Cure (2010) sam-10 Read online

  “It seems that you are informing me of all this rather late.”

  “Most of what I am telling you has come to our attention only over the last few days after the patent office was alerted to the initiation of the legal action. And Kyoto University hasn’t helped. They only informed us what was missing after the break-in when we asked them directly.”

  “What is it that you would have me advise the Aizukotetsu-kai to do if I had the power to make some suggestions, which I’m not about to admit to?”

  The vice minister cleared his throat by coughing into his closed fist. He was not at all surprised by the oyabun’s ridiculous caginess, and responded in kind. “I’m not going to presume that I can tell the Aizukotetsu-kai how to run their organization. I felt it was important for me to tell someone what the current situation is and what the immediate dangers are to the Aizukotetsu-kai and its portfolio, but nothing more than that.”

  “But something has to be done and done soon!”

  “I totally agree, as does the minister and even the prime minister, but for obvious reasons our hands are tied. Yours, however, are not. You do have branch offices in New York, do you not?”

  “What branch offices are you referring to, Fugiwara-san?” the oyabun questioned innocently, raising his bushy eyebrows for effect. There was no way he was going to tacitly acquiesce to such a statement, despite its being relatively common knowledge on the street.

  “With all due respect, Ishii-san,” the vice minister said with a slight bow, “there is no time for posturing. The government is well aware of Yakuza operations in America, and their ties with local crime organizations. We know it is happening, and, to be honest, we are actually happy about your sending as much crystal meth to America as you do, since it means that it is much less of a problem here at home. Your other activities in terms of gun smuggling, gambling operations, and vice we are not so fond of, but it has been tolerated in case your connections could prove beneficial in some future circumstance, as in the current unfolding calamity.”

  “Perhaps there are some acquaintances to whom I can pass along this information you have graciously provided,” Hisayuki said after a short pause. “Perhaps they can think of something that may aid both of our interests.”

  “That’s the way it is supposed to work, and we at the ministry—in fact, the entire government—would be most appreciative.”

  “I cannot promise anything,” Hisayuki quickly added as he weighed ideas. He knew they had to find the defector immediately, which he felt would not be a problem. But the perfidy of some Yamaguchi-gumi gang flouting established rules and operating in his city of Kyoto without his permission was a different problem. It could not be tolerated. He hoped it involved an isolated, renegade gang, and it was done without the knowledge of the Yamaguchi-gumi oyabun. Before he embarked on any course of action here at home, he vowed to find out that crucial bit of information. But he was limited by the reality that the Aizukotetsu-kai were dwarfed by the Yamaguchi-gumi like a developing nation facing a superpower.

  “One thing that I would like to emphasize,” the vice minister said. “Whatever is to be done, particularly in America, must be done with the utmost discretion. Any harm to the defector must appear to be natural, and the Japanese government cannot be implicated in any way or form whatsoever.”

  “That is a given,” the oyabun said distractedly.

  TWO DAYS LATER

  MARCH 24, 2010

  WEDNESDAY, 4:14 p.m.

  NEW YORK CITY

  Satoshi Machita signed his name boldly and applied his personal inkan seal on all five copies of the agreement giving iPS USA exclusive world licensing rights for his pending iPS patents.

  The contract provided for a fair and highly lucrative rate, including liberal stock options that would be in effect for the next twenty years. With a final flourish Satoshi raised his pen to those people present and acknowledged their excited applause. The signing represented a new chapter in both Satoshi’s life and the future of iPS USA, which was now positioned to control the worldwide commercial development of induced pluripotent stem cells, which most molecular biologists were convinced would provide a cure for human degenerative disease. It was to be a revolution in the history of medicine, a breakthrough that would dwarf all others.

  As the president and CEO of iPS USA, Dr. Benjamin Corey was the first to step forward and shake Satoshi’s hand. Flashes popped among the cheers, intermittently washing the two men with bursts of frosty blue light. The six-foot-four, flaxen-haired Corey dwarfed his dark-haired companion, but no one took notice. Both were equal in the eyes of the witnesses, the larger man in biotech venture capital, the smaller in the rapidly advancing field of cellular biology.

