The Cicada Prophecy: A Medical Thriller - Science Fiction Technothriller Page 12

  “I know how to do it Roland,” Nathan backpedaled, not wanting to risk losing control over the critical procedure. “I just think we should be prudent and conduct appropriate trials to make sure it will be safe, and that it doesn’t create additional complications…”

  Jamieson decided to give Nathan just a little more rope.

  “How long do you anticipate these trials will take to complete?”

  “Effective longitudinal double-blind trials normally take at least a year to determine the short and long term effects. And really, to be doubly safe, we should be conducting preliminary trials with monkeys, so as not to put our initial test group of humans at risk…”

  “Jesus Christ, Nathan!” Jamieson said, finally losing it. “Give me a fucking break. We’re not going to conduct primate trials for this thing. It’s a simple modification to one simple hormone, for God’s sake. And we don’t have a year to bring this product to market—we’ve only got a few months left before this company could potentially be out of business!”

  Both Jamieson and Nathan had reached their breaking point—and Jamieson had just struck a sensitive nerve with his colleague.

  “There’s no need to be profane,” Nathan replied coldly. “And I don’t appreciate your defiling God’s name in my presence.”

  Nathan also knew he had a degree of leverage he could use over Jamieson. “Fine,” he proposed, “I’ll move forward on your timetable if you’ll put it in writing for the public record that you were fully apprised of the risks for this upgrade, and that I recommended a more restrained and disciplined line of action.”

  Jamieson could hardly believe Nathan had the nerve to challenge him so directly and threaten him not so subtly.

  “The hell with that!” he barked. “I’m not going to put myself at the risk of more legal action being taken against me and this company, simply because of your misguided paranoia. This conversation is going to end right here with a simple ultimatum for you and your team. Either make this happen now—and present a workable plan to me by the end of this week—or I’ll fire your ass and replace you with some other egghead who knows what side his bread is buttered on. Now get the hell out of my office before I change my mind!!”

  After Nathan stormed out of his office, Jamieson sat shaking in his chair, trying to settle down from his fit of anger. As much as he was infuriated by Nathan’s threats and challenges, he knew that his Chief Scientist was ultimately correct. Under normal circumstances, all of his recommendations would be prudent and standard operating procedure for Endogen. But these weren’t normal times—this was a crisis that demanded radical and decisive action. Neither he nor the organization could squander this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The Sexpatch—Jamieson had already begun to think of it as a new brand—was not only a great idea, it was also one that could quickly re-level the competitive playing field and recoup everyone’s investment.

  Jamieson knew he couldn’t afford to let someone like Nathan disrupt his plans. But he also knew Nathan was smart enough to cover his own ass and make Jamieson the fall-guy should anything go wrong. If the complications from the new patch were serious enough, Jamieson could potentially not only face new civil action, but even more serious charges for criminal negligence. He knew that he would have to manage Nathan more carefully in order not to provoke him from doing something rash. An apology would likely be necessary, and probably even a compromise on the timetable and testing protocols. Ultimately, however, Jamieson knew something would have to be ready to go public within a couple of months, and to present to the Board sooner, or he and the company would be dead in the water.

  As Jamieson contemplated the full extent of the risks he was facing, he started to tremble once again, but this time for an entirely different reason—fear. The personal consequences of failure simply chilled him to the bone. He began to think about what else he might do to save his skin. How could he protect his reputation, and his job? What other potential solutions could there be for pulling Endogen back from the brink? Were there any other possibilities for resolving this crisis and reclaiming his fortune? As Jamieson’s mind began to go to some dark places, his secretary came in to his office to remind him of a meeting with his central banker.

  God help me, Jamieson muttered.

