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Despite the air-conditioning, beads of sweat formed on his high forehead and his heart beat faster. He was doing nothing wrong: how could bringing happiness to the person you love be wrong? Still, he knew that today's trial was unethical, and old ethics died hard. He was almost sixty and had spent all his professional life in scientific research in the United States, working for Ivy League academic institutions and the big pharmaceutical companies. Years of dealing with profit-obsessed men in Armani suits, however, had taught him that paying lip-service to ethical guidelines didn't always mean doing the right thing.

And it never meant receiving the rewards and recognition he deserved.

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

He decided to ignore the buzzer and return to the computer screen to finish what he had started. In late July Italy was always hot, but this week the mercury hovered in the high thirties Celsius. Whoever was standing on the baking Tarmac outside the anonymous rental unit at the rear of the Agnelli business park would return if it was important.

He smiled, and in the curved chrome of the desk lamp the olive skin around his dark eyes creased into a thousand wrinkles. He looked a little mad in the distorted reflection, but he didn't care. He glanced at the photograph of his daughter on his desk. Isabella would never approve of what he was doing, but his resolve hardened when he thought of what Leo had done to her. When eventually he revealed his work to the world he was sure she would understand: his discovery meant that no one need ever be unhappy again.

The screen showed a four-column spreadsheet entitled: 'NiL Testing Schedule. Version #069'. The first column was labelled 'Injection Date'; the second, 'Subject'; the third, 'Duration'. The fourth, 'Genetic Facial Imprint', contained computer-generated images of women's faces. Fifteen trials had been recorded, not enough for a statistically significant sample but enough for Bacci to know that his drug worked.

The 'Injection Date' column confirmed that the first twelve trials had taken place at weekly intervals over a three-month period. Each woman's full contact details were noted below the image of her face, although none had been aware of the experiment. Most had never even met Bacci. The 'Duration' column showed that each trial had lasted between forty-seven and forty-nine hours. The same entry occurred on each line under 'Subject': 'Self. The twelfth trial had ended over a year ago, followed by a break of almost three months.

When the trials had resumed, nine monthsago , the pattern changed. The last three entries still occurred at weekly intervals, recorded duration was still around forty-eight hours, and employed the same subject. However, they featured only one 'Genetic Facial Imprint': the same woman's image appeared in each experiment -she had a wide, round face, a button nose, warm hazel eyes and curly chestnut hair. Beneath it was her name, Maria Danza, her age, forty-four, an address and phone number.

He scrolled down the table and a horizontal red line appeared. Under the line was a new heading: 'NiL Testing Schedule. Version #072'. There was only one entry, dated three months after the last Version #069 trial, with the same subject, and genetic facial imprint, Maria Danza, but there was one crucial difference: 'Duration' contained the word 'Ongoing'. That was six months ago.

Bacci felt for the primed PowerDermic vaccine gun in his jacket pocket, then typed a second entry into the Version #072 table. Although he hadn't yet injected the powder he planned to do it tonight, so he entered today's date. He left the 'Duration' column blank and double-clicked on the fourth, importing an image from the database linked to the Genescope in the adjoining laboratory. The face that appeared under 'Genetic Facial Imprint' wasn't a woman's but Bacci's. Beneath it he typed, 'Self. Finally he moved his cursor to 'Subject' and paused.

The earlier trials had been unauthorized and unorthodox, but they had only affected himself. Today's trial was different: he was stepping over an ethical line he had never crossed before. But it will be definitive, he told himself. It will prove beyond doubt that the drug works and guarantee funding. His cousin Marco Trapani had already recommended a private bank. Anyway, he thought, this is bigger than Maria and me, and if it makes us happy in the process, where's the harm? Anyone else would use the drug if they had the opportunity. He typed Maria Danza's name into the 'Subject' box of today's trial.

His shoulders tensed. His cellphone was pulsing. He picked it up and checked the display. 'Ciao, Maria. I hope you're not calling to cancel.'

There was a smile in her voice. 'Of course not.'