  At that point other members of the iPS USA team approached to shake the hand of the world’s newest multimillionaire-to-be. The team included Dr. Brad Lipson, COO; Carl Harris, CFO; Pauline Hargrave, chief counsel; Michael Calabrese, placement agent responsible for raising a significant amount of the company’s start-up capital; and Marcus Graham, chairman of the scientific advisory board, of which Satoshi was a member. As the mutual congratulations continued, since everyone present was certain to become much, much richer, Jacqueline Rosteau, Ben’s private secretary/assistant, popped the corks of several chilled bottles of 2000 Dom Pérignon, and everyone cheered anew at the festive sound.

  Drawing to the side with full glasses of champagne, Ben and Carl contentedly glanced out the front windows of Ben’s office onto Fifth Avenue. The building was close to the corner of 57th Street, a busy part of the city, especially as rush hour neared. With a slight spring rain falling, many pedestrians carried umbrellas, and from above they looked like scurrying, insect-like creatures with black carapaces.

  “When we first started talking about iPS USA,” Carl mused, “I never would have guessed in a million years we’d get this far this fast.”

  “Nor I,” Ben admitted. “You can take a lot of credit for having found Michael with his boutique investment firm and his unique clients. You’re one in a million, my friend. Thanks.”

  Ben and Carl had been friends during college but had gone their separate ways. While Ben went to medical school, Carl had gone on to get an advanced degree in accounting. From there he’d gone into the finance world, from which Ben had recruited him with the founding of iPS USA.

  “Thank you, Ben,” Carl said. “I try to earn my keep.”

  “And it certainly wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t learned of Satoshi’s existence, what he had accomplished, and how badly he’d been treated.”

  “In that regard the real breakthrough was getting physical possession of his lab books.”

  “You’re right about that, but don’t remind me,” Ben said with a shudder. Despite the passage of more than three weeks, thinking about the experience and his harebrained decision to participate still gave him chills. It had been a miracle that he’d not been nabbed along with his accomplice that night.

  “Has there been any fallout in Japan?”

  “No, not that I know of, and Michael insists his contacts haven’t heard anything, either. The Japanese government certainly has a strange, widely known but never acknowledged bedfellow-type relationship with their Yakuza, which is the antithesis of our government’s dealings with our Mafia.”

  “Speaking of the Mafia,” Carl said, lowering his voice. “Are you worried about their continued involvement?”

  “Of course, I don’t like it,” Ben admitted. “But as our largest angel investor along with their Yakuza partners, and considering the role they have played in our obtaining the lab books and getting Satoshi and his family over here so quickly, you have to grant we wouldn’t be where we are if it hadn’t been for their input. But you’re right. Continuing to allow their participation is like playing with fire, and it has to change. I spoke with Michael earlier about this very issue before Satoshi arrived, and he and I are going to meet in his office tomorrow mid-morning. He understands and agrees. I told him that
as of today, his clients’ role has to revert back to their being silent investors, nothing more. We can offer some stock options to make them fade away.”

  Carl raised his eyebrows, doubtful it would be so simple, but didn’t respond. Satoshi had come over to say good-bye and excuse himself from the party. “I want to get home to my family and give them the good news,” he said, bowing collectively to both Ben and Carl.

  “We understand perfectly,” Ben said, exchanging a high-five with the diminutive and youthful-appearing researcher. When Ben had first met him he thought he was in his teens instead of his middle thirties. “Did you get a chance to meet with Pauline about those wills and trust documents?”

  “I did and signed them all.”

  “Terrific,” Ben said, exchanging another high-five. Satoshi had gotten his Ph.D. at Harvard and was well versed in American customs. After another round of handshakes, mutual congratulations, and promises to get together socially, Satoshi turned to leave, only to return after just a few steps.