  17

  It was Friday night, and Rick had finally summoned the courage to invite Jennifer out for dinner. He’d chosen to take her to one of his favorite restaurants in New York: the Oak Room at the Plaza Hotel. Both the restaurant and the hotel had a glamorous and storied past, hosting celebrities, heads of state, and captains of industry for more than two centuries. Over the last few years, the building and its famous rooms had been neglected and fallen into a state of disrepair, but an extensive renovation was recently undertaken to bring them back to their former grandeur and glory. The hotel had hired one of the city’s most celebrated chefs, David Boulud, grandson of the three-starred Michelin chef who originally brought nouvelle French cuisine to America, and Rick was eager to sample the new menu. Plus, the setting for the hotel at the south-east corner of Central Park was one of the most beautiful in the city, and was within walking distance from Rick’s and Jennifer’s apartments.

  Rick had arranged to pick up Jennifer at her place at seven p.m. He decided to use a car service to make their short journey to the Plaza as comfortable as possible. As the car pulled up beside her Park Avenue building on West 77th Street, he paused to take in the magnificent view down the boulevard. Park Avenue was one of the broadest avenues in the city, having been built in the 1800’s over the expansive New York and Harlem railroad tracks originating at Grand Central Station. Now paved over in six divided lanes abreast an elegantly landscaped median and framed by tall neo-classical residential buildings running the entire length of the street, the view at its southern terminus was dominated by the stately Helmsley Building, especially beautiful at night lit up in its Art Deco glory, reflecting gilded ramparts and a large copper lantern atop its pyramid-shaped roof. How fitting, Rick thought, that Jennifer would live on one of the city’s most beautiful streets.

  “I’m here to see Jennifer Austin,” he announced to the doorman. “My name is Richard Ross.”

  Two minutes later, Jennifer emerged from the adjacent bank of elevators and met Rick with a wide smile.

  “My, don’t you look distinguished this evening, Dr. Ross,” she remarked, carefully appraising his black cashmere topcoat and dark blue Brioni suit.

  “And you, Miss Austin, are always a vision of loveliness.” Jennifer had chosen a black ruffle-back dress and high-heeled pumps, and was wearing a long gray knit coat with a burgundy jacquard scarf.

  Elegant and stylish as always, thought Rick.

  “Well I hope just because we’re dressed formally tonight doesn’t mean we’ll have to act so formal.”

  “Of course not,” Rick replied, hopeful this evening would be an opportunity to bring down some of their professional guard and allow the two of them to get to know each other on a more personal level.

  “Shall we be on our way?” he said, extending his arm toward the waiting car.

  “You ordered a limo? Are we going somewhere important?”

  “It’s a simple little restaurant, really. I just wanted you to be comfortable. You know those crazy New York City cab drivers. The problem is they get paid by the distance, so the faster they cover it and the more miles they put in a day, the more money they make. My driver on the other hand, gets paid by the hour, so he’s in less of a hurry to get there.”

  “Always the rational one, Rick. But it’s sweet of you to look after me this way, no matter your motivations.”

  Rick smiled, as he opened the passenger door for her.

  “I assure you, they’re always honorable with you, Jennifer.”

  Minutes later, the car pulled into the circular driveway surrounding the cascading fountain in front of the Plaza Hotel.

  “Wow—the Plaza!” Jennifer remarked, looking up at the grand edifice of the Rena
issance-style chateau. “I have to confess, I’ve always wanted to experience this quintessential New York City landmark. But I heard it had been converted into a condo?”

  “Only part of it. They’ve kept the hotel operational thankfully, plus all the famous restaurants: the Palm Court, the Champagne Bar, the Oak Room. There’s so much history here—they simply couldn’t let it all go.”

  “So which restaurant are you taking me to? I’m on pins and needles!”

  “Allow me to escort you.” Rick held out his arm for Jennifer, and they ascended the steps leading up to the grand entrance portico.

  As they threaded their way through the hotel’s posh interior halls, Jennifer couldn’t help slowing Rick down periodically to view the photographs of some of the hotel’s famous previous guests: Frank Sinatra, Grace Kelly, Winston Churchill. But she stopped abruptly at one framed portrait.

  “It’s Eloise! I loved her, growing up.” Eloise was the fictional character in the famous children’s book about a precocious little girl who got into so much mischief while staying at the Plaza Hotel.

