Alchemist

  Crowe stared at him impassively. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Late on Friday, Data Tracking showed that Mr Molloy visited Miss Bannerman’s cottage in Berkshire and stayed the night. On Saturday morning, accompanied by Miss Bannerman, he drove to the campus of Berkshire University, spent the whole of the day and early evening at the Bannermans’ old lab, then returned to her cottage where he again spent the night.’

  ‘What were they doing in the lab?’

  ‘We weren’t able to ascertain.’

  ‘Didn’t your man take a listening device?’

  ‘We only have a limited number, sir, because of costs. Miss Bannerman and Mr Molloy are only two out of thirty staff members around the country whom we’re keeping under surveillance at present. We’ve got problems with one of our senior virologists at Northumberland who we think is feeding information to another company. He could do us very serious damage; then there’s a dodgy lab technician at Plymouth, four people down at Reading, plus –’

  Crowe raised a hand, cutting him short. ‘I have all your reports, thank you. Did your man get into the Bannerman lab?’

  ‘No. He was unable to gain access to the premises after they’d left because of the risk of activating the alarm system.’

  Crowe clenched his knuckles. ‘Don’t you think it would have been worth that risk, to find out what they were doing?’

  Gunn shook his head. ‘No, I don’t want them to have any inkling that they’re under observation. We’ll find out in good time.’

  Crowe gave him a dubious look but said nothing.

  Gunn continued. ‘On Sunday afternoon, sir, they drove to a hotel in Berkshire, where Molloy checked in and out within an hour, and where he again dialled into the Bendix computer. Then they visited the deputy news editor of the Thames Valley Gazette, who happened to be Miss Zandra Wollerton’s boss. After that they visited the flat of one of our security guards, Winston Smith, who was one of our early Beta testers, and who is currently at the Bendix Hammersmith. Miss Bannerman tried to see him there, but was prevented.’

  Crowe sat quietly absorbing the bad news. ‘It would seem we have a problem, Major Gunn,’ he said finally.

  ‘Yes, we do. I want to put both of them under twenty-four-hour surveillance, but I need to take on another fifty men to do that.’

  ‘Fifty?’

  ‘For a round-the-clock job on two subjects, that’s the bare minimum. Ml5 use fifty per person on twenty-four-hour surveillance. Three cars, with two per car on eight-hour-shifts – that’s eighteen men for starters.’

  ‘Running fifty men costs about one million pounds a year, Major Gunn. I’ll have to put it to the Board.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I can’t keep adding to the list of those under full surveillance without adding to my team. Either I have those men or something has to give. Or –’ His voice tailed.

  They exchanged a brief glance expressing what was left unsaid, then Gunn continued: ‘I’ve never felt comfortable about Molloy, and I’m now convinced the Bannerman woman is on to the Medici Trial. I’ve been unhappy ever since her lunch with Seals. I have a feeling she’s a very tough little cookie, and that we’re not going to like what we find.’

  ‘She is tough,’ Crowe said. ‘Her father hardly dares say boo to her. She was a hard negotiator when we did the deal.’ He frowned. ‘But why would she go to see this security guard? He wouldn’t have any information on Medici.’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. But I intend finding out.’

  Crowe pulled a slim black notebook from his inside pocket and jotted something down. ‘I’ll raise the issue of your financial requirements at this Thursday’s Board meeting, Major Gunn. If you could let me have precise details of your revised budget by then?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Gunn smiled.

  79

  At ten to five on Monday afternoon, Conor’s phone rang. He picked up the receiver. ‘Conor Molloy,’ he said, and immediately heard the faint hiss of a transatlantic line.

  ‘Hi, it’s Dave Schwab.’

  The caller had a quiet, serious voice that mirrored his personality. Aged thirty-four, he was one of the younger examiners in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, and Conor considered him a friend.

  They had first met doing their PhDs in Molecular Biology at Carnegie Mellon. Their paths had crossed from time to time since, and Conor surmised from the fact that he was getting this call now that the patent application he had filed in the United States for Psoriatak had been assigned to Schwab.

