m confident both individuals will be accommodating if you merely appeal to their individual vanities. For them to have the prospect of working with someone with your credentials and stature is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
   “You flatter me, Senator.”
   Stephanie smiled at Daniel’s sarcasm.
   “Only because it is well deserved,” Ashley said. “Besides, one should have faith in one’s doctor.”
   “It would be my guess that doctors Wingate and Saunders will be more interested in money than my resume,” Daniel said.
   “It is my thought that they will be interested in your resume to gain stature and to help them make money,” Ashley commented. “But their venal nature and their lack of research training is not a concern of ours, other than to be aware of it and to take advantage of it. It is their facility and equipment we are interested in.”
   “I hope you realize that doing this procedure under these circumstances is not going to be cheap by any stretch of the imagination.”
   “Nor would I want it to be cheap,” Ashley responded. “I want the expensive, high-quality, first-class version. Rest assured, I have access to more than sufficient funds to cover any expenses that impinge upon my political career. But I will expect your personal services to be pro bono. We are, after all, exchanging favors.”
   “Agreed,” Daniel said. “But prior to rendering any services, Dr. D’Agostino and I will require you to sign a special release that we will draw up. This release will spell out the exact way that this affair originated as well as all the attendant risks involved, including the fact that we have never done the procedure on a human being.”
   “As long as I can be assured of the confidentiality of this release, I will have no qualms about signing it. I can understand you would want it for your protection. I am absolutely certain I would want the very same thing if I were in your position, so there should be no problem whatsoever, provided it does not include anything unreasonable or inappropriate.”
   “I can assure you it will be reasonable,” Daniel said. “Next, I’d like to encourage you to use your resources as you suggested to find out about access to the Shroud of Turin so we can get a sample.”
   “I have already instructed Ms. Manning to initiate the appropriate meetings with the various prelates with whom I have had a working relationship. I will assume it will happen in the next few days. How big a sample would be required?”
   “It can be extremely small,” Daniel said. “Merely a few fibers would be adequate, but it would have to be fibers coming from a section of the shroud containing a bloodstain.”
   Ashley laughed. “Even an ignorant, nonscientist like myself would assume as much. The fact that you need only a small sample should help immeasurably. As I mentioned last night, I know there were such samples taken and then called back by the church.”
   “We’d need them as soon as possible,” Daniel added.
   “I understand completely the need for expeditiousness,” Ashley responded. “Is there anything else you require of me?”
   “Yes,” Stephanie said. “We will need you to have a punch biopsy of your skin tomorrow morning. If there is a chance we can produce the curative cells in a month, we’ll need to take your biopsy back with us tomorrow when we return to Boston. Your private physician can arrange having the biopsy with a dermatologist, who can have a courier bring it over to us at the hotel. It will serve as a source of fibroblasts that we will grow in tissue culture.”
   “I will see to it first thing in the morning.”
   “I believe that is all for now,” Daniel said. He looked at Stephanie, and she nodded in agreement.
   “I have a vitally important request of my own,” Ashley said. “I think we should exchange special email addresses and use the Internet for all our communications, which should be generic and short. The next time we talk directly should be at the Wingate Clinic on New Providence Island. I am committed that this affair be a closely guarded secret, and the less direct contact we have, the better. Is that acceptable?”
   “By all means,” Daniel agreed.
   “As for expense money,” Ashley said, “I will advise you by email of a confidential account at an offshore bank in Nassau, set up by one of my political action committees, from which you will be able to withdraw funds. I will, of course, expect an accounting in the future. Is that acceptable?”
   “As long as there’s enough money,” Daniel said. “One of the major expenses will be to obtain the necessary human egg cells.”
   “I reiterate,” Ashley said, “there will be more than adequate funds available. Rest assured!”
   A few minutes later, after a final long-winded farewell from Ashley, Daniel leaned forward and disconnected the speakerphone. He lifted the phone back onto the end table. Then he swung around to face Stephanie. “I had to laugh when he called the head of the Wingate Clinic a blowhard. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”
   “You were right about him putting a lot of thought into this affair. I was shocked when he said he’d made travel reservations a month ago. There’s no doubt in my mind he had the Wingate Clinic investigated.”
   “Are you feeling better about being involved in curing him?”
   “To a degree,” Stephanie admitted. “Especially since he says he’ll have no compunction signing a release that we write. At least I’ll have the feeling he’s considered the experimental nature of what we will be doing and the attendant risks. I wasn’t at all sure of that before.”
   Daniel slid across the couch, put his arms around Stephanie, and hugged her against his body. He could feel her heart beating in her chest. Pushing himself back enough to look into her face, he stared into the dark depths of her eyes. “Now that we have seemingly gotten things under control in the political/business/research arena, how about starting out where we left off last night?”
   Stephanie returned Daniel’s stare. “Is that a proposition?”
   “Indeed, it is.”
   “Is your autonomic nervous system going to cooperate?”
   “A lot better than it did last night, I can assure you.”
   Daniel got to his feet and helped Stephanie to hers.
   “We forgot the do-not-disturb sign,” Stephanie said, as Daniel eagerly pulled her toward the bedroom.
   “Let’s live dangerously,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

Six

   2:35 P.M., Friday, February 22, 2002
   By the time Stephanie had awakened early that morning, she was caught up in the details of the Butler project. Her negative intuition about treating the senator’s Parkinson’s disease had not changed, but there was too much to do to obsess about such feelings. Even before she had showered, she used her laptop to fire off a series of emails to the senator about the handling of his biopsy.
   First, she wanted the biopsy as soon as possible that morning. Second, she wanted to be absolutely certain it was a full-thickness skin, because she would need cells from deep in the dermis. And third, she wanted the sample merely to be placed in a flask of tissue culture fluid and not frozen or even iced. She was confident the tissue would be fine at room temperature until she got back to the laboratory in Cambridge, where she would deal with it appropriately. Her goal was to create a culture of the senator’s fibroblasts, the nuclei of which she would ultimately be using to create the cells to treat him. She had always had better luck with fresh rather than frozen cells when she was doing HTSR followed by nuclear transfer, or therapeutic cloning, as some people insisted on calling the process.
   To Stephanie’s surprise and despite the early hour, the senator emailed her back almost immediately, indicating that not only was he an early riser but that he was as committed to the project as he had suggested the previous evening. In his message, he assured her he had already put in a call to his doctor and that when the doctor called back he would communicate her requests and insist they be followed.
   Daniel was ebullient from the moment he’d thrown back the covers. He too was at his laptop, emailing before doing anything else. Dressed only in a hotel terry-cloth robe, he typed out a message to the West Coast venture capital group that had expressed interest in investing in CURE but had been reluctant to release any funds until there’d been a resolution of Senator Butler’s bill. Daniel wanted to let them know that the bill was destined to languish permanently in the subcommittee and was no longer a threat. Daniel would have liked to explain how he knew this bit of news, but he knew he couldn’t. Daniel had not expected a message back from the prospective investors for several hours, since it was only four in the morning on the West Coast when his message went out on the World Wide Web. Nonetheless, he was confident in their response.
   As a splurge, they had ordered breakfast in the room. At Daniel’s insistence, it included mimosas. Jokingly, he told Stephanie that she’d better get accustomed to such living, because it would become the order of the day once CURE went public. “I’ve had enough of academic poverty,” he’d declared. “We are going to be on the A list, and we are going to act the part!”
   At nine-fifteen, both had been surprised by a call from the concierge’s desk saying that a courier had dropped off a package from a Dr. Claire Schneider labeled URGENT. They were asked if they wanted it sent directly to the room, and they had responded in the affirmative. As they assumed, the package contained Butler’s skin biopsy, and they were duly impressed with Butler’s efficiency. Its arrival was several hours earlier than they had hoped to see it.
   With the biopsy in hand, they had been able to catch the ten-thirty shuttle flight to Boston, getting them into Logan Airport just after noon. Following an even more hair-raising taxi experience than those in Washington, as far as Daniel was concerned, with a driver from Pakistan in a rattletrap vehicle, they were dumped off at Daniel’s condominium apartment on Appleton Street. A change of clothes and a quick lunch followed by a short ride in Daniel’s Ford Focus brought them to CURE’s current digs in East Cambridge on Athenaeum Street. They entered through the front door. The company occupied the ground-floor suite immediately to the right of the entrance.
   When Daniel had first founded CURE, it had occupied most of the first floor of the renovated, nineteenth-century brick office building. But as the money crunch deepened, space was first to go. Currently, it was one-tenth of its original size, with only a single laboratory, two small offices, and a reception area. Second to go were the nonessential personnel. The employees included Daniel and Stephanie, who’d not drawn salaries for four months, another senior scientist by the name of Peter Conway, operator-cum-receptionist/secretary Vicky McGowan, and three laboratory technicians soon to be reduced to two or maybe even one. Daniel had not yet decided. What Daniel had not changed was the board of directors, the scientific advisory board, and the ethics board, all of whom Daniel intended to leave in the dark about the Butler affair.
