Lost Immunity Daniel Kalla (reading women TXT) 📖

compassionate grounds, you’d be protected, Mr. Moore. You would also be covered through NVICP.” Lisa cites the initials for the National Vaccine Injury Compensation Program. The elaborate federal program was created thirty years prior as a substitute to class-action lawsuits to protect patients while limiting potential damages against manufacturers to ensure that companies continued to develop new vaccines. Even so, the adjudicated program had already cost the industry billions in payouts.

“A pharmaceutical company protected by the NVICP? That’s almost an oxymoron.” Moore chuckles. “Truth is: nothing could protect us from the fallout of an unexpected or untoward outcome.”

“How would a massive trial in Reykjavík be any less risky?”

“To begin with, it’s not on US soil. Not subject to American laws… or lawyers. And we’d have the control. The infrastructure. The safety valves. All in place. It’s a trial that has been in development for several months. Not a kneejerk reaction to a brand-new crisis.”

“That’s the point. This is a crisis. And, as a colleague of mine loves to say, ‘Never let a crisis go to waste,’ ” Lisa says with a nod to Angela.

“I like that.” Moore laughs again. “However, I have to defer to Nathan’s opinion. After all, he’s responsible for product development and release.”

Before Lisa can respond, Angela jumps in. “Mr. Moore, it’s Dr. Chow here.” She brings a finger to her lips, and then says, “Lisa reports to me on this. And, of course, my co-lead, Dr. Moyes, with the CDC.”

“I see.”

“Very soon, it will not just be Seattle Public Health making this request. It will come from the CDC, the state, and potentially even federal authorities.”

“And we would entertain any and all such requests that would come through those channels,” he says coolly.

“Good.” Angela appears unfazed, even though Moore just called her bluff. “Also, do you happen to be familiar with MENGOC-BC?”

“Not particularly.”

“It’s a vaccine developed in Cuba in the late eighties,” Angela explains. “It was hugely successful in fighting off a meningitis outbreak at the time in Havana.”

Lisa remembers reading about the legendary vaccine, but she hasn’t heard it mentioned in years. Sensing where Angela is heading, she begins to shake her head.

“Because of obvious political differences, it was only ever granted a research license in the US,” Angela continues. “And it has never been trialed outside of Cuba on any large scale.”

“I’m not sure—” Moore begins, but Angela cuts him off.

“The very preliminary testing on our pathogen at the CDC labs suggests that MENGOC-BC produces strong immunogenicity against the same Icelandic bug.”

Lisa holds up her palms and mouths the words, “What are you doing?”

Angela waves her off.

“Does it?” Moore asks.

“It appears to,” Angela says. “Of course, since it’s only an experimental drug here, we would face the significant challenge of where to mass-produce the MENGOC-BC vaccine. But with the resources of the CDC, the state, and the federal government behind us, that’s surmountable.” She taps her temple and looks at both Lisa and Tyra. “In the past, the government has even seconded existing manufacturing plants to urgently produce vaccines. And I understand Delaware has a brand-new facility in Massachusetts.”

She pauses, and when Moore doesn’t comment, she continues. “I understand you already have fifty thousand doses of Neissovax ready for Iceland. Efficacy aside, that could save us vital weeks in our response versus having to produce the Cuban vaccine from scratch.”

There’s a long delay before Moore replies. “I’ll tell you what, Dr. Chow,” he says in a somber tone. “In light of the worsening outbreak in Seattle, we will revisit your department’s request again with Nathan and the rest of our team.”

“Thank you, Mr. Moore,” Angela says. “And remember, time is spread.”

As Lisa disconnects the call, she can’t believe Angela’s ruse might have worked. And she can’t fight off her smile.

“Angela.” Tyra folds her arms across her chest, her expression scolding. “Maybe you shouldn’t have said all that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not true?”

“It might be.” Angela runs a finger along the bony protuberance of her cheek. “Besides, what can they do to me that cancer and fucking chemotherapy haven’t done already?”

CHAPTER 16

“You don’t believe that BS about Cuba, do you?” Nathan asks from where he sits across the teak desk from Peter Moore, inside the CEO’s expansive thirty-ninth-floor corner office.

Nathan still hasn’t adjusted to Peter’s new look since his boss recovered from what he insists on describing as “only a ministroke.” The new beard is foreign enough, but lately Peter has traded his Italian suits and loafers for outfits like the Indian print sweater and khakis he’s wearing now. “There’s a lot of mystery surrounding that Cuban vaccine,” Peter says as he sips tea from an owl-shaped mug.

“They’re bluffing, Peter.”

“Oh, probably. But it doesn’t really matter.”

Nathan doubts the Peter of old—the driven, Machiavellian executive he used to be prior to his stroke—would’ve accepted any of this with such philosophical calm. Then again, the old Peter wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing a cardigan or drinking tea from a bird-shaped mug. And especially not sporting a beard.

“How can it not matter?” Nathan struggles to keep his tone even.

“It’s inevitable now,” Peter says. “Particularly, if there’s no there there to the Cuban story.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because it would make us the only game in town when it comes to possible vaccines,” Peter says. “Meningitis is spreading in Seattle, and they’re desperate. What with kids dying, and all. The pressure on us to release Neissovax is only going to intensify. Even if Dr. Chow is just blowing smoke, I bet we’ll soon hear from the CDC and all levels of government.”

“We’re not ready for this.”

“Ready or not, soon we won’t have a choice. They know we have a stockpile.”

“Can’t we stall them?” Nathan asks. “Long enough until we can dispense the vaccines in Reykjavík? After all, we do have an existing contract with the Icelandic government.”

“Dumping our stockpile so they can’t force our hand?” Peter grunts. “When did you become so cagey, Nathan?”

“I’m worried, Peter,” he says genuinely. “It’s all too rushed. Even the Reykjavík trial