  “One thing I wanted to ask,” Satoshi said, looking directly at Ben. “Have you been able to make any progress on finding me lab access?” Still in its infancy, iPS USA was merely office space in the building on Fifth Avenue. It had no research facilities of its own and probably never would. Its business plan was to take advantage of the chaos associated with patents involving stem cells in general and induced pluripotent stem cells in particular. The idea was to corner the stem cell market by controlling the intellectual property associated with other people’s discoveries, and to do it before others knew what iPS USA was up to: a kind of intellectual-property blitzkrieg.

  “Not yet,” Ben admitted. “But I believe I’m making progress up at Columbia Medical Center to rent some space in their new stem cell building. We should hear any day now. Stop in or give a call tomorrow! I’ll phone up there first thing in the morning.”

  “Thank you,” Satoshi said while bowing. “I am very happy.”

  “Keep in touch!” Ben said, giving the smaller man a friendly slap on the shoulder.

  “Hai, hai,” Satoshi replied, and continued out.

  “Research space?” Carl questioned after Satoshi left the room.

  “He’s yearning for some bench time,” Ben said. “He feels a little like a fish out of water when he’s away from the lab.”

  “I have to say, you guys have hit it off.”

  “I suppose,” Ben said vaguely. “Jacqueline and I have taken him and his wife out to dinner a couple of times here in the city. He’s got a little boy, a year and a half old. I tell you, the kid doesn’t even look real, and he’s silent. Not a sound. He just looks around with these huge eyes as if he’s taking it all in.”

  “What is he going to do in the laboratory?” Carl questioned, ever the bean counter. “Isn’t that going to be expensive?”

  “He wants to work on electroporation techniques for iPS generation,” Ben said with a shrug. “I don’t know exactly, nor do I particularly care. What I do care about is keeping him happy, which is why we rushed to get him and his family into the States ASAP, without waiting for formalities to be completed. He’s a real researcher at heart and considers all the legal negotiations a waste of time. We don’t want him straying and changing his mind until we get everything completely buttoned up, patentwise. He’s going to be our golden goose, but only if we keep him contentedly in the nest.”

  “So, right now, he’s an illegal alien.”

  “I suppose, but it will soon change. I’m not concerned. Thanks to the secretary of commerce, the American consulate in Tokyo is in the process of getting them all green cards.”

  “Where do he and his family live?” Carl questioned. Given Satoshi’s importance to the success of iPS USA, Carl felt it would be wise to know where he was at all times.

  “I don’t know,” Ben said. “Nor do I want to know, if someone from the authorities were to ask. I don’t think Michael even knows. At least that was my impression the last time we spoke about it. I do have Satoshi’s cell phone number.”

  Carl laughed quietly, more out of amazement than humor.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive,” Carl said.

  “Very clever!” Ben said sarcastically. “Are you trying to say that we shouldn’t have brought Satoshi into this when our efforts at industrial espionage turned up his name and history?”

  “No, not necessarily. It’s just that I’m uncomfortable with our involvement with the Lucia family.”

  “All the more reason for us to sever all contact. It might require a bit more stock options to make them go away than I’m hoping, but it will be more than worth it. I’ll leave the negotiations in your and Michael’s capable hands.”

  “Thanks a lot!” Carl murmured equally sarcastically. “Hey, what was that about Pauline and trust documents? What kind of trust?”

  “Satoshi is a little paranoid about Kyoto University and having bailed out of Japan. He worries about his wife and child if something were to happen to him. I realized that it was a good idea for iPS USA to have some safeguards in place as well. So I asked Pauline to talk to him, and she set him up with a couple of wills for him and his wife and a trust for the kid. Of course we stuck a statement in it that will also preserve our license agreement.”

  “Who’s the trustee for the kid?”

  “I am. Not my idea, but we can consider it an extra layer of safety.”

