Alchemist (52 page)

He went and got himself a black coffee, then logged into his office computer terminal and checked his eMail.

There were twenty-one new messages in addition to another forty from yesterday that he had not had time to deal with. He tackled the easy ones first. There were several from old college chums in Washington, who exchanged eMail with him regularly, mostly gossip, the latest scandal about the Clintons, the latest jokes, and occasionally serious news of developments in genetics.

It was strange how distant Washington seemed and he realized a little guiltily that he had not responded to the last two eMails from his mother yet. It was likely he was going to
have to go over soon to deal with the first of the patent applications and he was not relishing the thought much. Apart from being a distraction to his real task, the fact that Crowe had told him to doctor the Psoriatak application worried him very much. If he got caught out, he alone would carry the can; it would be the end of his career, no question. And, more significantly, the end of his mission.

His screen told him he had a fax waiting and he called it up. It was a standard form letter from the US Patent Office informing him that the Psoriatak application had been received and that an examiner would be appointed shortly, who would be in touch.

The appointment of examiners was a lottery; some, he knew from bitter experience, were much tougher than others, although none were pushovers. It would make a big difference whom he got. Crowe was going to be watching this application every step of the way. Most chief executives in the pharmaceutical industry came from business rather than scientific backgrounds. In this respect, Crowe was unusual in having an impressive array of biochemistry qualifications and field-work experience behind him. He was as good a scientist, if not even better, than most of the people who worked for him. No one in Bendix Schere could pull any wool over his eyes in research.

Conor opened an envelope and removed a notification of a forthcoming seminar on the moral issues of patenting human genes. He had attended a lecture given by the same man before, in the States, and had not been impressed. He dropped the envelope and the three sheets of paper into the shredder beside his desk, and dutifully switched it on.

Then he scanned through the last edition of the monthly
Human Genome News
. As he did so there was a rap on his door, and, using his smart-card, Charley Rowley let himself in.

‘Good morning,
Mr Molloy
.'

‘Hi.'

‘You're late again,' his colleague said. ‘Rough night?'

‘Don't give me grief,
Mr Rowley
, I'm feeling fragile.'

Rowley seemed more serious than usual. ‘I need to talk to you. Could we meet for an early lunch – say twelve thirty?'

‘Sure.' Conor wondered if he had some information for him, but said nothing.

‘There's a pub called the Northerner – you walk past King's Cross station and turn right at the end of the block, and it's just along the road. About five minutes' walk from here.'

‘I'll find it.'

‘See you then.'

The Northerner was an unprepossessing joint with nicotine-stained ceilings and rock music that was playing too loud. The place had a sour, vinous smell, and its desultory lunch-time clientele consisted of two workmen in thick boots, a man in a cheap-looking suit reading a newspaper, a couple of old men on their own with their beers and cigarettes, and an elderly woman delivering a monologue to the barman.

Conor spotted Charley Rowley seated in an alcove, looking totally out of context in his dandy chalk-striped suit.

As Conor approached him, Rowley drained his glass and stood up. ‘I thought they did cooked food here at lunch time – but they only have sandwiches – let's go find somewhere else.' He said this more loudly than was necessary, and without waiting for a response from Conor headed out of the pub.

‘I'm happy with just a sandwich,' Conor said, surprised, and wondering if his friend had had an altercation with the landlord. He was even more surprised when Rowley hailed a taxi, bundled him into it, and told the driver to head for the Cumberland Hotel.

As the taxi drove off, Conor turned to Rowley. ‘What's up?'

‘Stare straight ahead, don't look round, OK?'

‘Sure,' Conor said, mystified.

Rowley turned sideways and peered out of the rear window. ‘Yup, I was right. The suit in the pub is jumping into a taxi behind us.'

He turned back to Conor, dug his hand inside his coat and pulled out a letter-sized envelope. ‘Little prezzie for you. Tuck it away safely.'

‘Is this what I think it is?'

‘The Maternox template you were after. It has the original spec of the product licence.'

