Alchemist (11 page)

Both the forty-seventh floor and the one above looked like space stations, bristling with the most sophisticated eavesdropping and satellite tracking technology, most of which was used more for monitoring staff for internal security than it was for spying on the competition.

Gunn halted next to the vehicle-data tracking system. In front of him was a vast panel of some five thousand tiny red lights, each with a number beneath. About two thirds of the lights were off, the others were winking brightly. Each light represented a company vehicle, and the winking ones indicated those actually being driven at that moment.

By typing the number of the light into the computer screen
beside the panel, Gunn could bring up full details on any company vehicle, anywhere in the world, and compass co-ordinates of its position accurate to within ten feet – together with a written description of its location and a road map to any desired scale. The computer also recorded a log of all the vehicle's journeys for the preceding four weeks, and compared it against a log of the previous twelve months to show any significant change in pattern.

Another system on this floor was Gunn's own invention and he was particularly proud of it: ‘Retrace'. Every time an employee swiped their smart-card or inserted it to move through a door, a signal was transmitted to Gunn's database. The computer would analyse each employee's movements over the previous month and compare it to the pattern of the previous twelve months, and alert Gunn of any significant variations that should be checked out.

Less sophisticated aspects of Gunn's monitoring set-up included the ability, from his own office, to listen in on any telephone call made to or from any Bendix Schere building, and the ability to eavesdrop on any conversation taking place on company territory. Additionally, all laboratory activity could be observed through closed-circuit television.

Satisfied that everything was running smoothly, he returned to his comfortable lair on the forty-eighth floor, closed the door, sat down in front of his battery of screens, and turned to the next item in his unvarying weekly routine:
new employees
. He tapped a key and brought up the list.

The name ‘Conor Molloy' was one of three on the list of twenty names that was highlighted. Gunn tapped in the command for Conor's computer log and saw there had been very little activity. One eMail, from Charley Rowley, this morning, and one Colleague Data Sheet filled in. He activated ‘Retrace' and checked Conor's movements yesterday. It looked like a pretty thorough introductory tour. No worries. Then he called up the Colleague Data Sheet and looked at it carefully.

Only two points short of the maximum. He frowned. Charley Rowley had been on his danger list for a long time as someone with an attitude problem. It was improbable that
anyone of sound judgement would award him such a ludicrously high score. It indicated either that Conor Molloy's character-assessment abilities might be suspect, or that he was trying to suck up, or that he had simply made up the score.

It wasn't uncommon for new employees to give high marks out of fear of retribution. They needn't worry about that – the comments were kept completely confidential, but of course they had no way of knowing that. Conor Molloy had done nothing serious by his action, not lit a warning beacon or anything as dramatic as that, but it was, all the same, just one tiny mark against his name. Sometimes, Gunn had found, enough tiny marks would start, eventually, to point to something. And Gunn already felt a slight unease about the new American patent lawyer.

There was nothing specific, no colours he could nail to a mast, but from his years of surveillance he had developed an instinct for people who were up to something, and that instinct was telling him to watch Molloy.

He called up Conor's original application details and read through them carefully. The American had an impeccable background, that was for sure. Biochemistry degree cum summa from Harvard. Masters at Stanford in Organic Chemistry. Two years in Molecular Biology at Carnegie Mellon. Three years back at Harvard at law school, taking his bar and then Patent Office exams. Finishing Harvard, he had been head-hunted and grabbed by Merck, where he had spent two years in the patent department.

Merck was the fourth largest pharmaceutical company in the world. They were good employers and good payers. So why had Molloy switched horses? The reason was right there on the application form: Molloy believed that Bendix Schere had a more progressive genetics programme. Fine, that was true, Gunn had no quarrel with that. Bendix Schere offered the best genetics opportunities in the world. Also, Merck had wanted to send Molloy to California, and he didn't want to live on the West Coast. A perfectly acceptable explanation. Bendix Schere offered him the chance of a couple of years working in England. Conor Molloy had liked the idea of that. No problem
there either. The man was single, heterosexual, wanted to see a bit of the world before settling down. All the reasons Conor Molloy had given were solid.

