The Cure That Killed

By Chris Ettles

Jennifer is a biologist working for a major pharmaceutical company. The company's flagship product is a cure for dementia. The noble effort takes a turn when Jennifer finds the cure she is working on is deadly. She tries to take the discovery to management, but she is silenced. When a man is sent to bring her down, Jennifer has to run for her life.

This action-packed, chase novel follows Jennifer's flight from the agents of her own corporation. It takes us across countries and continents and into the heart of Afghanistan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098320287

Book preview

Published by Charlespar Ltd, Essex, UK April 2020

www.FastArrowPublications.com

© April 2020 Chris Ettles. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, pharmaceutical products and incidents are from the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, products or companies, or to persons living, or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Print ISBN:978-1-09832-027-0

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09832-028-7

Contents

Synopsis

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Postscript

A note about Chantesol

Synopsis

Three people are twisted together by fate, by obsession, by duty, and by love.

Jennifer Milne – fair and bright, pursues a brilliant career as a microbiologist at Berkeley. She falls explosively in love with Erik, who is sent to Berkeley for very special training.

Erik Archer – born on his parents’ prosperous farm in Nebraska, is a volunteer for the US Marines, and Jennifer’s lover. He develops a winning tactic in Afghanistan.

Sergei Klovetsky – an enthusiastic volunteer for the Russian army, is instead drafted into a field regiment of the dreaded KGB.

Klovetsky excels at his work as a KGB officer, but oversteps his duties in the savage war against Chechnya. He escapes into Austria to avoid retribution, and then immigrates to the USA. He becomes Head of Security in a company producing a wildly acclaimed cure for Alzheimer’s.

Jennifer, working for the same company, discovers that the ‘cure’ is killing patients. She reports this to the company management, who threaten her.

Klovetsky is sent to ‘deal’ with her. Jennifer has to run for her life.

To my teachers:

Hilma Engstrȍm

E I Proctor

Mr. Page

Mr. Newbold

Sgt. Major Lawrence

Mr. Preidel

Dr. Glaister

J R Singham

Joyce McClaren

Alastair Cameron

Stephen Crandall

David Burow

Nick Duffell

Ellen Higgins

1

August 1989

Jennifer Milne made a small adjustment to the contrast on her scanning electron microscope. She leaned forward, pushing back a strand of hair to clear her view. Ah, yes – there was the familiar molecular structure of the company’s principal earner, the new pharmaceutical that was helping so many older people recover from the death sentence of Alzheimer’s disease – Chantesol.

Launched on the market eighteen months ago, the new arrival had caused an ecstatic outpouring of hope and relief in a world that was begging for a cure for dementia. The publicity promised a complete recovery – back to full health. The caregivers would see a spectacular rejuvenation, not just a cure. It had made banner headline news.

This was the first treatment that could reverse the disease. Previously all that had been available were soporifics that would hold it at bay for a while, reducing the rate of decline. Jennifer looked further and saw the movement of the cilia on the surface of the molecules. This had been the major advance of this treatment. Chantesol was part biotic. The living part of the molecular structures would migrate and seek out the clusters of plaque that formed in the brain, the sticky proteins, the beta-amyloid that built up between nerve cells.

In private trials, patients that were expected to die within the year began to take interest in their surroundings and their routine. Some of them were even able to return to their families and lead an active life…so it was claimed, and so it seemed to be. There had been a furor of excitement around the world when the treatment had been introduced to the public.

Jennifer readjusted her microscope and increased the magnification. Three days ago, she had begun to notice a slight shift in the structure and an increase in the activity in the cilia. Maybe they looked a little larger. The cilia seemed to be writhing and reaching out, like tentacles. She paused. She knew that was purely a subjective observation. She looked away for a moment and allowed her eyes to rest. The increase in activity was there, she was sure of that – but it should make no difference to the overall effectiveness of the drug. The life form was part of a family that was completely stable. This had been shown in an independent study by a group of unbiased consulting microbiologists.

She sat back in her seat and looked out over the corporate gardens that surrounded the research facilities. Recently planted, some of the shrubs and flower beds had yet to flourish. The testing time of winter was still to come.

Beyond the fledgling gardens were the extended rows of the new factory buildings making the companies’ products – mainly Chantesol. The factory had been expanded rapidly, with forced sale of the land by eminent domain. The recruitment of factory workers had been insistently pursued, and now over a thousand people were employed with the manufacture of this wonder treatment.