Conor pushed it carefully into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. ‘I owe you one. Thanks.'

‘Donada.' Rowley pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, ignoring the ‘Thank you for not smoking' sign on the driver's partition, then glanced surreptitiously out of the rear window again. ‘You know that stuff you were on about at the weekend, about the company – ' He shook his head. ‘Maybe you're not being so paranoid after all. I had one hell of a game getting my chum to agree to part with that template – I've never known anyone get so cagey.'

‘What did you say to him?' Conor asked, concerned.

‘It's OK, no worries. I gave him some mumbo-jumbo about the Department being asked to look for ways of extending the Maternox patents – see if there's any room to manoeuvre with the design.'

‘Would he have had to talk to anyone else?'

‘I think that was the problem, particularly regarding the samples you wanted. I've had no joy on that score so far. They're all under some kind of security lock and key. Seems like I must have rattled someone's cage.'

‘Which is why we're being followed?'

‘I could be mistaken – but I've seen that suit's face around the Building. Seems a little odd that he came into the pub thirty seconds after me, left thirty seconds after me, and got into a taxi going in the same direction.' Rowley glanced at the ceiling of the taxi, as if he were looking for a bug. ‘There's definitely
something
not right going on. Don't worry, I'll try again when I get back from Hawaii. I'll pull a bit of rank if necessary.'

‘Hawhere?'

‘I've just been told this morning I have to fly to Hawaii tomorrow.'

Conor still looked uncomprehending.

‘Yup – you know we have one of our biggest plants out there.'

‘Aaah, Hawaii Hilo – yes.'

‘Something's cropped up – I'm not sure what – but we do a lot of product development out there, and it seems they're on to something pretty exciting. I have to go over and talk about the British and European patent end.'

‘There are worse places to be this time of year,' Conor said.

Rowley grinned. ‘You could say that.' He sucked on his cigarette. ‘Except I'm not big on hot places – wet English summers suit me fine.'

‘I'll happily trade,' Conor said. ‘Jesus! I'll be thinking of you sitting on your ass sunning yourself, swilling Margaritas and cooling down in the ocean.'

‘I'll be doing the first two, but not the last. I can't swim.'

‘You're kidding?'

‘Nope. Fear of water. Hydrophobia – or whatever it is. I was probably bitten by a rabid dog when I was an infant.'

‘Bendix Schere might have a pill that could cure you. I worked on the patent application for a phobia tablet at Merck.'

‘Tell you one thing I do know,' Rowley said. ‘There's some fucking gorgeous crumpet in Hawaii. Want me to bring some back for you?'

‘Tell you what you could bring back,' Conor said. ‘The Hilo plant manufactures all the Maternox supply for the West Coast in the States. It would be kind of useful to get a handful of batch samples.'

‘Nullo problema,' Rowley said. ‘Watch this space!'

The taxi crawled along in the slow-moving traffic; a couple of times the driver looked irritatedly over his shoulder, but said nothing as Rowley continued smoking.

‘Let me ask you something,' Conor said. ‘When we were talking on Saturday you mentioned some rumour about a secret underground floor beneath the health hydro in the basement. You said it was supposed to be filled with hundreds of dwarves listening to headphones. Where did that story come from?'

Rowley frowned. ‘Actually I think it was from the Head of Department when I first started.'

‘Gordon Wright?'

‘No, a chap called Richard Drewett. Poor bugger died of a brain tumour – at forty-two – only about a year after I joined. Shame, you'd have enjoyed working with him; he didn't give a toss for the company's regulations either.'

In spite of the Bendix Building's ionized, pollution-free, pure-as-the-Swiss-Alps climatic environment, Monty felt badly in need of some daylight and a few lungfuls of real air, however thick with carbon monoxide and diesel particles it might be.

She went out on her own at lunch time and strolled up Euston Road. It was a crisp day, with a clear blue sky overhead. She was feeling tantalized by the fact that Conor was only a few floors apart from her, in the same building, and she couldn't talk properly to him. At least they would spend the whole weekend together and she was really looking forward to that.

