Alchemist

  ‘Who needs bread and cheese?’

  ‘Right. Who needs it?’

  Monty walked across the room and stared out of the wide front window down at the street below, eyeing the parked cars. ‘Conor, this may sound paranoid, but I have a feeling I’ve been followed today.’

  He looked concerned.

  ‘I noticed a dark blue car – a Ford Mondeo, I think – saw it in my mirror this afternoon when I drove to the Westminster County Planning Department. And I’m pretty sure it tailed me here.’

  ‘Can you see it now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t get a look at the driver’s face? Or the registration?’

  She shook her head. ‘Probably just me – I’ve been feeling pretty jittery.’

  ‘I’m not surprised after all you went through yesterday. I’d be feeling jittery too. But I wouldn’t put it past Bendix Schere to follow employees at random, just for the hell of it.’

  ‘Great!’

  He touched her face tenderly. ‘Be really vigilant all the time, OK?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I mean it.’ He frowned. ‘Westminster County Planning Department? What goes on there?’

  She lifted up the brown envelope. ‘These. I’ve got the plans of the Bendix Building.’

  He looked at her oddly. ‘Can I see?’

  ‘Yes, I think you should.’

  ‘Right, just let me crack this champagne open and order the food, then I’ll have a look. I thought we’d have a Chinese, from the takeaway, that OK with you?’

  She nodded and they went through the menu, alternating choices, Monty writing the numbers down. To a list that was already far too long, they then added as an afterthought seaweed and half a crispy duck, which they both agreed were essential.

  As Conor phoned the list through, she wandered around the flat, giving herself a five-dollar tour at his invitation. Suitably impressed, she returned and joined him in the kitchen. There she noticed an assortment of books stacked in piles near the window. She knelt and looked through them. The first one was titled: Joshua Bendix. The Invisible Tycoon. She picked it up with interest and saw that it was an unauthorized biography of the founder of Bendix Schere. Another, which had the Bendix logo embossed on the front, was titled: From Invisible Ink to Invisible Profits. The Rise of the Bendix Empire.

  There were a couple more books on Bendix Schere, and then she found a whole section on the occult. Among them was a biography of Aleister Crowley, Colin Wilson’s Beyond the Occult and an ancient-looking volume with sinister lettering, entitled The Master Grimoire of Magickal Rites and and Ceremonies.

  ‘Be about half an hour,’ Conor said, walking over. ‘I see you’ve found the library located in the east wing.’

  ‘I’ve never seen any books on the company before.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. Whenever anything’s published, they always buy up all the copies before they even leave the warehouses and pay off everyone involved.’

  ‘So how did you get them?’

  He tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘A few review copies slip out here and there.’

  ‘Can I read them some time?’

  ‘Sure – actually they’re not that interesting. I think the authors and publishers had been threatened with so many lawsuits that they kind of got neutered.’

  ‘You have a lot of stuff on the occult, too.’

  He looked awkward. ‘Oh – right – yah, I went through a phase of being interested,’ he said rather dismissively.

  She noticed his discomfort, which increased her curiosity. ‘How come?’

  He reached for his Marlboros and lit one. ‘My mother – I guess it’s her Irish ancestry.’

  ‘Is she fey?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing heavy, it’s no big deal.’ He brought the opened champagne bottle over, filling both their glasses. There’s a science programme on Channel Four at eight,’ he said. ‘They’re going to be talking about patenting human genes; mind if I just keep an eye out for it?’

  She clicked her fingers in annoyance. ‘Damn. I read about it – my father wanted me to record it. He might be a brilliant scientist but he can never work his video.’ She shot him a grin. ‘Something else distracted me last night, though.’

  The closing credits on a wildlife documentary were rolling on the screen. A flock of migrating birds blackened the tropical sky. Conor drew hard on his cigarette, then exhaled through his mouth, asking suddenly, ‘What did you do with the Maternox capsules?’

  ‘I still have them in my handbag.’

  He nodded. ‘Tell me something. Last night, did the police take any fingerprints or anything?’

