Dead End

Sixteen

There appeared to be no resentment at Parnell’s announcement that he was joining the expanded flu research team and it was automatically accepted that he would be its leader. From Tokyo there were frozen specimens of the current bird flu virus, as well as quite separate – and unexpected – samples of SARS from the masked palm civet cat, the wild animal species considered a culinary delicacy in China, and suspected of being the source of a renewed but so far limited outbreak of the disease that became an epidemic in the Far East in 2003. There were also cultures from two human victims of the new SARS outbreak in China’s Guangzhou city. The inconclusive research notes on both from Dubette’s Japanese subsidiary ran to forty pages and included warnings from the World Health Organization of a potential pandemic from both respiratory illnesses.

‘We didn’t know we were getting the additional severe acute respiratory syndrome material?’ queried Parnell.

Ted Lapidus shook his head. ‘Maybe Tokyo is treating them as allied conditions to examine in conjunction.’

Parnell said: ‘And if the viral composition is different, we could confuse ourselves.’

‘It could be something Russell Benn and his merry men want to work on at the same time,’ suggested Beverley Jackson.

‘I’ll find out,’ said Parnell. ‘And if it is, then let them. Here, for the moment, we’ll leave the WHO worrying about SARS pandemics. We’ll concentrate on avian flu and come back to SARS as a separate project.’ A part of his mind was still preoccupied, which he guessed it would be for a long time to come, but Parnell believed the majority of his concentration to be back upon the work at hand and it pleased him. It made him feel in charge of himself, which he’d always been supremely sure of but hadn’t felt for the last few days, needing to be reliant on – or at the mercy of – others. Which, he acknowledged, had been Barbara Spacey’s psychological assessment.

‘We could have a boost for our flu experiments,’ said Sean Sato. ‘Did a Web surf yesterday while I was waiting for the Tokyo stuff to arrive. The Scripps Research Institute in San Diego, working with the National Institute for Medical Research in England, have found how the 1918 influenza transferred from birds to humans. The importance of the discovery, from our point of view, is that it’s genetic.’

‘Take us through it,’ said Parnell.

‘They worked with genes from the 1918 virus recovered from an Inuit woman whose body was preserved in a frozen Alaskan tundra grave, and from kept samples from US soldiers who died in the pandemic,’ recounted Sato, enjoying the audience. ‘And isolated the bird-flu viral protein, haemagglutinin. It’s got spikes, like darts. It’s the darts that locked it on to human cells, like spears, and by which it gained entry to cause the infection…’

‘Which no one would have understood at the time, because the human flu virus wasn’t isolated until 1933,’ intruded Lapidus.

‘We know that of the fifteen different strains of bird influenza that have been identified, only three until now have ever mutated to infect humans, in 1918, 1957 and 1968,’ said Sato. ‘What they haven’t been able to discover is why, having made the species jump from bird to human, it becomes so pathogenic from human to human.’ He hesitated again, to make a point. ‘I’ve pieced together some other already published data. We’ve got Tokyo’s material to confirm the opinions, but one analysis suggests the current avian flu is similar to the human virus that caused the 1968 pandemic. There’s another theory that it possibly has a haemagglutinin-type protein like that of 1918.’

No one, not even Lapidus, spoke for several moments, digesting what the Japanese-American had just suggested. It was Parnell who said: ‘You just outlined a double-barrelled, global pandemic that would make a death toll of twenty million in 1918 little more than a starting figure.’

‘I know,’ said Sato, quietly. ‘It frightens the shit out of me.’

‘This information’s public?’ questioned Beverley.

‘On the Internet for everyone to read,’ said Sato, gesturing towards the dead-eyed computer at his station. ‘Who knows how many people have put it together?’

‘Why hasn’t there been some WHO warning?’ demanded Lapidus.

‘Against what?’ demanded Parnell, in return, surprised at the question. ‘There’s no vaccine or prevention – that’s what we’re supposed to be trying to find. To issue dire predictions and make the connections that Sean has just done would simply cause panic.’

‘Scripps – and London – synthesized haemagglutinin?’ queried Beverley.

‘That’s my understanding,’ agreed Sato. ‘I’ve downloaded individual copies of everything I’ve found for all of us.’

‘If it’s synthesized, we’ve got something positive to begin with,’ judged Beverley.

