Trent’s head felt as if he were submerged in a deep pool of water.
He said nothing, thought nothing.
Jed was nodding his approval. “But I have a question, boss. Won’t the clinics have to submit the records of their embryo counts more often than once a month, then, if we can inspect them at any time? We’ll always need to know the most current counts.”
Dopp smiled. “Yes. We will. Which is why we will now require them to submit daily, not monthly, counts of their embryo stocks. But we won’t announce this publicly yet—instead we’ll just let the news break naturally tomorrow after we start the inspections. And then we’ll issue a notice to all clinics with our new regulations.”
“But the inspectors won’t have the most current counts when they start tomorrow, so how will they know if the embryo reserves are accurate?”
“That’s very simple,” Dopp answered calmly. “The inspectors will flash their DEP badges. It’s not as efficient as the way we do it, but it will work: just like that, the doctors will have to open their own record books.”
Numbly, Trent realized he needed to show interest in the plan. “How are you going to explain this to the rest of the department?”
Dopp’s gaze shifted to him. Trent gnawed the raw flesh of his lower lip, hardly feeling the pain.
“I will circulate an internal memo to the whole department,” Dopp said, brushing his fingertips against his chin. His eyes shifted to a spot on the wall above Trent’s head. “Look for it in your in-box before the end of the day. The subject line will be: ‘Crackdown.’”
FIFTEEN
Trent was staring at his computer screen when it happened: A box in the lower right-hand corner popped up with a ding. One new message.
TO: undisclosed recipients
FROM: [email protected]
SENT: Monday, January 10, 2028 at 4:26 P.M.
SUBJECT: Crackdown
To my trusted colleagues,
Due to recent worrisome behavior at a number of fertility clinics, I am hereby instituting a new policy of random, surprise inspections. Every Monday, I will e-mail a weekly list of the targeted clinics and the agents who will be inspecting them. Starting tomorrow, these inspections will quietly begin. After the news inevitably breaks, we will announce to all clinics that we now require daily electronic filing of their EVE counts, rather than monthly, so that we can more closely monitor them. I regret that this means many of you will be working overtime, but let us pray this is a temporary measure until the situation improves.
The list for this week is as follows:
Washington Square Center for Reproductive Medicine—Inspector Banks
Family Fertility Center—Inspector Hodges
East Side Fertility Associates—Inspector Gordon
Infertility Solutions—Inspector Freeman
Queens Center for Assisted Reproduction—Inspector Jenkins
Family Beginnings—Inspector Laughlin
Please know that I will gladly address any of your questions or concerns. Lastly, please also note that this information is to remain strictly confidential within the department until further notice. I appreciate your full cooperation in this sensitive matter.
Regards,
Gideon Dopp
Chief Supervisor, New York City Bureau of the Department of Embryo Preservation
Behold, Children are a heritage from the Lord,
The fruit of the womb is a reward. —PSALM 127:3
CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE: This electronic mail message contains information intended for the exclusive use of the individual or entity to whom it is addressed and may contain information that is privileged and/or confidential. Disclosure of any content herein will result in appropriate legal action.
Trent grimaced. For a time, he sat completely still, reading and rereading the e-mail, which he had dreaded receiving all afternoon. A single thought overwhelmed him: Do I have to tell her who I am?
He knew he had to warn her about the impending inspection before it destroyed all their hopes. But how could he explain without revealing his identity? It was like rafting on a river littered with boulders; there had to be a safe route somewhere, but all he could see was danger. Tell her who I am, he thought, and risk her never speaking to me again. Don’t tell her anything; risk the inspection ruining everything.
He felt his desperation climbing. No, he thought, there had to be a third option, and if only he could focus his mind on strategy instead of fear, he might be able to think of something.
A copy of the Daily News lay on his desk, leftover from the morning’s subway ride. The headline on the cover quipped, BED OF MALES! The mayor of Newark had been caught having an affair with his male secretary; it was shocking and scandalous, exactly the stuff of tabloid newspapers. Trent turned back to the e-mail glowing on his computer screen. It was not exactly sexy, he thought, but it screamed scoop, and it could have a far greater impact on the public than some politician’s seamy affair.
The pieces of a plan were coming together on the horizon of his mind—vague at first, and then sharper, integrated, whole. He grabbed the newspaper off the desk and stuffed it into his briefcase. For the idea to work, he could not enact it here or at home, where his computer was too easy to trace. A quick search online pointed him to the perfect anonymous office.
On the wall, the clock hands pointed to 4:57 P.M. Trent jumped out of his chair, turned off his computer and lights, and headed out before any of his colleagues could stop by to speculate about the new policy.
Ten minutes later, he walked into the Broadway Cyber Café, an Internet café in Times Square that accommodated both phone conversations and privacy; thick plastic slats separated the rows of computers. Tucked between a massive toy store and a famous theater, the café was narrow inside, but long. The place hummed with the patter of typing and the whir of an espresso machine. About ten people sat dispersed throughout the room, sipping coffee and staring at their screens. It cost $8.50 for a half hour. Trent paid
