passed in silence. The Fixer wrestled an inner warning to find the nearest door and run.
“Well hello, gorgeous.” The voice over the speaker was unmistakably Barbara Streisand’s. The cadence was slowed, as if each word was pieced together from an infinite library of the diva’s iterations, but the inflection and tone were perfect. Anyone over the age of twenty-five would be certain they were listening to the superstar.
“That’s some gadget you got there, Jones. But I’m going to have to see you if you want this conversation to go any further.”
“If you could indulge me, Ms Carr.” La Streisand asked. “Please. Watch this.”
The light that had been tracking The Fixer went dark and was replaced by the glow of a large television mounted on the side of a catwalk above her to the right. The image of a middle aged man filled the screen. Late 40’s she’d guessed. Fit, handsome, and with the body of an athlete. His face unlined and his suit custom-tailored. He walked with the easy grace of someone who knew he turned heads. There was no audio as the man ascended to a podium. He shook hands with several people before taking his place behind a lectern. He smiled into the camera and pulled note cards from his pocket.
“That’s Fred Bastian.” The speaker now projected a man’s voice. Soft southern accent. “Some say he’s the best in his field. Maybe destined for the Nobel Prize some day.”
“But you say different, I suppose.” The Fixer wanted to get to the reason for the meeting.
“Dr. Bastian is a butcher, Ms Carr. A fiend. A sadist of the highest order.”
“What is it you want, Jones? By the way, is it Miss or Mister Jones?” The Fixer grew weary of the game.
“Jones is fine, Ms Carr.” This time a woman with the nasal inflection of a New Jersey housewife. “Bastian is chair of neuroscience at the university. He’s built his career identifying and locating the molecular substrates of human emotions. Most of his work is with animals. ‘Non-human primates’ he calls them. He does most of his experiments on monkeys and chimpanzees.”
The Fixer knew of Bastian’s lab. Over the years it had been the target of demonstrations by animal rights activists. She recalled an investigation by the National Institutes of Health a few years earlier.
“I’m listening.” No need for Jones to have any indication of her knowledge of the scientist’s work. “What do you have in mind?”
The response came as a female voice from the heartland. Devoid of accent as any network anchor. “Bastian’s lab has as many as fifty primates at any given time. Caged. Chained if necessary. Screaming for their freedom at first. Soon learning they’re helpless and submitting to captivity. Huddling in the corners of small crates. Some starving themselves to death but most succumbing to the seduction of survival and performing for their captors who come twice a day with kibbles and fruit.”
The television switched to another video. Bastian smiling into the camera as he gave a tour of his lab. Green porcelain tiles covered the walls. White-coated assistants stood behind black-topped utility tables. The audio was muted, but The Fixer assumed Bastian was pointing out various instruments or explaining his theories or research protocols. She watched Bastian go to a large steel door, key an entry code into an electronic panel, and push the door open.
The audio blared into action as Bastian entered his holding rooms. Unseen dogs barked. Monitors beeped. Bastian spoke directly to the camera with an assured voice. “And now the stars of our little show.”
The camera tracked dozens of cages that filled the sterile room. Monkeys peered out as Bastian walked by and identified them for his audience. The small macaque and tamarinds. The proboscis and squirrel monkeys. Several with shaved heads. Two with implanted electrodes. Faces of pleading fear captured in heartbreaking close-up by the zoom lens.
“Here are my larger
“Well hello, gorgeous.” The voice over the speaker was unmistakably Barbara Streisand’s. The cadence was slowed, as if each word was pieced together from an infinite library of the diva’s iterations, but the inflection and tone were perfect. Anyone over the age of twenty-five would be certain they were listening to the superstar.
“That’s some gadget you got there, Jones. But I’m going to have to see you if you want this conversation to go any further.”
“If you could indulge me, Ms Carr.” La Streisand asked. “Please. Watch this.”
The light that had been tracking The Fixer went dark and was replaced by the glow of a large television mounted on the side of a catwalk above her to the right. The image of a middle aged man filled the screen. Late 40’s she’d guessed. Fit, handsome, and with the body of an athlete. His face unlined and his suit custom-tailored. He walked with the easy grace of someone who knew he turned heads. There was no audio as the man ascended to a podium. He shook hands with several people before taking his place behind a lectern. He smiled into the camera and pulled note cards from his pocket.
“That’s Fred Bastian.” The speaker now projected a man’s voice. Soft southern accent. “Some say he’s the best in his field. Maybe destined for the Nobel Prize some day.”
“But you say different, I suppose.” The Fixer wanted to get to the reason for the meeting.
“Dr. Bastian is a butcher, Ms Carr. A fiend. A sadist of the highest order.”
“What is it you want, Jones? By the way, is it Miss or Mister Jones?” The Fixer grew weary of the game.
“Jones is fine, Ms Carr.” This time a woman with the nasal inflection of a New Jersey housewife. “Bastian is chair of neuroscience at the university. He’s built his career identifying and locating the molecular substrates of human emotions. Most of his work is with animals. ‘Non-human primates’ he calls them. He does most of his experiments on monkeys and chimpanzees.”
The Fixer knew of Bastian’s lab. Over the years it had been the target of demonstrations by animal rights activists. She recalled an investigation by the National Institutes of Health a few years earlier.
“I’m listening.” No need for Jones to have any indication of her knowledge of the scientist’s work. “What do you have in mind?”
The response came as a female voice from the heartland. Devoid of accent as any network anchor. “Bastian’s lab has as many as fifty primates at any given time. Caged. Chained if necessary. Screaming for their freedom at first. Soon learning they’re helpless and submitting to captivity. Huddling in the corners of small crates. Some starving themselves to death but most succumbing to the seduction of survival and performing for their captors who come twice a day with kibbles and fruit.”
The television switched to another video. Bastian smiling into the camera as he gave a tour of his lab. Green porcelain tiles covered the walls. White-coated assistants stood behind black-topped utility tables. The audio was muted, but The Fixer assumed Bastian was pointing out various instruments or explaining his theories or research protocols. She watched Bastian go to a large steel door, key an entry code into an electronic panel, and push the door open.
The audio blared into action as Bastian entered his holding rooms. Unseen dogs barked. Monitors beeped. Bastian spoke directly to the camera with an assured voice. “And now the stars of our little show.”
The camera tracked dozens of cages that filled the sterile room. Monkeys peered out as Bastian walked by and identified them for his audience. The small macaque and tamarinds. The proboscis and squirrel monkeys. Several with shaved heads. Two with implanted electrodes. Faces of pleading fear captured in heartbreaking close-up by the zoom lens.
“Here are my larger
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