‘I’m frightened as shitless as Sean by his doomsday scenario,’ said Parnell. ‘Let’s start by making the most obvious comparison open to us, the synthesized haemagglutinin against what’s come in from Tokyo, looking for matching spikes… matching anything. And then against the 1968 Hong Kong flu, to see if there’s a possible fit.’

‘Which way are you thinking of going?’ asked Lapidus.

‘The only way,’ answered Parnell. ‘One step after the other. You got any thoughts?’

The Greek scientist shook his head. ‘Don’t like the idea we can’t culture in chicken eggs.’

‘At the moment that’s the least of our problems. Let’s get reading and get started.’

Despite Lapidus’s assurance Parnell crossed to Kathy Richardson’s office, forbidding her from going anywhere near the specialized laboratory in which the potentially virulent Asian samples were being stored, but asked her to prepare files in which they could record and cross-reference their experiments. The woman said she had already been told and appreciated the dangers, reminding him with a hint of stiffness that she had long experience as a medical secretary. Parnell also asked her to obtain a map of the flu-affected countries in Asia upon which the incidence of outbreaks could be charted. He dictated a lengthy email to Tokyo, asking why they had included the SARS material in their shipment, and requested daily reports on the increase or otherwise of flu outbreaks in the region, to update his intended map, and advised in advance that he might ask for more physical samples.

Parnell entered Russell Benn’s laboratory complex at the end of what had obviously been a similar conference to the one he’d just held, and was ushered at once into the man’s side office with the permanently percolating coffee and the Dubette-logo mugs. The black professor described what he’d just conducted as a jam session, as yet without any formulated approach apart from chemically reanalysing what Tokyo had already done. He didn’t know why the SARS stuff had been included either, and looked forward to Tokyo’s reply to Parnell’s query. He listened intently to an account of the geneticists’ discussion and, when Parnell finished, said: ‘Jesus H. Christ!’

‘It’s theory at this stage,’ cautioned Parnell.

‘With a basis,’ argued Benn. ‘You told Dwight?’

‘Nothing to tell him, until we’ve satisfied ourselves. We know the cause – it’s the way to the cure or prevention we’re looking for.’

‘I haven’t said how sorry I am, about Rebecca,’ declared the other man, suddenly. ‘Which I am, truly sorry. And for what it almost caused you, personally. With terrorism in the mix, it’s one big crock of shit.’

‘Let’s hope the FBI can sort it out.’ Parnell regretted Benn’s reminder. For a brief while it had actually gone out of his mind but now it was back.

‘They any idea what it’s all about?’

‘None.’

‘I guess they’ll be spending time here?’

‘I guess,’ said Parnell, guardedly. He didn’t want to say or do anything to anyone that might stop the exchange of information between himself and the FBI investigators.

‘It must be distracting.’

‘I’ll cope.’ How well, Parnell wondered, remembering the difficult drive from Washington and Barbara Spacey’s analysis.

‘Look forward to our working properly together.’

‘So do I,’ said Parnell. He hesitated, on the point of trying to draw the man on the French experimentation that Dwight Newton had dismissed as a failure, but decided against it. It was hopefully something he could learn – or at least get a guide to – from the FBI. After itemizing it as he had that morning, it was inevitable the two Bureau agents would ask about it.

At Giorgio Falcone’s insistence Parnell travelled in the lead funeral car. Apart from the restaurateur, there were two occasionally weeping aunts and a niece. What whispered conversation there was between them was in Italian. In English, to Parnell, Falcone said: ‘Dubette offered to pay for everything. I told them I didn’t want their charity.’

‘I thought you might,’ said Parnell. He’d been surprised by the Dubette contingent in the following cars. Personnel director Wayne Denny was with Dwight Newton, Russell Benn and Burt Showcross and two other men whom Parnell didn’t know but assumed to be from Rebecca’s division. He hadn’t expected Barry Jackson or the two FBI men, either.

‘The undertakers told me they’ve sent four wreaths, one from the president himself.’

‘Rebecca was very popular. They valued her work.’

‘That’s what the man said who came to see me about paying for the funeral. The FBI came, too, yesterday. Asked me about the previous boyfriend, like you did. I wasn’t able to help them beyond what I told you. Do they think he did it?’