  ‘No, they talked about it, but they weren’t enthusiastic. I expect because nothing was stolen or damaged. I got the feeling they weren’t intending reporting it as a burglary; probably something to do with the way they massage their crime statistics. But this morning after you left I discovered that something may be missing after all, except I can’t be –’

  ‘Hey! Look at this!’ he interrupted, grabbing the remote control and turning the television’s volume up. Bendix Schere’s latest ‘corporate imaging’ commercial was on the screen. Everyone had been talking about it in the office, but Monty hadn’t seen it yet, and she watched with fascination.

  The commercial began with a close-up of lava erupting from a volcano. A super-smooth male voice-over said: ‘Seventy million years ago the Big Island of Hawaii began as a volcanic eruption on the floor of the Pacific Ocean.’

  The camera rose dramatically, revealing the erupting volcano to be at one end of a densely vegetated island. Then it dipped deep into an area of rain forest, showing exotic plants and bird life in microscopic close-up, as the commentary continued: ‘The plants of the Hawaiian rain forest have yielded not only sustenance for wildlife and humans, but also one of the richest sources of medicines in all the world.’

  The camera cut to a hi-tech Bendix Schere factory plant, surrounded by acres of greenery. ‘One company more than any other has been preserving the natural wonders of the rain forest, and harnessing its fruits to create a better world for us all.’

  The camera now switched to an Ethiopian mud-hut village. Dozens of young black children swarmed around a visiting European. For the benefit of his audience as he spoke directly into the camera the subtitle appeared: Sir Neil Rorke.

  ‘Hello. I’m Chairman of Bendix Schere, and I want you to take a look at these healthy youngsters all around me. Aren’t they great?’ On cue, he put one arm around a boy, the other around a girl. ‘Without the vitamin-enriched powdered milk manufactured by Bendix Schere, I doubt that any of the kids you see here with me today would be alive.’ He paused for the camera to sweep over the happy faces.

  ‘Without the chemicals extracted from the acobab tree in the Hawaiian rain forest, this little boy would be a cripple in a wheelchair. Without the root of the Pe-eccu plant, this little girl would be blind by the time she reaches her teens.’

  ‘The camera slowly tracked into a tight close-up of the Bendix Schere’s avuncular Chairman. ‘My company spends three billion pounds a year on medical research – that’s five times as much as the British government. At Bendix Schere we are trying to create a world where there is less pain and less disease.’

  Music was faded in, as the camera pulled back, further and further, to reveal that Sir Neil Rorke was surrounded not by a few dozen happy children, but several thousand. Then the caption filled the screen: ‘BENDIX SCHERE – THE WORLD’S MOST CARING COMPANY.’

  Conor grinned. ‘Reckon he’ll be up for an Oscar? Talk about one cynical bastard.’

  She gently prised the cigarette from his fingers and puffed on it. The smoke tasted good and gave her a buzz. ‘Cynical? I rather like him. How much do you think he knows about what goes on in the company?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  She handed him the cigarette back, with some reluctance. ‘Well – he’s only a figurehead, right? He’s Chairman, but he’s not
Chief Exec or anything. I think he only works two or three days a week for the company, if that. Do you think people like Dr Crowe play on Sir Neil’s nice guy image? If there is a cover-up going on with Maternox, I can’t believe that he would approve.’

  Conor drew on his cigarette again and said nothing.

  She climbed down from the bed, went into the kitchen and brought back the brown envelope, removing the contents as she sat back down.

  ‘These are the plans I got this afternoon. Of the Bendix London headquarters.’

  She unfolded the first sheet: Garbutt McMillan plans for new Bendix Schere London Headquarters. 1971 Side Elevation. ‘Let’s take a look.’ She spread the sheet out and stared at it, trying to orient herself. It showed the familiar front façade that faced on to the Euston Road. Then she opened the next sheet.

  ‘That’s the west façade,’ Conor said, as she rotated it to get it the right way up. Then they unfolded and studied the neat geometric boxes of the floor plans.

  After a quarter of an hour, the bed and most of the floor were covered in photocopied plans and there was a strong, acrid smell from the ink and paper. ‘What are we actually meant to be looking for?’ Conor said.

