Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [118]
“Nothing’s going to get out. Nothing will come back to haunt you. You have my word.”
Phillips nodded.
“But you have to tell us the whole truth. That’s the deal.”
A silence ensued.
“And you’ll help him?” Phillips asked at last. “Clear his record, on both the local and federal level?”
Hayward nodded. “I’ll see to it personally.”
“Very well. I’ll tell you what I know. Which isn’t much, I’m afraid. I wasn’t part of the avian group. Apparently they—”
“ ‘They’?”
“It was a secret cell within Longitude. Formed thirteen or fourteen years ago. The names were kept secret—the only one I knew was Dr. Slade. Charles J. Slade, the CEO. He headed it. They were trying to develop a new drug.”
“What kind of drug?”
“A mind-enhancement drug or treatment of some sort, developed from a strain of avian flu. Very hush-hush. They poured a huge amount of money and time into it. Then everything fell apart. The company got into financial trouble, began to cut corners, safety protocols weren’t observed. There were accidents. The project was shut down. Then, just when it looked like the worst had passed, a fire broke out that destroyed Complex Six and killed Slade, and—”
“Just a minute,” Pendergast interrupted, speaking for the first time. “You mean Dr. Slade is dead?”
The man looked at him and nodded. “And that was only the beginning. Not long after, his secretary committed suicide and the company went bankrupt. Chapter Eleven. It was a disaster.”
There was a brief silence. Glancing at Pendergast, Hayward noticed a look of surprise and—what, disappointment?—on the normally expressionless face. Clearly, this was an unexpected development.
“Was Slade a medical doctor?” Pendergast asked.
“He had a PhD.”
“Do you have a picture of him?”
Phillips hesitated. “It would be in my old annual report file.”
“Please get it.”
The man rose, disappeared through a door leading to a library. A few moments later he returned with an annual report, which he opened and handed to Pendergast. The agent gazed at the picture printed in the front, above the CEO’s message, and passed it to Hayward. She found herself gazing at a strikingly handsome man: chiseled face, a shock of white hair over a pair of intense brown eyes, jutting brow, and cleft chin, looking more like a movie star than a CEO.
After a moment, Hayward laid the report aside and resumed. “If the project was hush-hush, why’d they bring you in?”
A hesitation. “I mentioned the accident. They were using parrots at the lab to culture and test the virus. One of the parrots escaped.”
“And flew across the Black Brake swamp to infect a family in Sunflower. The Doanes.”
Phillips looked at her sharply. “You seem to know a lot.”
“Keep going, please.”
He took another gulp of his drink, his hands still shaking. “Slade and the group decided… to let the, ah, spontaneous experiment take its course. By the time they tracked down the bird, you see, it was too late anyway—the family was infected. So they let it play out, to see if the new strain of virus they had developed would work.”
“And it didn’t.”
Phillips nodded. “The family died. Not right away, of course. That was when they brought me in, after the fact, to advise on the legal ramifications. I was horrified. They were guilty of egregious violations of the law, multiple felonies up to and including negligent homicide. The legal and criminal exposure was catastrophic. I told them there wasn’t any viable legal avenue for them to take that would end up in a place they’d like. So they buried it.”
“You never reported it?”
“It all fell under attorney–client privilege.”
Pendergast spoke again. “How did the fire start? The one Slade died in?”
Phillips turned toward him. “The insurance company did a thorough investigation. It was an accident, improper storage of chemicals. As I said, at the time the company was cutting corners to save money any way they could.”
“And the others in the avian group?”
“I didn’t know their names, but I’ve heard they’re dead, too.”
“And yet someone threatened your life.”
He nodded. “It was a phone call, just days ago. The