‘No,’ said Parnell. ‘They need to talk to everyone who knew Rebecca.’

‘And they’ve searched Rebecca’s house. They wanted a key. They asked for photographs of her, too.’

What had they found at the house? wondered Parnell. He felt exhausted, straining to keep any coherence in his speculation. He’d worked until nine on the day of his return to Dubette and wished he hadn’t when he’d finally left the complex, because the car lot was almost deserted. And now, almost two days later, he ached physically from what he imagined he had to do to remain alert to everything and everybody around him. He’d scarcely slept on the night of the return, and the following day actually jumped, only just stopping short of crying out, at a lorry’s backfire. And after that stared so hard at whom he judged to be two different suspiciously behaving men on two separate occasions that they’d frowned back with equal suspicion, one, Parnell guessed, on the point of confronting him to ask what the hell he was doing. Although he knew it was an irrational expectation and was impatient with himself for it, he’d still wanted something positive from their experiments and had been tetchy with everyone when there wasn’t. He’d hardly slept the previous night, either. And he’d eaten nothing since he couldn’t remember when but crackers and cheese and now there was none left of either in the apartment. All the wine had gone, too.

‘You’ll let me know, if you hear anything?’ pressed Rebecca’s uncle.

Parnell brought himself back to the older man beside him. ‘If I hear anything.’

The service was in a Catholic church in Bethesda and there was an already waiting cordon of television and stills cameras, which jostled into action as the mourners formed up behind the flower-draped coffin to file into the church behind it. The priest was young and bearded, which Parnell considered odd until accepting it to be yet another irrational reaction. Parnell allowed his mind to wander during the service, believing it a brief and welcome opportunity to release the self-imposed, exhausting tension. He caught snatches, though, disjointed references to violence and tragedy and young life savagely cut short, intermingled with insistences upon God’s infinite wisdom and mysterious ways. He stood and sat in time with everyone around him who stood and sat, and matched with them the opening and closing of his blurred hymn book, from which he didn’t try to sing. There was more filming when the procession moved towards the grave, which Parnell, bringing his mind to bear once more, realized was that in which Rebecca’s mother and father were interred. The aunts and the niece wept on during the dust to dust, ashes to ashes ritual. So did Giorgio Falcone. There were probably others whom Parnell didn’t see. They all threw individual flowers into the gaping hole. Falcone plucked a lily from a waiting wreath and offered it, and Parnell dropped it into the grave, without looking down into where Rebecca’s body lay. As he turned back towards the grieving family with whom he had been standing, Parnell saw that his commemorative flower had come from one of the Dubette wreaths. His spray of white lilies and his handwritten card – Goodbye, my love to be – had been relegated to the second row of the banked floral tributes, behind Dubette’s elaborate creations. Determinedly Parnell reached forward, bringing his into the front, unconcerned at the flurry it caused among the hovering media.

There was an uncertain hiatus around the graveside, which Parnell finally stirred himself to resolve, leading the immediate family back towards the waiting cars. As they walked, Falcone said: ‘I wonder how many will come back?’

‘Come back?’ echoed Parnell.

‘I’ve closed the restaurant for the reception. You didn’t hear the priest invite everybody?’

‘No,’ said Parnell. It was already difficult for him to remember what he had or had not heard. The moment he relaxed he had the impression of his awareness ebbing and flowing.

‘He did. It’s expected.’

‘Of course.’ Parnell discovered, almost with a jolt, that he was back in the funeral car and assumed they were heading into Washington. He clenched his hands as tightly as he could to achieve a physical sensation, something on to which he could lock his mind to stop him drifting from what was happening around him, and he contorted his face, squeezing his eyes shut, for the same reason. It helped, just, but Parnell wasn’t sure how long it would last. A touch on his arm brought him around to one of the no longer crying aunts, who said in a heavily accented voice that she thought it had been a wonderful service, and dutifully Parnell said he thought so, too. She added that she was sorry for his loss and that he and Rebecca would have made a wonderful life together, and Parnell nodded but didn’t reply.

The Wisconsin Avenue restaurant had a Closed notice at the window and the blinds were drawn. A black-suited Ciro, whom Parnell hadn’t seen at the funeral, unlocked the door, shepherding the staff in ahead of everyone and turning on the interior lights. It was not until he saw Falcone assembling the rest of the family mourners that Parnell appreciated that there was going to be a receiving line. He held back until the Italian beckoned him forward at the arrival of the others. As Parnell joined the line, the man said: ‘You count as family.’