   “It’s only two-thirty-five,” Stephanie announced, after closing the door behind them. “I’d say that’s good timing, considering we woke up in Washington, D.C.”
   Daniel merely grunted. His attention was directed at Vicky, who was handing him a bundle of telephone messages, a few of which needed explanation. In particular, the venture capital people from the West Coast had called instead of returning Daniel’s email. According to Vicky, they were hardly satisfied with the information they’d gotten and were demanding more.
   Leaving Daniel to deal with business matters, Stephanie went into the laboratory. She called hello to Peter, who was seated before one of the dissecting microscopes. While Stephanie and Daniel had gone to Washington, he’d stayed behind to keep all the company’s experiments going.
   Stephanie unloaded her laptop onto the soapstone surface of the particular lab bench she used as her desk; her private office had been sacrificed in the initial downsizing. With Butler’s skin biopsy in hand, she walked over to an operative area of the laboratory. She removed the piece of skin aseptically, minced it, and then placed the minced material in a fresh batch of culture medium, along with antibiotics. When it had been safely stored in an incubator in a T-flask, she returned to the area she used as her desk.
   “How did things go in Washington?” Peter called out. He was a slightly built fellow who looked like a teenager, despite being older than Stephanie. His most distinguishing characteristics were ratty clothes and a shock of blond hair that he wore in a ponytail. Stephanie had always thought he could be a poster boy for the hippie-dominated sixties.
   “Washington was okay,” Stephanie answered vaguely. She and Daniel had decided not to tell the others about Senator Butler until after the fact.
   “So, we’re still in business?” Peter asked.
   “It looks that way,” Stephanie replied. She plugged in her laptop and turned it on. A short time later, she was connected to the Internet.
   “Is the money coming from San Fran?” Peter persisted.
   “You’ll have to ask Daniel,” Stephanie said. “I try to stay clear of the business side of things.”
   Peter got the implied message and went back to his work.
   Stephanie had been eager to look into the issue of the Shroud of Turin from the moment Daniel had suggested she take it on as her initial contribution to the Butler project. She’d thought about beginning that morning after her shower and before Butler’s skin biopsy had arrived but had decided against it because connecting to the Internet with a modem was agonizingly slow now that she was spoiled with CURE’s broadband connection. Besides, she thought she’d no sooner get herself involved and have to break off. Now she had the rest of the afternoon.
   Calling up the Google search engine, she entered SHROUD OF TURIN and clicked on the SEARCH button. She had no idea what to expect. Although she remembered sketchy references to the shroud when she was a child and still a practicing Catholic as well as something about its being declared a fake after carbon dating when she was in her first year of graduate school, she’d not thought of the relic in years and assumed other people felt similarly. After all, how excited could one get about a thirteenth-century forgery? But a blink of the eye later, when the Google search was completed, she knew she was wrong. Amazed, she found herself staring at the number of results—more than 28,300!
   Stephanie clicked on the first result, called the Shroud of Turin website, and for the next hour found herself totally absorbed by the extent of information available. On the very first introductory page, she read that the shroud was “the single most studied artifact in human history”! With her relative lack of familiarity with the shroud, she found that a surprising statement, especially considering her general interest in history; her undergraduate major had been chemistry, but she’d had a minor in history. She also read that a number of experts felt strongly that the question of the shroud’s authenticity as a first-century artifact had not been settled by the carbon dating results. As a woman of science, and knowing the precision of carbon dating, she could not understand how anyone could hold such an opinion and was eager to find out. But before she did, she used the website to examine photographs of the shroud that were presented in both positive and negative format.
   Stephanie learned that the first person to photograph the shroud in 1898 had been startled by the images being significantly more obvious in the negative, and it was the same for her. In the positive the image was faint, and looking at it and trying to see the figure reminded her of one of her youthful summer pastimes—attempting to see faces, people, or animals in the infinite variations of cumulus clouds. But in the negative, the image was striking! It was clearly that of a man who had been beaten, tortured, and crucified, which begged the question of how a medieval forger could have anticipated the development of photography. What had appeared on the positive as mere blotches were now agonizingly real rivulets of blood. Glancing back at the positive image, she was surprised that the blood had even retained its red color.
   On the main menu of the Shroud of Turin website, Stephanie clicked on a button labeled FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS. One of the questions was whether DNA testing had ever been performed on the shroud. With excitement, Stephanie clicked on the question. In the answer provided, she learned that Texas researchers had found DNA in the bloodstains, although there were some questions about the provenance of the sample tested. There were also questions raised about how much DNA contamination could have been left by all the people who had touched the shroud over the centuries.
   The Shroud of Turin website also included an extensive bibliography, and Stephanie turned to it eagerly. Once again, she was amazed at its extent. With her curiosity now piqued and as a lover of books, she went over a number of the titles. Leaving the shroud’s website, she called up a bookseller’s, which produced a hundred titles, many of which were the same as those in the shroud’s website. After reading some of the reviews, she selected a few of the books that she wanted to have immediately. She was particularly drawn to those by Ian Wilson, an Oxford-educated scholar, who was cited as presenting both sides of the controversy concerning the shroud’s authenticity even though he was convinced it was real, meaning not only was it a first-century artifact—it was the burial cloth of Jesus Christ!
   Picking up the phone, Stephanie called the local bookstore. She was rewarded by learning that the store had one of the titles she was interested in. It was The Turin Shroud—The Illustrated Evidence by Ian Wilson and Barrie Schwortz, a professional photographer who had been part of an American team that had extensively studied the shroud in 1978. Stephanie asked for the book to be put aside with her name on it.
   Returning to the bookseller’s website, she ordered a few more of the shroud books to be delivered overnight. With that accomplished, she stood up and took her coat off the back of her chair. “I’m heading out to the bookstore,” she called over to Peter. “I’m going to pick up a book on the Shroud of Turin. Out of curiosity, what do you know about it?”
   “Hmmm,” Peter voiced, as he screwed up his face as if in deep thought. “I know the name of the city where it’s kept.”
   “I’m serious,” Stephanie complained.
   “Well, let’s put it this way,” Peter said. “I’ve heard of it, but it’s not that it comes up in conversation too often with me and my buddies. If I were pressed, I’d say it’s one of those objects the medieval church used to fan the religious fires to keep the collection boxes full, like pieces of the true cross and saints’ fingernails.”
   “Do you think it’s real?”
   “You mean Jesus’ burial cloth?”
   “Yeah.”
   “Hell, no! It was proved to be a fake ten years ago.”
   “What if I told you it was the most investigated artifact in human history?”
   “I’d ask you what you’d been smoking lately.”
   Stephanie laughed. “Thank you, Peter.”
   “What are you thanking me for?” he asked, obviously confused.
   “I was worried my lack of familiarity with the Shroud of Turin was somehow unique. It’s reassuring to know it’s not.” Stephanie pulled on her coat and headed for the door.
   “How come the sudden interest in the Shroud of Turin?” Peter called after her.
   “You’ll know soon enough,” Stephanie yelled over her shoulder. She crossed the reception area diagonally and poked her head into Daniel’s office. She was surprised to see him slouched over his desk with his head in his hands.
   “Hey,” Stephanie called. “Are you okay?”
   Daniel looked up and blinked. His eyes were red, as if he’d been rubbing them, and his face was paler than usual. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he said, as if exhausted. His earlier ebullience had fled.
   “What’s going on?”

  Daniel shook his head as his eyes wandered around his littered desk. He sighed. “Running this organization is like keeping a leaky boat afloat with a thimble for bailing. The venture capital people are refusing to release the second round financing until I tell them why I’m so sure Butler’s bill won’t come out of the subcommittee. But I can’t tell them, because if I do, it will invariably be leaked, and Butler would most likely renege about keeping his bill under wraps. Then all bets are off.”
   “What kind of money do we have left?”
   “Almost nothing,” Daniel moaned. “This time next month, we’ll be dipping into our line of credit just to meet payroll.”
   “That gives us the month we need to treat Butler,” Stephanie said.
   “What a lucky break that is,” Daniel snapped sarcastically. “It irritates me to death that we have to stop our research and deal with the likes of Butler and possibly those infertility clowns down in Nassau. It’s a goddamn crime that medical research has become politicized in this country. Our founding fathers who insisted on separation of church and state are probably turning over in their graves with these relatively few politicians using their supposed religious beliefs to hold up what will undoubtedly be the biggest advance in medical treatment.”
   “Well, we all know what’s really behind this current Luddite bioscience movement,” Stephanie said.
   “What are you talking about?”
   “It’s really abortion politics in disguise,” Stephanie said. “The real issue is that these demagogues want a zygote to be declared a human being with full constitutional rights no matter how the zygote was formed and no matter what the zygote’s future holds. It’s a ridiculous stance, but nonetheless if it happened, Roe versus Wade would have to be thrown out.”