  ‘I don’t know. No idea. I’m just following up what Winston Smith suggested – the security guard I told you about.’

  ‘Oh yeah, the one with the permanent cold and the wild imagination. He didn’t give you any clues?’

  ‘He was frightened, Conor. I think he overstepped his mark in telling me anything.’

  He rummaged through the sheets and spread out the front elevation again. ‘Something’s not right here,’ he said after some moments.

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He frowned. ‘Hang on, I think –’ He began counting the storeys with his finger. Then he turned towards her. ‘I make it fifty-six,’ he said. ‘These are the filed drawings, right? Or just early working drafts?’

  ‘These are the filed drawings. Fifty-six storeys?’ she repeated.

  Conor counted again. ‘Yup.’

  ‘Except – the building is only forty-nine storeys high.’

  ‘Plus the basement.’

  ‘So that makes fifty. There are six more floors on this plan.’ Her forehead creased into tight lines and she felt a sudden faint slick of fear run down her spine. ‘So where are they, Conor? Where the hell are the other six floors?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  61

  Wednesday 23 November, 1994

  Bill Gunn was seated in one of the ornate black chairs in front of Dr Vincent Crowe’s desk. He crossed his legs the better to examine the round black mark, courtesy of Nikky, on the bridge of his Hush Puppy. It was the size of a bullet hole.

  It had been a token of her appreciation for his arriving three hours later than promised last evening; one sharp stamp of her stiletto heel and she had walked out into the night; and stayed out.

  His foot was hurting like hell, and the expression on the Chief Executive’s face did not bode well as he glared at him beyond the jewelled eyes of the papier-mâché frog. Their meeting had been interrupted by three incoming calls in succession and they had not yet got further than the preliminaries.

  ‘How could you be so clumsy, Major Gunn? Surely you have people capable of breaking and entering an unalarmed, isolated house without any trace?’

  ‘Yes, sir, of course. They were taken by surprise – she normally arrives home between seven forty-five and half past eight. This time for some reason she got back at half six; they’d had to wait for the daily help to go and for the cover of darkness, so there they were.’

  ‘Cover of darkness?’ Crowe said snidely. ‘I don’t know why they didn’t bother signalling their presence with a military band and floodlights.’

  ‘It was very unfortunate, sir. Her early return wrong-footed them.’

  ‘Oh, it wrong-footed them, did it? You’re aware of the damage that could be done if she finds out the source of the break-in?’

  Gunn nodded.

  ‘And perhaps you would be good enough to illuminate for me, Major Gunn, why you felt the need to break into Miss Bannerman’s home at all? Surely you could have obtained what you needed here, with far less effort and risk?’

  ‘I’ve been uncomfortable about the conversation she had with Seals – which we only managed to record part of,’ Gunn said. ‘We also know she had a meeting with this Zandra Wollerton journalist on the Thames Valley Gazette, and I felt it was important to find out if she had any documents tucked away. She’s got nothing in the office, so her home was the next logical place.’

  ‘Hear this, Major. Dr Bannerman is crucial to our genetics research programme, and his daughter is invaluable to him. She literally holds his life together, she’s the one person he listens to. Without her influence, we would never have persuaded him to join us.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘If he gets upset and walks – there’s no one else in the world with the precise knowledge in the gene therapy areas that we need for Medici. If we lose him we lose as much as a decade on the project.’ Crowe raised his eyebrows. ‘You do appreciate that, don’t you?’

  ‘Dr Crowe, I can’t do my job if I’m hamstrung by an inadequate budget. If I could afford more surveillance crews and equipment I’d have been able to monitor Miss Bannerman properly and would have known that she was changing her routine. As it is, all my crews are fully deployed and working overtime.’

  Crowe tensed with anger. ‘I suppose you’d like to employ more security staff than we have scientists, researchers and laboratory technicians put together?’

  ‘All the research in the world is no damned use if we’re just doing it for our competitors’ benefit,’ Gunn retorted.