There were a few holdups in the expansion of production. The opposition of the townspeople to this invasion of their space was muddled and fragmented. They had organized sufficiently to bring in an outside consultant, but he had been quickly discredited as a charlatan and then ignored. The townspeople had said they didn’t want Franken drugs made anywhere near them. That stuff is alive! had been shouted at the single meeting to discuss the benefits to the town. But full-scale production was virtually in place by that time, and the mayor was delighted by the prospect of full employment for his constituents. They could all look to a prosperous future, he was sure. Everything was on track. Production increased further. A night shift was introduced.

It was late Friday afternoon, and Jennifer was due to take the weekend off. The break would be welcome, she thought, and was surprised to see that it was already 5:00 p.m. She had worked the previous weekend on the urgent request of her boss. In fact, it had been an exhausting week, but it was time to pack up and set off on her weekend visit. She planned to drive back to her parents’ home and catch up on family news with her mother and father. In her mind’s eye, she could see the comfort and familiarity of her old room. After a family supper and a night’s sleep she might go out and visit some old friends from high school. There had been some new babies born among her circle of friends. It would be such a joy to see and hold the little ones. Just to see them and hear their tiny breathing was fascinating. She loved the smell of their skin…and the way they would be soothed into sleep in their mother’s arms.

But instead of picking up her coat and locking the laboratory, she found her mind drifting back to calmer times, to her upbringing in the Berkshires. To the maple trees, the forests, the snow, and the ski hills. To her mother’s love and care. To her father’s quiet guidance. She would challenge boys to downhill races and throw snowballs and chat with her friends.

She had been a busy child, continually asking questions of her teachers who tried to formulate answers for this highly achieving young girl. She had left school early, before she was seventeen, having satisfied all the academic requirements with honors. Her mother had wanted her to go on to a leading, prime university, and was pleased when she had gained a scholarship to Berkeley with full tuition and expenses.

Berkeley had taken her by storm. It was such an exciting, vibrant campus, bubbling over with activity. The scale was huge, with 130 academic departments from aerospace to women & gender studies, and 35,000 students from all over the world. The initial impact on Jennifer had been almost overwhelming. When she arrived on the campus, she was unassigned. She had yet to choose the subject of her major. To make a start, she had signed on to a series of courses in physics and mathematics, but had no real idea of what she would do. Whatever it would be, she looked forward to it with anticipation. She settled into one of the residence halls. She felt that her life had started down a road that was full of promise and excitement.

Early in the semester she had a profound experience that changed the course of her life. She attended a memorial lecture by a world-famous microbiologist. The vast lecture hall had been packed to capacity with students, faculty, and postdocs, jubilant with expectation. She had been able to obtain a seat near the front and sat quietly listening to the enthusiasm of the crowd. The lecture was to be given by Charles Decroesus, a Nobel Prize winner in microbiology and a scientist of particular distinction. He was considered by many to be the most advanced and insightful scientist in the field.

Decroesus was escorted to the stage by the dean and a phalanx of other dignitaries dressed formally for this occasion in gowns and mortarboard and with the bright sashes of senior faculty on their backs. It was a grand affair.

In contrast, Decroesus was wearing jeans and a western shirt. He looked fit and tanned, like someone used to outside labor. His face showed intelligence and alertness…and an openness that was refreshing to see. After a series of introductions, he came forward, rested his hands on the podium, and smiled at the audience. For the next forty-five minutes, Decroesus held their close attention as he described the vast and exciting world of biochemistry. Jennifer was enthralled. She was to remember one particular reference. Decroesus said that the nineteenth century had been the time of the engineer, the twentieth century had been the time of the physicist, and self-evidently the twenty-first century was the time of the microbiologist. He had described the microbiologist’s world in terms that held his audience captive – touching on the great inventions of penicillin and antibiotics and describing the men and women who had made those discoveries. After his inspiring close, the applause lasted close to two minutes.

Jennifer pushed forward through the standing ovation to speak with this amazing man. There were several students around him, trying to engage him in close conversation. The fact that she was a pretty young girl in a flattering sundress might have helped her in her struggles through the exuberant crowd. Instead of reaching Decroesus, however, she found herself face to face with his wife, Lotte.

Well, hello dear, I know you’ll want to talk with Charles, she shouted above the din of voices.

Yes – yes, I’d really like to meet him, said Jennifer, flushed and enthusiastic. She found she was blushing. Then came the turning point in her life. She found herself face to face with Charles Decroesus. In that instant she knew to the depths of her soul what she had to do.

I loved your talk so much, she said bursting with eagerness. I’ve just decided to make microbiology my major. Decroesus gave her a close look.