   “You’re probably right,” Daniel admitted. He exhaled like the sound of air coming out of a tire. “What an absurd situation. History is going to wonder what kind of people we were that allowed a personal issue like abortion to handicap a society for years on end. We took a lot of our ideas about individual rights, government, and certainly our common law from England. Why couldn’t we have followed England’s lead in how best to deal with the ethics of reproductive bioscience?”
   “That’s a good question, but it’s not going to do us any good to worry over the answer at the moment. What happened to your enthusiasm about treating Butler? Let’s get it done! Once he’s treated, he’s not going to renege on our deal even if there is a leak to the media, because we’ll have his release. I mean, once he’s been cured he can deal with the media by just denying any accusations as being politically motivated. What he wouldn’t be able to deny is a signed release.”
   “You have a point,” Daniel admitted.
   “What about Butler’s money?” Stephanie asked. “It seems to me that’s the key question at the moment. Has there been any communication about that?”
   “I haven’t even thought to check.” Daniel turned to his computer and, after a few strokes, looked at his special email inbox. “Here’s a message that must be from Butler. It has an encrypted attachment, which is encouraging.”
   Daniel opened the attachment. Stephanie stepped around the desk to look over his shoulder.
   “I’d say it looks very encouraging,” Stephanie said. “He’s given us an account number for a Bahamian bank, and it appears as if we both can draw from it.”
   “It’s got a link to the bank’s website,” Daniel said. “Let’s see if we can find out the balance in the account. That will tell us how serious Butler is about all this.”
   A few clicks later, Daniel tilted back in his chair. He looked up at Stephanie, and she returned his stare. Both were taken aback.
   “I’d say he’s very serious!” Stephanie remarked. “And eager!”
   “I’m flabbergasted!” Daniel said. “I expected ten or twenty thousand, tops. I never expected a hundred. Where could he have gotten that kind of money so quickly?”
   “I told you, he has a string of political action committees that are fund-raising workhorses. What I wonder is if any of the people who contributed this money could have ever imagined how the money was going to be spent. There’s a hell of a lot of irony here if they are as conservative as I imagine they are.”
   “That’s not our concern,” Daniel said. “Besides, we’ll never spend a hundred thousand dollars. At the same time, it’s good to know it’s there just in case. Let’s get busy!”
   “I already started the fibroblast culture with the skin biopsy.”
   “Excellent,” Daniel said, as his exuberance of that morning began to return. Even his skin color improved. “I’ll get cracking and find out what I can about the Wingate Clinic.”
   “Sounds good!” Stephanie said. She started for the door. “I’ll be back in about an hour.”
   “Where are you going?”
   “The bookstore downtown,” Stephanie called over her shoulder. She hesitated at the threshold. “They are holding a book for me. After I got the tissue culture started, I began looking into the Shroud of Turin issue. I have to say, I lucked out in our division of labor. The shroud is turning out to be much more interesting than I imagined.”
   “What did you find out?”
   “Just enough to hook me, but I’ll give you a full report in about twenty-four hours.”
   Daniel smiled, flashed Stephanie a thumbs-up, and turned back to his computer screen. He used a search engine to bring up a list of infertility clinics and found the Wingate Clinic’s website. A few clicks later, he was connected.
   He scrolled through the first few pages. As expected, it was composed of laudatory material to entice would-be clients. Under a section labeled MEET OUR STAFF, he made a brief side trip to read the professional resumes of the principals, which included the founder and CEO, Dr. Spencer Wingate; the head of Research and Laboratory Services, Dr. Paul Saunders; and the head of Clinical Services, Dr. Sheila Donaldson. The resumes were as glowing as the descriptions of the clinic itself, although in Daniel’s opinion, all three individuals had attended second-tier or even third-tier schools and training programs.
   At the bottom of the page, he found what he wanted—a phone number. There was also an email address, but Daniel wanted to talk directly with one of the principals, either Wingate or Saunders. Picking up the phone, Daniel dialed the number. The call was answered quickly by a pleasant-sounding operator who launched into a short, rote eulogy of the clinic before asking with whom Daniel wished to be connected.
   “Dr. Wingate,” Daniel said. He decided he might as well start at the top.
   There was another short pause before Daniel was connected to an equally pleasant-sounding woman. She politely asked for Daniel’s name before committing whether Dr. Wingate was available. When Daniel mentioned his name, the response was immediate.
   “Is this Dr. Daniel Lowell of Harvard University?”
   Daniel paused momentarily, as he tried to decide how to respond. “I have been at Harvard, although at the moment I am with my own firm.”
   “I’ll get Dr. Wingate for you,” the secretary said. “I know he’s been waiting to talk with you.”
   After a sustained blink of disbelief, Daniel pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it momentarily, as if it could explain the secretary’s unexpected response. How could Spencer Wingate be waiting to talk with him? Daniel shook his head.
   “Good afternoon, Dr. Lowell!” a voice responded with a clipped New England accent a full octave higher than Daniel would have expected. “I’m Spencer Wingate, and I’m pleased to hear from you. We expected your call last week, but no matter. Would you mind waiting momentarily while I get Dr. Saunders on the line? It will take a minute, but we might as well make this a conference call, since I know Dr. Saunders is as eager to talk with you as I.”
   “Fine,” Daniel said agreeably, although his bewilderment was deepening. He leaned back in his chair, lifted his feet onto his desk, and switched the phone to his left hand so he could use his right to drum a pencil on his desk. He’d been caught totally unawares by Spencer Wingate’s response to his call and felt a twinge of anxiety. He kept hearing Stephanie’s admonitions about getting involved with these infamous infertility mavericks.
   A minute dragged on to five. Just when Daniel had recovered his equilibrium enough to question if he’d been inadvertently disconnected, Spencer popped back on the line. He was slightly out of breath. “Okay, I’m back! How about you, Paul? Are you on?”
   “I’m here,” Paul said, apparently using an extension in another room. In contrast to Spencer’s voice, Paul’s was rather deep, with a distinct Midwestern nasal twang. “I’m pleased to talk with you, Daniel, if I may call you that.”
   “If you wish,” Daniel said. “Whatever suits you.”
   “Thank you. And please call me Paul. No need for formalities between friends and colleagues. Let me say right off how much I am looking forward to working with you.”
   “That’s my sentiment as well,” Spencer declared. “Heck! The whole clinic is eager. How soon can we expect you?”
   “Well, that’s one of the reasons I’m calling,” Daniel said vaguely, struggling to be diplomatic, but intensely curious. “But first I’d like to ask how it is that you expected me to call?”
   “From your scout or whatever his job title might be,” Spencer answered. “What was his name again, Paul?”
   “Marlowe,” Paul said.
   “Right! Bob Marlowe,” Spencer said. “After he finished checking out our facility, he said you’d be contacting us the following week. Needless to say, we were disappointed when we didn’t hear from you. But that’s water under the bridge now that you have called.”
   “We’re delighted you want to use our facility,” Paul said. “It will be an honor to work with you. Now I hope you don’t mind me speculating about what you have in mind, because Bob Marlowe was vague, but I’m assuming you want to try your ingenious HTSR on a patient. I mean, why else would you want to forsake your own lab and those great hospitals you have in Boston. Am I correct in this assumption?”
   “How do you know about HTSR?” Daniel asked. He wasn’t sure he wanted to admit to his motivations so early in the conversation.
   “We read your outstanding paper in Nature,” Paul said. “It was brilliant, simply brilliant. Its overall importance to bioscience reminded me of my own paper, “In Vitro Maturation of Human Oocytes.” Did you happen to read it?”
   “Not yet,” Daniel responded, forcing himself to continue to be tactful. “What journal was it in?”
   “The Journal of Twenty-first Century Reproductive Technology,” Spencer said.
   “That’s a journal I’m not familiar with,” Daniel responded. “Who publishes it?”
   “We do,” Paul said proudly. “Right here at the Wingate Clinic. We’re as committed to research as we are to clinical services.”
   Daniel rolled his eyes. Lacking peer review, scientific self-publishing was an oxymoron, and he was impressed with the accuracy of Butler’s capsule description of these two men.
   “HTSR has never been used on a human,” Daniel said, still avoiding answering Paul’s question.
   “We understand that,” Spencer interjected. “And that’s one of many reasons why we would be thrilled to have it done here first. Being on the cutting edge is precisely the kind of reputation Wingate Clinic is striving to establish.”
   “The FDA would frown on performing an experimental procedure outside of an approved protocol,” Daniel said. “They would never give approval.”
   “Of course they wouldn’t approve,” Spencer agreed. “And we should know.” He laughed, and Paul chimed in as well. “But here in the Bahamas, there’s no need for the FDA to know, since they have no jurisdiction.”