The handshaking, unheard commiseration ritual seemed to last forever and Parnell was embarrassed by it, glad when it ended. He moved away at once, taking from Ciro the offered glass of red wine, so full he needed to sip before carrying it more safely further into the room, tightening his self-control to face – and understand – the impending ordeal. At once he was conscious of Barry Jackson’s supporting presence at his elbow.

The lawyer said: ‘You look rough.’

‘So you keep telling me.’

‘So you keep looking. Specific problem or just everything?’

‘Constantly watching my back, I suppose. And not sleeping.’

‘You could get something to sleep.’

Parnell snorted a laugh. ‘I work for a drugs company and I don’t take drugs. How’s that for irony?’

‘Stupid,’ said Jackson. ‘If you’re not sleeping properly you can’t work properly. Or be as self-aware and careful as you’ve got to be. Take a pill.’

Across the room, Howard Dingley and David Benton were moving among the Dubette contingent, nodding in head-bent concentration. Both were wearing subdued blue today. Following Parnell’s look, Jackson said: ‘They come back to you yet?’

‘Not yet.’

As if on cue Dingley detached himself and crossed to them. As he arrived he said: ‘Making plans to come out to Dubette.’

Jackson said: ‘You’re going to need to talk to my client again, of course.’

‘I’d think so,’ agreed the frowning FBI man.

‘I’d like to be there.’

‘Why’s that, Mr Jackson?’

‘To represent him.’

Dingley smiled, fleetingly. ‘I’ll have to remember to appoint you as my lawyer if ever I get into trouble.’

‘My client’s not in any trouble, but call me any time.’

No trouble apart from being a potential murder victim, thought Parnell. He said: ‘Anything come up since we talked?’

‘Nothing that helps join the dots together,’ dismissed the agent.

‘What about Rebecca’s house? You’ve been through the house. Her uncle told me.’

‘You’re not next of kin, Mr Parnell.’

‘I’m the person who was going to marry her and got wrongly arraigned for her murder and whom your partner a couple of days ago agreed it was worthwhile to talk things through with.’

Dingley sighed. ‘We picked up an address book and found a listing in Arlington for an Alan Smeldon. He left there about a year ago. The couple who took over his apartment think he went to California. He didn’t leave a forwarding address.’

‘Nothing else?’ persisted Parnell.

‘Like I said, nothing that takes us forward,’ refused Dingley. ‘Everything kept very neat and tidy. That’s what Ms Lang was, very neat and tidy. You thought of anything that might help us, Mr Parnell? A friend of Ms Lang’s, maybe.’

Parnell shook his head, unsure when he’d last had a comprehensible thought. But then, abruptly, the clouds cleared in his head, to a moment of crystal clarity. ‘The key!’ he exclaimed. ‘You asked Giorgio Falcone for the key to get into Rebecca’s house. But she had one, in her purse. Would have had to have had one, when she left me, to get back into her house!’

‘There wasn’t one among the property Metro DC police surrendered to us,’ said Dingley.

‘Did you and your partner do the search?’ asked Jackson, entering the conversation at last.

‘Yes,’ said Dingley.

‘You find any evidence of someone having been there before you?’ persisted the lawyer.

‘We didn’t,’ said Dingley. ‘But we’ve got forensics there now. They’re better at finding out the little things than we are.’

Seventeen

R ichard Parnell thought one of his better successes – maybe even his only success so far at Dubette – was perhaps his refusal to be distracted by the fame-or-fear procession up and down the open-plan, glassed corridor to Dwight Newton’s lair. He would have ignored the bustle that day, too, if Beverley Jackson’s remark hadn’t included an FBI reference. Parnell looked up in time to see company lawyer Peter Baldwin hurrying towards the vice president’s innermost office, leading two briefcase-carrying, dark-suited men.

He said: ‘How do you figure it’s a Bureau thing?’

‘They’re lawyers and I know lawyers, remember? They’re cloned in a lawyer factory, somewhere hidden in Ohio.’ Beverley had the bench space next to him for the avian-flu investigation.

