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conglomerate faster than any businessman in French history. Some called him a savage because of his corporate takeover practices, but to Benoit, on that first evening, he was a charming savage. At the party, the first time he saw her, he kept his eyes on her. People noticed and opened a small path so that he could make his way to her. His attention and intensity were infectious; after a few minutes all those around him were glancing at her.
     
    Within a few days she was hired as his assistant and within months a vice president. In six months the relationship became personal.
     
    Benoit remembered him in the early years as uncompromising, determined, passionate, and seemingly without weakness. He could always concentrate and was never distracted, or so it seemed. He was a large man in every way, and when he walked into a room, he seemed to fill it. He knew how to relate to the man on the street and a prime minister. He seemed to Benoit to be the perfect corporate personality.
     
    Like others who have lost control of their ego, as Chellis's success increased, he changed, became self-absorbed, abusive, and paranoid. For Benoit the day came when the thought of being near his power was replaced by the thought of taking it.
     
    That day did not start out bad. Reports from Malaysia regarding the genetic technology—vector technology it was called—were never more optimistic. A brilliant young French scientist by the name of Georges Raval had discovered something amazing. He had taken two macaque monkeys and traded their hearts in simultaneous heart transplant surgeries. Both monkeys accepted the new heart without rejection and without the use of immunosuppressants. They had reprogrammed the immune systems of the two monkeys using a process familiarly known as "Chaperone." They expected that it would work on humans as well and would allow doctors to alter a patient's cells genetically in ways that made the expressed protein fundamentally different, and then allow the immune system to accept the altered tissue that resulted from the gene therapy—a genuine medical miracle.
     
    She had walked into DuShane's office with two of the staffers that helped her administer the program. He was alone but on the phone yelling at a banker. He was in fair condition for age fifty-two, and he kept his salt-and-pepper gray hair impeccably groomed, swept back with natural waves. His face was unrounded by fat, more distinguished than pleasant. With his serious, dark eyes and the flat line of his mouth, he appeared to be a man who counted his conquests, a predator.
     
    "I can always go across town. Don't ever forget that. And don't you dare ask me for more fees again." He slammed down the phone and looked at Benoit, then at her assistants.
     
    "I have some very good news from Malaysia," Benoit began.
     
    "Have you received Boudreaux's budget yet? The costs over there are out of sight."
     
    "I mentioned that the budget will be here day after tomor row. You agreed."
     
    "I ask for a simple thing and I can't get it!"
     
    "Well, we wanted to share with you the great news concerning the research of Georges Raval, a young scientist."
     
    "I already know about it. You were supposed to have those reports. I ask for things around here and people pay no attention."
     
    "We discussed it and you agreed...."
     
    "Then all I get is goddamn arguments. How can you do this and call yourself an executive? And why do you bring your damn toadies in here?" He dismissed the two assistants with a wave of his hand.
     
    "That was rude and embarrassing."
     
    "Don't fucking tell me what is rude. Rude is not getting the damn reports in on time. I have to run this whole company myself—do it all. Nobody else gets anything done. I have to watch, watch, watch. A bunch of damn children still shitting their pants."
     
    "If you would not like to hear about—"
     
    "Don't ever bring your flunkies in here unless I ask," he shouted.
     
    "I am leaving "
     
    "You are