   “If I were to do HTSR on a human, it would have to be in absolute secrecy,” Daniel said, finally indirectly acknowledging his plans. “It cannot be divulged and obviously could not be used for your promotional purposes.”
   “We are fully aware of that,” Paul said. “Spencer was not implying we would use it right away.”
   “Heavens, no!” Spencer chirped. “I was thinking of using it only after it became mainstream.”
   “I would have to retain the right to determine when that might be,” Daniel said. “I will not even be using the episode to promote HTSR.”
   “No?” Paul questioned. “Then why do you want to do it?”
   “For purely personal reasons,” Daniel said. “I’m confident HTSR will work just as well with humans as it has with mice. But I need to prove it to myself with a patient to give me the fortitude to deal with the backlash I’m facing from the political right. I don’t know if you are aware, but I’m fighting a potential congressional ban on my procedure.”
   There was an awkward pause in the conversation. By demanding secrecy and taking away any potential advertising windfalls in the near future, Daniel was certain he’d negated one of the Wingate Clinic’s reasons to be cooperative. Frantically, he tried to think of a way to cushion the disappointment, and just a moment before he spoke up and possibly made things worse, Spencer broke the silence: “I suppose we can respect your need for secrecy. But if we were to get no promotional value from your collaboration with us in the near term, what kind of compensation do you have in mind for using our facility and services?”
   “We expect to pay,” Daniel said.
   There was another silence. Daniel felt a twinge of panic that the negotiations were not going well, raising the specter of losing the opportunity of using the Wingate Clinic for Butler’s treatment. Considering the time constraints, such a loss could be the death knell for the project. Daniel sensed he had to offer more. Remembering Butler’s assessment of Spencer and Paul’s vanities, he gritted his teeth and said: “Then, down the road, after the FDA approves HTSR for general use, we could all coauthor a paper on the case.”
   Daniel winced. The idea of coauthoring a paper with such bozos was a painful thought, even though he rationalized he could delay it indefinitely. But despite the offer, the silence persisted, and Daniel’s panic grew. Remembering his own response to Butler’s demand to use blood from the Shroud of Turin for the HTSR, he threw in that tidbit as well, explaining the patient had insisted on it. Daniel even proposed the same title he’d jokingly suggested to Stephanie.
   “Now that sounds like one hell of a paper!” Paul responded suddenly. “I love it! Where would we publish it?”
   “Wherever,” Daniel said vaguely. “Science or Nature. Wherever you’d like. I don’t imagine it would be difficult to place.”
   “Would HTSR work with blood from the Shroud of Turin?” Spencer asked. “As I recall, that thing is about five hundred years old.”
   “How about around two thousand years old?” Paul said.
   “Wasn’t it proved to be a medieval forgery?” Spencer questioned.
   “We’re not going to get involved in argument about its authenticity,” Daniel said. “For our purposes, it doesn’t matter. If the patient wants to believe it’s real, it’s fine with us.”
   “But would it work, as a practical matter?” Spencer asked again.
   “The DNA would be fragmented, whether it’s five hundred or two thousand years old,” Daniel said. “But that shouldn’t be a problem. We only need fragments, which our HTSR probes will seek out after PCR amplification. We’ll enzymatically patch together what we need for whole genes. It will work fine.”
   “What about The New England Journal of Medicine?” Paul suggested. “That would be a coup for the clinic! I’d love to get something into that highfalutin publication.”
   “Sure,” Daniel said, cringing at the idea. “Why not?”
   “I’m beginning to like it too,” Spencer said. “That’s the kind of article that would get picked up by the media like it was pure gold! It would be all over the newspapers. Hell, I can even see all the network anchors talking about it on the evening news.”
   “I’m sure you’re right,” Daniel said. “But remember, until the article comes out, there’s got to be absolute secrecy about the whole affair.”
   “We understand,” Spencer said.
   “How are you going to get a sample from the Shroud of Turin?” Paul asked. “I understand the Catholic Church has it locked up in a kind of space-age vault over there in Italy.”
   “We’re looking into that as we speak,” Daniel said. “We have been promised high-level clerical assistance.”
   “I’d think you’d have to know the Pope!” Paul commented.
   “Perhaps we should talk about costs,” Daniel said, eager to change the subject now that the crisis had been averted. “We don’t want any misunderstandings.”
   “What kind of services are we talking about?” Paul asked.
   “The patient we’ll be treating has Parkinson’s disease,” Daniel explained. “We will need a staffed OR and stereotaxic equipment for the implantation.”
   “We have the OR,” Paul said. “But not stereotaxic equipment.”
   “That’s not a problem,” Spencer said. “We can borrow it from Princess Margaret Hospital. The Bahamian government and the medical community on the island have been very supportive of our relocation. I’m sure they will be happy to help. We just won’t tell them what we’re going to do with it.”
   “We’ll need the services of a neurosurgeon,” Daniel said. “One who is capable of being discreet.”
   “I don’t think that will be a problem either,” Spencer said. “There are several on the island who are, in my opinion, un-derutilized. I’m sure we could make arrangements with one of them. I don’t know exactly how much he’d charge, but I can assure you, it will be a lot less than it would be in the States. My guess would be in the neighborhood of two or three hundred dollars.”
   “You don’t think the confidentiality issue will be problematic?” Daniel asked.
   “I don’t,” Spencer said. “They are all looking for work. With fewer tourists renting mopeds, head trauma has dropped off precipitously. I know, because two surgeons have come out to the clinic to leave their business cards.”
   “Sounds serendipitous,” Daniel said. “Other than that, all we need is space in your lab. I assume you have a lab to do your reproductive work.”
   “You will be amazed at our lab,” Paul said proudly. “It is state-of-the-art and a lot more than just an infertility lab! And in addition to myself, we have several talented technicians at your disposal who are experienced at nuclear transfer and who are eager to learn HTSR.”
   “We won’t need the assistance of any lab personnel,” Daniel said. “We’ll do our own cellular work. What we do need are human oocytes. Is it possible for you to supply them?”
   “Of course!” Paul said. “Oocytes are our specialty and soon to be our bread and butter. We’re intending to supply them for all of North America in the future. What is your time frame?”
   “As soon as possible,” Daniel said. “This might sound overly optimistic, but we’d like to be ready to implant in a month. We’re under a time constraint, with a short window of opportunity imposed by the patient volunteer.”
   “No problem on this end,” Paul said. “We can supply you with oocytes tomorrow!”
   “Really?” Daniel questioned. It seemed too good to be true.
   “We can get you oocytes whenever you want,” Paul said. Then he added with a laugh, “Even on holidays!”
   “I’m impressed,” Daniel said sincerely. “And relieved. I was worried that procuring oocytes might hold us up. But that brings us back to costs.”
   “Except for the oocytes, we have no experience what to charge,” Spencer said. “To tell you the truth, we never anticipated someone using our clinic. Let’s make it simple—how about twenty thousand for using the operating room, including its staff, and twenty thousand for the lab flat rate.”
   “Fine,” Daniel said. “What about the oocytes?”
   “Five hundred a pop,” Paul said. “And we guarantee at least five divisions with each one or we replace it.”
   “That sounds fair,” Daniel said. “But they have to be fresh!”
   “They will be as fresh as a daisy,” Paul said. “When can we expect you?”
   “I’ll get back to you either later today or tonight,” Daniel said. “Or, at the latest, by tomorrow. We really have to get moving on this.”
   “We’ll be here,” Spencer said.
   Daniel slowly replaced the telephone receiver. When it was safely in its cradle, he let out a whoop. He had a strong feeling, despite the recent setbacks, that CURE, HTSR, and his own destiny were back on track!

   Dr. Spencer Wingate had left his tanned hand on the telephone receiver after hanging up while his mind mulled over the conversation he’d just had with Dr. Daniel Lowell. It had not gone as he’d imagined or hoped, and he was disappointed. When the issue of the famous researcher wanting to use the Wingate Clinic had unexpectedly surfaced two weeks previously, he’d thought it providential since they’d just opened their doors after eight months of construction and confusion. In his mind, a professional association with a man who Paul said might win a Nobel Prize would have been a superb way to announce to the world that the Wingate was back in business after the regrettable fracas in Massachusetts the previous May. But as things stood, there could be no announcement. Forty thousand dollars might be nice, but it was a mere pittance in comparison to the money they had just spent getting the clinic built and equipped.
   Spencer’s office door, which had been slightly ajar from when Spencer had recently rushed back in from locating his second-in-command, was pushed open to its full extent. Filling the doorway was Dr. Paul Saunders’s short, square frame. A broad smile displayed his equally square, widely spaced teeth. He obviously did not share Spencer’s disappointment.