  Satoshi Machita was elated. As he descended in the elaborately decorated, art deco elevator, he realized he’d never been quite so happy in all his life. He’d just moved to the United States, and he and his family were occupying a house just across the George Washington Bridge from Manhattan. Of course, there were a number of things he would eventually miss from his old life in Japan—the cherry blossoms blooming around the glorious temples of his home city of Kyoto, and the view of the rising sun from the peak of Mount Fuji—but those serene pleasures would always be trumped by the sense of freedom he felt about life here: a life that he had learned to love while at Harvard and living in Boston. What he was not going to miss about Japan was the smothering sense of duty he’d struggled with for as long as he could remember: duty to his grandparents, duty to his parents and teachers, duty to his lab bosses and to the university higher-ups—even duty to his community and ultimately his country. There had never been any relief.

  He paused inside the building’s entrance to look out through the fogged glass at the scurrying pedestrians and the snarled confusion of yellow taxis and city buses attempting to head downtown in the light rain and dense mist. For a moment Satoshi considered hailing a taxi but then changed his mind. Despite recognizing that the contract he’d just signed would make him a multimillionaire in the not-too-distant future, he still felt like the poor boy he had been growing up. Though the salary iPS USA was paying him to be on the company’s scientific advisory board was generous, given how little work he was doing, it wasn’t much, considering he had eight mouths to feed and rent to pay. Fearing retribution for leaving Japan, Satoshi had come to America with both sets of grandparents, his unmarried sister, and his wife and child. With such thoughts in mind, he decided to walk the three blocks over to Columbus Circle to catch a subway uptown to the George Washington Bridge Bus Terminal. From there, as he’d learned to do over the past number of weeks, he’d take a bus across the bridge to Fort Lee, New Jersey, where temporary housing had been found for him and his family.

  As Satoshi exited the revolving door, he switched his athletic bag containing the newly signed contract from his right to his left hand so he could use his right to gather the lapels of his jacket and hold them closed at the base of his neck. The mist he’d noted from inside was both colder and wetter than he had imagined. After walking only a few steps he reconsidered taking a taxi, but all the taxis appeared to be occupied.

  Satoshi stood at the curb until the light turned red for the vehicles on Fifth Avenue at the corner o
f 57th Street. As he searched vainly for an empty cab, his eyes strayed to a Japanese man standing on the opposite side of the street. What caught his eye and made him start were two things. First, the man was holding what appeared to be a photograph in his left hand, which he was intermittently looking at and then looking in Satoshi’s direction. It was as if he was comparing the photo with Satoshi. And second, and perhaps more disconcerting, Satoshi was reasonably sure from the man’s appearance that he was a Yakuza enforcer from Japan! He was wearing the typical black sharkskin suit, had spiked hair, and was wearing dark glasses despite the total lack of sun. Even more distinguishing was the fact that the man was missing the last joint of his little finger of the hand holding up the photograph. Like most Japanese, Satoshi was aware that members of the Yakuza, if they needed to show penance to their mob boss, or oyabun, were required to personally cut off the tip of their left fifth finger.

  In the next second, making matters worse, Satoshi realized there were two such men, not one, and that the first was now pointing in Satoshi’s direction while the second was nodding his head in apparent agreement.

  Now fearing that the men were about to cross the street and approach him, Satoshi gave up trying to hail a cab, spun on his heels, and immediately began to quickly walk north toward Central Park, weaving in and out of the sidewalk crowds. Even though the Yamaguchi-gumi Yakuza had recently helped him and his family flee Japan and had found housing for them at the behest of Ben Corey and iPS USA, he’d never seen these particular individuals and assumed that they probably were from another Yakuza family. He had no idea why another Yakuza organization might want to talk to him, but he had no interest in finding out. As far as he was concerned, it could only end badly.

  As he reached 58th Street, the traffic light encouraged him to cross Fifth Avenue instead of waiting to cross at 59th. As he did, he allowed himself to glance to his left to see if he could see the men in question in the crowd. Although he did not stop to search, he didn’t see them and began to hope the incident was just a figment of his overactive imagination. With a lighter step, he ducked under the skeletonized branches of the squat tree in the small park in front of the Plaza hotel and hurriedly passed beneath the gaze of the naked bronze sculpture of Pomona forever washing herself in her fountain.