Dead End

Nine

Dwight Newton observed the previous protocol, catching the first New-York-bound flight from Washington and entering the corporate building on Wall Street using the unobserved, code-controlled penthouse elevator intentionally shielded from CCTV range. As before, Edward C. Grant was there ahead of him, waiting on the other side of the overpowering desk.

‘You’ve finished the tests?’ demanded the hunched, diminutive man, not bothering with any formal politeness.

‘That’s for you to decide,’ said Newton. Knowing there was no possibility of lunch, he’d got up in time for the maple-syruped waffles that never added weight to his skeletal frame, but he had hoped for coffee. There wasn’t any.

‘And?’

‘We added all the French-recommended colouring and flavouring to a slew of their products: linctus, cough medicines, bronchitis and asthma treatments, analgesics – most of their range. Tests on mice and monkeys showed no adverse reaction whatsoever.’

‘You telling me we can go ahead?’ smiled Grant.

‘The French also experimented with liulousine, so we did too. It would add a good twenty per cent on to any pirating cost. Again, nothing adverse in any animal trial. Because it’s in the same classification, we went further and introduced our beneuflous: that would hike the copying cost up to thirty per cent: there’s no indigenous source, so both liulousine and beneuflous would have to be imported…’

‘They’d be buying beneuflous – our drug – to pirate us!’ sniggered Grant.

‘It would be more cost-effective to copy other manufacturers, which I thought was the strategy we’re trying to set up,’ said Newton. ‘But if they chose to use our formulae, then yes, they’d have to buy our drugs to manufacture their copies of our drugs!’

‘I like it. I like it very much. No bad reactions at all?’ There was always a near-orgasmic feeling at the thought of making money.

‘None.’

‘What are liulousine and beneuflous?’

‘Expectorants.’

‘So, you’re signing the whole thing off as safe! We can go ahead?’

‘Paris hasn’t tested on humans. Neither have we.’

‘I thought mice were comparable and compatible enough?’ questioned the non-medical president.

‘There could be minimal variations. We – or France – should test on human volunteers to be one hundred per cent sure.’

‘We’re talking Africa, not civilization.’

Dwight Newton, who’d believed himself beyond any reaction to anything Grant might say or do, was momentarily shocked into silence. ‘You know the three-phase testings,’ he managed.

‘Every preparation we’re talking about has gone through the French testing schedule and conforms to their licensing regulations,’ insisted Grant.

‘What about these additions?’

‘Georges Mendaille doesn’t anticipate any difficulty. Neither does Saby, providing none of it is sold on the domestic market.’

Once again Newton had to pause before speaking. ‘How can that be explained to the licensing authorities?’

‘Rifofludine,’ said Grant, shortly, having rehearsed the moment.

‘The French-recommended flavouring?’ queried Newton.

‘Saby described it as a preservative in hot climates.’

‘It would have helped if I’d spoken to Saby when he was here! I didn’t test for that!’ It was the nearest Newton had ever come to confronting the president, and his stomach lurched as he spoke.

‘You can test now, can’t you?’ said Grant, sharply.

‘What else did Saby claim?’

‘That the colouring agent is a total placebo.’

‘But very practicable among people who have difficulty reading or comprehending, but who can understand differences in colours?’ anticipated Newton. He felt physically nauseous.

‘Exactly!’ agreed Grant, enthusiastically. ‘We could even get some public health recognition for this.’

He’d sold his soul to a man who was beyond imagination or parody, Newton realized. At once he wondered why it had taken him this long to realize it. ‘I need to make the heat test on rifofludine.’

‘Saby says it’s OK.’

‘I’m signing it off, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Then I should confirm the experiment and its result. As I should test upon human volunteers.’

‘We got a sudden problem here, Dwight?’ asked Grant.

Newton’s stomach dipped again. ‘We need to consider the company and its global reputation, don’t we?’

‘Always,’ said Grant, at once.

‘That’s what I’m doing.’