  He viewed this as a mixed blessing. Because of their friendship, he might be able to push arguments further with Schwab than with other examiners, and Schwab might take more trouble over the application; but conversely, Schwab was a man of integrity, and in an anxiety not to be seen as granting favours he might well be over-pernickety with Conor’s application.

  Conor did a quick mental calculation. Washington was five hours behind London. It was ten to twelve there. He could picture Schwab clearly. He would be in his office, back to the window, surrounded by tiers of documents, wearing a baggy shirt, cuffs rolled up and no tie. The guy only ever dressed formally for meetings.

  ‘Dave! Hi, how you doing?’

  ‘OK, how’s England?’

  ‘England’s good. How’s Julie?’

  ‘Julie’s good, too.’ There was a silence, then Schwab said: ‘So – I – got assigned your application for Bendix Schere.’ He paused. ‘Ah – that’s – ah – number 08/190/790; you got that number right?’

  Conor grabbed a folder off the floor and frantically scrabbled through it. ‘Yup, came through in the confirmation of receipt. That tallies with our docket MA68 1459 01, Psoriatak, right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘You guys have moved fast on this one,’ Conor said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  He was met for some seconds by the static hiss of the line, then Schwab spoke again, his tone cooler. ‘I think we have quite a few problems on this one; we’re going to need a meeting.’

  This news did not surprise Conor. He frankly believed Bendix Schere would be very lucky to get the application through at all, and if they did, it would be heavily modified. But he was paid to fight the Bendix corner, and that’s what he was doing. He needed to show Crowe that he was giving it his best shot. ‘On which specific areas, Dave?’

  ‘I’m not happy with the prior art, and I think you’re asking too much in the application; you’re going to have to shave the sides off quite a bit.’

  ‘I understand that. Yup.’

  ‘You’re going to have to elect a single group.’

  ‘Time is at a real premium on this one, Dave. I’ll be guided by you. How about if we ditch everything except the gene sequence itself?’

  ‘The plasmids and transform bacteria can stay with that, OK?’

  ‘Sure, that would be appreciated.’

  ‘OK, this is getting more straightforward now. I could get you an Office action out within a week.’ He hesitated. ‘My problem is I’m away the week after next until the New Year.’

  Conor glanced at the agenda his department boss had plotted on his wall chart. A tight time scale had been set by Dr Crowe for the filing and prosecution of US patents on Dick Bannerman’s work. ‘Could we move things forward by meeting before you go?’

  There was a pause, then: ‘Oh, sure, I guess. But it’s going to take me the best part of a week to get this Office action done.’

  ‘If you fax me, I could get the material you need and jump on a plane with it.’

  ‘Let’s see, today’s Monday. The earliest I could get this out would be the end of the week. I have a kind of crazy schedule. Thursday week, 8th December – if we met in the morning, would that suit?’

  Conor agreed to make the journey over but there was another pause and he could sense that something else was coming.

  ‘Conor, I have to tell you even with the reduced application I still don’t like the prior art, but I’ll see … Now, how’s the weather over there?’


  Conor answered, surprised at the sudden non sequitur. ‘Cold. How is it in Washington?’

  ‘Winter’s here, we’re thinking of moving to Australia.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Who knows? So, you got a girlfriend over there yet?’

  ‘Just playing the field,’ Conor said, not wanting to get drawn into talking about Monty.

  ‘Sounds like nothing much has changed.’

  ‘Thanks a lot!’

  ‘You’re in the right company, that’s for sure; Bendix are really doing the business on Genetics now – they’re taking a big lead in the numbers of patents.’

  ‘Yup, they seem pretty aggressive in the field.’

  ‘Can say that again. OK, I have to get on, good talking to you.’

  ‘You too.’

  As Conor hung up, America suddenly seemed much further than just five weeks and a few thousand miles away. He made a mental note to make sure he eMailed his mother before the day was done. She must think he’d forgotten her.

