I nodded, and stuck my hand out. ‘Thanks for coming.’

We shook hands.

‘This better be worth my while.’

He had jet-black hair, quite a lot of it, and wore thick-rimmed glasses. He looked tired and had a kind of hangdog expression on his face. He was in a dark suit and

a raincoat. It was an overcast day and there was a breeze blowing. I was about to suggest looking for a coffee shop, or even going into the Oak Room of the Plaza,

seeing as how it was right there – but Morgenthaler had other ideas.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said, and started crossing over towards the park. I hesitated, and then caught up with him.

‘A walk in the park?’ I said.

He nodded yes, but didn’t say anything, or look in my direction.

Walking briskly, and in silence, we went down the steps into the park, around by the pond, up by Wollman Rink and eventually over to Sheep Meadow.

Morgenthaler selected a bench and we sat down, facing the skyline of Central Park South. Where we were sitting was exposed and uncomfortably windy, but I wasn’t

about to start complaining now.

Morgenthaler turned to me and said, ‘OK, what’s this about?’

‘Well, like I said … MDT.’

‘What do you know about MDT and where did you first hear about it?’

He was very direct in his approach, and obviously intended to interrogate me as he would a witness. I decided that I would play along with this until I had him in a

position where he couldn’t just walk. In the way I answered his questions, I got several key ideas across to him. The first was that I knew what I was talking about. I

described the effects of MDT in almost clinical detail. He was fascinated by this, and had pertinent follow-up questions – which also confirmed for me that he knew

what he was talking about, at least in terms of MDT. I let it be known that I could supply the names of possibly dozens of people who had taken MDT, subsequently

stopped and were now suffering acute withdrawal symptoms. There would be enough cases to establish a clear pattern. I let it be known that I could supply the names

of people who had taken MDT and had subsequently died. Finally, I let it be known that I could supply samples of the actual drug itself for analysis.

When we got to this point, I could see that Morgenthaler had become quite agitated. All of the stuff I’d told him would be dynamite if he could bring it out in court –

but of course at the same time I had been tantalizingly non-specific. If he walked away now, he’d be walking away with nothing more than a good story – and this was

precisely where I wanted him.

‘So, what next?’ he said. ‘How do we proceed?’ And then added, with the merest hint of contempt in his voice, ‘What’s in this for you?’

I paused, and looked around. There were some people out jogging, others walking dogs, others pushing strollers. I had to keep him interested, without actually

giving him anything – not yet, at any rate. I also had to pick his brains.

‘We’ll come to that,’ I said, echoing Kenny Sanchez, ‘but first, tell me how you know about MDT.’

He crossed his legs, folded his arms and leant backwards in the bench.

‘I came across it,’ he said, ‘in the course of my research into the development and testing of Triburbazine.’

I waited for more, but that seemed to be it.

‘Look, Mr Morgenthaler,’ I said, ‘I answered your questions. Let’s build up a little confidence here.’

He sighed, barely able to hide his impatience.

‘OK,’ he said, assuming the role of expert witness, ‘in taking depositions relating to Triburbazine, I spoke to a lot of employees and ex-employees of Eiben-

Chemcorp. When they described the procedures for clinical trials, it was natural for these people to give me examples, to draw parallels with other drugs.’

He leant forward again, obviously uncomfortable about having to do this.

‘Several people, in this context, made reference to a series of trials that had been done on an anti-depressant drug in the early Seventies – trials that had gone

disastrously wrong. The man responsible for the administration of these trials was a Dr Raoul Fursten. He’d been with the company’s research department since the late

Fifties and had worked on LSD trials. This new drug was said to enhance cognitive ability – to some extent anyway – and at the time, it seems, Fursten had spoken

endlessly about his great hopes for it. He’d spoken about the politics of consciousness, the best and the brightest, looking towards the future, all of that shit. Remember

this was the early Seventies, which were still really the Sixties.’

Morgenthaler sighed again, and exhaled, seeming to deflate in the process. Then he shifted on the bench and got into a more comfortable position.

‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘there had been some serious adverse reactions to the drug as well. People had apparently become aggressive and irrational, some had even

suffered periods of memory loss. One person intimated to me that there had been fatalities and that this had been covered up. The trials were discontinued and the drug

– MDT-48 – was dropped. Fursten retired and apparently drank himself to death in the space of a year. None of the people I spoke to can prove any of this, no one

will confirm anything. It has the status of hearsay – which of course, in terms of what I’m trying to do, is of absolutely no use.

‘Nevertheless, I talked to some other people in the weird, wonderful world of neuropsychopharmacology – try saying that when you’ve had a couple of drinks –

people who shall remain nameless, and it turns out that there were rumours floating around in the mid-Eighties that research into MDT had been taken up again. These

were only rumours, mind …’ – he turned and looked at me – ‘… but now, what, you’re telling me this stuff is practically on the fucking streets?’

I nodded, thinking of Vernon and Deke Tauber and Gennady. Having been quite evasive about my sources, I hadn’t mentioned anything to Morgenthaler about

Todd Ellis, either, and the unofficial trials he’d been conducting out of United Labtech.

I shook my head.

‘You said the mid-Eighties?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And these trials would be … unofficial?’

‘Clearly.’

‘Who’s in charge of research now at Eiben-Chemcorp?’

‘Jerome Hale,’ he said, ‘but I can’t believe he’d have anything to do with it. He’s too respectable.’

‘Hale?’ I said. ‘Any relation?’

‘Oh yeah,’ he said, and laughed, ‘they’re brothers.’

I closed my eyes.

‘He worked with Raoul Fursten in the early days,’ Morgenthaler went on. ‘He took over from him, in fact. But it’s got to be someone working under him, because

Hale’s more of a front-office guy now. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, it’s Eiben-Chemcorp – it’s a pharmaceutical company withholding selective information in the

interests of profit. That’s the case we’re making. They manipulated information in the Triburbazine trials, and if I can prove they did the same with MDT and show a

pattern … then we’re home free.’

Morgenthaler was allowing himself get excited about the possibility of winning his case, but I couldn’t believe that in his excitement he had so easily passed over the

fact that Jerome Hale and Caleb Hale were brothers. The implications of that seemed enormous to me. Caleb Hale had started his career in the CIA in the mid-1960s.

In my own work for Turning On, I had read all about the CIA’s Office of Research and Development, and of how its MK-Ultra projects had secretly funded the

research programmes of various American drug companies.

The whole thing suddenly took on an unwieldy, headachy scale. I also saw just how far out of my depth I was.

‘So, Mr Spinola, I need your help. What do you need?’

I sighed.

‘Time. I need some time.’

‘For what?’

‘To think.’

‘What’s there to think? These bastards are—’

‘I understand that, but it’s not really the point.’

‘So what is the point, money?’

‘No,’ I said emphatically, and shook my head.

He hadn’t been expecting this, obviously assuming all along that I had wanted money. I sensed a growing nervousness in him now, as if he had suddenly realized that

he might be in danger of losing me.

‘How long are you staying in town?’ I asked.

‘I have to get back this evening, but—’

‘Let me call you in a day or two.’

He hesitated, unsure of how to answer.

‘Look, why don’t—’

I decided to head him off. I didn’t like doing it, but I had no choice. I did need to get away and think.

‘I’ll come up to Boston if necessary. With everything. Just … let me call you in a day or two, OK?’

‘OK.’

I stood up, and then he did as well. We started walking back towards East Fifty-ninth Street.

This time I was the one stage-managing the silence, but after a few moments something occurred to me and I wanted to ask him about it.

‘That case you’re working on,’ I said, ‘the girl who was taking Triburbazine?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Did she … I mean, was she really a killer?’

‘That’s what Eiben-Chemcorp is going to be arguing. They’re going to be looking for dysfunction in her family, abuse, any kind of background shit they can find and

dress up as motivation. But the fact is, anyone who knew her – and we’re talking about a nineteen-year-old girl here, a college student – anyone who knew her says she

was the sweetest, smartest kid you could meet.’

My stomach started churning.

‘So, basically, you say it was the Triburbazine, they say she did it.’

‘That’s what it comes down to, yeah – chemical determinism versus moral agency.’