So what the hell was it about him that just did not quite add up?

Monty Bannerman's anger boiled over into fury as she held the letter in her hand and read it through yet again.

What bastard had done this? And on whose authority? She glanced at her watch. 10.30. Her appointment with Sir Neil Rorke was for eleven. Well, he would have to sort this out, good and proper! She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself; she'd been in a rage ever since the letter had arrived at their old laboratory yesterday morning, even waking several times during the night and fretting about it.

Thank God she had been there and had opened her father's post. If he'd seen this, he would've gone berserk. As it was he had wondered where Walter Hoggin, their Chief Lab Technician, had been all day, and she'd had to lie, telling him he was off sick.

The takeover by Bendix Schere of Bannerman Genetics Research had finally been agreed and signed eight months ago, but the transition was not proving easy. Numerous experiments
in situ
were too delicate to be moved, making the relocation from Berkshire University to the Bendix Building in London a laborious process that would go on for several months yet.

Mountains of paperwork needed to be gone through for Bendix Schere's Group Patents and Agreements Department, currently the bane of her life. And all because the patent agents and lawyers needed to see and read, in some semblance of order, virtually
every
scrap of paper relating to
every
experiment that had ever been carried out at Bannerman Genetics. So almost everything that had been filed at her
father's lab now needed entering on to the Bendix Schere computer system. There was a clerical pool available to do this tedious work, but so much required untangling and deciphering that Monty was ending up finding it easier to do much of it herself.

Since late February Monty and her father had been dividing their time between their old lab and their sumptuous new premises on the eighth floor of the Bendix Building. Monty had found it to be a very strenuous period, in which she'd had to draw constantly on all her resources of courtesy and diplomacy, not least because she found the Bendix Schere team less helpful than she'd expected. Rather than welcoming the arrival of someone of Dick Bannerman's calibre, many of the staff gave the impression that they resented the intrusion of outsiders.

And her father had been continually testing the nerve of the Board of Directors, to see how far he could push them. So far, every request for the purchase of equipment sent to Accounts for authorization had come back approved – even if the £300,000 for Cray gene-sequencing computer hardware had taken a month and several tricky meetings. Bendix Schere was not into wanton spending binges, but it was prepared to throw money at anything that had a real chance of producing results and beating the opposition.

Up until now, the company had not put a foot wrong in its dealings with Dr Bannerman. Tetchy as he had been at the start, and filled with misgivings about their bureaucracy, he'd had to admit that Bendix Schere had behaved honourably.

He even confessed to Monty that it was a relief to have a regular pay cheque instead of continually scrabbling to find the money every time a bill arrived at home. In fact they were both on reasonable salaries now – with the added bonus for Dick Bannerman of a percentage share in any profits resulting from his work. And Monty was earning more than double the subsistence wage she had previously been eking out of Bannerman Genetics.

So what was behind the letter? Was it simply a mistake? Some goof-up of internal communications? Or was this where
the glib promises of Sir Neil Rorke and Dr Vincent Crowe all terminated? The end of the line.

In half an hour she would find out.

She put the letter in her handbag, then turned her attention to the stack of CVs on her desk. Her father was busy hiring, increasing the size of his team during the next twelve months from thirty-five to two hundred. He had made up a hit list of graduates, postgraduates, postdocs, and research fellows to head-hunt. And he was obviously enjoying himself; it made a big change from turning people down or, worse, letting staff go because he couldn't afford them. For the first time since her mother's death Monty considered him happy, and she wanted it to stay that way.

At five to eleven she put on her double-breasted navy jacket and picked up her handbag. She still hadn't got used to the luxury of an office of her own. It wasn't big by any standard, but the only fault she could really find was not having an external window. The temperature was pleasant and the air did feel fresh, even vibrant, but she had the same slightly claustrophobic sensation she always experienced when inside enclosed places.

