Chapter 1 < Introductions and paintings She stepped forward into the darkness. The door closed behind her and JC was bathed in a warm but dim light. “I trust you had a pleasant journey, Dr. Goodman.” JC turned to her left, trying to find the source of the bodiless male voice. She couldn’t see the far end of the room. She couldn’t even see more than a few feet ahead. The darkness was too thick to penetrate. Still, the voice was pleasing to the ear. One could claim it was even beautiful, but JC discarded the thought easily. She was not in the mood for sound appreciation. “You could serve yourself some tea,” the voice offered politely. JC took in the table on wheels with the elegant black teapot and the matching cups on her right. He must be kidding! She thought of the over two hours’ ride with Ms. Gardner as her silent companion. The English countryside after midnight looked like a dark, uninviting sea of fields with the occasional beacon lights of the random cottages. They had exited the motorway very early, choosing isolated roads and a route Ms. Gardner seemed to follow effortlessly, leaving JC in her own misery and assumptions. She didn't know where they were heading. She didn't know when they would be arriving. And every one of her questions had received vague replies as if she was asking meaningless information. No, this was certainly not JC’s idea of a pleasant journey. “Tell me, Dr. Goodman, what do you know about me?” the man’s voice reached her again. Now she was certain she wasn’t listening to some speakerphone. There was a living, breathing man in the room with her. There was a hint of amusement in her host’s deep voice that any other time would make JC grit her teeth and utter a sharp response. This time she restrained herself. Talking to a voice was unnerving. Although she could hear Mr. Kepler at the far end of the room, she couldn’t even catch a glimpse of his silhouette. “I only know what Ms. Gardner has told me about you over the last eighteen months. I met Dr. McBride a few minutes ago—” She shifted her weight and waited. If you want to play it mysterious, be my guest. I couldn’t care less, JC thought, and counted her host’s steps as he paced at his side of the room. The soft light on her side allowed her to see the deep grey carpeted walls and floor but other than that…there was nothing. The space was empty. They reminded her of tennis players, strictly limited to their own courts. She wondered if Mr. Kepler would take the first step. “There is no point at playing games, Dr. Goodman,” the bodiless voice said, and JC found herself smiling. Had he thought of the tennis image, too? She doubted it. She wondered if the man was a ridiculously famous celebrity aiming to keep his anonymity. Or a filthy rich heir—the voice didn’t seem to belong to an old man—who wanted to play the eccentric benefactor. Filthy rich people could afford to be eccentric. “I’d appreciate it if you answered my question.” There was a hint of irritation now, or maybe he was in a hurry. JC realized how much she based her estimations on facial grimaces. It was as if her ears had become lazy over the years. Without nods, brows lifted, or a face to watch, she was in the dark. “Mr. Kepler, I’m a scientist. The facts I knew until a few hours ago are now under question.” Shatteredwould be a better-suited word, JC thought, but she went on in a serious voice, “If you want a summary, I’d be happy to oblige, but whether these are actual facts or a picture you fabricated to get me here…this is a question for you to answer.” JC heard her voice rising and paused to take a deep breath. It’s the shock, she thought to calm herself. The adrenaline rush…. “For the last eighteen months, I thought that my father’s medical bills were paid by OKTO, Inc. as part of the company’s multiple charity activities—” To earn a tax reduction, JC added inwardly but avoided saying it out loud. “It might seem naïve of me now, but Ms. Gardner did show me a report list of other charities she was responsible for.” JC gulped. Maybe there was no time for beating about the bush. After all, she had some questions herself. “You know that I was in desperate financial state. My father is in a coma, he’s breathing by himself, but the care he needs costs more than I could pay in three lifetimes. He’s not going to wake up any time soon.” And if he did, that could cost even more, JC thought, not prickled by guilt. For eighteen months, she had experienced the luxury of not measuring everything by the money it cost, comparing it with all the cheapest alternatives, and deducting it from her pathetic bank account. Now, that unwanted skill should be resurrected. “There are state facilities for patients like your father, Dr. Goodman.” The voice again. JC wondered how he would react if she ran and kicked him hard in the leg. She looked at her dirty sneakers. The man was too far away. There was no way she’d surprise him and she’d probably hit first onto a wall. She bitterly smiled at her sneakers and the old pair