  A rap startled him and Martin Walker, head of Group Patents and Agreements, glided through the doorway like a fish through reeds.

  Walker was every bit the bland Bendix Schere man. Sporting a suit so stiffly pressed it might have been cardboard, he held a wodge of papers in his hand and his expression, wholly devoid of emotion on the previous occasions Conor had met him, was grave.

  ‘Some rather sad news, Mr Molloy; I thought I’d tell you in person as you were colleagues. Mr Rowley has had a very tragic accident in Hawaii over the weekend. I’m afraid he’s drowned.’

  Walker proffered one of the pages he was carrying. ‘Dr Crowe wants this circulated to everyone who knew him. It’ll be in the company magazine’s next issue, of course.’ He laid the page down on Conor’s desk.

  Conor stared with unfocused eyes at the memorandum. ‘Char – Mr – Rowley is dead?’

  ‘Super chap. Terrible loss. One of these silly accidents, it seems – the result of high spirits. So unnecessary, but that’s how it goes. I’m going to miss him a lot; he really knew his patent law.’

  Conor somehow read the sheet. It was headed: From The Chief Executive’s Office.

  To all personnel:

  I regret to have to inform you that our colleague, Mr Charles Rowley of the Group Patents and Agreements Department, is missing, presumed drowned, whilst on a business trip to Bendix Hilo in Hawaii.

  Mr Rowley was a highly valued employee who played a key role in the development of Bendix Schere’s Genetics Research, and he will be sadly missed by all who knew him.

  Dr Vincent Crowe, Chief Executive.

  ‘Do – er – do you know how it happened?’ Conor said, his voice faltering.

  ‘I understand it was after a beach barbecue, when Mr Rowley accepted a midnight bet to swim across a bay and back. Apparently he’d been warned about the treacherous currents. I don’t quite know what happens about a funeral in these situations – I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ said Conor on automatic pilot.

  ‘I’m going to have to find someone else to take over his work and liaise with you – not going to be easy – he was very au fait with the whole Bannerman situation – you’ll just have to muddle along as best you can for a day or two.’

  ‘Sure.’ Shock had paralysed Conor’s brain, and he felt as if all his intelligence had been sucked out.

  ‘Perhaps we’d better have a meeting in the morning. Come along to my office at nine, all right?’ Then he was gone.

  Conor sat absorbing Crowe’s memorandum for some minutes after Walker had departed. Slowly, his initial numbness began to be replaced with a growing disquiet, as something stirred deep in his memory.

  80

  Monty stepped out of the lift into the entrance atrium shortly after six and cast a quick glance at the security desks, but there was no sign of Winston Smith. All the guards on duty were occupied with the stream of people leaving the building, making sure they returned their visitors’ passes.

  She walked over to the lift beside the Directors’ express and stood right in front of it, staring at her distorted reflection in the copper doors, and waited, listening, then stepped aside as the doors opened and several figures came out. It was just at that point that she heard a rumble which seemed to be coming from behind the same shaft, but, as before, it carried on down below her and faded.

  No mistake. There was definitely another lift in operation, one which did not serve the ground floor.

  She looked down at the white marble tiling. The health hydro was in the basement beneath: the exercise machines, squash courts, computerized golf driving range, swimming pool, Jacuzzis, saunas. On an impulse she entered the next lift that arrived and pushed the button for the hydro. A moment later she stepped out on to a plush carpet the colour of grass, and noticed a strong smell of chlorine.

  A handsome fair-haired muscle-man in an all-white track-suit sat by the computerized turnstile, fresh towels stacked all around him. He greeted her slickly, with an Australian accent. ‘Hi there! You joining us this evening?’

  ‘I haven’t been down before – mind if I take a look around first?’

  ‘Sure. Just let me check your pass and you go right ahead. My name’s Bud, and anything you want to know, please ask me.’ He gave her a winning smile.