   “Can you imagine?” Paul blurted. “We’re going to have a paper in the New England Journal of Medicine!” He threw himself into a chair facing Spencer’s desk and punched the air with upraised fists like he’d just won a stage of the Tour de France. “And what a paper: ‘The Wingate Clinic, the Shroud of Turin, and HTSR Combine for the First Cure of Parkinson’s Disease.’ It’s going to be fantastic! People will be beating a path to our door!”
   Spencer leaned back and put his hands with fingers intertwined behind his head. He regarded the head of research, a title Paul had insisted upon, with a degree of condescension. Paul was a hard worker with vision, but he could be overly enthusiastic, and he lacked the practicality necessary to run a business properly. In the clinic’s previous incarnation in Massachusetts, he’d practically run it into the ground financially. Had Spencer not mortgaged the clinic to the hilt and socked away most of the clinic’s assets offshore, they wouldn’t have survived.
   “What makes you so sure there will be a paper?” Spencer asked.
   Paul’s face clouded over. “What are you talking about? We just discussed it on the phone, title and all, with Daniel. He’s the one who suggested it.”
   “He suggested it, but how can we be sure it will happen? I agree, it would be great if it did, but he could just put it off indefinitely.”
   “Why the hell would he do that?”
   “I don’t know, but for some reason secrecy’s high on his list, and a paper would destroy that. He’s not going to want to write a paper, at least not soon enough for us, and if we went ahead and did it without him, he’d probably just deny any involvement in the case. If that happened, no one would publish it.”
   “You’ve got a point,” Paul agreed.
   The two men eyed each other across the expanse of Spencer’s desk. A jet on its final approach to Nassau International Airport thundered overhead. The clinic was sited just west of the airport, on dry, scrubby land. It was the only place they could reasonably buy adequate acreage and fence it in appropriately.
   “Do you think he was being straight about using the Shroud of Turin?” Paul asked.
   “I don’t know that either,” Spencer said. “It sounds a bit fishy to me, if you know what I mean.”
   “On the contrary, the concept sounded intriguing to me.”
   “Don’t get me wrong,” Spencer said. “The idea is interesting and certainly would make a damn good scientific paper and international news story, but when you put it all together, including the secrecy issue, there’s something decidedly dubious involved. I mean, did you buy his explanation when you asked him why he was going to all this trouble?”
   “You mean about his wanting to prove HTSR to himself?”
   “Precisely.”
   “Not completely, although it is true that the U.S. Congress is thinking of banning HTSR. And now that you’ve got me thinking, he did accept the fees you suggested a bit too quickly, as if the price didn’t matter.”
   “I couldn’t agree more,” Spencer said. “I had no idea how much to ask to use our facilities, and I just pulled some figures out of the air and expected him to come back with a counteroffer. Hell, I should have asked for twice as much, as quickly as he agreed.”
   “So, what is your take?”
   “I think the identity of the patient is the issue,” Spencer said. “That’s the only thing that comes to mind that makes sense.”
   “Like who?”
   “I don’t know,” Spencer said. “But if I were forced to guess, my first thought would be a family member. My second guess would be someone wealthy, someone very wealthy and possibly famous and wealthy, which is where I’d put my money!”
   “Wealthy!” Paul repeated. A slight smile appeared on his face. “A cure could be worth millions.”
   “Exactly, which is why I think we should proceed with the rich-and-famous hypothesis. After all, why should Daniel Lowell potentially get millions while we get a paltry forty thousand!”
   “Which means we have to find out the identity of this patient volunteer.”
   “I was hoping you’d see this affair from my perspective. I was afraid you might feel it was worth it just to work with this renowned researcher.”
   “Hell, no!” Paul snapped. “Not when we can’t get the promotional benefits we expected. He’s even implied we’re not going to get hands-on instruction in HTSR when he said he’d be doing his own cellular work. Originally, I thought that was a given. I still want to learn the procedure, though, so when he calls back, mention that that has to be part of the package.”
   “I’ll be happy to tell him,” Spencer said. “I’m also going to tell him we want half of the money up front.”
   “Tell him we also want special consideration in the future on licensing HTSR.”
   “That’s a good idea,” Spencer said. “I’ll see what I can do about essentially renegotiating our deal without upping the cash. I don’t want to scare him off. Meanwhile, how about you taking responsibility for trying to find the identity of the patient? That’s a kind of activity you are better at than I.”
   “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
   “It was meant as a compliment.”
   Paul stood up. “I’ll get Kurt Hermann, our security chief, right on it. He loves this kind of assignment.”
   “Tell the dishonorably discharged Green Beret, or whatever the hell he was, to kill as few people as possible. After all this investment and effort, let’s not wear out our welcome on the island.”
   Paul laughed. “He’s really very careful and conservative.”
   “That’s not my take,” Spencer said. He held up his hands to ward off an argument. “I don’t think the whores on Okinawa he knocked off would call him conservative, and he was a bit heavy-handed up in Massachusetts in our employ, but we’ve been over this. I admit he’s good at what he does, otherwise he wouldn’t still be on the staff. Just humor me and tell him to be discreet! That’s all I ask.”
   “I’ll be happy to tell him.” Paul stood up. “But remember, since none of us, including Kurt, can go back to the States, he probably won’t be able to accomplish much until Daniel, his team, and the patient get here.”
   “I don’t expect miracles,” Spencer said.

Seven

   4:45 P.M., Friday, February 22, 2002
   The sawtooth spires of the Manhattan skyline were silhouetted against the darkening midwinter sky as the Washington—New York shuttle descended in its final approach to LaGuardia Airport. The lights of the sprawling, pulsating city sparkled like so many jewels in the gathering gloom. Those of the many suspension bridges appeared like necklaces of illuminated pearls slung between the soaring stanchions. The undulating rows of headlights on the FDR Drive resembled strings of diamonds, while the taillights suggested rubies. A gaily bedecked cruise ship looked like a brooch, as it silently slid into a docking on the Hudson River.
   Carol Manning turned from staring out the window at the inspiring scene to glance around the interior of the plane. There was no conversation. Oblivious to the majestic vista, the commuters were all absorbed by their newspapers, work documents, or laptops. Her eyes wandered to the senator seated in her row on the aisle one seat away. Like the other passengers, he was reading. His bulky hands gripped the stack of memoranda concerning the following day’s agenda he’d snatched from Dawn Shackelton as he and Carol had bolted from the office in hopes of catching the three-thirty shuttle flight. They’d made it with seconds to spare.
   At Ashley’s insistence, Carol had phoned one of the cardinal’s personal secretaries that morning to set up an impromptu meeting that afternoon. She was instructed to say it concerned an urgent matter but would only take fifteen minutes at most. Father Maloney had said he’d see what he could do since the cardinal’s schedule was full, but he’d called back within the hour to say that the cardinal could see the senator sometime between five-thirty and six-thirty, following a formal reception for a visiting Italian cardinal and before a dinner with the mayor. Carol had said they’d be there.
   Under the circumstances of having to run for the plane and worrying about the potential New York City traffic, Carol couldn’t help but be impressed with Ashley’s apparent equanimity. Of course, he had her to do his worrying for him, but had their roles been reversed and she had been facing what he was potentially facing, she would have been inordinately anxious, to the point of finding concentration difficult. But certainly not Ashley! Despite a slight tremor the individual pages of his memoranda were being rapidly scanned and flipped back in swift succession, suggesting his legendary reading speed had not suffered due to his illness or to the events of the previous twenty-four hours.
   Carol cleared her throat. “Senator, the more I think about this current affair, the more surprised I am that you haven’t asked my opinion. You ask my opinion about most everything else.”
   Ashley turned his head and gazed at Carol over the tops of his heavy-rimmed glasses that had slid down to perch on the very tip of his nose. His broad forehead was wrinkled condescendingly. “Carol, dearest,” he began. “You do not have to tell me your opinion. As I indicated last evening, I am already well aware of it.”
   “Then I hope you are aware that I think you will be taking too big a risk with this supposed treatment.”
   “I appreciate your solicitousness, no matter what the motivation, but my mind is firm.”
   “You’re allowing yourself to be experimented upon. You have no idea what the outcome will be.”
   “It may be true that I do not know the outcome for sure, but it is also true that if I were to do nothing in the face of my progressive, otherwise incurable neurological degenerative disease, I know exactly what the outcome would be. My daddy preached that the Good Lord helps those who help themselves. All my life I have been a fighter, and I am surely not going to stop now. I am not going out with a whimper. I will be kicking and screaming like a bagged polecat.”
   “What if the cardinal were to tell you what you are planning is inadvisable?”
   “Such a response is hardly likely, since I have no intention in the slightest of informing the cardinal of my intentions.”
   “Then why are we coming here?” Carol said in a tone that was close to anger. “I was hoping His Eminence could appeal to your better judgment during your discussions.”
   “We are not making this pilgrimage to the seat of North American Catholic continental power for counsel but rather merely to arrange for a piece of the Shroud of Turin as a hopeful hedge against the uncertainties of my therapy.”