‘Barry doesn’t look like that.’

‘He was a prototype that didn’t work – they abandoned the model.’

‘He sure as hell worked for me,’ said Parnell, uncaring at the American phraseology. He felt better. Not totally better, convinced as he once had been that he could climb mountains and swim oceans, but the cotton-wool feeling had gone from his head, and every moving part of his body didn’t ache at the slightest motion. The previous night had again been more of an exhausted collapse than sleep, but it had been rest of sorts, and that morning, alert as he now had to be, there hadn’t any longer been the confused disorientation of making monsters out of shadows.

‘Pity he didn’t work so well for me.’

It was more a throwaway line than an inviting complaint – an invitation Parnell wouldn’t anyway have accepted – but he thought it confirmed that Beverley Jackson was someone who always demanded the last word in any one-to-one conversation. He decided to allow it to her, because he wasn’t interested in trying to out-talk the woman.

What he was far more interested in was configuring something from the earlier influenza pandemics with the current outbreak, which yet again he accepted to be an illogical expectation but for which he’d hoped after Sean Sato’s initial, seemingly encouraging discoveries. Tokyo’s response to Parnell’s SARS query was as Lapidus had predicted, that their research was predicated on a connecting transmission link between that and avian flu, and that they had anticipated the exploration would be duplicated in America. Parnell copied the email to Russell Benn, together with his reply that the pharmacogenomics unit were treating the two respiratory conditions separately. As an afterthought he made a separate copy to the vice president, towards whose office he’d just seen the legal procession head.

By then he, Beverley Jackson, Ted Lapidus and Sato had exhausted every microscope comparison with the limited Tokyo samples without finding anything approaching a visual match to the spiked 1918 haemagglutinin gene or the structure of the 1968 Hong Kong virus. It was because there was a momentary hiatus in their work that Beverley had been looking out into the corridor, and it was the woman who said again: ‘And then there were more!’

Parnell looked up in time to see Howard Dingley and David Benton passing. Parnell almost expected them to be walking in step, but they weren’t. As he went by, Dingley looked into the unit and gestured. Parnell said: ‘They’re FBI.’

‘So I was right,’ insisted Beverley.

Definitely a last-word syndrome, thought Parnell. He said: ‘It was set up at the funeral.’

‘What’s our next step forward?’ impatiently broke in Sean Sato.

There was something proprietorial in the way the Japanese-American spoke, as if his earlier findings qualified him above the other two under Parnell’s supervision. Parnell said: ‘The obvious one, animals. We’ll try to synthesize, in mice to begin with. See if we can bring about a mutation and then monitor it, to find the bridge the virus crosses.’

‘All of us?’ queried Lapidus.

‘We don’t need to be involved, all of us, this early,’ acknowledged Parnell. ‘You three kick it off. I want to go back on that research Sean found, see if we can take it further and open up a separate path. We’re going to need more samples from Tokyo, too. We’ll jointly discuss each day’s progress.’

‘You’re second-checking?’ seized Lapidus.

Parnell was surprised at the interjection. ‘Of course. Nothing’s going to leave this department unless it’s been second and third and fourth time checked. And that’s before it goes into the statutory three-phase licensing process.’

‘We going to manage that in our lifetime?’ asked Lapidus.

‘It’s somebody else’s lifetime we’re concerned with,’ reminded Parnell.

‘I didn’t mean…’ started Lapidus, disconcerted.

‘I’m talking about what emerges from this unit, not anything else,’ Parnell halted him, sparing the man. ‘We all clear on what we’re doing?’

The two other men nodded. Beverley said: ‘Perfectly.’

Kathy Richardson looked up at Parnell’s emergence from the restricted laboratory, shaking her head at his enquiring look as he approached, to let him know there were no messages. Inside her office the woman was enclosed behind the battlement of file boxes, some already filled, many more waiting to be filled with the raw data she was in the process of sorting.

He said: ‘It’ll get better.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise. And I’ll send my own emails.’

‘You needn’t.’

‘Democracy rules in the Dubette pharmacogenomics unit.’

‘I’ll get the T-shirts and the fender stickers printed.’