She went into a newsagent's to buy a paper and browsed idly through a rack of magazines.

‘A RARE AND CANDID INTERVIEW AT HOME WITH SIR NEIL RORKE
.'

The headline on the front of
Hello!
magazine jumped out at her. She bought a copy, walked further along until she saw a sandwich bar with a few tables, one of which was free, and went in.

She ordered a prawn salad sandwich and an orange juice and sat down. Opening the magazine eagerly, she flicked through until she saw the Chairman of Bendix Schere. He was standing by a gilded mirror in an elegant period room, one arm resting on the shoulder of a dark-haired woman, who was seated on a Louis XIV chair. She was packaged in dramatic high-necked couture, and her jaw was set in the kind of masked smile that only a face-lift can produce.

The caption beneath said: ‘One of Britain's most colourful businessmen invites us into his Kent country home and tells us about his private and public worlds.' And on the facing page the accompanying article began with a quote from the man himself. ‘The pharmaceutical industry has awesome power. I feel my responsibility very deeply.'

Rorke seemed such a humane man, Monty thought, it was impossible that he could knowingly be a party to anything
sinister. The company was obviously just exploiting his avuncular image, and the real nastiness was being conducted behind his back by that creep Crowe – or someone lower down the ladder.

She thought about the memo Conor had showed her on his laptop from Dr Linda Farmer to Crowe:
We may have 4th Maternox problem. Kingsley C (Mrs). Under observation. Will report further
.

It made her angry. It was she who had convinced her father to sell out to Bendix Schere, and that was because she had believed in the integrity of the company. She still believed in it and was not going to let a few rotten apples destroy its reputation – and tarnish her father's name in the process.

She did not have enough evidence yet. But if the tests on the Maternox threw up anything she would go to Rorke, she resolved, and spill the beans. And she would do that
before
handing over to Hubert Wentworth and seeing the company destroyed by the press.

Monty stepped out of the lift into the lobby atrium shortly before eight. The rush-hour traffic would have eased by now and it shouldn't take her much more than forty minutes to get to her father's house. And she had another reason for staying late.

Winston Smith had been off the last couple of days, and she was hoping he would be here tonight; gambling on the chance that only a few people would be around at this hour, she might be able to have another talk with him.

She was pleased to see that he was seated alone at the security desk, and walked past the white marble fountain up to him. He had lost weight since she had last seen him, his face looking startlingly gaunt, and his mottled black skin had an even more unhealthy pallor than usual. He did not look at all well.

‘Hi!' she said.

He nodded at her a little warily. Normally he would have stood up, but tonight he remained seated. ‘Good evening, Miss Bannerman.' He seemed very subdued.

‘Are you OK?' she asked. ‘Haven't seen you for a couple of days.'

The whites of his eyes had a creamy, opaque film, and his left one had a burst blood vessel. ‘Haven't been too good, to tell you the truth, Miss.' He wiped a drip from his nose with a crumpled tartan handkerchief.

‘Your cold playing up?'

He patted his stomach. ‘No – in here – stomach pains. Get 'em some days.'

‘It's not rumbling appendix, is it?'

He smiled wistfully. ‘No, nothing like that. I wish it was something they could just cut out, but the doctor can only give me pills to make the pain bearable.'

‘What does the doctor say it is? An ulcer?'

‘I don't know. He don't say too much.' He looked around nervously, then spoke more quietly. ‘Tell you t'honest truth, I think it's more serious than they want to let on.'

‘How long have you had these pains?'

‘About three years now.'

She looked shocked. ‘Who is your doctor?'

‘Dr Seligman.'

‘He's your GP?'

‘Well – sort of – he's the company doctor.'

‘I didn't know there was one.'

‘Oh yeah, he's a nice man. Got a clinic in the basement behind the health hydro. Always very kind. All of us go to him.'

‘All of whom?'

‘Us members of staff who were used as guinea pigs – for the drugs trials.'