  Crowe inspected his nails. ‘I have to tell you that the Board is very unhappy with Security.’

  ‘With respect, perhaps you would tell the Board that Security is very unhappy with the Board.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t find anything in her house?’

  ‘Nothing. It was clean.’

  ‘Did you bug it? Tap the phone?’

  Gunn hesitated. ‘No; be simple enough to do so if we decide we have a problem.’

  ‘Good. Don’t, unless you really have to, all right? I don’t want any unnecessary risks taken with her. And I don’t want any of your knee-jerk reactions, such as when you tried to threaten the Thames Valley Gazette group with withdrawal of advertising.’ Crowe allowed himself a half-smile. ‘This does not, of course, mean you should drop your guard on this woman completely. Whatever your failings, Major Gunn, I have frequently been impressed by your instincts.’

  Gunn returned the half-smile, feeling a fraction happier, and emboldened. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Any form of praise from the Chief Executive, however veiled, was extremely rare. ‘We do have another potential Maternox problem which I think you should be made aware of. I intend bringing it up at tomorrow’s Board meeting.’

  ‘Yes?’ The thaw began to fade from Crowe’s face.

  ‘We have another employee enquiring about Maternox batch numbers.’

  Now all remnants of good humour drained from Crowe. ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Rowley in Group Patents and Agreements. I’ve always felt that he was potential trouble.’

  Crowe curled his hands, squeezing them so tightly his knuckles whitened. ‘But he’s got no connection with Maternox at all.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The next few weeks are critical – particularly if more Maternox problems show up. We need to get him out of the way. And that applies to anyone else sniffing around where they’re not wanted.’

  ‘Including Bannerman’s daughter, sir?’

  Crowe gave him a pained look. ‘You have no evidence that she’s on to anything?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. But if I came up with some?’

  There was a long silence. ‘Then we’d have to take a view on it,’ Crowe said finally.

  There was another piece of information Gunn had in hi
s possession, which he did not convey to Crowe. It might be a handy ace up his sleeve with which to pacify the Chief Executive next time he threw a wobbly, or it might be nothing to get excited about at all. Data tracking of the company vehicles showed that on Monday night Conor Molloy’s BMW went to an address in Berkshire subsequently identified as Montana Bannerman’s cottage – and did not leave until 8.47 next morning.

  62

  Big Island, Hawaii. Wednesday 23 November, 1994

  Pele was angry. She displayed it by creating a bubbling cauldron of molten lava across the two-mile-wide throat of Mount Kilauea; by hurtling jagged curtains of rock-strewn fire into the sky; by venting brimstone that poisoned the unpolluted air with venomous black and brown clouds; by blotting out the sun and the horizon, drenching everything in a corrosive dew of sulphuric acid.

  The lava flowed in a mile-wide stream, two thousand degrees Celsius hot, down to the ocean’s edge, relentlessly consuming everything in its path and pushing the Pacific further and further back every day, expanding Pele’s domain. Even when the red glow had faded from the lava, leaving a polished sheen of ribbed grey, the temperature only slowly began to drop.

  The volcano was the centre of the hot spot in the Ring of Fire, sandwiched by the Pacific Plate, the Indo-Australian Plate, the Eurasian Plate, the North American Plate. Pele’s first home had been on one of the minor islands, Niihau, but the goddess of the sea had chased her from island to island, destroying each dwelling that she created. Finally she came to Mount Kilauea and settled, making it her home.

  The Englishman watched the familiar but spectacular sight of the eruption from the window of the Learjet as the aircraft made its landing approach at Kona Airport. In the glare of the sunlight his gaze followed the dense plume of smoke bent by the wind and pushed towards the lush vegetation inland. A helicopter hovered around the edge of the erupting crater like a predatory fly. Half a dozen more waited their turn behind it, each packed with tourists who had paid one hundred and fifty dollars for their view of a lifetime.

  Occasionally some paid more dearly than planned. Only a few months back the sulphuric acid had eaten through the drive shaft of one sightseeing helicopter and it had plunged with four tourists into the molten lava. Pele had her own way of letting it be known she was hungry.