Dead End

Twenty-Three

David Benton described Parnell’s call as coincidence, because they’d intended contacting him to arrange another meeting.

‘You got something?’ demanded Parnell, at once.

‘Just touching bases,’ side-stepped the FBI man. ‘Guess you’ll need to liaise with your attorney. Get back to us asap.’

Barry Jackson’s secretary didn’t know when he would be out of court. Parnell asked for the lawyer to call back, juggling in his mind all the things he had to do, smiling to himself as Benton’s phrase intruded into his mind – trying to remember all the bases he had to cover. It was a bitty, fragmented schedule. He supposed he should add to it the promised phone call to his mother. That morning there had been two replies from England to his apology letters – one, from someone he’d worked with on the genome project in Cambridge, asked why he didn’t come back. There was a position available. All he had to do was officially apply and it was his. Sublime academia awaited. Parnell thought it truly sounded sublime, as well as knowing he wouldn’t make the application.

First on Parnell’s list of things to do was to reassure his unit after what Beverley had told him. He waited for everyone to arrive, Beverley being the last, before going out into the communal laboratory, conscious of their waiting expectantly.

‘I told you yesterday that what happened then won’t happen again,’ reiterated Parnell. ‘Now I’m telling you one more time, because I know there’s some concern. You all know now that it was necessary. And why it was necessary. But I’ve made it clear to the vice president how and why it had to be done. He’s grateful. Now we get back to the assignment we’ve been given.’

‘Has everything been stopped in France?’ said Lapidus.

‘The vice president was talking to New York overnight,’ said Parnell.

‘So, what’s the answer?’ demanded Lapidus. ‘I – none of us – want to get caught up in a licensing situation.’

It was career concern, which was understandable, accepted Parnell. Positively, he said: ‘That’s not going to happen either.’

‘It surely had to go before the licensing authorities in France?’ said Sato.

‘These are things I’m going to find out,’ promised Parnell. ‘I have to…’

‘Find out today?’ broke in Peter Battey. ‘We none of us know what the hell’s going on. Which isn’t any way to work. How we came here to work.’

Another base to cover, thought Parnell. ‘If I can. I’m waiting to hear from the vice president. We didn’t get the whole range of French products made up from the new formulae. When we do – something else I’m hopefully arranging today – I’ll personally do the testing, no one else. After all, we scarcely need confirmation.’

‘Everything requires confirmation,’ contradicted Beverley.

‘Which Dwight and Russell can provide, after my initial examination,’ suggested Parnell.

‘You involved us,’ said Lapidus, close to an accusation. ‘We found the bad science, we’re caught up now in bad science. Your professional reputation’s established. Ours isn’t.’

‘What is it you want?’ asked Parnell.

‘Written acknowledgement that this unit – each of us named – found and exposed the bad science,’ declared Lapidus.

There couldn’t have been more than one smoky-bar-room or wine-and-cheese session to have reached that decision, decided Parnell.

Beverley said: ‘Get real, for Christ’s sake, Ted! You think you’re going to get something like that on paper from Dubette!’

Beverley hadn’t been in a smoky bar room or had cheese and wine, Parnell knew. ‘I’ll try to get it, in the form of an official letter of thanks, which is the best I imagine I can hope for. If I can’t even get that…’ He hesitated, embarrassed at what he intended to say. ‘If I can’t get that, taking into account my professional reputation, will you all accept individually written letters from me to each of you?’ From the uncertainty that went through the group before him, Parnell guessed none of them had anticipated such an offer.

Lapidus, clearly once more the dominant figure, said: ‘I think we need to consider that.’

‘I don’t,’ said Beverley. ‘I don’t think I need any sort of letter. I think this is fucking ridiculous!’

‘I’d be happy with something from you,’ Sean Sato told Parnell.

‘So would I,’ agreed Mark Easton.

Parnell shook his head. ‘Do what Ted suggests, think on it. While you’re thinking on it, keep always in mind that I’ll do everything possible, everything in my power, to avoid your careers being affected by this. I don’t, in fact, see why your careers should in any way be affected, apart from being bettered, but obviously it’s something worrying you…’

‘Some of us!’ qualified Beverley.

‘However, I’m looking beyond this,’ picked up Parnell. ‘I could not be happier, more satisfied, with the way this unit’s worked out. We’ve considered what’s worrying… some of you… Now hear what’s worrying me. What’s worrying me is that this is going to fuck up what we’ve had going, thus far. I don’t want it to. And I hope you don’t want it to – won’t let it – happen either.’ He looked at Beverley. ‘What we’ve done for Dubette should establish us, not knock us off balance, damaging what we’re building between us. Have I made myself clear?’

‘I hope we both have,’ said Lapidus.

Parnell decided a further hour without contact from Dwight Newton was sufficient. Refusing to wait any longer – or risk being fobbed off on the telephone by one of the man’s protective secretariat – Parnell made another unannounced approach into the centre of the Spider’s Web. This time he did stop off at the chemical research unit and wasn’t surprised to be told Russell Benn was with the vice president. At Newton’s outer office, the man’s personal assistant, an indeterminately aged woman with crimped hair, not wearing a wedding band, said the vice president was in conference and could not be disturbed, under any circumstances. Parnell said he would wait but asked that the woman tell Newton that he was doing just that, waiting in the outer office.

‘He told me he wasn’t to be disturbed under any circumstances,’ repeated the woman, making no move towards Newton’s office.

‘And you told me,’ said Parnell.

‘I’ve no idea how long it’ll be.’

‘As long as it takes,’ said Parnell, settling himself in an easy chair in direct line with Newton’s office door. He ignored the magazines on a side table, near a tall plant with polished leaves, reminiscent of the FBI field office, inwardly unsettled by the doubt of the previous evening’s conversation with Beverley. Surely Newton had called New York – spoken to Edward C. Grant! It was inconceivable that Newton wouldn’t have made the call. Salaries and stock options didn’t come into the consideration – any consideration. For Newton to have hesitated, looked for an excuse or an escape, would be criminal. Literally criminal, opening him – and Dubette – up to both criminal and civil prosecution. But what if Newton hadn’t telephoned New York? Had looked – was still looking – for a way out? Should he go over the vice president’s head, as Beverley had asked if he would? He’d have to, Parnell accepted. He’d have no alternative. Another recollection from the previous night swirled into his mind, his now embarrassing insistence upon travelling home with the woman in her car. About which he shouldn’t be embarrassed, he told himself. The danger did exist. Without any reason, any evidence, for the speculation, he asked himself if it would increase, become any clearer, if he did go directly to New York? He didn’t have to, he realized. There was an intended meeting with the FBI team. He wasn’t sure – didn’t care – if it came within their jurisdiction. They’d have to take some action if he told them. It would, after all, amount to possible mass murder.

‘Would you do me a favour?’ he called to the obstructive personal assistant. ‘Would you just slip a message to Dwight and tell him I’m waiting out here. That the FBI are waiting on me to fix a meeting?’

‘He doesn’t want to be interrupted.’

‘Just tell him that,’ insisted Parnell.

‘He doesn’t want to be interrupted,’ the woman repeated.

‘He’ll want to be, about this.’

She hesitated, looked for guidance to the other secretaries, each of whom shrugged, refusing advice or involvement, and finally got to her feet. She reappeared almost immediately at Newton’s office door, smiling with relief. ‘He says to come in.’

‘What meeting with the FBI?’ demanded Newton, virtually as Parnell crossed the threshold.

‘They want to see me again.’

‘What about?’

Russell Benn was beside the desk again and Parnell thought they looked like two boys exchanging secrets. ‘They didn’t say. I was told you were in conference. I thought I might have been invited.’

‘You were just about to be.’

‘Fortunate I came by, then. Have Paris been stopped?’

‘Yes.’

Parnell was unsure whether to believe the man. There was a possible way of finding out, he thought. ‘Had any been distributed?’

‘They’re checking.’

‘They don’t know?’ queried Parnell, disbelievingly.

‘It was the middle of the night!’ said Benn.

‘Now it’s getting towards the middle of their day!’ insisted Parnell.

‘They’re checking,’ repeated the vice president.

‘You haven’t yet seen the cultures.’ The overnight HPRT production was enormous.

‘I’d like to go over them in my laboratory,’ said Benn, unable to meet Parnell’s look as he spoke.

To avoid an accusing audience, thought Parnell, at once. The cultures weren’t sterile, so there was no reason why they shouldn’t be transferred. No reason, either, why Newton or Benn should be humiliated further. ‘Sure. Did you tell Paris we want everything that hasn’t been tested?’

Newton said: ‘I’m going to speak to Saby again, later. I haven’t forgotten.’

‘I’ve already prepared a schedule of what’s to come,’ added Benn, supportively, offering the single sheet of paper from which Parnell quickly saw that there were still six missing items. All were for child treatments.

‘They need to be withdrawn, ahead of any examination.’ said Parnell.

‘That’s what I’ve told Paris, that everything’s got to be stopped,’ assured Newton.

Parnell paused, mentally rehearsing his promised approach. ‘I think it would be appropriate for my unit to be thanked officially, by letter, for their contribution yesterday.’

‘You’re the unit director,’ said Newton, sharply. ‘Haven’t you thanked them?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then it’s done,’ insisted Newton. ‘Just as I thanked you, last night.’

‘I’ll tell them Dubette is grateful.’ But not tell you I’m doing it by the official letter you’re frightened will lock you into a scandal, Parnell decided. He’d known in advance what Newton’s response would be, and had only asked the question because he’d promised the unit he’d do so. Newton’s rejection was still… What? Indicative, he supposed.

