Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [124]
“I apologize for what may seem an excessive need for secrecy,” I told the old man. “But this work is illegal on too many levels to describe.”
“You mean the FDA?” he asked, slyly.
I knew where he was going. I gave Michelle the high-sign and she ushered the Mole out of the room, chattering away about whether injected collagen really collapsed after only a few months. The old man’s sulfur eyes followed the whole thing. As soon as the room was empty, I moved my chair closer to him, lowered my voice:
“That’s not the problem,” I said. “Well, certainly, FDA approval would take, perhaps, decades in America. And that would be only if there was a drug company willing to spend the lobbying money. But doing it in Switzerland, or any country that allows revolutionary medical procedures, just wouldn’t work. In order for the procedure to be effective, we need to screen more than just the fetuses.”
“I don’t understand.”
I glanced over my shoulder, as if to assure myself that the Mole wasn’t within earshot. “Dr. Klexter is a brilliant scientist. But he’s a Jew.…”
The old man’s eyes reflected the truth of what Michelle had told us about him, but he didn’t say a word.
“And you know how those people are,” I continued. “Fantastic minds. But they’re not of our race. An intelligent man uses them, but never takes them fully into his confidence. The truth is, sir, that we’ve run the doctor’s calculations ourselves. And the most effective method is with late-term fetuses … if you follow what I’m saying.”
“I believe I do,” is all he said.
“And the early-aborted fetuses which theoretically could be available for scientific purposes are not screened as you would want, either.”
“As I would …?”
“What the doctor was describing—and, look, I don’t pretend to be a scientist, but our consortium has invested so much money in this that I’ve had to learn some things—is a permanent alteration of your blood. This isn’t some ‘injection’ that you get periodically, or some pill you take. It changes your chemistry, the way your blood works. That’s what he meant by a compound, not a mixture. The new blood, those little drops you get day by day until you’re done, will be indivisible. It will be your blood. Do you follow me, sir?”
“Yes. And I would only want Aryan—”
“Pure Aryan,” I interrupted him. “And we are in a position to guarantee it. And from very late-term fetuses. Do we understand each other now?”
His face was calm—maybe the oxygen mask had that effect—but now his eyes were luciferous. “Perfectly,” he finally said.
The Excursion’s cavernous back area was filled with the old man’s special chair, his oxygen tanks, and his new private nurse, Gem. The back windows were deeply tinted. Randy drove, Max on the front seat next to him. The Prof and Clarence would pick them up somewhere out of town, and ride cover for them all the way, the Mole in the back seat of the BMW.
We figured it for approximately the same distance that the Manhattan-to-Key West run had been. Then we factored in some extra time to attend to the old man. He wouldn’t like staying in anonymous rattrap motels along the way; but he’d bought into the whole total-secrecy thing, so he’d go along quietly enough.
And if not, between Max and Gem, he’d stay quiet.
His yacht was already on the water, heading for the South Texas coast. “Just in case,” I had explained it to him. “Nobody wants any exposure here. If your boat’s on the water, you’re on the water, should there be any … interest in your whereabouts. We have people who can move the boat back out to sea while you’re at the clinic. And we’ll just keep it there until you’re ready to return.”
“My own crew is on permanent—”
“But they don’t need to know your