He left another message, and replaced the receiver. His secretary came in with a pile of mail and he asked her if she’d go get him another cup of water. Then he fished Sally Kimberly’s card from his wallet and dialled her direct line.
It didn’t even ring. Instead he heard her recorded voice. ‘Hi, you’ve reached Sally Kimberly. I’m out right now, but leave a message, or reach me on my cellphone.’
He left a message asking her to call him urgently, then dialled her cellphone, but her voice mail kicked in instantly on that, too. He left a second message.
Then, as he hung up, he realized what it was that had been bugging him last night – the feeling he’d had that there was something missing from the room: it was the photograph of Naomi that was normally on his desk. One of his favourite pictures of her, taken a couple of years back when they’d revisited Turkey. She was tanned, her fair hair bleached almost blonde by the salt and sun, standing on the prow of an elderly gulet, sunglasses pushed up on her head, arms outstretched, doing a parody of Kate Winslet in the film Titanic.
He stood up and looked around. The photographer must have moved it last night; he’d rearranged a load of stuff. But where the hell had he put it?
His secretary came in. He asked her about the photograph, but she assured him she had not touched it. Then he sat back down and sipped the water, switching his thoughts to Dr Rosengarten.
What he needed to understand was, if Rosengarten had been right and it was a girl, just how easy would it have been for Dettore to have got the sex of the child wrong? Was it harder than the other genes that he had altered – or easier? Was it just one slip, or was their baby a total mess?
He called up his addresses file, typed in a key word, and a name and a phone number came up. Dr Maria Annand. She was an infertility specialist at Cedars-Sinai. He’d been to see her with Naomi six months ago for tests, at the request of Dr Dettore, before being accepted by him. Dettore had wanted confirmation that it was still viable for Naomi to conceive, before putting them to the expense of coming to see him.
He dialled the number. By luck, he caught her just as she was leaving for an appointment.
‘Look, Dr Annand, I have a quick question I want to ask you. If you have an embryo sexed, what are the percentage chances of getting it correct?’
‘You mean like selecting a male or female?’
‘Exactly.’
‘That’s done regularly on people carrying sex-specific disease genes. It would normally be done through pre-implantation genetics – when you are creating the embryo. When it gets to eight cells, you take a single cell from the blastocyst of the developing embryo, and the embryo doesn’t notice. You have it sexed. It’s very simple.’
‘What margin of error is there?’
‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ she said.
‘Let’s say a couple want a boy. They have pre-implantation genetics to select the sex – but later they discover they are not having a boy, but a girl. How likely is that to happen?’
She sounded adamant. ‘Extremely unlikely. Any error on the sexing of a foetus is remote – it’s so basic.’
‘But it must happen? Surely?’
‘You look at the chromosomes, look at the numbers. There’s no way you’re going to make a mistake.’
‘There are always mistakes in science,’ John said.
‘OK, right, you can get a mix-up in a lab, sure. That happened recently. A fertility clinic mixed up the embryos of a black couple and a white couple – they put back the wrong embryo – the white couple had a black baby. That can happen.’
‘The wrong embryo?’ John echoed.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You are saying that’s the only way it could happen?’
‘You’ll have to forgive me,’ Dr Annand said. ‘I have to rush – I’m really late.’
‘Sure, appreciate your time, thanks.’
‘Call me later if you want to talk this through further,’ she said.
‘I may do that. So – just to get this right – the wrong embryo – that’s the only way? The entire wrong embryo?’
‘Yes. That would actually be more likely than getting the sex wrong.’
22
Somehow John got through his lecture. He fielded the barrage of questions from students that followed, answering them as briefly as possible, then hurried back to his office and closed the door. He sat down and checked his voice mail.
There was a message from Naomi. Her voice sounded tearful and panicky. ‘Call me, John,’ she said. ‘Please call me as soon as you get this.’
He put the phone down. What the hell was he going to tell her?
He called Dr Rosengarten, insisting to the secretary he had to speak to him right now.
After several minutes on hold, listening to Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’, Dr Rosengarten came on the line, sounding his usual hurried, irritable self.
‘The diagnosis you gave us about the sex of our baby,’ John said. ‘How certain are you that it is a girl?’
The obstetrician put him on hold again while he checked his notes, then came back on the line. ‘No question about it, Dr Klaesson. Your wife is having a girl.’
‘You couldn’t have made a mistake?’
There was a long, chilly silence. John waited, but the obstetrician said nothing.
‘In your diagnosis,’ John added, a little flustered, ‘is there any margin for error?’
‘No, Dr Klaesson, there is no margin for error. Anything else I can do for you and Mrs Klaesson?’
‘No – I – I guess. Thank you.’
John hung up, angered by Rosengarten’s arrogance. Then he tried Dettore once more. Still the voice mail. He rang both of Sally Kimberly’s numbers again but this time left no message. Then he rang Naomi.
‘John.’ Her voice sound strange, trembling. ‘Oh God, John, have you heard?’
‘Heard what?
‘You haven’t seen the news?’
‘I’ve been giving a lecture. What news?’
He heard the rest of her words only intermittently, as if he were catching some bulletin on a badly tuned radio station.
‘Dr Dettore. Helicopter. Into sea. Crashed. Dead.’
23
‘We have this eyewitness report from a yacht off the coast of New York State earlier today.’
John stared at the newsreader with his sharp suit and solemn face. Naomi sat beside him on the sofa, gripping his hand tightly. The camera cut to a static picture of a Bell JetRanger helicopter, identical to the one that had flown them to Dettore’s clinic.
A man’s voice, a clipped New England accent, came through, crackly and intermittent on a ship-to-shore radio.
‘Watched the…’ Sound lost then restored. ‘Flying low, just below the cloud ceiling…’ Sound lost again. ‘Just erupted into a ball of fire like a flying bomb…’ Sound lost again. ‘Then it came back and, oh God…’ His voice was choked. ‘Was horrible.’ Sound lost again. ‘Debris in the sky. Came down about three miles away from us. We headed right over…’ Sound lost again. ‘Nothing. Wasn’t anything there. Nothing at all. Just the eeriest feeling.