Parnell laughed openly at the gradually emerging independent irony, convinced he’d made the right choice in Kathy Richardson, as he had with everyone else. His email to Tokyo was brief, a simple request for more samples. Parnell experienced a nostalgic deja vu of his open-minded, free-exchange period in pure research when he began communicating with the Scripps Research Institute in San Diego and the National Institute for Medical Research in London. Literally within an hour, there were enthusiastic acknowledgements from the directors of both, each promising the raw experimental data of their respective findings that had not appeared either on the Internet or in the scientific journals. From each it was flatteringly obvious the quickness of their responses came from their recognition of his name and reputation on the genome project. Parnell wondered, and quickly wished he hadn’t, whether the notoriety of the past week might also have contributed.

So immersed was he that Parnell had forgotten the presence of the FBI investigators further along the corridor until Kathy Richardson’s warning arrival, Dingley and Benton hovering close behind. She said: ‘They’re asking for a minute or two.’

Parnell waved them in.

‘That’s all, just a minute or two,’ promised Dingley.

Benton said: ‘How’s it going?’

‘Better than it was,’ said Parnell. ‘But only just.’

‘How’s that?’ said Dingley.

‘Trying to adjust. Getting used to things,’ said Parnell.

Both men nodded, as if they understood.

‘You wanted a minute or two,’ prompted Parnell.

‘Trying to fit in, to everyone’s convenience, is all,’ said Dingley.

‘Any progress?’ asked Parnell, offering seats.

‘A lot of people still to see. Nothing clear yet.’

‘When’s there going to be anything that’s clear?’ pressed Parnell.

Benton made an open-handed gesture of uncertainty. ‘A lot of people still to see,’ he echoed his partner.

‘How’d it go with the vice president?’ asked Parnell, directly.

There was another hands-spread movement from Benton. ‘He had counsel with him. That’s why we stopped by. We’re certainly going to need to speak to you again, in the next little while. Your lawyer told us he wants to come along.’

Parnell reminded himself, as he had at the moment of his premature arrest, that America was the land of litigation and that he didn’t know anything whatsoever about the law. ‘I’ll warn him to be ready.’

‘That’ll be helpful,’ thanked Dingley.

‘What about the forensic examination of Rebecca’s house?’ demanded Parnell. ‘Was there any evidence of it having been searched, before you?’

‘Still being gone over,’ avoided Dingley.

‘ Still?’ queried Parnell, disbelievingly.

‘They’re very thorough guys,’ said Benton. ‘That’s what their job is, being very thorough.’

‘What about the flight listing?’ persisted Parnell.

‘You should wait until you’re with your counsel,’ said Dingley.

‘What the hell for?’ demanded Parnell, loud-voiced.

‘It means you should wait until you’re with your counsel,’ said Benton, in another of his irritating echo responses. ‘And tell him there’s going to be a fingerprint request.’

‘What?’ asked Parnell.

‘Elimination,’ said Dingley. ‘It’s routine.’

‘Will you have something, when we meet?’ said Parnell.

‘Maybe. Who knows?’ avoided Dingley, again.

From the other side of the glass partition, Kathy Richardson was gesturing with one hand, the other holding the internal telephone.

Benton said: ‘We’re in the way.’

Dingley said: ‘What’s a good time for you?’

‘That depends on Barry. I’ll call him, with the choices, and get back to you.’ It made sense, he knew, to have the lawyer with him, but he wasn’t totally convinced of the need. He said: ‘Why don’t we get on with it now?’

Dingley shook his head. ‘Your lawyer was very clear, Mr Parnell.’ There was a close-to-imperceptible head movement back in the direction of Newton’s suite. ‘We get the rule book dictated to us, like we just have, we’ve got to go with the rule book. We make one mistake, it’s all over.’

‘What mistake? What’s all over?’ said Parnell

‘Taking the wrong step in the investigation,’ said Dingley.

‘You still think I might be someway involved!’ demanded Parnell, indignantly.

‘We collect evidence, Mr Parnell,’ said Benton. ‘We leave other people to decide what to do with it. You’ll get back to us, right?’

‘Right,’ said Parnell. ‘As soon as I’ve talked to my lawyer.’

‘We’re obliged,’ said Benton.