  Monty walked along a corridor lined with doors to the male and female locker rooms, then came into a busy open-plan space signposted, ‘Cardiovascular Area’. Some of the men and women on the rows of gleaming white machines – computerized treadmills, stairmasters, life-cycles – were reading the company magazine whilst their legs pounded.

  Across the far end of the room she saw a fire exit sign. Edging past a shell-suited instructor who was showing a middle-aged man how to use a Nautilus machine, she walked over to it. Glancing round to see if she was being observed, she pushed the door open and walked through it into a second corridor lined with a variety of fire-fighting apparatus and, rather sinisterly she thought, hospital trolleys bearing oxygen tanks and masks. There was also a large glass cabinet marked: ‘CARDIAC RESUSCITATION – EXPERIENCED MEDICAL PERSONNEL ONLY.’

  Another fire door by the cabinet drew her attention. With some difficulty she pushed it open. It led directly into the bottom of an enclosed stone staircase that only went up and which was labelled: ‘EMERGENCY EXIT VIA GROUND-FLOOR LOBBY. ALARMED ROUTE TO BE USED ONLY IN EVENT OF FIRE.’

  Monty heard a faint whir and looked up; to her dismay she saw a video camera was tracking her, pointing directly at her, its lens rotating as it changed focus.

  Quickly, she went back into the corridor which seemed to follow the edge of the building. She tried every exit door she reached, but all of them led out to a concrete staircase that, again, only went up.

  Eventually making her way back to Bud on the front desk, she told him she would think about a personal fitness programme and then she took the lift back up to the lobby. As she went outside, she dug her hands into the pockets of her Burberry against the biting cold of the night air, and pondered.

  If the unseen lift didn’t stop at the lobby or the hydro, where did it start and end? What did it connect to what? And why the hell was it concealed? Maybe it was some kind of service lift, to do with the canteen, or for moving lab equipment around? That was possible; in any normal circumstances, she might even have thought it was probable. But here that explanation did not feel right.

  Instead of heading towards her car, she walked right round the outside of the building. She counted eight fire exit doors which tallied with the number she’d counted in the basement, and saw nothing that looked like a separate or concealed entrance.

  Disappointed, she unlocked her MG, noticing Conor’s car was still in the lot. Good, she thought, checking she had the spare key he’d given her. She had promised to cook him a meal in his flat, and needed time to go to a supermarket first.

  She removed her overnight bag and the shopping, set the MG’s alarm, then checked the s
treet before walking up to Conor’s front door. It had become routine for her to check if she was being followed and she sometimes wondered if she was being over-paranoid.

  Lingering traces of Conor’s cigarettes soothed her as she prepared a meaty chunk of fresh monkfish for the grill. Then, hoping he wouldn’t mind, she picked up the phone and made a quick call to Anna Sterling, to discuss their plans for an evening together later that week. To her relief, Anna told her that Mark had to go to Brussels for a few days on business and she was joining him. Monty had not been feeling comfortable about seeing her friend, knowing what she did and not being able to say anything.

  But Anna reminded Monty that she had bought theatre tickets in London for Wednesday week. Monty wondered if her father would have got a result from the Maternox tests by then, and felt guilty that she had not gone down to the lab with him tonight. At least he’d agreed to use their lab, finally. And anyway if she was being followed, he was safer alone.

  As she began slicing the melon starter, she heard the key in the door lock, and Conor came in, his face ashen. He kissed her distractedly, without his usual warmth, then paced awkwardly around the open-plan kitchen.

  ‘You OK?’ she asked, concerned.

  He nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘Let me get you a drink – whisky?’

  ‘I need one, a very large one. So will you.’

  He eased off his Crombie and slung it on one of the chairs, followed by his red paisley tie, and undid the top button of his shirt. After this, he sat on an arm of the sofa, untied his black Oxfords and tugged them off, leaving them where they fell.

  Nervous of whatever he was about to say, Monty grabbed the Glenfiddich and poured a large slug for him, followed by a smaller one for herself.

  She added ice, took their drinks over, then sat on the sofa. ‘What is it?’