Alchemist (53 page)

Monty glanced around. ‘Listen, Mr Smith, have you ever been to another doctor, for a second opinion?'

‘I been to all kinds of docs in the past ten years, Miss. You wouldn't believe the things I've had wrong with me. The rash is the worst.'

‘Rash?'

‘It's a kind of psoriasis. Get this awful itching all over my body, and I feel real sick for days.'

Psoriasis
. The word struck Monty. The psoriasis file was the
one that her father had not been able to find. Something felt uncomfortable to her about the connection, but she said nothing about it. ‘And what have these other doctors said?'

He shook his head. ‘Oh, you know: nothing wrong! All in my mind! I'm covered head to toe in this rash and I've a temperature of one hundred and three and they tells me I must be willing it all on myself – psychosomething.'

‘You told them about the tests you did?'

‘Uh huh.'

‘And you believe their diagnosis?'

‘I don't know what option I got, Miss. You go to a specialist in Harley Street and he says there ain't nothing wrong, who you going to believe?'

She looked hard back at him. ‘Harley Street? You paid to go there?'

He shook his head. ‘No, Bendix paid. When I told Dr Seligman I wanted some second opinions – well, to tell the truth, my wife wanted them – he was very good, arranged the appointments and all, and the company took care of the bills for me. Sir Neil Rorke even stopped to ask me how I was one time. The company's doin' all it can for me, that I'm sure of. But I'm dying, I know that, and it ain't in my head. I'm dying and they don't want to tell me.'

Monty stood tight-lipped. She dug her hands into her coat pocket and realized she was unconsciously clenching her fists. At last she found words. ‘My father and I know a lot of medics between us – perhaps we should get someone else to see you?'

‘I wouldn't want to do anything to upset Dr Seligman – he's been very good to me.'

Horrified, Monty noted the simple trust in the man's face. ‘I'll have a word with my father tonight,' she insisted.

‘Well – you're a very kind young lady.'

She glanced past him at the cluster of white marble figurines rising from the fountain, and quickly scanned the entire atrium. They were the only people around. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Listen, the other day, when I asked you about the lift door that never opens, you told me it would be worth checking out the plans of the building, right?'

He looked uneasy, like a trapped animal, suddenly.

‘Well, I did check them out,' she said. ‘And they don't add up; I think there are some hidden floors. What are they being used for? Animal testing?'

‘Don't ask me any more, Miss, please. I shouldn't have said what I did.' He shot frightened glances in every direction, then leaned a little closer to her. ‘Please don't tell anyone what I told you.'

She clenched her fists even tighter. ‘Mr Smith, six extra floors are shown on those plans – I want to visit them.'

He shook his head vigorously. ‘That just ain't possible, Miss.'

‘So you admit they exist?'

Beads of perspiration popped on his brow. His eyes darted around like two frightened voles. ‘Please don't ask me no more. I don't want to lose my job, ain't no one else would employ me.' He became even more agitated, and his voice got louder. ‘I could lose my pension, insurance, everything. My wife's in a wheelchair, she's crippled with Parkinson's, I can't take no risks. I don't know why I opened my big mouth.'

She sighed, bade him a reluctant good night, and walked out into the almost deserted parking lot, deep in thought. As she approached her MG, parked in the shadows of the floodlights against the far perimeter wall and surrounded by empty bays, she suddenly heard footsteps behind her and turned round, startled.

It was Conor.

‘Hi!' she said, surprised and delighted.

He raised a silencing finger to his lips. ‘Get in the car and let me in.'

She did so and Conor slid in beside her, pulling the door shut. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘I was waiting for you.'

‘This is really nice!'

‘I won't stop. Listen, I got the Maternox template from Charley Rowley, but he's set off some alarm bells and is being watched. I can do the tests myself but I do need the right equipment.'

‘Like what?'

‘Like a spectrophotometer, centrifuge, gel box, transilluminator, and a darkroom with UV lighting.'

‘We have all that,' she said excitedly. ‘At least I think we still do. I can check with my father – I'm seeing him tonight. We could go to the old labs over the weekend – we'd be completely safe there. As long as none of it has been moved to a Bendix lab.' She thought for a moment. ‘I'm sure it was on the inventory of the equipment we're selling.'

‘Can you find out? I need some chemicals too – some solvent and gel.'

‘Tell me exactly what chemicals.'

Conor did so and she wrote them down in her diary. Then he climbed out and walked away towards his own car.

It was not until she was about ten miles from her father's house that Monty realized that the same pair of headlights seemed to be keeping a steady distance behind her. She speeded up dangerously and overtook the car in front. A few moments later she saw one set of headlights leapfrog another in her mirror. On an impulse, she took a sudden right turn into a housing estate.