That’s great to hear, he shouted. Keep in touch with me. Let me know how you’re getting on. I’d like to know. The crowd surged and swelled and pushed them apart. The dean was making signals.

You can reach me through my publisher, Hard Arrow Books. Ask for George Hammersmith.

Decroesus was a famous man and, like many, had to limit his accessibility.

At that point, the press of eager students had become stifling and boisterous. The dean’s stewards cleared a path for their guest prior to escorting their eminent speaker into the hallowed offices of university administration.

Hammersmith! shouted Jennifer as Decroesus was steered away. He gave her a brief smile as he was propelled towards the exit.

For the rest of her long life, her whole intellect would be directed to the pursuit – the furtherance of – microbiology. The certainty had burst into her mind like a bright signal flare. It was something she would pursue with joy and passion.

Her future was set.

2

May 1983

Erik Archer raised his head cautiously from his pillow and eased up to a sitting position. Consciousness returned to him grudgingly. He leaned forward and found that his body ached in places that had never ached before. Doubts and misgivings stirred within him. Somewhere, somehow, he had stepped over a line – a price was going have to be paid. He knew that whatever the matter was, he should be careful.

He paused, then glancing down he saw a large blood stain on his pillow – bright red, fresh and damp. How had that happened? Whatever was happening, he was not going to take things too quickly. He needed to think. Running his hands over his face, he drew a sharp breath at the stab of pain as he touched his nose. Good God that hurt like a son of a bitch! He put a steadying hand on the wall and managed to stand, expecting more pain, but found he could stay erect, swaying slightly. His sense of balance returned. Moving carefully, he took off his T-shirt and briefs and regarded himself in the bedroom mirror. There were bruises on his arms and face and a cut on his left leg. Two of those bikers had produced switch blades, he remembered.

In the mirror, he saw a young man, just over six feet tall, bulky, tanned, strong, and fit – obviously one who was used to toil and sweat. His hands were rough. His fair hair, bleached by the Nebraska sun, came down to his shoulders. He looked like a hippy. That probably was not good. His father didn’t like it, and, come to think of it, he didn’t much like it either. Maybe it was that that had set off the bikers. Erik looked down at his shoes tossed on the floor. There was mud and blood splattered on them in equal measure. He had kicked them off just before collapsing on the bed. Whose blood was that?

What mayhem had taken place that caused him to have bloody shoes? Maybe things had gone a bit too far. A lot of things had probably gone too far, particularly in the past few weeks. He had dallied, simultaneously and quite ardently, with three girls from the surrounding farms – two of them daughters of the farms’ owners who probably had a special husband in mind for these glowing and delightful young women.

His memory flooded back – his nineteenth birthday party – the tavern downtown – his friends Chuck and David and his elder brother Felix – their first few beers – the confrontation with the bikers – the calculated insult that had to be answered with fists.

The melee continued for two minutes until two deputies, veterans of bar fights, came between them with drawn batons, bawling at them. Chuck had hit one of the lawmen in the mouth and had been instantly clubbed down with a shout of fury. More deputies appeared, yelling to them to turn around, with their hands over their heads and flat against the wall. Erik had tried to help Chuck get up from the floor but was warned off. More deputies appeared, and the sheriff himself, shouting for them to keep facing the wall with their hands high above their heads. Several of the bikers were arrested, handcuffed, dragged out into the street, and pushed into police wagons. The sheriff pushed Erik and his friends to one side, shouting with anger. Erik was finally able to help Chuck to his feet.

What the hell are you boys doing? yelled the sheriff. Damn fools. All of you know better than this.

The sheriff regarded them with disdain. Erik knew him quite well. The sheriff and his father were friends and frequent visitors to each other’s homes.

There was going to be hell to pay.

"Any more trouble from one or all of you, and I’ll put you in handcuffs. Now wouldn’t that be a nice way to come home? Maybe you’ll get your picture taken for the Omaha News. Something you could show your mother."

Erik and Felix had been driven home in the back of the sheriff’s cruiser. The sheriff had called ahead. His father and mother were standing side-by-side across the driveway, their arms folded and their faces hard as flint. It was 2:00 a.m. – a late hour in farming country where everyone rose before dawn to begin the day’s work. The sheriff and his father exchanged words briefly. A fresh look of anger appeared on his father’s face, and the sheriff drove away with a nod of acknowledgement to Erik’s mother. The silence continued.

His father walked up to Erik, exuding anger. After a pause, he said curtly, I’ll talk to you birdbrains in the morning. Now get out of here. He turned away in scorn.

They had been left to go to their rooms. Erik was exhausted. He had fallen face down onto his bed and had stayed inert until the first rays of the sun penetrated into the corners of his bedroom. Now he was beginning to count the cost.

His mother knocked briefly and came into the room with a cup of black coffee. Erik scurried to cover his nakedness. His mother ignored him.

Your father has quite a lot to say. He’ll see you in a few minutes. Clean yourself up.

It was not the habit of the Archer family to shout at one another, but his father Henrik could be as tough as iron…an ex-Marine with twenty years of service, in Vietnam and the first Gulf War… a hard man who had demanded the best from his men and now expected it from his sons. There were three altogether – Erik, Felix, and Calvin, with two years between each of them. Erik was the youngest.

When not at school, he had worked on the farm since he was fourteen, alongside his brothers – taking feed to the cattle during the winter, building a new milking shed, taking care of the newborns, mending fences, mucking out the cow shed, operating machinery, anything that needed to be done. They were a close-knit family. The Archer farm had prospered. It was one of the largest in the area.

Erik had graduated from high school two years ago. He had half-hoped that it would go on forever. It had been the perfect life. He had excelled in sports and at math and science, enjoying them both. He found a particular delight in puzzles and crosswords, and had been to three puzzle conventions out of the state. His academic record was a point of pride to his teachers, who urged him to apply for scholarships at Harvard and at Stanford. He had been to interviews. The Harvard people had liked him, and he had been accepted with a full stipend, starting in the fall.

For any young man, this would have been a cause for celebrations, but Erik found himself surprisingly evenhanded about it…in fact, he could not settle. He felt in his bones that something imminent was looming – something strong and irresistible, which could not be defined. His high school years had been light and free of care. Since then, he had worked hard and taken his pleasures. Clearly, he was going to have to put these aside. It was time to pay back.

His father came into the room, and Erik clambered to his feet to apologize for the fracas that had occurred downtown.

Yeah, yeah, I should damn well think so, said his father. Now listen to me.

He paused and looked at Erik directly. His anger was gone, but his face had a steely look of expectancy. This man was an irresistible force.

This is how he would talk to his men, thought Erik.

His father did not hesitate.

We don’t like the direction you’re taking. It’s been too much ‘beer and skittles,’ and you damn well know it. You’ve done well, but you’ve got to pull yourself together and do something that’s right…something that’s constructive…or one of those girls you’ve been after, or one that’s after you, may push you into something you won’t be able to get out of. What are you going to do with yourself?

Erik began to explain.

Keep your mouth shut and listen to me.

His father was a man who compelled attention.

Your mother and I discussed this for most of last night. We want you to try for the Marines. Even a short time in the service would set you in the right direction. I’ve seen this often with young men who join up. Just a short period of duty would set them on the road to doing something right and something useful. It’s your choice…and another thing, we don’t like the idea of that fancy college back east. You’ll come back here with your mind wasted in a lot of theory and nonsense. It’s your choice, of course. You’ve won that placement. It could be your career…but we don’t think that’s best for you. It doesn’t ring true with you. So what’s it to be? I won’t comment on it either way.

Well, thought Erik. So this it. Right here and now. Path A or Path B. What do I choose? He came instantly to a decision. There was really only one way this should go. He looked at his father, tall, erect, a man of experience – a man who would love you regardless…in his own way.

So what time does that recruitment center open? Erik asked.

His father’s broad smile was in direct contrast to the comment he had promised not to make.

Nine o’clock, he said. Be ready at 8:30. I’ll take you there.

July 1989

The sergeant touched his tie for the tenth time. It was straight, as he knew it was. His uniform was impeccable. The door in front of him was marked Col J. Travis – Officer commanding 31st regiment of Marines. He knocked and entered.

The colonel looked up at him.

Ah, yes…Sergeant Archer, he said, giving Erik a long look, then paused. You’ve been in the service almost four years, and you’ve been involved in operations in Panama. He leafed through his record. And in Bolivia.

A force of Marines had invaded Panama, securing the canal, evacuating some US personnel and capturing Noriega, wanted for a string of charges.

And you’ve operated for quite some time in Colombia, helping out with the Drug War – a pretty easy posting, I’ve heard. He looked up.

Well, yes, sir. They made us jump around quite a bit, said Erik, smiling.

In fact, the operations in Colombia had become a byword in the regiment for hot, humid conditions in difficult terrain. Only young men, at the peak of physical fitness, could have pursued the drug manufacturers through the swamps and mountains. They had taken casualties from heat stroke, but almost none from enemy action.