   “But how do you intend to get access to the shroud without explaining why?”
   Ashley held up one of his hands like an orator quieting an unruly crowd. “Enough, my dear Carol, lest your presence be more of a burden than assistance.” He shifted his attention back to his papers as the plane headed for landing.
   A flush of heat spread across Carol’s face at being summarily dismissed. Such degrading treatment was becoming all too common, as was her associated irritation. Concerned her feelings would be apparent, she faced back out the window.
   As the plane moved toward the gate, Carol kept her attention directed outside the aircraft. Up close, New York was no longer jewellike, thanks to a smattering of litter and scattered piles of dirty snow lining the taxiway. As befitted the dark, bleak scene, she fretted about her conflicting emotions and her guilt concerning Ashley’s plan to deal with his infirmity. On the one hand, she was legitimately fearful of its experimental nature, while on the other hand, she thought the therapy might work. Although her initial reaction to Ashley’s diagnosis had been appropriate sympathy, over the course of the year she’d come to see it also as her opportunity. Now the fear of a bad outcome competed equally with the fear of a good one, even though she had trouble admitting it to herself. In some sense, she felt like a Brutus to Ashley’s Caesar.
   The transition from the plane to the limo, which Carol had arranged, was effortless. But forty-five minutes later, they were bogged down in a sea of cars on the FDR Drive, whose flow of traffic had come to a halt since they’d passed overhead in the plane.
   Aggravated at the delay, Ashley tossed his pages that he’d been studying aside and switched off the reading light. The sedan’s interior reverted to darkness. “We are going to miss our window of opportunity,” he growled in a voice devoid of accent.
   “I’m sorry,” Carol offered, as if it were her fault.
   Miraculously, after five minutes at a dead stop and a number of expletives from Ashley, the traffic began to move once again. “Thank the Good Lord for small favors,” Ashley intoned.
   By exiting at Ninety-sixth Street, the driver skillfully used a back route to head downtown and was able to deposit the senator and his aide at the archbishop’s residence on the corner of Madison and Fiftieth Street four minutes before the scheduled meeting interval. The driver was instructed to circle the block, as they planned to be on their way back to the airport within the hour.
   Carol had never been to the residence. She eyed the non-imposing three-story, gray-stone, slate-shingled house that huddled in the shadow of the city’s skyscrapers. It rose up from the sidewalk’s edge without a strip of grass to soften its severity. A few prosaic window air conditioners blemished its façade, as did heavy iron bars on the ground floor. The bars gave the building the appearance of a small jail rather than a residence. A glimpse of Belgian lace behind one of the windows was the sole softening touch.
   Ashley mounted the stone steps and gave the polished brass bell a pull. They didn’t have to wait long. The heavy door was opened by a tall, gaunt priest with a strikingly Roman nose and red hair cropped short. He was dressed in a priestly black suit with a white clerical collar.
   “Good afternoon, Senator.”
   “And to you as well, Father Maloney,” Ashley said while entering. “I hope our timing is opportune.”
   “Most decidedly,” Father Maloney answered. “I am to deposit you and your aide in His Eminence’s private study. He will be joining you momentarily.”
   The study was a spartanly furnished room on the first floor. The decoration was a formal framed photo of Pope John Paul II and a small statue of the Holy Mother carved in pure white Carrara marble. The hardwood floor was without carpet, and Carol’s shoes clicked loudly against the varnished surface. Father Maloney silently withdrew and closed the door behind him.
   “Rather austere,” Carol remarked. The only furniture was a small, aged leather couch, a matching leather chair, a priedieu, and a small desk with a straight-backed wooden chair.
   “The cardinal would like his visitors to believe he is not interested in the material world,” Ashley said, as he lowered himself into the cracked leather chair. “But I know better.”
   Carol sat stiffly on the edge of the couch with her legs tucked to the side. Ashley sat back as if he were visiting a relative. He crossed his legs to reveal a black sock and a patch of pasty white calf.
   A moment later, the door reopened and in walked the Most Reverend James Cardinal O’Rourke followed by Father Maloney, who closed the door behind them. The cardinal was dressed in full regalia. Over black pants and white neckband shirt, he wore a black cassock enhanced with cardinal red piping and buttons. Over the cassock was an open, scarlet cape. Cinched around his waist was a broad scarlet sash. On his head was a cardinal-red zucchetto skullcap. Around his neck hung a bejeweled silver cross.
   Carol and Ashley rose to their feet. Carol was taken by the spectacle of the cardinal’s sumptuous attire, accentuated by the harshness of the room. But once standing, she realized the powerful prelate was shorter than her own five-foot-six, and next to Ashley, who was by no means tall, he appeared decidedly short and plump. Despite his regal trappings, his benignly smiling face suggested a humble priest with soft, blemish-free turgid skin, shiny red cheeks, and rounded pleasant features. His sharp eyes, however, told a different story and one more consistent with what Carol knew of the powerful prelate. They reflected a formidable and canny intelligence.
   “Senator,” the cardinal said, in a voice that matched his projected gentle demeanor. He extended his hand with a limp wrist.
   “Your Eminence,” Ashley said, marshaling his most cordial Southern accent. He gave the cardinal’s hand more of a squeeze than a shake, purposefully avoiding kissing the prelate’s ring. “Such a pleasure indeed. Knowing full well the press of your engagements, I am so very appreciative of your finding time to meet with this country boy on such short notice.”
   “Oh, hush, Senator,” the cardinal scoffed. “It is a treat, as always, to see you. Please sit down.”
   Ashley reclaimed his seat and assumed his previous posture.
   Carol flushed anew. Being ignored was as embarrassing as being dismissed. She’d fully expected to be introduced, especially when the cardinal’s eyes darted across her face accompanied by a slight, questioning lift to his eyebrows. She sank back to a sitting position as the cardinal carried over the rough-hewn chair from the small desk. Father Maloney stood silently by the door.
   “In deference to our schedules,” Ashley began, “I do believe I should come right to the point.”
   Feeling strangely invisible, Carol eyed the two men seated beside her. All at once, she recognized their similarities of character, despite their differences in appearance and beyond their hardworking, demanding natures. Both found blurring the lines between church and state to be to their respective advantage; both were adept at flattery and cultivating personal relationships with whom they could trade favors in their respective arenas; both hid personalities that were tough, calculating, and iron-willed behind their outward personas (the humble priest for the cardinal and the cordial, ingenuous country boy for the senator); and both guarded their authority zealously and were infatuated with the exercise of power.
   “It is always best to be direct,” James said. He sat upright with his pudgy hands cupping his zucchetto, which he had removed from his mostly bald head.
   Carol had the image of two fencing combatants warily circling.
   “It has distressed me to no end to see the Catholic Church so beleaguered,” Ashley continued. “This current sex scandal has taken a toll, particularly with division in her own ranks and an ailing, aged leader in Rome. I have lain awake at night wrestling with a way I might be of service.”
   Carol had to keep from rolling her eyes. She knew all too well the senator’s real feelings about the Catholic Church. As a Congregationalist and fundamentalist, he had little regard for any hierarchical religion, and in his mind the Catholic Church was the most hierarchical.
   “I appreciate your empathy,” James said, “and I have had similar distress about the U.S. Congress following the tragedy of September eleventh. I too have struggled with how best I could help.”
   “Your moral leadership is a constant aid,” Ashley said.
   “I would like to do more,” James said.
   “My concern for the church is that a relatively few priests with arrested psychosexual development have been able to put the entire philanthropic organization in financial jeopardy. What I would sincerely like to propose for a small favor in return is to introduce legislation to limit tort liability for recognized charities, of which the Catholic Church is a shining example.”
   For a few minutes, silence reigned in the room. For the first time, Carol became aware of the ticking of a small clock on the desk as well as the muted sounds of the traffic on Madison Avenue. She watched the cardinal’s face. His expression did not change.
   “Such legislation would be a great help in this current crisis,” James said finally.
   “As egregious as each individual episode of sexual abuse is for the victim, we should not victimize all those souls dependent on the church for their health, educational, and spiritual needs. As my mama used to say—we should not throw out the baby with the dirty bathwater.”
   “What is the chance of such legislation passing?”
   “With my full backing, which I certainly would give it, I would estimate it would have a better than even chance. As for the President, I think he would be happy to sign it into law. He is a man of great faith, with a strong belief in the need for religious charities.”
   “I’m sure the Holy Father would be grateful for your support.”
   “I am a servant of the people,” Ashley said. “All races and all religions.”
   “You mentioned a small favor,” James said. “Is this something I should know about now?”
   “Oh, it is a small thing,” Ashley said. “Something more for my mama’s memory. My mama was Catholic. Did I ever mention that?”
   “I don’t think you have,” James said.

   Carol was again reminded of the image of two fencers parrying and riposting.