of jeans she was wearing. These lousy clothes and her own realistic notion of her beauty…or the lack of it, helped her keep her sanity during the trip in Ms. Gardner’s car. There was a point at which she had honestly thought she was abducted. No, no handsome Sheik would bid for her beauty. That fear never crossed JC’s mind, not even trafficking. But organ trade…. That was a whole different thing. She could bet her Spartan way of living granted her a pretty nice liver. Her dislike of water would probably destroy her kidneys in the future, but she was still young with a fairly well-working heart. She had wholeheartedly agreed to meet Mr. Kepler, OKTO’s CEO, some day in the vague future, but Ms. Gardner’s appearance at her apartment that Sunday afternoon was quite sudden. Her tone was urgent. Mr. Kepler’s “request” hardly sounded like an expression of a polite wish. Ms. Gardner’s tone had made it clear: Mr. Kepler’s wishes were commands for the rest of the world. JC had wanted nothing more than to send the old crone away but her own life had revolved around the Kepler axis for so long and her old life seemed like such a nightmare that she complied relatively easily. A few faint excuses and attempts to postpone the appointment. Nothing more. During the endless, silent drive JC had concluded: she wasn’t a bitch. She did feel genuine gratitude for her “benefactor”, but, like all people in need, she was ashamed of that need that showed how weak she really was. Ashamed she had been someone’s “charity project”, and that shame had awakened a hostility she couldn’t restrain. Her eyes fell on her shoes again. JC tried to persuade herself that if she did have the time she might have bought a new dress and a pair of pumps, but she knew better than that. All her friends had pointed out her absolute lack of taste, so a pair of jeans would always be a safe choice. After all, when rich people wanted to see those who received their charity, they’d better look poor enough. Okay, she looked poor enough. The man cleared his throat and JC had to concentrate hard to remember his last question…. State facilities for patients like her father. “Have you ever visited those places you recommend, Mr. Kepler?” She couldn’t restrain the sarcastic edge in her voice. Her father would survive no more than a month in a place like that. No matter the staff’s efforts, cross-infection was a constant threat for patients like him. The unit he was in at the moment looked more like an ICU than anything else. “As a matter of fact, I have visited one of those places. I’ve even lived in one for a while.” He had her full attention, but he didn’t say more. Instead they were both drowned in a long, uncomfortable pause. A silence where she was standing under the dim, depressing light like a spoiled, insolent student after making a humongous mistake. Or even worse…she felt like a reprimanded snob. “Mr. Kepler—” she tried hard to finish her sentence but she couldn’t. What was she trying to do? Urge him to talk? The man didn’t want to even show himself before her. What were the odds he’d behave like a normal person? “Since you are not in the mood for conversation, let’s focus on what I know about you, Dr. Goodman. Your CV is very impressive. You were the youngest Development and Clinical Project Manager assigned by BDS International. Still, you are not working as a biomedical engineer anymore. You have a BA in biochemistry and minored in psychology. Even though you were born in the U.S., you earned your PhD in molecular biochemistry and engineering in the UK, partly because there is a more friendly environment for stem cell research here and partly because BDS International funded your PhD. I understand that is not the norm—” “ I was interested in tissue engineering and BDS is…BDS.” “It had to do with your dissertation. Something about enzyme kinetics.” “I’m impressed!” “I’ve studied!” She was sure there was a smile somewhere behind that rich voice. She wished she could see him. “Then you know that my PhD was financed partly by my university in the States and partly from BDS,” she paused. “BDS is based in the UK. I didn’t want to teach. I preferred to work as a research assistant.” “However, your days as Development and Clinical Project Manager were numbered.” A statement. “Easy come, easy go,” she tried to joke but, as always, the attempt to joke over that particular matter wasn’t very successful. “This is the way you see it?” Was he angry? He didn’t sound angry and JC had no solid evidence for her intuition. His voice was the same in volume and tone. She even took in for the first time the richness of its timbre and its melodic quality. It didn’t sound like an angry voice. It felt angry and that “feeling”, evoked by no palpable objective signs, made her question her sanity. “I suppose I was too young for the task,” she mumbled—the answer she had given a thousand times both to herself and others. “For the past two years you have been working as the psychology expert in Dr. Raoul Reyes’ research team, but most of the times your work is mainly secretarial—” JC gritted her teeth at how that sounded. “Even though there was a time you had a team of your own and you were considered to lead the department, Dr. Reyes took that position.” “Dr. Reyes was more experienced and his team’s results—” “What you do now for his team could be called a demotion, am I right?” he interrupted her. She shrugged. “Since I did everything faster, I can afford some wasted years.” She didn’t allow bitterness to show. After all, she was the youngest Development and Clinical Project Manager. That was a record she still had on both sides of the Atlantic. “Dr. Reyes clearly considers it a ‘charity’ to keep you in that position. How do you feel about it?” JC took in a deep breath. Slowly. Did he know she was proud and want to hurt her? Could a “benefactor” know that a “charity project” may have pride of her own? “Were you angry before?” She tried to change the subject. “Why were you angry?” She risked one more step in her assumption. “We are not here to psychoanalyze me, Dr. Goodman,” he reprimanded her. JC smiled, satisfied by the obvious confirmation in his voice. “Can I call you by your first name?” His question surprised her. Just when she had forced him to take a step back, he became bolder. “You can ask me a bunch of personal questions, but I have no such right, do I? Who do you think you are? Why have you brought me here…this way? And why should I answer all those questions?” “Maybe out of…gratitude?” There was no cynicism in his reply. Other than a playful tone, JC could detect nothing more. She remained silent. Was she supposed to apologize for her outburst? She couldn’t. She took in a couple of deep breaths to calm herself. The possibility to just turn and leave that arrogant bastard hiding in the dark was just too tempting at the moment. As if he had read her mind, the light expanded, revealing more of the room that was in the dark. Not the man though. Never the man. JC dismissed the familiar scenery—more carpeted walls and floor—and focused on the painting hanging over a tall and narrow glass table attached to the wall. She registered the file on the table’s surface but she couldn’t move her eyes from the captivating portrait. A man’s portrait. There was something grotesque about it. His out-of shape, twisted features were contorted, distorted, as if trying to escape towards different directions. “It’s an original Francis Bacon. One of his Heads series. Are you familiar with his work?” She unconsciously took a step towards the painting, mesmerized. The glass that covered it didn’t reduce any of its brutal strength, the energy of that man who looked as if caught in the moment of transformation. There was a tension in that distorted face, a vigorous movement in the distortion itself and JC wished she could touch it. Realizing her hand had risen of its own accord, she let it fall by her side, hoping her host hadn’t noticed. “It’s an oil painting. Bacon is famous for this kind of work. Do you like it?” JC nodded, not able to move her eyes away from the artwork just yet. “I don’t know if this contortion shows a transformation or…is it supposed to reveal the inner self?” she whispered mostly to herself. “Excuse me, I got carried away. I’ve never seen anything like it before.” She took a step back. “It’s so beautiful.” “Beautiful?” “I mean…you know…. There is such strength. It’s not…realistic, but there is a physicality there…. It’s so intense. Excuse me. I’m sure not an art expert.” “Neither am I.” There was a smile in the voice now. “I only buy the art I need.” JC smiled back, unable to avert her eyes from the painting yet. How would it feel to own this? To be able to look at it whenever she chose? Something told her it wasn’t a cheap painting. “Raoul is not just my boss,” she started. She owed her host something. A quid pro quo for letting her be near such a masterpiece. “He has been a friend. And—” she paused to find the right words. “And you had a kind of crush on him when he was teaching in the States.” “Geez! If you are going to finish my sentences, this will take hours!” She didn’t let her astonishment show. That man knew way too much about her. “I was going to say that in addition to Raoul being a friend—emphasis on ‘friend’—I wanted to hang around and find out what went wrong.” “What I did wrong” would be the right phrasing but she should be very careful with that man. “Which brings us to the purpose of this rather unconventional meeting. What if I could guarantee you your position back—in due time, of course—and your father’s well-being at the same time? Would you consider this an interesting proposal? You could start as a Laboratory and Scientific Information Manager and, at the right time, you could lead the Research Department yourself. You may share the leadership with Dr. Reyes if you are too young for the task or you don’t have the heart to remove him,” he mocked her previous words. She didn’t need to see him to hear it. Questions about