And I see you’ve picked up some Spanish. In fact, you’re quite fluent.

I’ve been involved with the language before, Erik replied. We’ve had a continuous employment of Mexican farm hands at my father’s ranch.

Yes, said the colonel. In Nebraska, I understand. Cattle and dairy…and your father…he had twenty years in the corps, in Vietnam and the Gulf War…and you were going to go to Harvard for a degree in math and physics, but you joined the corps instead.

He paused. Any regrets about missing that opportunity?

No, sir, I thought the corps would be a better move.

Well, we’re going to give you the chance to take up math and physics again. We want to send you to Berkeley to develop your math and your analytical skills. You’ll be taking courses on global politics, data processing, computer engineering, and code breaking. And there are a few history and English courses you’ll need. And you’ll be studying a language – Urdu and possibly Hindi.

Erik’s façade did not move a twitch. He felt certain the colonel could see the thumping of his heart through his shirt.

You can stay there long enough to secure a degree if you want to, unless there’s an emergency and you’re needed back here.

He paused again. Now, he said, looking Erik directly in the eye. Once you’ve graduated, we’ll want you back here pronto for special ops and intel work. While you’re at Berkeley, you’ll join with the contingent stationed there and continue with training and readiness. You’ll be involved in airborne operations also. In fact, you’ll be making quite a few jumps.

Will I retain my active service status when I’m there, sir? Erik asked.

Certainly, said the colonel. You’ll be on duty, and on call the whole time.

He paused, and this time shifted to a more relaxed position and tone. We think this would be good for the corps, but we don’t want to push you into something like this if you don’t think you can use it.

That, in itself, was an extraordinary thing to hear from an officer of the Marines.

This must be a pretty difficult bunch of courses.

Let me know before this weekend if you’d like to take it up.

Erik had listened with growing interest to the colonel’s description…intel work sounded intriguing. He had worked with some clandestine recon units that observed the enemy, often at very close quarters. He had then reported back to his officers, and the analysis and decision making had been done by them and by senior personnel. After this, maybe he could make some of the decisions himself. There was no need for him to take two days to make up his mind.

Sounds like a good plan, sir. When do I start?

That’s excellent, said the colonel. We think you could make a good contribution to the strategic planning of the corps. You start in late August. My staff will give you the details.

He stood up. Congratulations, sergeant.

Thank you, sir.

Oh, and Archer, he remembered, You’ll be moved up to lieutenant after the first year.

3

July 1980

A series of heavy mortar rounds convulsed the ground under him. The shrubs to his front shredded into a thousand pieces. Successive streams of automatic fire pulverized a tree to his left.

Private Klovetsky was under hostile fire for the first time in his life.

His bowels turned to water. He sank to the ground, terror stricken, his body paralyzed with fear, mewling like a stricken child with each explosion. He found he was unable to move…unable to even scream. A heavy branch broke off and fell across his back, pinning him down. He squirmed against the ground, trying to flatten each part of him into the smallest fold or depression. The man next to him was hit and screamed like an animal, clawing the ground. There was no possibility of survival. The gates of hell had opened.

This was one of many continuous confrontations with the Chechens, and on this day it was not going well for the Soviets.

Courage, Sergei, courage!

He felt a heavy hand on his arm. His friend and comrade Valentin, lionhearted Valentin, crawled up beside him, shouting in his ear.

Our chance will come. Come on…let’s try and get back behind that ridge.

Valentin pulled off the branch as if it were a blade of grass. Together they crawled behind a protecting berm, his guiding hand on the small of Klovetsky’s back. Valentin had the courage of a battalion in his heart, and the strength of ten men in his hands.

Those bastards are using their heavy fifties. We’ll get our mortars onto them soon.

The two soldiers saw that the berm was just sufficient to protect them if they lay almost prone on the ground. They pushed their rifles forward but stayed below the line of sight.

You’ve got the best eyes, Sergei. What can you see?

Klovetsky slowly eased toward the top of the berm, hoping that the outline of his helmet blended with the background of trees and rocks. He surveyed the ground in front of him. A burst of fire passed within centimeters of his head.

Pull back, Sergei, Valentin shouted. Any ideas where those fuckers are?

Klovetsky thought he had seen some disturbances in the long grass to his half left – at about 150 meters. He eased his rifle round to that direction and waited until there was a lull, getting stealthily into the firing position. He centered on an area where the movement of the grass did not seem natural and squeezed off three quick shots, followed by three