‘When’s the meeting with the FBI?’ asked Newton, abruptly.

‘Not fixed yet,’ said Parnell.

‘But it’s about Rebecca…? Her death…?’

They were shit-scared about France, Parnell guessed at once. With every cause and reason. ‘They didn’t tell me what it was about. But it has to be connected with Rebecca, doesn’t it?’

‘There’s… I’m sure you’re aware…’ stumbled the vice president.

‘You got something to say, why don’t you say it, Dwight?’ demanded Parnell.

‘After Rebecca’s murder, your discovery could totally destroy Dubette if it ever became public,’ blurted the thin man.

‘Dwight! That’s what I told you, in as many words, remember? I’m not going to talk to anyone about it. Neither is anyone in my unit. Your only risk – Dubette’s only risk – is if some of this stuff has already been shipped, for sale or use. And people start dying.’

‘I know. And thank you, again. For the assurance, I mean.’

‘That’s what we need, not my positive assurance, but far more importantly the positive guarantee from Paris that every-thing’s recovered. Destroyed. We’re agreed on that, aren’t we! We can’t be anything else but agreed on that!’ challenged Parnell, abandoning all his previous reservations about what he said at this encounter. Abandoning, too, any reliance upon Newton to achieve anything. Into Parnell’s mind drifted Beverley’s cynicism: You’d be surprised what someone will do to keep five hundred thousand a year and stock options . The vice president and Benn were still shell-shocked, their ears ringing – deafened – from the reverberations of an explosion they hadn’t ever imagined.

‘That’s what we’re getting,’ promised Benn.

Parnell wasn’t at all sure that was what they were getting – or would get. He still needed to be convinced, even, that Dwight Newton had done everything he should to contain the situation. Fleetingly doubting it was something he should do as head of department – but very much aware of his undertaking to distance everyone else in his unit from any further involvement – Parnell personally transferred all the exploding HPRT cultures to Russell Benn’s section – to which Benn had still not returned – pedantically insisting that he got, while he waited, an individually itemized receipt from Benn’s impatiently sighing secretary for every sample. He missed Barry Jackson’s returned call while he waited, but reached the lawyer at his second attempt, glad of the further delay because it had given him time to think and decide upon something else, something he initially dismissed as paranoid, until forcing himself to confront Rebecca Lang’s murder, and his insisting upon driving home the previous night with Beverley, and the fear of blazing headlights in his rear-view mirror. Jackson said the following morning, before eleven, was good for him, and Benton promised they’d be expecting him at the FBI’s Washington field office any time after nine.

When he went back to Jackson to confirm the FBI encounter, Parnell said: ‘There’s something else I think I need to do, before tomorrow. You free at lunchtime?’

‘I don’t often eat lunch.’

‘I wasn’t inviting you to lunch anyway.’

Russell Benn said: ‘Parnell’s got us by the balls. And he knows it.’

‘You think I need to be told that?’ said Newton, impatiently. The conversational carousel had gone around and around since Parnell left, always arriving back at the point at which it began.

‘You’ve got to call Saby.’

‘I don’t need to be told that, either!’ retorted Newton.

‘Why hasn’t he come back to you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s been despatched, hasn’t it? Some of the stuffs already gone into distribution.’

‘We’ve got to give him time!’

‘Are New York giving you time?’

‘I’ve got another couple of hours.’

‘We’re going to stay together on this, aren’t we, Dwight? You and I? I mean…’

‘I know what you mean,’ cut off Newton. ‘Of course we’re together on this. What else can we be?’ He fervently wished he knew – that there was some escape he could make, abandoning the other man.

‘I don’t like my balls being in a vice,’ said Benn.

‘I’m in there with you.’

‘You think you can trust the son of a bitch?’

‘How the fuck do I know – does anyone know?’ erupted Newton. ‘He came to me – didn’t blow any whistles to any authorities.’

‘As far as you know,’ cautioned Benn. ‘That reassure you? It sure as hell doesn’t reassure me.’

‘Just making a point,’ said Newton, wearily. He didn’t think he’d slept at all the previous night and he was having problems now concentrating upon every point being made to him.

‘What did Grant say?’

‘He didn’t believe it was like Parnell said, that it was a spur of the moment decision to analyse the samples, just because they were there.’

‘What are you going to tell the board?’

‘What the hell can I tell them? We screwed up. Parnell might – just might – have saved us. Saved the company.’

‘ We screwed up,’ echoed Benn, although with emphasis.

‘I’m not going to dump on you, Russ. How can I?’ repeated Newton.

‘You really sure we’re all right? I got commitments, Dwight. More commitments than I know what to do with – know how to handle.’

‘We’re going to be all right.’

‘Providing Parnell stays all right. You should call Paris.’