his sanity arose for the first time, and JC was surprised it took her so long to consider the possibility. “I don’t see how …” She took a step back, trying to remember how many steps separated her from the door behind her. “Of course you’ll have to do something for me first, Dr. Goodman.” This time he was mocking her fear. JC took a deep breath, relieved. She preferred a blackmailer to a psycho on any given day. “What do you want me to do?” Her voice was steady. “I want you to make sure that a certain man will be included in BDS’s Phase II of Face Bioprinting. I know for a fact—a word you seem to favor—that Dr. Reyes’s team will start working on a new experimental phase for BDS’s Bioprinter.” “But how—?” She was stunned. “How do I know or how will you do that? The answer to the latter question is that you are the psychological expert. You’ll train this man so that he’ll pass the psychological evaluation and you’ll provide all the inside info we need. You know the drill. Every step of the way. As to ‘how do I know’ this is not your business, Dr. Goodman.” “That would destroy the entire clinical trial protocol—” she muttered to herself when she realized what he was asking of her. “It will ruin the data, the objectivity—” she tried to explain to him. “If I were the perfect candidate, there would be no point in all this. Don’t you agree?” JC’s eyes opened wide upon catching the reflection of a man mirrored in the glass surface of the Bacon painting. Her ears had betrayed her once more. She hadn’t heard him move but somehow he was there, standing behind her. The reflection of his face was crystal clear upon the portrait’s twisted features, but the man had no face. He was wearing a full-face white mask. He just stood there behind her, tall, unmoving, as if afraid that any movement would scare her. Perhaps he was right. JC had to take a step forward. She leaned on the table before her, pretending to be interested in the file. A gloved hand stopped her from opening it. “You will have access to this after your decision is made.” JC’s eyes met the mask reflected in the painting. She didn’t need an extra confirmation of the obvious. The voice belonged to him. It was louder now and a notch gentler. His glove was made of black soft suede leather. It looked very fine, for the touch was warm as if a real hand had touched her. She removed her hand and pretended she was focusing on the file’s cover. She couldn’t stand looking at the mask’s reflection before her and she was certain that if she took a step backwards she would fall on him. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him move towards the trolley and pour a cup of tea. Would he remove his mask to drink? She looked at the file again to give him some privacy. “I like this flavor, this aroma, even though I prefer coffee,” he answered her unspoken question with a hint of amusement. Did he think she would shiver at the sight of his face? She straightened her shoulders and put on her professional look—what she liked to think of as “serious and to-the-point.” “I need some time to make my decision.” She deluded herself that she had some power now, over him. “Even though you’ll see for yourself that this time is limited, the choice is yours.” He sounded calm and cool and in control, and that irritated her. She had so many questions but she was too frustrated to think straight. “What do you think? Are we now on a first name basis?” “Of course. Call me JC.” “JC? What kind of name is that?” he asked, disapproval evident in his voice. “That is what my friends call me,” she replied, just on the verge of proposing to go back to “Dr. Goodman” or “Miss Goodman” instead. “We are not friends. We are going to be partners in a project.” The finality of his phrasing didn’t escape her. Did she really have a choice in this? “It will last less than six months but it will demand your complete devotion. After that, you will be free to go on with your life. And free of worries for your father’s welfare for the rest of your life.” “Call me whatever you like.” She was resigned. The adrenaline high had subsided, leaving her body cold, sleepy, and drained. At this point, she could have agreed to sell her soul for a chair and a warmer jacket. “It’s Juliet, then.” “God, no! Not Juliet! Anything but Juliet!” She covered her face with her hand. “Christine? That’s the only other alternative—” There was an uncertainty in his voice. She wondered what he would do if she went into hysterics over the name and started yelling Call me 'Bob' then! Better 'Bob'! Would he let her go, certain of her insanity? She felt too exhausted even to smile at the picture in her head. “Okay, I’ll be Christine for you, but I can’t promise I’ll answer all the time.” She ran a weary hand over her forehead. “What should I call you? Honorable Mr. Kepler?” She couldn’t restrain her tongue and couldn’t care less at the time. “If you are Christine and there’s a Raoul in the picture,” there was clear amusement in his voice again, “what does that make me?”