  “Yes, isn’t it perfect that the Plaza chose to honor her with her own portrait—at her favorite hotel? It seems all the more fitting to have our first date here, since you’re so much like her…”

  “Really? Do tell, Dr. Ross!”

  “Well, Eloise was independent, and free-spirited like you…”

  “And?”

  “And clever and cute and saucy like you…”

  “Saucy! However do you mean?”

  “Let me elaborate over dinner,” Rick said, beginning to wonder if he should have started this line of discussion. “I think I need a drink.”

  As they approached the reception desk of the Oak Room, Rick announced himself to the maître d’.

  “Dr. Ross, for seven-thirty.”

  “Yes, Dr. Ross—may we take your coats?”

  As Rick helped Jennifer off with her overcoat, he noticed for the first time the plunging open back of her dress, revealing her exquisitely carved shoulder blades and tapered waistline, terminating in a subtle ruffle accentuating her indelibly curved backside.

  The maitre d’ escorted Rick and Jennifer through the magnificent baronial dining room with its barrel-vaulted ceiling, soaring columns, and Everett Shinn murals, stopping at a corner table next to a lighted fireplace.

  “Madam?” he gestured, pulling out a chair facing the room.

  “Thank you,” Jennifer said, taking her seat. “Rick, this place is lovely—if a bit rich.”

  “Interesting you should use that term, Jennifer. The Oak Room actually has a long history of hosting the rich and famous. John Jacob Astor, Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald all ate here; the legendary actor and playwright George Cohan apparently had his own table in this very corner. It began as a gentleman’s club—ladies weren’t allowed.”

  “Well times certainly have changed,” Jennifer remarked, glancing at many of the restaurant’s well-dressed male and female patrons. “I wonder what those luminaries from our past would say if they could see us now?”

  “I’m not sure which they’d be more horrified to behold: seeing the place populated with so many ladies—or entirely with juveniles.”

  “It’s a brave new world, indeed!”

  “Speaking of which, one of the reasons I wanted to bring you here is because of their new executive chef. David Boulud—have you heard of him?”

  “He specializes in French cuisine, doesn’t he? Interesting juxtaposition don’t you think, in this very American institution?”

  “Yes, you could say it symbolizes the dismantling of society’s old boundaries and rules. A fusion of both peoples and cuisine.”

  “All this symbolism is making me hungry,” Jennifer said, as the waiter arrived and placed the menus in front of them.

  “Good evening,” the waiter said. “Would you like to start with something to drink?”

  “Would you prefer a cocktail, Jennifer, or perhaps Champagne?” Rick asked.

  “Champagne is always good!”

  Rick scanned the wine list.

  “How about the Bollinger Grande Année ‘98?” he said. “I hear it was a good year.”

  “I don’t know my vintages very well,” Jennifer replied, “but I thought Champagne needed a few more years to age properly?”

  “This one is from nineteen ninety-eight.”

  “Oops! That was a bit before my time. It appears we’ll really be opening some demons from the past this evening, won’t we?”

  “It’s decided then,” Rick said, nodding to the waiter.

  As they reviewed the menu to decide on first courses, Rick heard the crackling of the wood burning in the adjacent fireplace and could feel its heat against his skin. Looking across the table at Jennifer reading the menu, he saw the warm light from the fire bathing her skin and the shadows dancing across her striking face.

  It had been a wonderful dinner, with Rick and Jennifer sharing long and intimate conversations about their respective childhoods over an exquisite four course meal in their quiet corner of the romantic restaurant. Rick was feeling a closer connection to Jennifer and didn’t want the night to end.

  “It’s a lovely evening,” he said as he helped her on with her coat on their way out. “Would you like to walk home through the park?”

  “Yes, I’d like that very much, Rick.” Jennifer was quickly developing similar feelings for Rick.