Parnell delayed responding to Dwight Newton’s summons while he tried to reach Barry Jackson, leaving Kathy Richardson to make the contact after thirty minutes. From his side office, Parnell hadn’t seen the lawyers’ departure, but the research division vice president was alone when Parnell reached the man’s suite. The greeting pendulum had swung again. Newton was hunch-shouldered behind his desk, glowering up from a lowered head.

‘You talked about confidential work under progress here!’ Newton accused at once.

‘What?’ exclaimed Parnell, surprised.

‘You heard what I said!’

‘I heard what you said. I didn’t understand what you said.’

‘I’ve just been officially interviewed,’ protested the other man. ‘Asked about work we were doing here on something that emanated from France.’

‘Yes?’ said Parnell. He was content for Newton to lead.

‘Which you told them about,’ the research vice president continued to accuse him. ‘That’s information governed by the confidentiality contract you signed.’

‘I don’t recall any clause in that contract covering a murder investigation.’

‘They’re talking terrorism, for Christ’s sake!’

‘You knew about the Air France flight listings. It came up in court.’

‘Those guys are treating it as sinister – trying to make a connection to Dubette. Because of what you told them.’

‘I didn’t disclose any secrets, Dwight. I don’t have any secrets, so I can’t have breached any confidentiality contract. They wanted to know about anything – and I mean that, anything – that Rebecca might have regarded as out of the ordinary in the last few weeks. She was curious why she and her department had been bypassed, about France. That’s what I told them. That it was out of the ordinary and she hadn’t understood why. Simple as that. Simple as that and only that, because there was nothing more to tell them, was there?’

The other man gave the impression of relaxing, although only slightly. ‘What did Rebecca say about France?’

‘Only that she couldn’t understand why things weren’t normal. And that Burt Showcross told her to leave it. Which is what I told her, particularly after you told me the French idea hadn’t worked out.’

Newton examined Parnell steadily for several moments. ‘They spoke to Showcross. And Russell Benn.’

Parnell wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. ‘With the lawyers present?’

Newton nodded. ‘Do you think they will want to see you again?’

‘They do,’ confirmed Parnell. ‘Barry Jackson will be with me.’

‘He’s representing you, personally. I’d like our people there, as well.’

‘Why?’

‘Dubette have got to be protected, from all this terror rubbish. You’ve seen the papers. And the television.’

‘All this terror rubbish?’ queried Parnell.

‘Misleading accusations,’ specified Newton.

‘Dwight! I’m not up with you on this!’

‘I know the case they’re trying to build: that Dubette, with its access to drugs and chemicals, has some connection with terrorism. That’s why the FBI are involved in the first place.’

‘I really don’t believe this! There’s a perfectly understandable and acceptable explanation for why Rebecca had that flight number in her bag: her job was to deal with samples coming in by air from overseas. And Dingley and Benton have accepted it, as far as I am aware.’

‘That’s not my impression.’

‘Impression?’ questioned Parnell, pointedly. ‘A second ago you told me they were building a definite case.’

‘We’re talking about company lawyers being with you for the next FBI interview,’ said Newton.

‘You were talking about company lawyers,’ contradicted Parnell. ‘I wasn’t. I’m going to see the Bureau guys again, with just my lawyer. And if I get the slightest indication of Dubette being compromised, I’ll stop the interview and tell you, immediately.’

‘I’m not sure that’s the attitude we welcome,’ said Newton.

‘It’s not an attitude,’ contradicted Parnell again. ‘It’s common-sense refusal to be panicked when there’s no reason nor cause to be panicked.’

‘I’ve got to see the board, up in New York.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ said Parnell, unsure why he was being told.

‘Which will have to include your refusal to co-operate.’

‘Dwight, don’t you think the FBI might imagine that I – and Dubette – have something to hide if I arrive next time surrounded by attorneys? I’m not refusing to co-operate. I’m refusing to let there be any wrongful suspicion… wrongful suspicion about me and wrongful suspicion about Dubette. Make sure you tell the board that, in those words.’

‘I’ll definitely make sure of that,’ said Newton, in an attempted threat that failed.

‘There’s nothing to hide,’ insisted Parnell once more. I haven’t, he thought. He increasingly wasn’t sure about Dwight Newton or Russell Benn.

When Parnell got back to his department, Kathy Richardson said Jackson had suggested ten the following morning. When he told Dingley, the FBI agent said: ‘You told him about fingerprints?’

‘He wants to know why.’