'Good. It's our anniversary, after all. Three hundred and sixty-five days.' He detected a sigh. 'Don't worry,' he said quickly. We'll keep it light, I promise.' Maria was fiercely independent: she had her own business, had survived a posionous divorce and couldn't have children. She had told him on at least three occasions that she didn't want their relationship to become too serious -- she certainly didn't want to get married again.

'Let's just have a good time, okay? Where are you?' 'In my lab.' 'You must be busy.'

'Just finishing. I'll cycle home to get my car and pick you up at seven.' Maria owned and managed a chain of mid-price jewellery shops in Turin. She lived in an apartment above the flagship store near the Duomo. 'We can go on to the restaurant.' 'I've a better idea. I'll pick you up in my car.' He smiled. 'Okay, meet me at my house.' 'Not at the lab?'

He looked through the glass partition dividing his office from the laboratory. Eppendorf tubes, a Petri dish containing two strands of his hair, a pipette and other debris from today's sample lay scattered on the workbench. He would need to put everything in the autoclave and clear up all trace of what he had done before the technician returned in the morning. 'I've got to change.' 'I'll drive you home.'

This wasn't what he had planned. He checked his watch and put on his jacket. 'I'd rather meet you there. I'm leaving now.' 'And I'd rather meet you at your laboratory.'

'Why?'

She laughed. 'Two reasons. One, I've never seen inside it. And, two, I'm already there.'

Panic rippled through him and his eyes leapt to the computer screen. Her face stared out at him. Calm down, he told himself, quelling a rush of nerves.

"What do you mean?'

'I've been standing outside pressing the bell for the last fifteen minutes and it's hot. Please, hurry up and let me in, Carlo.'

He took the PowerDermic vaccine gun out of his jacket pocket and held it in his trembling hand. The device was a needle-free, second-generation hypodermic designed for children and patients with needle phobias. It used compressed helium to fire micro-fine powdered drugs at three times the speed of sound through the stratum corneum. Once past this thin but tough surface layer of human skin, the drug dissolved into the bloodstream. The process was silent, painless and left no mark. She would never know what he had done.

He took a deep breath. I'm doing nothing wrong, he told himself again. Then he walked to the door, careful to conceal the gun in his right palm. 'Give me a minute, Maria. I'm coming.'

A WEEK LATER: 5 AUGUST

ISABELLA BACCl's FATHER HAD LEFT TWO VOICEMAIL MESSAGES: ONE at the neurology department of MilanUniversityHospital where she worked, and one at Phoebe Davenport's Milan apartment where she had been staying since Leo ended their engagement exactly twenty-six days ago. In both he had sounded excited and had summoned her to dinner: 'Bella, there's something I want to tell you. Something I want you to be the first to know.'

When she had called back to confirm, she'd got his voicemail. As she steered the small Fiat through the northern outskirts of Turin she wondered what her father wanted to tell her. The drive from Milan took an hour and a half but in the Fiat, which strained on the autostrada like a souped-up lawnmower, it seemed longer. She changed the CD for a mix she had burned on her Mac and turned up the volume. Pink belted out 'Just Like A Pill' just loud enough to compete with the whining engine. She had bought the tiny car when she first arrived in Italy, almost a year ago, because it was ideal for parking and driving around congested Milan. For longer trips, though, they had used Leo's car. But now Leo had pushed her out of his life, and everything had changed.

She flexed her stiff shoulders and looked down at the solitaire diamond engagement ring, which she had moved to her right hand. She should take it off altogether -- but not yet. As long as she continued to wear it there was hope that he might return to her. She hated herself for being weak, but she could remember her joy when Leo had proposed to her back home in the States. He was Italian, studying international law in Baltimore, and when he had asked her to follow him to Milan she had agreed, giving up her life in the States without a thought, including a medical and research career at the prestigious JohnsHopkinsUniversity. It had been a romantic leap of faith, but her father was in Turin and her oldest friend Phoebe was based in Milan; Isabella had quickly found a post at MilanUniversityHospital. She had been so certain and full of hope.

