“How long have the trials been going on? FDA doesn’t like to fast-track. It’s been bitten on the ass too many times. Look at the Vioxx mess.”
“Well, there’s a minor problem with that, sir.” Mark resorted to the salutation because it might soften the bad news. Burchfield didn’t buy it.
“Problem? Hell, Morgan, I thought the problem was getting this through the red tape and putting Halcyon on those blocks of sticky pads in your friendly neighborhood doctor’s office. Don’t tell me we’re shaky on the approach?”
“We’ve had some trials and rigorous testing. We’re doing a double-blind study right now.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Ain’t it obvious?” Forsyth said. “The boy’s walking on mule eggs. He has no idea what Halcyon can do.”
“I have a real good idea, Mr. Forsyth.” Mark looked past Burchfield to the wispy-haired fundamentalist. “Trouble is, I’m not sure we want the whole story out there.”
“Now, now,” Burchfield said. “Either you can deliver the damn drug or you can’t.”
“We’ve had the trials. Years of trials. Our lead researcher has been on it for a decade. But not all of it’s documented.”
“What do you mean, ‘not documented’?”
“There are gaps in the record. The FDA likes a timeline, the introduction, the animal testing, the check for cross-reactions, all that. But we kind of skipped a step.”
“It’s a little late for surprises.” Burchfield had the politician’s knack of changing moods quickly, at least when not in front of the camera or on the Senate floor. His cheeks blotched with anger. “Fill me in.”
“Well, it’s an offshoot of a drug we had in trials a decade ago, before I joined CRO. The original testing was a little…” Mark shopped around for the right word.
“Squirrel-eyed,” Forsyth finished. “You got some bad results and you chucked them off the back porch.”
“The results were mostly positive,” Mark said. “But the testing started with human trials.”
“Goddamn it,” Burchfield said, unapologetic for cussing in front of his Christian ally. “Can the FDA trace that to Halcyon?”
“Not likely. The only link is Sebastian Briggs, the doctor who-”
“I know Briggs. He gave a briefing to the subcommittee years ago on the ethics of mood-enhancing drugs. Before he went in the shitter.”
“That was before the creation of the bioethics council,” Forsyth said. “The Senate would let any nutcase present evidence.”
“You were in the House at the time,” Burchfield said. “And I didn’t hear you raise any objections.”
“Briggs is a heathen,” Forsyth said. “Can’t keep his fingers out of God’s pie.”
“Save it for the pulpit,” Burchfield said. “Or your next campaign, if you ever have one.” To Mark, he said, “So, is that the worst of it? Clinical trials without FDA approval?”
“As if that ain’t bad enough,” Forsyth said.
The limousine weaved in traffic and Mark glanced at the driver, who appeared to be checking his rearview and side mirrors. They were on the Beltway, making decent time for late afternoon, maybe half an hour from the airport. Mark was eager to get out of the car. The air seemed stifling, and Forsyth’s cologne was giving him a headache.
“Well, Briggs had a few offshoots in the works,” Mark said. “As you know, researchers often don’t look for just one single thing. A lot of times, it’s a case of seeing what pops up.”
“I don’t care about that end of it,” Burchfield said. “I just want to know if any of this can come back on me.”
“Briggs was studying serum levels in Gulf War veterans with PTSD. He found elevated levels of certain neuroactive steroids correlating with a high rate of suicides and-”
“Get to the point. Don’t play Michael Crichton with me.”
“Basically, Briggs wasn’t satisfied with his test pool. After all, you can’t very well wait around for the next war for a decent supply of near-death accident survivors. So he found ways to elevate normal serum levels. In effect, he created a drug that caused fear.”
“You’re telling me he had to create the disease so he could find a cure?”
“Fear is not exactly a disease,” Mark said. “It’s simply a condition, a state of awareness, a feeling. Some would argue it’s a valuable survival mechanism.”
“If you’re scared, you run like hell,” Forsyth said. “We had this debate on the council. The consensus was that human emotions were natural, a gift of God.”
Because of his wife’s membership, Mark was well aware the bioethics council wasn’t designed to reach a consensus, merely to serve as an advisory board that addressed potential concerns.
And although God had a rightful place in the council’s deliberations, the government God was a theoretical, all-encompassing, and even generic deity, not the punitive, white-bearded denizen of the Old Testament. Not that Forsyth appreciated the subtle distinctions.
“So Briggs was messing with some fear stimulants,” Burchfield said. “Nothing much new there. The DOD has been working on that since the LSD and mescaline experiments. The trouble is they’ve never found a drug that has the same effect on every person. If you dose your enemy, you’re just as likely to create a savage, bloodthirsty war machine as you are a man-mouse. Same with your own people.”
“Well, maybe Briggs succeeded,” Mark said. “I’m still not clear on that.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t have a handle on him.” Burchfield, the son of a tobacco farmer, had been studying for his chosen career since being elected class president in grammar school, and he was used to moving human chess pieces.
But in Mark’s world, control was limited to laboratory tests and board rooms and didn’t extend as readily to the scientists who concocted the substances. Science required rigid discipline, but a revolutionary creativity was essential for breakthroughs. Briggs was revolutionary in more ways than Mark cared to admit.
“I’ll have it all by the time we go to the trials,” Mark said. “I have to dig through some records at UNC, where the original testing took place. Don’t worry, we’ll put on a good show for the FDA. He’s running two test groups, apparently. And we can always retroactively adjust the data.”
“I can push on this, but the FDA is still going to want at least six months of solid numbers,” Burchfield said. “A flawless six months.”
“Some of the elements are patented, so we’ll have to do some shuffling,” Mark said. “CRO doesn’t want anyone coming in claiming intellectual theft right before Halcyon hits the shelves.”
“Sounds like Halcyon’s got more holes than a rusty milk bucket,” Forsyth said. To Burchfield, he added, “I’d tread mighty careful, Daniel. One slip and no Oval Office in two years.”
“I’ll want a full report on what Briggs is up to,” Burchfield said to Mark. “This ‘fear drug’ might even wind up being more valuable than Halcyon. I don’t like question marks, and I don’t like our security agencies getting to it before I know what’s what. Understood?”
Mark frowned. CRO had invested heavily in Burchfield, even more than it had invested in Briggs. “I’ll handle it personally, sir.”
Burchfield pressed the button to summon the driver. “Next exit.”
Winston nodded, and the limo glided up a ramp. The senator said, “You’d better take another route to the airport. It’s probably best if we’re not all seen together.”
“I’ll miss my flight,” Mark protested, still shaken but eager to get out of that mad city.
“We’ve taken care of everything.”
The limo pulled into a gas station. A taxi waited by the kerosene pump, a dark-skinned man in a turban at the wheel. Winston stopped beside the taxi, hopped out, opened Mark’s door, and unlocked the trunk. By the time Mark stood blinking on the crumbled tarmac, Winston was putting the suitcase handle in his hand.
“Is it safe?” Mark asked, meaning the cab, but he figured the question applied equally to the entire situation.
“Just don’t go steppin’ in nothing unless you got your hip waders on,” Forsyth said.
“Get your data in line,” Burchfield said. “Just make damned sure it all looks good on paper. And keep a tight rein on Briggs.”
“And your wife,” Forsyth added.