   “Catholic as the day is long,” Ashley said. “She was from the old country just outside Dublin and a very religious woman indeed.”
   “I assume from your syntax she has gone to her Maker.”
   “Unfortunately, yes,” Ashley said. He hesitated for a moment, as if choked up. “Quite a few years ago, bless her soul, when I was just knee-high to a grasshopper.”
   This was a story Carol knew. One night after a lengthy session of the Senate, she’d gone out to a Capitol Hill bar with the senator. After a number of bourbons, the senator had become particularly loquacious and had told the sad story of his mother. She had died when Ashley was nine as the consequence of a septic backroom abortion that she’d had rather than a tenth child. The irony was that she feared she’d die during childbirth because of complications during the birth of her ninth child. Ashley’s fire-and-brimstone father had been outraged and had told the family and his congregation that the woman had been damned to hell for all eternity.
   “Would you want me to say a Mass for her soul?” James questioned.
   “That would be very generous,” Ashley said, “but it is not quite what I had in mind. To this day, I can remember sitting on her knee and listening to all the wonderful things she told me about the Catholic Church. And I particularly remember what she told me about the miraculous Shroud of Turin, which she held dear to her heart.”
   For the first time, the cardinal’s expression changed. It was a subtle change, but Carol could tell it was definitely of surprise.
   “The shroud is considered a most sacred relic,” James said.
   “I would not assume anything less,” Ashley responded.
   “The Holy Father himself has said off the record that he believes it to be the shroud of Jesus Christ.”
   “I am glad to hear my mother’s beliefs being so confirmed,” Ashley said. “In full recognition of my mother’s pivotal role, I have been a minor student of the shroud all these years. I happen to know that a number of samples were taken from it, some used for testing and some not. I also happen to know that those samples not used were called back by the church after the results of the carbon dating. What I would like to have is a tiny”—Ashley pinched his thumb and forefinger together for emphasis—“tiny sample of blood-soaked fiber that had been called back.”
   The cardinal leaned back in his chair. He briefly exchanged glances with Father Maloney. “This is a very unusual request,” he said. “However, the church has been very clear on this subject. There is to be no more scientific testing of the shroud, other than to insure its conservancy.”
   “I have no interest in testing the shroud,” Ashley stated categorically.
   “Then why do you want this tiny, tiny sample?”
   “For my mama,” Ashley said simply. “I would sincerely like to place it within the urn that holds her ashes the next time I am back home, so her remains could mingle with the Heavenly Host. Her urn stands next to my daddy’s on the mantel in the old homestead.”
   Carol had to suppress a scornful laugh at how easily and convincingly the senator could lie. On the same night the senator had told her the story of his poor mother, he said that his father would not allow her to be buried in his church’s cemetery, necessitating her burial in the town’s potter’s field.
   “I believe,” Ashley added, “that if she could have one wish, this would be it, to help her immortal soul gain entrance into everlasting paradise.”
   James looked up at Father Maloney. “I don’t know anything about these recalled samples. Do you?”
   “No, Your Eminence,” Father Maloney said. “But I could find out. Archbishop Manfredi, whom you know well, has been installed in Turin. And Monsignor Garibaldi, who I know well, is there also.”
   The cardinal looked back at Ashley. “You would be happy with just a few fibers?”
   “That is all I ask,” Ashley said. “Although I should add that I would like them just as soon as possible, since I will be planning a trip home in the very near future.”
   “If this tiny sample of fiber were to be made available, how would we get them to you?”
   “I would immediately dispatch an agent to Turin,” Ashley said. “It is not the type of thing I would trust to the mail or any commercial carrier.”
   “We’ll see what we can do,” James said, as he got to his feet. “And I assume you will introduce the suggested legislation soon.”
   Ashley got to his feet as well. “Monday morning, Your Eminence, provided I hear from you by then.”

   Stairs were a distinct effort for the cardinal, and he took them slowly, pausing frequently to catch his breath. The main problem with wearing his formal regalia was that he felt restricted with so many layers and frequently became overheated, especially when climbing the stairs to his private quarters. Father Maloney was right behind him, and when the cardinal stopped, he stopped as well.
   Holding on to the banister with one hand, the cardinal leaned his other arm on his raised knee. He exhaled through pale, puffed-up cheeks and ran a hand across his brow. There was an elevator, but he avoided it as a kind of penance.
   “Is there something I can get for you, Your Eminence?” Father Maloney questioned. “I could bring it down to spare your climbing these steep steps. It has been a strenuous afternoon.”
   “Thank you, Michael,” James said. “But I must freshen up if I am to last through the dinner with the mayor and our visiting cardinal.”
   “When do you want me to contact Turin?” Father Maloney asked, to take advantage of the moment.
   “Tonight after midnight,” James said between breaths. “That will be six in the morning their time, and you should be able to catch them before Mass.”
   “It is a surprising request if I may say so, Your Eminence.”
   “Indeed! Surprising and curious! If the senator’s information about the samples is correct, which I would be surprised if it weren’t, knowing what I do of the man, it should be an easy request to fulfill since it obviates the need to touch the shroud itself. But in your conversations with Turin, be sure to emphasize that the affair is to be completely sub rose. There should be strict confidentiality and absolutely no documentation whatsoever. Am I clear?”
   “Perfectly clear,” Michael said. “Are you questioning the senator’s purported use of the samples, Your Eminence?”
   “That is my only concern,” James said, with a final deep breath. He recommenced slowly mounting the stairs. “The senator is a master of bargaining. I am certain he would not want the sample to do any unauthorized testing, but he may be exchanging favors with someone who is interested in testing. The Holy Father has decreed ex cathedra that the shroud should not be subjected to any more scientific indignity, and I am in full agreement. But beyond that, I believe it is a noble cause to exchange a few of the sacred fibers for a chance to ensure the economic viability of the church. Do you agree, Father?”
   “Most assuredly.”
   They reached the top of the stairs, and the cardinal paused again to catch his breath.
   “Do you feel confident the senator will do what he proposes concerning the legislation, Your Eminence?”
   “Absolutely,” James said without hesitation. “The senator always fulfills his side of a bargain. As an example, he has been instrumental in the school voucher program that is going to save our parochial schools. In exchange, I saw that he got the Catholic vote in his last reelection. It was, as they say, a clear win-win situation. But this current exchange is not quite so clear. Consequently, if it is to be arranged, as added insurance, I want you to go to Turin to see who takes possession of the sample and then follow the sample to see to whom it is delivered. In that way, we will be able to anticipate any potentially negative fallout.”
   “Your Eminence! I cannot think of a more pleasant assignment.”
   “Father Maloney!” the cardinal snapped. “This is a serious commission and not one meant for your enjoyment. I expect absolute discretion and commitment.”
   “Of course, Your Eminence! I did not mean to imply anything less.”

Eight

   7:25 P.M., Friday, February 22, 2002
   “Oh, jeez!” Stephanie mumbled out loud after glancing at her watch. It was almost seven-thirty! It was amazing to her how time could fly when she was absorbed, and she’d been absorbed all afternoon. First, she’d been captivated at the bookstore with the books about the Shroud of Turin, and for the last hour, she’d been mesmerized by what she was learning sitting in front of the computer.
   She had returned to the office just before six to find it empty. Assuming Daniel had gone home, she had sat down at her makeshift desk in the lab, and with the help of the Internet and a few newspapers’ archives, she had involved herself in finding out what had happened to the Wingate Clinic a little less than a year previously. It had been engrossing if disturbing reading.
   Stephanie slid her laptop into its soft case, grabbed the plastic bag from the bookstore, and pulled on her coat. At the lab door she killed the lights, which then required her blindly to make her way across the already darkened reception area. Once outside on the street, she turned toward Kendall Square. She walked with her head bent over against the biting wind. Typical of New England weather, there had been a marked change from earlier in the afternoon. With the wind now coming from the north instead of the west, the temperature had plummeted into the mid-twenties from the relatively balmy upper forties. Along with the north wind came snow flurries that had coated the city as if it had been dusted with confectioners’ sugar.
   At Kendall Square, Stephanie caught the Red Line subway out to Harvard Square, familiar territory from her university years. As usual and despite the weather, the square was alive with students and the rabble that gravitates to such an environment. Even a few street musicians had braved the harsh weather. With blue fingers, they serenaded the passersby. Stephanie felt sorry enough for them to leave a train of dollar bills in their upturned hats as she passed from Harvard Square through Eliot Square.
   The lights and bustle of the honky-tonk quickly dropped behind as Stephanie trudged out Brattle Street. She passed through a section of Radcliffe College as well as the celebrated Longfellow House. But she was unmoved by her surroundings. Instead, she mused about what she had learned over the previous three and a half hours and was eager to share it with Daniel. She was also interested to hear what he had found out.