‘Of course you are,’ said Grant, the smile as tight as the bitten-off words. ‘How about this? It’ll take a while to get French licensing approval. You finish off what you feel you have to do in the laboratory while Paris goes through the formalities. That way we’re on the block ready to take off the moment we get the go ahead.’

He was a puppet in a responsibility-clearing performance, accepted the research vice president: the decision had already been made to go ahead with manufacture for Africa. ‘What happens if I don’t confirm Saby’s insistence on the preservative?’

‘I’ve already given you my word, Dwight. We scrap everything.’

‘That’s what I have, your word?’

‘That’s what you have: what you’ve always had.’

‘OK,’ agreed Newton, as he’d known he would agree from the beginning.

‘We’ve got other things to talk about,’ announced Grant, hand on the familiar, although expanded, file to the left of his desk.

‘Security put a trace on Rebecca Lang’s office phone,’ started Newton, knowing what Grant expected. ‘Got the full transcript of a conversation with the girl she talks to in Paris, Stephanie Paruch…’

Grant pulled the extract from the file, flicking the edge of the paper with an irritated finger. ‘ Your great mystery,’ he paraphrased. ‘ I’m going to keep on until I find out… known here as a smoking gun… You know the trouble with guns, Dwight? They go off and hurt people. That’s when they smoke.’

Newton hesitated, briefly unsure how to respond. He took his own copy of the transcript from his briefcase and, reading from it, quoted: ‘ It’s the talk of the division here. Benn and Newton have locked themselves away: haven’t been seen for days. It’s got to be something big…’ He looked up. ‘I don’t like that, my name being on the record. I don’t like that at all.’

‘What about Parnell?’ Grant hurried on.

‘Caught Benn in the elevator a day or two back. Asked him outright what was going on.’

‘What did Russell say?’

‘That it was an experiment that wasn’t working out.’

‘Parnell accept that?’

‘Asked if pharmacogenomics were going to get a look at it. Russ said there wasn’t any point.’

Grant sat silently for a long time, the only sound the increasingly rapid click of his irritated flicking against the paper edge. Finally he said: ‘Is it true, what she said? That it’s the talk of the division?’ There was an unquestionable benefit, repeating the questions he’d already put to Harry Johnson, the security director with whom he was talking, personally and only ever one-to-one, with increasing frequency…

‘It’s not my reading. Or Benn’s. Security – Harry, personally – are tapping all outgoing calls from the floor. I’ve told them we suspect a competitor informer. Rebecca Lang’s the only person who’s shown any interest in France – spoken to Paris, even.’

‘Not Parnell?’

‘No. But they’ve got to be talking, haven’t they? They can’t just screw all the time.’

‘She’s a goddamned nuisance!’ angrily declared the Dubette president, who’d had a contradictory conversation with Harry Johnson, whose professional experience and opinion he trusted more than an amateur like Newton.

‘You think I should officially warn her off?’

‘No!’ refused Grant, still angry. ‘That’ll just make her more curious.’ She certainly had to be stopped. It was not something to discuss with Newton. Not even, he thought, with Johnson. There were special people he employed for special things.

‘What then?’

‘Just finish off what you’ve got to…’ Grant brightened. ‘Looks like France came up with a good one. Had the figures calculated. We stop the piracy, reduce it even, in Africa and Asia, we could save as much as ten million dollars in a full year. And that could even translate into a matching loss to our opposition, if they become the alternative targets. That’s a damned good day’s work…’ There was an abrupt reflective darkening. ‘And why it isn’t going to be jeopardized

…’

‘You want security to go on watching her?’

‘Keep the telephone taps on, throughout the department. Hers particularly. And obviously keep an eye on Parnell. Leave me to worry about everything else. And Dwight…?’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re doing a hell of a good job.’

That morning Newton didn’t make the mistake of trying to leave through the wrong door.

‘Sorry I haven’t got back to you before now,’ apologized Newton.

‘Not a lot for us to discuss so far,’ accepted Parnell.