The headlights followed her.

She took a random left turn.

The headlights followed her again.

She turned right.

The headlights stayed with her.

Conor waited in his BMW until Monty had driven out of the Bendix lot, then started his engine and turned left into the Euston Road. The traffic was less congested than during the rush hour, but still bad, and it took him ten minutes to crawl past King's Cross, St Pancras and Euston stations.

Some of Charley Rowley's anxiety about being followed at
lunch time had transmitted to him, and he kept a wary eye on his mirrors, although with the kaleidoscope of headlights and indicators behind him it was almost impossible to detect if anyone was following him right now.

He carried on down the Marylebone Road, up the ramp on to the flyover, and immediately took the Paddington exit. It led him into a broad, terraced street, lined on both sides with hotels, most of them looking grubby and cheap.

He pulled into the left lane, slowed almost to a walking pace and cruised along, until he saw one that might fit the bill. It had a reasonably modern glass door and porch, set unsympathetically into a classical Georgian portico, and three stars beside its name.

A porter in a green jerkin, smoking a cigarette and reading a rumpled tabloid, was seated behind the counter.

‘Do you have any single rooms?' Conor asked.

‘How many nights?' The man barely looked up, his voice surly and charmless.

‘Just tonight.'

‘Do you want a bath or shower?'

‘Whatever's cheapest. They have direct dial phones, right?'

‘All rooms.' The porter looked down a list. ‘Shower. Sixty-five pounds.'

‘I'll pay cash.'

‘Need a credit card imprint if you want the phone connected.'

‘OK.' Conor handed him a credit card.

The porter pushed the registration book at him and Conor filled in a non-existent address in Washington. Then the porter handed his card back, and a key. ‘Room seven, on the second floor.' He pointed at a fire door. ‘Stairs just through there. Continental breakfast in the room or cooked breakfast from seven downstairs. Do you need an early call or a newspaper?'

‘Nope, thanks.'

Conor climbed two flights of the narrow staircase, then found himself in a small maze of landings. Checking out the numbers, he spotted his room almost directly in front of him.

He let himself in, then locked the door behind him. The
room was cramped and cold, almost higher than it was long. He drew the curtains, slung his coat on a chair, then pulled the single bed forward to follow the telephone line down to the wall jack. He tried to remove it, but the jack would not budge. He searched in his briefcase, found a paperclip and used that to lever the plug out. Then he plugged in his modem, connected the cable to his PowerBook, opened the top and switched it on.

He lit a cigarette while the machine booted up, then dialled into the Bendix Schere computer system. In response to the prompt:
ENTER USER NAME
he typed the user name he had previously obtained from Cliff Norris, the system manager, and then Norris's current password:
a
1
c/hem>ist
.

On the screen appeared a list of options and commands. He called up a search box and typed
Medici File
. Then, holding the cigarette tightly in his lips, he hit carriage return.

On the screen appeared:
RESTRICTED ACCESS FILE. ENTER PASSWORD
:

Consulting the back of his diary, careful not to make any error, he typed:
poly
phe^mus
. In response,
VALIDATING AUTHORIZATION
flashed on and off the screen for a couple of seconds, then came a warning:

Information contained here is strictly confidential. If you are not authorized personnel be advised you are committing a criminal offence in breach of the Data Protection Act, 1984, by continuing and you should disconnect immediately.

Type D to disconnect or return key to continue.

Conor pressed the return key. There was another pause, then the heading appeared:
MEDICI FILE.
And beneath it, a single sub-heading:
Maternox. Phase One Status
.

When he opened the report, it was headed:
Batch no. BS-M-6575-1881-UKMR. Launch date: 31 Oct 1993. Expected result concentration: Sept 94–June 95
. Then came a series of ‘case reports'.

1. Johnson. Sarah (Mrs). Course prescribed 12 weeks prior conception. Unidentified rash of pustular psoriasis type at five months. Two weeks duration. Rash returned at seven months spread over upper and lower torso
during following four weeks. Accompanied by temperature fluctuations from 100–104, dizziness and vomiting. Patient admitted to Berkshire General Hospital at eight months. Death from respiratory failure during labour at eight months, two weeks. Baby (m) delivered postmortem by Caesarean section. Symptoms: Cyclops Syndrome combined with acute pustular psoriasis. Asphyxiation due to gross malformation of respiratory organs.

Conor scrolled down to the next name on the list:
Patel. Zeenat (Miss)
.

He read the symptoms. They were identical to Sarah Johnson's. The woman and her baby had died in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Birmingham. The third was a Mrs Roberta McDonald. Again the symptoms were identical. She had died in the Royal Edinburgh Infirmary. Then he came to the next: