Free Fever by Robin Cook

Veronica Evans. Befitting her status, her area was separated from the rest of the room with paneled dividers. She’d been at the Weinburger even longer than Ibanez. She was a well-groomed woman of hefty proportions and indeterminate late middle age.
    â€œI’d like to see the director,” said Charles in a no-nonsense voice.
    â€œDo you have an appointment?” No one intimidated Miss Evans.
    â€œJust tell him I’m here,” said Charles.
    â€œI’m afraid . . .” began Miss Evans.
    â€œIf you don’t tell him I’m here, I’m going to barge right in.” Charles’s voice was stiffly controlled.
    Marshaling one of her famous, disdainful expressions, MissEvans reluctantly got up and disappeared within the inner office. When she reappeared, she merely held the door ajar and motioned Charles inside.
    Ibanez’s office was a large, corner room that faced south and east. Besides the Boston University campus, part of the Boston skyline could be seen across the partially frozen Charles River. Ibanez was seated at a monstrous, antique Spanish desk. The view was at his back. Seated in front of the desk was Dr. Thomas Brighton.
    Laughing at some conversational point made before Charles arrived, Dr. Carlos Ibanez gestured with the long, thin cigar he was smoking for Charles to take a chair. A halo of gray smoke hung above the director’s head like a rain cloud over a tropic island. He was a small man in his early sixties, given to sudden rapid movements, particularly of his hands. His perpetually tanned face was framed by silver hair and a silver goatee. His voice was surprisingly robust.
    Charles sat, disturbed by Dr. Brighton’s presence. On one hand, he was furious with the man, both on professional and personal grounds. On the other, he felt sorry for the doctor, having to face up to a scandal and the sudden dissolution of his life.
    Dr. Brighton gave Charles a rapid but unmistakably disdainful glance before turning back to Dr. Ibanez. That single look was enough to undermine Charles’s empathy. Charles studied Brighton’s profile. As far as Charles was concerned, he was young: thirty-one years old. And he appeared younger than that: blond and handsome in an effete Ivy League sort of way.
    â€œAh, Charles,” said Ibanez with some embarrassment. “I was just saying good-bye to Thomas. It’s a shame that in his zeal to finish the Canceran project he acted foolishly.”
    â€œFoolishly,” Charles burst out. “Criminally would be more accurate.” Thomas flushed.
    â€œNow, Charles, his motives were of the best. We know he did not mean to embarrass the institute. The real criminal is the person who leaked this information to the press, and wehave every intention of finding him and punishing him severely.”
    â€œAnd Dr. Brighton?” asked Charles as if the man were not in the room. “Are you condoning what he did?”
    â€œOf course not,” said Ibanez. “But the disgrace he has suffered at the hands of the press seems punishment enough. It will be hard for him to get a job worthy of his talents for the next few years. The Weinburger certainly can’t finance his career any longer. In fact, I was just telling him about an internal medical group in Florida in which I’m quite sure we can get him a position.”
    There was an uncomfortable pause.
    â€œWell,” said Dr. Ibanez, getting to his feet and coming around his desk. Brighton stood up as Dr. Ibanez approached him. Dr. Ibanez put his arm on Brighton’s shoulder and walked him to the door, ignoring Charles.
    â€œI’d appreciate any help you can give me,” said Brighton.
    â€œI hope you understand the reasons behind making you leave the institute so quickly,” said Ibanez.
    â€œOf course,” returned Brighton. “Once the press gets onto something like this, they want to suck it dry. Don’t worry about me,