  As they exited the hotel and walked past the gleaming fountain of Pomona, Rick clasped Jennifer’s hand as they walked down the steep steps leading from Grand Army Plaza into the south end of Central Park. For a while, neither said anything to the other, taking in the serene beauty of the park as the winding cobblestone walk wended its way past tranquil ponds and proud monuments, over arched limestone bridges amongst fallen autumn leaves. For Rick, this was the most beautiful season of the year in New York City, especially in Central Park, as the glorious polyglot of color descended upon the dense canopy of trees as they prepared for a new dormant season. After dark, with the moonlight reflecting off the stately bronze statues and glistening flora, it was a sublime retreat from the noisy and hectic pace of the rest of the city.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Rick said, finally breaking the silence.

  “I love this place,” Jennifer answered. “So quiet and peaceful. Thank you Rick, for a perfect evening.”

  “It’s still young—let’s make this last a bit longer. Can you smell that?” he said, lifting his nose and closing his eyes to sense the air.

  Autumn in the park signaled the passing of the season of plenty to a season of privation. The trees had opened their cones and were quickly spreading their seeds before the first frost descended, and the warm earth was giving up its moisture as the cold air condensed fragrant dew on long blades of grass.

  “Mmm. Yes, nature. Isn’t it divine?”

  “A miracle, really. How lucky we were to be at the confluence of the perfect storm that created this masterpiece.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Rick was pensive for a moment.

  “I mean, in all the universe, so otherwise cold or boiling, barren and rocky, that we managed to get the climate and biology just right to have created this symphony of symbiotic life.”

  “Well it can still get a bit chilly on our perfect little planet.” Jennifer said, as she pulled up her coat collar and wound her scarf more tightly around her neck. They had emerged at the Inventors’ Gate entrance on the east side of the park as it opened onto 5th Avenue.

  “Yes, there is a bit of a nip in the air,” Rick agreed, wrapping his arm around Jennifer to keep her warm. “Why don’t you come to my place for a cup of hot tea? I’m only a few blocks away.”

  Jennifer paused for only a second. Among other things, she was intrigued to see where Rick lived.

  “It is a bit of a hike to my place, and I do need to warm up. Maybe just one.”

  As Rick pulled Jennifer close, they both unconsciously picked up
their pace, turning north along the stone wall separating the park from the street. Crossing the light at 78th Street, Rick opened the wrought-iron gate to his townhouse on the east side of the avenue.

  Wow, Jennifer thought, upon seeing the stunning Beaux-Arts townhome. Rising five floors above the street in white-washed limestone, the residence had an impressive façade studded with tall Palladian windows and detailed cornice moldings, topped with three arched dormer windows standing like sentinels behind a balustraded balcony overlooking the park.

  Leave it to Rick to stand out from the crowd with his own townhome nestled among all the tall apartment buildings lining the street, Jennifer thought.

  Rick placed his key in the carved heavy oak door, and swung it open to reveal a stunning marble foyer.

  “It’s beautiful,” Jennifer said, glad to be out of the cold. “And warm!”

  “May I take your coat?” Rick asked.

  Rick helped Jennifer off with her overcoat and hung it in the hall closet, then turned around to take her gloves and scarf. As he touched her chilly hands, their eyes met once again—and this time didn’t stray. He gently moved forward and kissed her on the lips, and she leaned forward into a full embrace. As their bodies pressed against one another, Rick’s hand traced a delicate line down the back of Jennifer’s open dress and caressed the small of her back just above the curve of her buttocks.

  “I’m not sure I need that hot drink after all,” Jennifer remarked as she looked upstairs.

  18

  Saturday brought warmer weather and sunny skies over Central Park. The night before had been magical for Rick and Jennifer, culminating with them making love soon after they’d arrived back at his townhouse. Rick decided to make breakfast in the morning and slipped out of bed quietly at eight a.m. and made his way to the kitchen. Just as he was turning the omelettes in the fry pan, Jennifer emerged with tousled hair, wearing only his dress shirt from last night. He took a moment to admire her shapely bare legs and tight bottom, barely peeking under the rounded tail of his rumpled shirt.