   It was after eight by the time she mounted the front steps of Daniel’s condominium building. He occupied the top floor unit of a converted three-story late-Victorian house complete with all the trimmings, including elaborate bargeboard. He had bought the condo in 1985 when he had returned to academia at Harvard. It had been a big year for Daniel. Not only had he left his job at Merck pharmaceuticals; he had also left his wife of five years. He had explained to Stephanie that he had felt stifled by both. His wife had been a nurse whom he met while doing his combined medical residency and Ph.D., a feat Stephanie equated to running back-to-back marathons. He had told Stephanie that his ex-wife was a plodder and that being married to her had made him feel like Sisyphus, constantly rolling a rock up a hill. He had also said that she had been too nice and had expected him to be the same. Stephanie had not known what to make of either explanation, but she did not press the issue. She was thankful they had not had any children, which apparently the former wife had desperately wanted.
   “I’m home!” Stephanie shouted, after pressing the apartment’s door closed with her rear end. Balancing her laptop bag and book bag on the tiny foyer table, Stephanie got out of her coat and opened the closet door to hang it up.
   “Is anybody here?” she yelled, although her voice was muffled from being directed into the closet. When she was finished with her coat, she turned around. She started to yell again, but Daniel’s form filling the entrance to the hall startled her. He was no more than several feet away. The noise that issued from her lips was more of a peep than anything else.
   “Where the hell have you been?” Daniel demanded. “Do you know what time it is?”
   “It’s around eight,” Stephanie managed. She pressed a hand to her chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
   “Why didn’t you phone? I was about to call the police.”
   “Oh, come on! You know me and bookstores. I went to more than one and got caught up. In both places, I ended up sprawled out in the aisle, reading and trying to decide what to buy. Then, when I got back to the office, I wanted to take advantage of the broadband.”
   “How come you didn’t have your cell phone on? I’ve tried to call you a dozen times.”
   “Because I was in a bookstore and when I got to the office, it didn’t cross my mind. Hey! I’m sorry if you were concerned about me, okay? But now I’m home, safe and sound. What did you make for dinner?”
   “Very funny,” Daniel growled.
   “Ease up!” Stephanie said, giving Daniel’s sleeve a playful tug. “I appreciate your concern, really I do, but I’m starved and you must be too. How about we head back to the square for dinner. Why don’t you call the Rialto while I jump in the shower. It’s Friday night, but by the time we get there, we shouldn’t have a problem.”
   “All right,” Daniel said reluctantly, as if he were agreeing to some major undertaking.
   It wasn’t until nine-twenty that they walked into the Rialto restaurant, and just as Stephanie predicted, there was a table ready and waiting. Since they were both famished, they immediately studied the menu and quickly ordered. At their request, the waiter promptly brought out their wine and sparkling water to slake their thirst and bread to take the edge off their hunger.
   “All right,” Stephanie said, sitting back in her chair. “Who wants to talk first?”
   “It might as well be me,” Daniel said. “Because I don’t have a lot to report, but what I do have is encouraging. I telephoned the Wingate Clinic, which sounds to me to be well equipped for our needs, and they will let us use their facilities. In fact, I’ve already agreed on the price—forty thousand.”
   “Whoa!” Stephanie remarked.
   “Yeah, I know—it’s a bit high, but I was reluctant to bargain. Initially, after I informed them they would not be able to take advantage of our use of their facilities for promotional purposes, I was afraid all bets were off. Luckily, they came back around.”
   “Well, it’s not our money, and we certainly have enough. What about the oocyte issue?”
   “That’s the best part. I was told they can supply us with human oocytes without any problem whatsoever.”
   “When?”
   “They claim whenever we want.”
   “My goodness,” Stephanie said. “That certainly begs one’s curiosity.”
   “Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.”
   “What about a neurosurgeon?”
   “No problem there either. There are several on the island beating the bushes for work. The local hospital even has stereotaxic equipment.”
   “That is encouraging.”
   “I thought so.”
   “My news is good and bad. What do you want to hear first?”
   “How bad is bad?”
   “Everything is relative. It’s not bad enough to preclude what we are planning, but it is bad enough for us to be wary.”
   “Let’s hear the bad to get it over with.”
   “The principals at the Wingate Clinic are worse than I remembered. By the way, with whom did you speak when you called the clinic?”
   “Two of the principals—Spencer Wingate himself and his majordomo, Paul Saunders. And I must tell you, they are a couple of clowns. Imagine this—they publish their own supposed scientific journal, and the process of writing and editing only involves themselves!”
   “You mean there’s no editorial review board?”
   “That’s my impression.”
   “That’s laughable, unless someone subscribes to the journal and takes whatever’s in the journal as gospel.”
   “My thoughts exactly.”
   “Well, they are a lot worse than clowns,” Stephanie said. “And worse than just perpetrators of unethical reproductive cloning experiments. I used newspaper archives, particularly The Boston Globe’s, to read up on what happened last May when the clinic was suddenly moved offshore to the Bahamas. Remember I mentioned last night in Washington that they had been implicated in the disappearance of a couple of Harvard coeds? Well, it was a lot more than mere implication, according to a couple of extremely credible whistle-blowers who happen to have been Harvard Ph.D. candidates. They had managed to get jobs at the clinic to find out the fate of eggs they had donated. During their sleuthing, they found out a lot more than they had bargained for. At a grand jury hearing, they claimed to have seen the missing women’s ovaries in what they called the clinic’s ‘egg recovery room.’ ”
   “Good God!” Daniel said. “Why weren’t Wingate people indicted, with that kind of testimony?”
   “Lack of evidence and a high-priced legal defense team! Apparently, the principals had a preplanned evacuation protocol that included the immediate destruction of the clinic and its contents, particularly its research facilities. Everything went up in a maelstrom of flames while the principals left in a helicopter. So an indictment wasn’t handed down. The final irony is that without an indictment, they were able to collect on their insurance for the fire.”
   “So what is your take on all this?”
   “Simply that these people are definitely not nice, and we should limit our interaction with them. And after what I read, I’d like to know the origin of the eggs they will be supplying us with, just to be sure we’re not supporting something unconscionable.”
   “I don’t think that is a good idea. We’ve already decided that taking the ethical high road is a luxury we can’t afford if we are going to save CURE and HTSR. Questioning them at this juncture might cause problems, and I don’t want to jeopardize using their facilities. As I mentioned, they were not overly enthusiastic after I nixed any use of our involvement for promotional purposes.”
   Stephanie played with her napkin as she thought over what Daniel had said. She didn’t like dealing with the Wingate Clinic at all, but it was true that she and Daniel didn’t have a lot of choice with the time constraints they were under. It was also true that they were already violating ethics by agreeing to treat Butler.
   “Well, what do you say?” Daniel asked. “Can you live with this?”
   “I suppose,” Stephanie said without enthusiasm. “We’ll do the procedure and scram.”
   “That’s the plan,” Daniel said. “Now let’s move on! What’s your good stuff?”
   “The good stuff involves the Shroud of Turin.”
   “I’m listening.”
   “This afternoon, before I went to the bookstore, I told you that the shroud’s story was more interesting than I had imagined. Well, that was the understatement of the year.”
   “How so?”
   “My current thinking is that Butler might not be so crazy after all, because the shroud might very well be real. This is a surprising turnaround, since you know how skeptical I am.”
   Daniel nodded. “Almost as much as I.”
   Stephanie eyed her lover after his last comment in hopes that there would be some evidence of humor like a wry smile, but there wasn’t. She felt a twinge of irritation that Daniel had to be a little more, no matter what the issue. She took a sip of her wine to get her mind back to the subject at hand. “Anyway,” she continued, “I started reading the material at the bookstore, and I had trouble stopping. I mean, I can’t wait to get back to the book I bought. It was written by an Oxford scholar named Ian Wilson. Hopefully, tomorrow I’ll be getting more books, thanks to the Internet.”
   Stephanie was interrupted by the arrival of their meal. She and Daniel impatiently watched as the waiter served them. Daniel held off speaking until the waiter had withdrawn. “Okay, you have piqued my curiosity. Let’s hear the basis of this surprising epiphany.”
   “I started my reading with the comfortable knowledge the shroud had been carbon-dated by three independent labs to the thirteenth century, the same century in which it had suddenly appeared historically. Knowing the precision of carbon-dating technology, I did not expect my belief that it was a forgery to be challenged. But it was, and it was challenged almost immediately. The reason was simple. If the shroud had been made when the carbon dating suggested, the forger would have had to be shockingly ingenious several quanta above Leonardo da Vinci.”
   “You’re going to have to explain,” Daniel said between mouthfuls. Stephanie had paused to start her own dinner.
   “Let’s start with some subtle reasons the forger would have to have been superhuman for his time and then move on to more compelling ones. First off, the forger would have had to have knowledge of foreshortening in art, which had yet to be discovered. The image of the man on the shroud had his legs flexed and his head bent forward, probably in rigor mortis.”