Lindstrom didn’t bother to ask who Jake was; he didn’t care. He had other, more pressing matters to deal with, such as narrowing his focus. He did not want to think about who these subjects were, where they came from, how they were chosen, or what they had been told. As to the last, lies, he was certain. He kept his thoughts tightly concentrated as his hands went about their business. Advances in medicine would never have been possible without subjects such as these. They were part and parcel of history. As such they were no less heroic than the men and women in the Armed Forces serving in battle zones overseas. If Mobius could shorten those battles by even a week, Lindstrom told himself, as the instruments he wielded penetrated skin and flesh, all sacrifices would be worth it.

“Doctor,” Jerry said, serious at last, “are we going to give these subjects the polyprednaline tabs to take for the first ten days?”

“I don’t think we have a choice.” Lindstrom stanched a bit of bleeding with a sterile pad. “The polypred seemed to help in the final simian trial.” Alpha had been given a ten-day supply with urgent instruction not to miss a dose.

“With all due respect, Doctor, it’s too soon to tell.”

Lindstrom lifted his head for a moment. “Get back to work, please, Jerry.”

As Ben handed Lindstrom the syringe, Jerry switched on the music and the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life” exploded through the operating theater. The volume made Lindstrom wince, but he said nothing. It was imperative to keep his assistants happy, as he had neither the time nor the inclination to train replacements. Plus which, he worried for their future if they ever did quit—a future that was sure to be determined by St. Vincent. He feared their future would be very short indeed.

Chapter 16

16

Everyone was asleep, even the flight attendant. Charlie had fought sleep for as long as she could, then she, too, succumbed. Everyone was asleep, except for Whitman. He had noticed Flix surreptitiously swallow a pill before he sank back into his seat.

Whitman stole across the aisle and, kneeling, rummaged through Flix’s pack until his fingers curled around a smooth cylinder. It was a pill container, made of brown plastic. Opening it, he shook out a couple of tablets, expecting a painkiller for Flix’s headaches. They were a charcoal gray, unlike anything he’d ever seen before, but obviously a prescription medication. A typed label on the cylinder said: POLYPREDNALINE. TAKE TWO DAILY BY MOUTH, MORNING AND NIGHT, FOR TEN DAYS. What the hell was polyprednaline? Whitman wondered. According to the label the prescription had been filled by Valient Pharmacy on Connecticut Avenue. There was also a phone number.

A hand on his shoulder made him start. He turned to see Charlie standing over him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she mouthed silently.