She turned into the neglected drive that led to her father's villa. It was a modest, wisteria-clad house in a pleasant residential suburb, and in the soft golden light of early evening it looked almost beautiful. His battered old Lancia stood in the drive and his Cannondale mountain bike, which he rode every day to the Agnelli business park where he rented a laboratory, leaned against the porch. Looking at the ramshackle scene, it was hard to believe that six or seven years ago he had inherited enough money to allow him to wash his hands of big business in the States and set up on his own here in the Old Country.

The only time he had allowed her into his laboratory, however, she had seen where the money had gone: his equipment was easily as good as what she had access to in the laboratories at the university hospital. But whenever she probed about his work, he always said: When I'm ready, Bella, I'll show you everything.' Perhaps that was what he wanted to share with her today.

She parked the car beside her father's and checked her face in the mirror. She brushed her shoulder-length black hair off her face -large brown eyes, full lips and a strong nose. At least her eyes weren't red from crying like the last time she had visited.

The front door was wide open and the smell of cooking mingled withthat of the blossom. She went into the airy hallway, and headed for the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway. Her father stood over the stove, a blue apron tied round his generous girth, stirring a pot of his trademark pasta sauce. All around him there were discarded pans, onion skins, garlic bulbs and herbs. In the light from the window a tall bottle of translucent green olive oil and a howl of blood-red tomatoes glowed like a still-life painting. LeonardCohen was singing 'Suzanne' on the old Sony sound system in one corner. The scene transported Isabella back to her childhood. Ever since her mother had died, sixteen years ago, a month after Isabella's seventeenth birthday, Carlo Bacci had been both parents to her. She stepped forward and put her arms round him. 'Hello, Professor Bacci.'

He turned, and his dark eyes lit up. 'Hello, Dr Bacci.' He dipped the wooden spoon into the bubbling sauce, blew on it and passed it to her.

The taste sent saliva rushing to her mouth, but something was missing. 'More lemon, I think.'

He tasted it. 'You're right.' He squeezed half a lemon into the pan, tasted again and nodded. Then he put down the spoon and wiped his hands on his apron. He went to the fridge, poured a glass of Asti and passed it to her. 'For my daughter with the sweet tooth.' Then he helped himself to a glass of Barolo. In the alcove behind him, Isabella saw empty biscuit tins and wine botdes. Her father was an inveterate hoarder. His second bedroom was filled with stacks of yellowing, out-of-date science periodicals and newspapers. She had given up nagging him to clear them out. She sipped the Asti. 'So what's the news, Papa?' He took a gulp of his wine. 'Let's wait for Maria. Don't worry, it's good.'

'Is it about your project? How's it going?'

He tapped his nose and winked, as he always did. 'I'll tell you when it's finished.'

She smiled. He had let slip once that his project might help her own research into prosopagnosia, but nothing more. She put down his secrecy to his disillusionment with the pharmaceutical companies in the United States: he had never received the recognition she knew he craved, and still believed that the companies he had worked for had stolen his best ideas. Now he trusted nothing and no one with his work. Not even her. 'How's your work going?' he asked.

Isabella was a neurologist at the university hospital, and spent two days a week conducting research into a rare and curious disorder, prosopagnosia. Also known as face-blindness, it was a neurological condition that rendered someone incapable of recognizing human faces, even when they had perfect sight and an excellent memory.

She tapped her nose and winked. 'I'll tell you when it's finished.'

'Touche'.' He laughed. Then he stroked her back. 'How are you feeling, Bella? You certainly seem happier than the last time I saw you. Has he come to his senses yet?'

'No.'

'He will.'

She shrugged and twisted her engagement ring self-conciously to hide the diamond. Her father had been supportive when she had come to see him after the split, which had stiffened her resolve not to run back to the States. He had hugged her, called Leo a fool and said how much he wished her mother was still alive because she had always known what to say. His support had been unconventional, too: he had used his own prodigious knowledge of neurology and genetics to explain clinically why she couldn't get Leo out of her mind and why she felt compelled to call him at every minute of every day. Even why she had spied on his apartment to watch Giovanna settling into the home from which she had been ejected. Her father's insights hadn't eased her pain -- knowing why some-thing hurt didn't stop it hurting -- but the earnest way in which he had promised her it would all work out for the best had cheered her. 'I'm not sure I want him back, Papa.'