Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [52]
I find my backpack near the front door, where I’d left it on our arrival.
I open the laptop and look for a wireless Internet connection. There are several in range in the building but all of them are secured by password. One of them is called “BrotherPhilip,” which must be Polly’s network. I call it up and then ponder blankly the password possibilities.
Then it hits me. I return to the note Polly left me on the countertop. She’d left me, without explanation, the letters “CHANGEME.” I type them into the password line. It works. Cute. Password: CHANGEME.
Into Google, I type: “Biogen Advanced Life Computing.” There are no meaningful hits.
I look at Biogen’s web site. It is a public company with $25 billion in annual sales, primarily in cancer drugs. The company also spends $2 billion annually in research and development on treatments for a range of diseases, including degenerative conditions like muscular dystrophy, AIDS and illnesses related to aging, like Alzheimer’s. There is nothing on the web site related to “Advanced Life Computing.”
I search for recent news on Biogen. It is rumored to be an acquisition candidate of Falcon Corporation, a Swiss biotech giant; Biogen is a jewel because of its sterling drug pipeline. Biogen’s stock price has been swinging wildly thanks to the acquisition rumors.
I call Biogen again. When I get an operator, I explain I’m a receptionist at a Berkeley lab charged with sending a FedEx to Lulu Pederson in Advanced Life Computing. I ask which building and floor I should use for an address. She’s located in Building 12, third floor.
Then I say I’ve got a second package for Jack Johnson. It’s a name I’ve made up. The operator says there’s no such person.
“Maybe he goes by James,” I say.
“We have a John Johnson, and a Jerry James,” the operator says.
“John Johnson—that must be the guy,” I say. The operator says that John Johnson works in the Bio-genetics division, Building 5, second floor.
“Grandma, I’ve got a plan, but it’s a major long shot in the extreme.”
“That’s nice.”
“You’re going to dress up like an old person. Think you can pull it off?”
“You don’t look so young yourself anymore.”
She grins.
I do one last Internet search—for the medical group of Brown & Morrow, the disappearing dental company.
The web site for the medical group does little to enlighten. It’s a region-wide collection of hundreds of doctors, dentists, and other medical practitioners—a very common business setup. I find an administrative number that goes directly to an automated voice service. Dead end.
Our next stop is a diner where Grandma and I order pancakes. She eats voraciously. She tells me the plot of one of her favorite movies, The Sting. She’s regaled me with this story before, but I love to see her eyes light up when she talks about Newman and Redford pulling off the impossible caper.
We walk to the car.
Across the street, a man in a gray hooded sweatshirt stands out of the mouth of an alley looking our direction. He is well over six feet tall and well built. When he sees me look in his direction, he disappears into the alley.
En route to Biogen, I check in the rearview mirror for a Prius. None materializes. I’ve been wondering if there’s a tracking device on my car. Paranoia is a lovely feeling.
I call Chuck. He answers and says he’ll call me back shortly from a “secure line.”
“The guy is a complete loon,” I mutter.
I hang up and I remember a dream I had last night. Polly and I stand on opposite sides of a narrow but deep gorge. She wears tight jeans, a leather vest, and a wedding veil. She stands in front of a microphone. She starts making precise and beautiful bird calls, prompting from around us the roar of applause. I feel myself walking closer to the edge of the gorge. I begin to flap my arms, propelling myself into the air. I elevate over the gorge. I wake up, sweat on my chest and neck, still drunk and pasty, stomach knotted.
Biogen is located just south of San Francisco in an industrial