‘Let’s give Saby another couple of hours.’

‘Another couple of hours, that’s all,’ conceded Benn. ‘I think whatever Parnell does – or might do – depends on whether or not France has started distributing.’

Barry Jackson went line by line through Parnell’s sworn affidavit and still didn’t speak after several moments. Finally he said: ‘Sometimes lawyer-client confidentiality is a burden.’

‘One we’re both having to bear,’ said Parnell.

‘You did the right thing, swearing this statement,’ reassured Jackson. ‘You think Dubette killed Rebecca?’

‘I think someone in Dubette knows who did. And why.’

‘You going to tell the FBI that tomorrow?’

‘Without an iota of proof?’ challenged Parnell, in return.

‘You going to tell them this?’ asked the lawyer, fluttering the affidavit.

‘Does what was almost allowed to happen in France constitute a crime in this country?’

Jackson gave an empty laugh. ‘You’re making a point I should have made!’

‘You think I should tell them?’

‘I think we first need to know what’s happened in France. One way, it could be as serious as negligent homicide. The other way, it’s a responsible double-check by a responsible international pharmaceutical company that prevented a catastrophe.’

‘What personal protection is that?’ asked Parnell, nodding to the statement on the table between them.

‘None whatsoever if Dubette’s into murder and they know you’ve sworn it.’

‘You know what a maze is?’ demanded Parnell, rhetorically. ‘A lot of dead ends with only one way out.’

‘I know what a maze is,’ said Jackson. ‘I do my best not to get into any.’

‘I wish I could get out of this one,’ said Parnell. He hadn’t told the lawyer about the two occasions with Beverley, and decided now against doing so: neither were important – dangerous – and last night he’d decided there wouldn’t be a third.

By the time he got back to McLean, Parnell calculated it was just after six in the evening in Paris and hoped he was not too late, annoyed for not saving the travelling time by making the intended call from his more conveniently close apartment. He risked a further few minutes confirming with Kathy Richardson that there’d been no contact from the vice president, although Russell Benn had called to thank him for the cultures, and wondered where he was and seemed surprised when she’d said she didn’t know.

Parnell got the Paris number from the Dubette directory and dialled it himself, his no-longer-always-open door securely closed against intrusion. There was an uncertain moment before a woman answered from Henri Saby’s office, and a further worrying, echoing gap after he’d identified himself, before a man’s voice came on the line.

The English scarcely accented, Saby said at once: ‘It seems we have a lot to thank you for.’

Parnell hadn’t realized how tensed he’d been at the fear of calling too late in the day, until he felt it easing away. His excuse for making the call carefully prepared, Parnell said: ‘There’s still some we need to look at. I thought I’d just run through the list I’ve been given.’

‘I’ve already done that with Dwight.’

‘It was a double-check that picked up the problem.’ Parnell hadn’t expected the advantage of the Frenchman knowing his name or how the danger had been isolated.

‘Sure,’ accepted Saby. He reverted to French and verbally ticked off with a curt ‘oui’ each of the outstanding items Parnell recited from Russell Benn’s list.

‘That’s all there is, nothing more?’ asked Parnell. He’d let the conversation run to gain the other man’s confidence.

‘That’s everything,’ confirmed Saby.

‘And all the production has been stopped?’

‘When was the last time you talked with Dwight?’

‘Not since this morning,’ replied Parnell, honestly. ‘He hadn’t spoken to you then.’

‘I told him everything had been halted.’

Saby’s English was so good that Parnell detected the doubt in the man’s voice. ‘What about distribution?’

There was a hesitation from the other end. ‘It’s being recalled. I told Dwight that, too.’

Parnell forced himself on, not wanting his immediate alarm to be obvious. ‘How difficult is that going to be?’

‘Not easy. But possible.’

‘I’m a research scientist,’ Parnell seemingly apologized. ‘I don’t know anything about marketing. Is there batch numbering… some way you can be sure you’ve got everything back?’

‘There are batch numbers,’ allowed Saby, questioningly.

Not a complete enough answer to the question, Parnell decided. ‘From which you can be sure of getting it all back?’

‘I’ve discussed all this with Dwight. Why not talk to him?’

‘I will,’ said Parnell, knowing that he didn’t have to: Paris couldn’t guarantee recovering medicine that could result in people – children – dying.

‘The additional stuff you want?’ Saby unexpectedly asked. ‘You want to use the box number rather than the normal delivery, like before?’

What the hell did that question mean? ‘Yes,’ risked Parnell. Remembering the word from Rebecca’s conversations, he added: ‘You’ll let me know the waybill number? Tell me direct, I mean.’

‘What about Harry Johnson?’

What about the head of security? wondered Parnell. ‘In view of the sensitivity, I think it’s best if you tell me. I can involve Harry from this end.’ And he would, Parnell decided, if he could find a way.