The RX Factor

The RX Factor - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

“They’re ready for you, Senator.”

Senator Edward McNally acknowledged his aide with a tip of his head and brushed the dust off his suit jacket. It was showtime. Even here, in some godforsaken village in the middle of Nigeria, a hundred miles from the nearest city and a world away from the game back in D.C., he could still feel a little extra jolt of adrenaline course through his veins as he assumed the role he’d been born to play. At forty-four, and midway through his third term, he wasn’t the youngest member of the U.S. Senate anymore. But he was still the superstar of that legislative body, one of only a select few with legitimate presidential aspirations. Since joining the Senate at age thirty, the minimum age required for office, he had been riding a wave of popularity as media darling, brilliant young statesman, and budding political rock star all wrapped up in one. And in the last decade his reputation had only grown: he easily won reelection twice, authored a handful of important bills, cultivated crucial relationships with influential members of Congress and Washington power brokers alike, and nailed down an important leadership post as chairman of the FDA’s oversight committee.

How else to explain why a gaggle of journalists, whether belonging to the New York Times, Washington Post, Fox News, NPR, or some fledgling blog on the Internet, followed him wherever he went, even to Africa? Slipping away anonymously from his hotel back in Abuja had been no easy task, but the subterfuge had thrilled him to the core. Now here he was in some dusty village, nicknamed “Dung Hill” by his security detail due to the locals’ habit of burning cow shit for fuel, to witness in private what one of his most influential contributors had been doing beyond the scrutiny of the nosy regulatory agencies back home.

The senator squinted into the midday sun as he emerged from the climate-controlled, window-tinted comfort of a stylish but conservative navy-blue Hummer. Trim, just over six feet tall, and boasting a full head of sandy blond hair, he had more than charisma going for him. He still sparkled with youth, the promise of better days ahead. So what if he had already peaked? If he was already bought and paid for? Politics was the art of illusion, and Senator McNally’s true talent lay in his ability to wield the disparate elements—sunny optimism, cool-headed realism, magnanimous bipartisanship, unflinching ruthlessness—and turn them into political gold like some medieval alchemist.

Before him sat a prefab building, not much more than a trailer and as dingy as its earthen surroundings, serving as a medical clinic for local villagers as well as farmers from the surrounding countryside. Lean men, worn down by years of manual labor and a life of scarcity, stood alongside children and peasant women, some of them pregnant, all of them weighed down with newborns or toddlers barely old enough to walk, in a long line that snaked through the dust from the building’s entrance to a sprawling acacia tree several hundred feet away. The children had distended bellies and saucer-like eyes, the hallmarks of malnourishment. No one was starving, but no one was living, either, at least not by Western standards. These people, ghosts hollowed out by the ravages of poverty, disease, and local violence, couldn’t have formed a starker contrast to the soft, fleshy pharmaceutical workers who had come to “help” them.

An American man, balding and ample around the middle, emerged from the building just in time to greet the senator near the entrance. “Good to see you, Senator,” he said, offering a firm handshake. “We’re pleased you were able to make the trip out—without the usual entourage.”

Senator McNally shook his head grimly. “It wasn’t easy. My friends in the press take a keen interest in whatever I do.” Friends, in this case, meant bloodsuckers. Keen interest? Unrelenting obsession.

“Yeah, well, I suppose it comes with the territory.”

“It sure does. So what have you got to show me, Gus?”

Gus Witherspoon, an expert in his field, was part scientist, part public relations manager, a knowledgeable salesman who dealt discretely but forthrightly with a select clientele made up of industry bigwigs, politicians, and other well-connected insiders. He served on the front lines of a secret war, paving the way for research and experimental drug trials on foreign soil while keeping his company out of the spotlight and beyond the prying eyes of regulatory agencies, journalists, and would-be do-gooders.

“Just this,” Gus said, handing the senator a crumpled spreadsheet.

Senator McNally stared at the figures, some of them stained by coffee. “What’s this? I don’t speak microbiology.”

Gus, placing a hand on the senator’s shoulder, ushered him away from the crowd at the front door, and back along the caked-mud drive to the Hummer, where no prying eyes or ears lurked. “That, dear Senator, is a one hundred percent success rate. As of this morning, we’ve given the full treatment to one hundred and thirty-six patients. And we’re batting a thousand.”

“Impressive.” The senator glanced back and surveyed the long line, which was growing steadily. “Are all these people sick?”

“No. Shoot, half of them don’t even know what we’re doing here. But they know we’re making people better, so they’re coming by the droves. We had one old man walk fifty miles to get here.”

“Barefoot, I suppose.”

“Who needs shoes when the floors are made of dirt?”

Senator McNally gave a polite chuckle. “But aren’t you worried about how fast the word is spreading?”

“Nope,” Gus said nonchalantly. “Most of the people in line will receive a few free vaccines and a vitamin B shot—good PR for the company and a perfect cover for the program. Only a select few have been screened and given full treatment.”

The senator nodded his approval and then spotted an angry villager trying to work his way past the minders at the entrance, shouting something to the people in line behind him. “What about him? Another happy FSW customer?”

Gus smiled wryly. “Oh, there’s always some conspiracy nut out there who’s certain we’ve come to castrate their men, impregnate their women, and poison their crops.”

The senator gazed past Gus, toward the lonely hills that lay beyond the village. It was a move he had practiced countless times over the years, one meant to display seriousness, deep thought, gravitas. In this case, it wasn’t a show. “If he only knew.”