‘Enough,’ said the vice president. ‘You seem to have everything parcelled up pretty efficiently.’ Newton hadn’t set out intending this meeting. His mind hadn’t gone beyond the New York encounter and what there was to discuss with Edward C. Grant. It was only afterwards, on the return Washington shuttle, when he was still very much thinking of that discussion and Grant’s numbing cynicism during it – and of his openly being named on the security eavesdrop – that the idea came of personally speaking to Parnell. And trying to assess what suspicion or curiosity the Englishman might disclose.

‘Still a long way to go.’ Why the sudden summons, after playing the invisible man?

‘Looks to me like you’re working to an agenda.’

‘Trying to create one that’s practical,’ qualified Parnell. ‘I thought the best initial contribution we might try was on some of the most current research, to complete an entire package.’

Was that a veiled reference to Paris? ‘Sounds a sensible approach. How many have you got in mind?’

Parnell was sure he prevented the frown. ‘Those that I’ve already memoed you about.’

‘Sure,’ said Newton, awkwardly, gesturing to a disordered pile of paper on his desk. ‘You think there’s anything likely?’

‘Nothing that’s leapt out of the petrie dish at us, but then we neither of us expect Archimedes-style discoveries, do we?’

Newton forced the smile, sure the other man was mocking him. ‘Still be nice.’

‘The exchange system appears to be working well, between Russell’s section and mine.’

That had to be a reference to France. ‘Sure you won’t be overwhelmed?’

‘No,’ answered Parnell, honestly. ‘That’s why we’re working to an agenda, trying to keep up to speed with what’s ongoing, allowing space to go back to earlier stuff when we’re able.’

He had to force it along, Newton decided. ‘I’m afraid Russ has been a little preoccupied lately. Me, too.’

‘He told me.’ The quick halt was intentional, to lure Newton into saying more.

‘Turned out to be a waste of time. It’s all being scrapped,’ insisted Newton.

Parnell didn’t believe Newton any more than he’d believed Russell Benn. ‘Gastrointestinal is where pharmacogenomics might have a real place.’

The son of a bitch was trying to trick him! ‘It was respiratory. A decongestant.’

‘Of course! Russell told me. My mistake.’

‘You think of any way things could be improved for you?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Parnell. ‘Might suggest closer contact between Russell and myself in the future. But not yet. The backlog’s too big. You sure there’s no purpose in my having a different look at the respiratory experiments?’

‘None,’ said Newton, positively. ‘That’s a principle I work from here, Dick. We don’t waste time with failed ideas. It doesn’t work, we scrap it, move on.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ said Parnell. What was the point of all this?

‘Maybe we should have lunch together again soon.’

‘Good idea now that you can raise your head from the microscope. I look forward to it.’

Another reference, isolated Newton. ‘We’ll do it real soon.’ There very definitely had to be another early-morning trip to New York – arranged from a public kiosk, he reminded himself. Every phone on the research floor was being security monitored.

From the way the Toyota was parked, Parnell saw the damage when he was still some yards away, despite the twilight. The damage began at the passenger door but was worse on the nearside wing, the dents deep enough to have broken a lot of paint. He looked for a culprit’s note under the windscreen wipers. There wasn’t one.

‘Shit,’ he said. He yanked at the nearside wheel, which felt secure enough. He drove slowly through the near-empty car park, satisfying himself there was no wheel damage before he reached the highway.

In the apartment, he made the single evening drink he allowed himself, a strong gin and tonic, briefly undecided but finally ringing Rebecca.

‘You coming to the house?’ she asked at once.

‘Just wanted to talk.’

‘What about?’

‘Some bastard drove into my car, in the car park.’

‘Did they leave a note?’

‘No such luck.’

‘How bad?’

‘Passenger door and wing. The damage kind of goes around to the front, which is slightly buckled.’

‘You told security?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You should,’ she insisted.

‘I will,’ emptily promised Parnell.

‘Don’t put it off.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I’m looking forward to the weekend.’

‘So am I.’

‘You really mean that?’ she asked.

‘I really mean it.’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ said Parnell, once again wishing he didn’t have so much difficulty saying the words.