nerve hypoplasia, and many other debilitating afflictions. He had conducted experimental trials in the U.S. before the contamination of the stem cell lines was discovered, but he could not have performed such treatments outside of trials because the Food and Drug Administration had not approved the procedures for human medical treatment. Results had ranged from disappointing to remarkable. The latter had lured more Americans to China every day.
Falco had assumed the American sitting across from him had come to Beijing for stem cell treatment. He had assumed wrong.
'Mr. Smith, you want to donate fifty million dollars to my research lab?'
'Yes.'
'No strings attached?'
'Only one.'
'And what is that string, Mr. Smith?'
'A name.'
'Whose name?'
'Patient X.'
Falco leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
'Patient X is a myth.'
Mr. Smith reached down and opened his briefcase; he retrieved several documents and tossed them onto the desk. Falco recognized the top article: 'Patient X: The Savior?'
'Mr. Smith, I've read the journal articles.'
'You wrote the journal articles.'
'The author was anonymous.'
'The author was you, Dr. Falco. We traced these articles to you through the printing company. Alvin Adams.'
Falco had emailed Alvin several times on each article.
'We just need the woman's name,' Mr. Smith said.
'The woman's name?'
'Yes, the woman's name.' Mr. Smith read from the introduction to the article: ' 'Patient X is a white female, age twenty-five to thirty-five…' '
'Ah, yes, the woman. And why do you want her name?'
'She has something we want.'
'Yes, I suppose she does. Something everyone wants. Something I wanted. But she did not want to share her gift with the world.'
Patient X had been Tony Falco's greatest professional disappointment. Three years later, he was still not over it.
'I'm sorry, Mr. Smith, I can't help you.'
'A hundred million.'
'Are you the donor?'
'My client is.'
'You're a lawyer?'
'Yes.'
'And who is your client?'
'Confidential. I've been sworn to secrecy. The attorney-client privilege.'
'So was I.'
'An attorney?'
'Sworn to secrecy.'
'The law doesn't recognize a doctor-patient privilege.'
'I do.'
'Two hundred million. Just give me the woman's name.'
'Mr. Smith, I take it you work for the pharmaceuticals?'
Smith said nothing.
'Patient X wouldn't be good for business, would she? Well, neither am I. Sorry, Mr. Smith, but I'm trying to put your clients out of business. Goodbye.'
Harmon Payne sat across the desk from Tony Falco. The doctor was gaunt, probably a runner, and middle- aged. His hair was gray and thinning, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses. He looked smart. Harmon wasn't in China to kill Dr. Falco, just to bribe him or threaten him into revealing a name. Which, in his experience, seldom worked. Killing was a much more effective tool. But he was just a hired hand, so he had to keep his employer happy. Those corporate suits were so conservative.
'What can I do for you, Mr. Payne?' Falco said.
'It's what I can do for you, Doctor.'
'And what's that?'
'Money.'
The doctor smiled. 'Two Americans in two days offering me money. Just a coincidence, Mr. Payne?'
'What did you tell Mr. Smith?'
'Not that it's any of your business, but nothing. I don't help the pharmaceuticals.'
'Smith was working for the drug companies?'
'I assumed he was.'
'Which one?'
'He didn't say.'
'What did he want?'
'Again, Mr. Payne, that's none of your business.'
'Patient X?'
'Mr. Payne, I told Mr. Smith nothing and I'm telling you nothing.'
'You don't want money?'
'Not your money.'
'I have other methods.'
Dr. Falco clicked a button on the intercom. 'Ling Su, please call security.' He turned back to Harmon. 'Mr. Payne, security will be here in under two minutes. You can leave now or be arrested and spend the rest of your life in a Chinese prison. They do things differently here.'
Harmon stood.
'We'll meet again, Dr. Falco, when you come home.'
NINE
Cactus chandeliers, metal tables and chairs, a neon Budweiser sign, and Mexican movie posters constituted the decor of Guero's back room. Andy Prescott scanned the crowd. The room was noisy with conversation and the clinking of beer bottles and silverware against white porcelain plates piled high with enchiladas and tacos, flautas and fajitas, refried beans and Spanish rice. All of SoCo had packed into the back room that evening: homeowners and the homeless, renters and roommates, shop owners and tattoo artists, students and professors, male and female, straight and gay, white, brown, black, and Asian; and their tattoos. A room full of wackos and weirdos-at least that's what the people north of the river would call them.
Andy called them his friends.
It was two weeks later, and they had all come to see Russell Reeves' plans for their neighborhood and to hear Andy Prescott explain why those plans were good for SoCo-Reeves was renovating, not developing- and to drink Coronas and margaritas and eat Mexican food for free. Russell's secretary had sent over a blank check to cover the night's expenses.
The artist's rendition of the town house project was displayed on one easel and the architectural plans on
