Matt Radowski, a bright, young doctor, is on the fast career track at GenWorld Inc. the most successful biotechnology company in the world. His curiosity and intuition have served him well, and he's someone to watch. But now that curiosity has uncovered a dark secret, and Matt is about to come face-to-face with powerful enemies who will stop at nothing to protect their investment. Quite by chance, he's discovered that someone has manipulated the registration data for the company's new blockbuster drug, Septicustat, and these changes make the drug appear to be much more than it is. His life changes in ways he could never have imagined as he considers the implications of that information. Matt must now make a decision that could endanger his reputation, his career-and even his life. How far will these influential investors go to keep his discovery buried? And how far will this brave, young doctor go to ensure that the truth is known? Deadly Deceptions takes the reader inside the fascinating world of drug development, biotechnology, science, and big money.

DEADLY DECEPTIONS

A MEDICAL THRILLERBy HENRIK SANDVAD RASMUSSEN

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Henrik Sandvad Rasmussen
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-5695-5

Chapter One

Paris, France, August 11, 1999

Jennifer Bringles surveyed the small bar as she sipped her glass of Pomerol red wine. The bar was typical for the Latin Quarter—cozy, low-ceilinged, the air heavy with smoke. The place was full of local people laughing, chatting, and arguing as the piano player picked out a lazy love song, some Aznavour stuff. Jennifer reached for her pack of Marlboros, lit another cigarette, and exhaled with satisfaction. She was a long way from Charlotte, North Carolina, and she had every intention of keeping it that way.

Paris suited her down to the ground. She liked her job at the US Embassy, and her blonde good looks, long legs, and soft Southern accent opened doors for her in both French and expatriate American circles. She didn't spend her free time with her foreign affairs colleagues—the group was too small, too insular and too boring. She preferred the freedom of comparative anonymity—thus her presence in La Chatte Qui Chasse.

Jennifer was watching two men embroiled in a typically Gallic debate, which sounded much more acrimonious than it probably was, when she saw the man walk through the door. He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, with dark hair, a dark complexion, and a tan that definitely did not come from a bottle. He moved effortlessly, like a cat, with the confidence of someone who was aware of his good looks. His long, athletic legs were sheathed in tight black jeans. A gray Ralph Lauren T-shirt and brown leather jacket hung elegantly from his broad shoulders to his narrow hips. Something stirred in Jennifer's belly, and she unconsciously bit her bottom lip. My God, she thought, this is one of the sexiest men I have ever seen.

The stranger went straight to the only vacant table in the bar and made a discreet gesture toward a waiter. His polite restraint told Jennifer that he certainly was not a Parisian and that he probably wasn't even French. This was confirmed when the waiter finally came over. She could only hear fragments of the conversation, but to Jennifer's linguistically trained ear, developed by seven years of working abroad, it was enough. His accent was unmistakably American. Jennifer continued to watch the man out of the corner of her eye. He was scanning the bar, and she knew what he was looking for. She should be sensible and leave now, she told herself. He was gorgeous, but she knew his type—a spoiled brat, full of himself, probably used to getting exactly what he wanted. Instead of leaving, however, she watched herself in mild amazement as she got up and walked toward his table.

"Bonsoir," she said. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Please," the man replied and gestured toward the empty chair. Irritatingly, he didn't seem surprised at all.

Jennifer tapped a cigarette out of her pack and slid it expectantly between her fingers. "What's a handsome American doing in a local bar in the Latin Quarter when he can't even speak the language?"

"Well"—the man grinned—"I guess I'm waiting for a beautiful American woman to turn up." His voice was deep, melodious, and slightly husky. He lifted his glass of Pernod, gestured a toast to her, and took a drink.

"Let me guess," Jennifer said. "You're either a businessman, a lawyer, or a doctor."

"Right," the man said, "but which one?"

Jennifer lit her own cigarette, inhaled deeply before letting the smoke out, and then said, "A doctor—probably a cardiologist or a lung specialist who is now going to lecture me about the dangers of smoking."

The stranger smiled. "A doctor, yes. A cardiologist or a lung man, no. I'm in research. But I still think you should stop smoking. Been in Paris long?"

"Three years. Before that, Athens and Copenhagen. And you?"

"I'm here at a medical conference. Going home tomorrow, though."

"Like Paris?"

"Love it. All of it. The buildings, the boulevards, the art, the history, the food—even the bossiness of the French."

"I know what you mean. I like it, too. Seen anything else of Europe?"

"London, Prague, Vienna, Rome, and Copenhagen," he counted off on his long, tapering fingers. "Nothing in the US to compare with them. The closest we come is San Francisco, New York, Washington, and New Orleans."

"Your list doesn't include Boston and Chicago. Why not?"

"Too serious. I like a town where people can have a little fun."

So they had put their mutual cards on the table, Jennifer thought. They were both intelligent and well traveled. Both professionals. Let the evening proceed.

"By the way, I'm Matt Radowski. And you're ..."

Jennifer brushed back a strand of ash-blonde hair. At least he pretended to be interested in her name. But if she knew his type; he would forget it by tomorrow. "Jennifer, Jennifer Bringles," she said, extending her hand. "I'm with the American Embassy here."

As she held his gaze in hers, Jennifer saw that his eyes—brown, almost dark—had more gentleness than one would have thought from the rest of his appearance. Frankly, she wouldn't have minded going straight to her place, but she was supposed to be a nice girl, and nice girls don't make love to strangers—especially not nice girls who are foreign service officers. Anyway, the handsome young doctor didn't seem to be in any great hurry.

Two hours and three glasses of Pomerol later, Jennifer was growing restless. She had learned that Matt was intelligent and charming and liked to hear himself talk. She had learned he came from La Jolla, California, had gone to Stanford, where he played serious tennis, then studied medicine at the University of California at San Francisco. Now he was telling her why he had stopped practicing medicine and taken a job with a biotech company.

"You know, I think I always wanted to go into research. During med school, though, I changed specialties all the time. Actually, that's pretty common. When you do psychiatry, you want to be a psychiatrist, when you do internal medicine, you want to be an internist, when you do surgery, you want to be a surgeon—"

"And when you're with women, you want to be a gynecologist?" Jennifer interrupted.

He laughed. "I think that would probably put me off women," Matt said. "Anyway, I always found I returned to research. It never gets boring. You always feel that you're on the verge of something great. Of course, that's not the case. Most researchers never experience the great breakthrough. You walk through your professional life thinking you're about to turn the corner, but before you do, it's time to retire."

"I can't believe medical practice could ever get boring," Jennifer said.

"Well, it does. Some specialties sooner than others, but even the so-called life-and-death specialties like trauma and acute care become routine. I spent three years doing trauma and emergency medicine at Cedars-Sinai in LA, and I can tell you that once you've seen a hundred road traffic accidents, shootings, muggings, or beatings, they all start to look alike. It gets routine."

"And you crave excitement?" she asked softly, looking him straight in the eyes, feeling like she was drowning.

"Yes, I do. I need variety." He took the hand she had resting in her lap. "Stimulation, too. I'm not particularly religious, and I'm not certain there's an afterlife. So I figure I'd better get as much out of this life as possible."

Jennifer appreciated his oblique...