She walked past the male security guard seated at his console in front of the lifts. But these lifts went no further than the forty-eighth floor, and only a Director with a smart-card could summon the express lift which went beyond. She had been instructed to ask the guard to call it, which he did.

God, the Directors are paranoid!
she thought.
What are they frightened of? Industrial espionage? Terrorists? Animal Rights? Cranks?

As she waited she thought fleetingly of the American who had travelled up in the lift with her that morning, and smiled privately to herself, remembering the expression on his face when she had caught him preening himself.

He was a good-looking guy, but no doubt typical of the men whom she had met here so far. There seemed to be an abundance of rather precious types who took themselves far too seriously, as if working for Bendix Schere had elevated them quite beyond the status of ordinary mortals.

A sharp ping announced the arrival of the lift and she stepped in. Moments later, the bronze doors opened and she was back in the same anteroom, with its weird abstracts, where she had come with her father for their first meeting with Rorke and Crowe.

A door opened as she waited in the reception area and Rorke's private secretary, a draconian-looking woman with flame-red hair, informed Monty that Sir Neil was ready to see her.

Rorke came to the door of his office himself, hand outstretched, and a smile which instantly made her feel he was genuinely glad to see her.

She shook the fleshy hand warily, remembering from past experience the steely hardness of his grip. ‘Good morning, Sir Neil – I appreciate you taking the time to see me.'

‘Always time for you, my dear.' He gestured her to sit in one of the comfortable chairs grouped casually around a coffee table well away from his desk, making her feel a little thrown by the informality. It had been several months since she had last seen him, but he was unchanged, his face just as rubicund, his black hair as flamboyantly long as before, and he was dressed in one of the loud chalk-striped suits and kipper ties that seemed to be his trademark.

‘So tell me,' he said. ‘How's it all going?'

‘Well,' she said hesitantly, not wanting to start off by launching straight into her proposed attack, ‘it's been going extremely well. Although the whole process of the move is taking much longer than we thought.'

He brought his hands together and interlocked his fingers. ‘I understand from Dr Crowe that everyone's very happy this end.' He paused and smiled wryly. ‘Your father certainly knows how to spend our money.'

‘It's all necessary equipment.'

‘Of course! I'm not complaining – we're delighted by his enthusiasm.'

Monty smiled back politely, preparing her next words. Then her eyes fell on the large gold frog on the onyx plinth on Rorke's desk, and she shuddered slightly. Today, the frog seemed to be gazing, with a hostile glare, straight back at her.

She took a breath. ‘There is something specific, Sir Neil,' she said, opening her handbag and removing the letter. ‘This came yesterday, addressed to my father. It's from our Chief Lab Technician, a man called Walter Hoggin, who's been with Daddy ever since he started. In it he says that he's received a letter from Bendix Schere's Director of Human Resources, informing him that due to his age he has been made redundant, that he is not to come to the company premises again and that all personal belongings will be delivered to his home.' She stared challengingly and noted, with some satisfaction, the look of concern on the Chairman's face.

Rorke leaned forward thoughtfully. ‘Due to his age? How old is he?'

‘Sixty-six,' she said.

He leaned back. ‘Ah,' he said. ‘I would imagine that's the answer. That's a year past retirement.'

‘We've never forced people to retire at any age,' she said testily.

Rorke's expression hardened a fraction; the change was barely perceptible, but it was enough for Monty to see a glimpse of the Chairman's tough side. ‘Unfortunately, Miss Bannerman,
we
do have rigid rules about retirement age.'

She kept her calm, in spite of her rising anger. ‘I understand that, Sir Neil, but, as you know, the safeguarding of our staff's jobs was one of my father's biggest concerns – and mine. At that very first meeting we had with yourself and Dr Crowe, you both gave your assurances on that score. It was one of the basic conditions on which we entered into the agreement with you.'