Alchemist

  The menu was superb: grilled scallops, followed by fillet steak, and an exotic fruit salad, along with fine white and red wines.

  At least her father had behaved himself so far. In fact, he had been remarkably good company, tucking into his meal and chatting convivially, mostly about genetics, more as if he were at a dinner party with favourite colleagues than at an interview on which his future might depend.

  Rorke ate and drank with gusto as well; in contrast, Dr Crowe cut his food one sliver at a time, his slender fingers manipulating his cutlery with surgical deftness. Almost as a foil to Rorke’s cheery ebullience, he sat quietly, whilst studying Monty and her father with alert, steely eyes that missed nothing.

  He was a lean, sharp-featured man of fifty-two, with a narrow equine face, and his eyes were abnormally close together, giving an intensity to his gaze that Monty found rather unsettling. His lips were strange also, she thought. They were very thin, with a vermilion hue that stood out against his alabaster complexion, their effect being to make him look rather effete.

  She had done her homework on Crowe and had been impressed by his background. It was rare in the pharmaceutical industry to have a chief exec who was a scientist, and Crowe undoubtedly could have had a very brilliant career in research if he’d chosen. He had graduated from Cambridge with a double first in biology and pharmacology, then gone to the United States where he had done his masters at John Hopkins on the immune system.

  Back in Britain he’d spent three years as a research fellow at the Imperial Cancer Research Foundation. He’d then joined the Clinical Trials division of the Bendix Schere Foundation and become head of it after two years. At the age of thirty-six he was made the youngest main board director in the history of the company. Ten years later, in 1986, he was appointed Chief Executive on the sudden death of his predecessor, who was killed when the company jet crashed in mysterious circumstances during a routine visit to the Bendix Schere manufacturing plant in the Philippines.

  Whilst Rorke was a man who had clearly reached the top through inborn leadership quality and force of personality, Crowe struck Monty as more of a manipulator. She had not taken a dislike to him, but at the same time had not warmed towards him in the way she had to Rorke. Yet she knew there were big advantages for her father in having a fellow scientist at the top of the company, because at least they could talk the same language.

  Dick Bannerman pushed a wedge of cheese into his mouth, chewing ruminatively. ‘Sir Neil, one of the things that’s always struck me as curious is the obsession with secrecy that your company – foundation – seems to have.’

  Monty looked at the three men anxiously. This was the first hint of hostility from her father. Crowe impassively snapped a biscuit in half; in the silence it sounded like a gunshot.

  Rorke smiled, and opened his hands expansively. ‘A very reasonable query, Dr Bannerman.’

  Monty had noticed that, in spite of the conviviality of the luncheon, their hosts had made no overtures about relaxing the formalities and moving to first-name terms.

  ‘You see,’ Rorke continued, ‘in our industry we encounter opposition from a great many sources. People object to the mark-ups we make on prescription pharmaceuticals, forgetting that the cost today of developing a new drug and bringing it to the market is upwards of one hundred million pounds, and that we only have a limited patent life in which to recoup those costs. And there are some very unpleasant fanatics among the Animal Rights lot – quite frankly as dangerous as some political terrorist groups. We keep information about our company secret to protect the shareholders, the directors and our staff. Simple as that.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to divulge the shareholders to me?’

  After a brief exchanged glance with Crowe, Rorke smiled amiably. ‘We’re going to put a proposal to you today, Dr Bannerman. If you accept it, I’m sure you’ll find there are no secrets kept from you.’

  Dick Bannerman leaned back in his chair and looked at the two men in turn. ‘So, what is the proposal?’

  ‘We’d like to give you a short tour first, show you some of the work we’re doing here and the facilities we have – if you can spare the time?’

  Rorke went to the door and opened it. As Monty walked through she sought Rorke’s eye and he winked.

  They went back into the lift they’d come up in. Rorke looked at the lens above the door and enunciated clearly: ‘Sixth floor.’

  The door closed and the lift sank swiftly downwards.

  ‘How does that work?’ Monty asked.

  ‘A combination of visual and voice recognition,’ Crowe said, with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Computer identification security. It matches the face of the person giving the command to the image in its data base, combines it with the voice print, then accepts the command. Or denies it.’

  The lift stopped and they stepped into a wide corridor with emerald carpeting and pale green walls. One side was much brighter than the other, as if bathed in rays of sunshine streaming through invisible skylights. The doors boasted elegant brass handles, and with the exception of the small observation windows cut into a few of them, and the faintly acrid smell, it felt more like the corridor of a modern five-star hotel than a laboratory.

  Rorke inserted a card into a slot, punched a sequence of numbers on the key pad, then courteously ushered Monty and her father into another, equally plush corridor, which stretched into the distance. There was a row of notice boards on either side, with graphs, Department of Health and Safety regulations, and various posters, giving it a slightly more familiar air to Monty, and the acrid smell she always associated with molecular biology labs was stronger here.

  ‘On this floor and the next two above we do pure genetics research,’ Crowe said, ‘and we also co-ordinate the results from our research campuses in Reading, Plymouth, Carlisle, Bern, Frankfurt and Charlottesville.’

  ‘You’re in the process of building new labs at Slough, aren’t you?’ Dick Bannerman said.

  ‘Yes,’ Vincent Crowe confirmed. ‘We’re building a completely new research campus from scratch. When it’s completed in three years’ time it will house the largest transgenics laboratory facility in the world.’

  ‘And it’s all underground, isn’t it?’ Dick Bannerman pursued.

  Crowe stiffened fleetingly, then smiled. ‘The transgenics, yes. I wasn’t aware that was public knowledge.’

  ‘Twenty-seven acres of underground labs, I believe?’ Bannerman said, then stopped, momentarily distracted by a computer screen on the wall that was an electronic notice board. The screen was headed: BENDIX SCHERE NEWSNET, and a flashing announcement beneath it read: MATERNOX-11 RECEIVES FDA APPROVAL.

  ‘Twenty-eight acres,’ Crowe said.

  ‘Why underground? Security?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And you think that kind of environment will be conducive to work? To getting the best out of people?’

  ‘How do you find the atmosphere in here, Dr Bannerman?’ Crowe asked.

  ‘It’s very impressive,’ he said. ‘I have to admit that. I find it hard to believe there aren’t any windows.’

  ‘It won’t be any different at Slough. There’s no magic formula about daylight – in fact much of daylight, as you know, is highly corrosive. We’ve simply applied science, sifted the good qualities and filtered out the bad. Productivity here in the Bendix Building is thirty per cent higher than in conventional working environments.’

  ‘I’d like to see how you arrived at those figures,’ Bannerman said sceptically.

  Monty gave him a cautioning glance. It was all going so well, she want him blowing it now with a sudden display of temper.

  ‘Happily,’ Crowe said. ‘We are so convinced by the figures that we are installing artificial daylight environments in our new hospitals, and we believe they’ll cut a substantial percentage off recovery times.’

  The innovative ethos of Bendix Schere excited Monty. She was experiencing, in this rather futuristic building, in the presence
of these enormously powerful and influential men, the sensation of being a privileged insider at the very cutting edge of science.

  Rorke led them into a vast lab that left Monty speechless with envy. She had simply never seen any laboratory, anywhere, so well equipped and so orderly: rows and rows of white work surfaces brimming with state-of-the-art lab technology. The staff, all wearing white coats, seemed to have a luxurious amount of space and through the air of concentrated efficiency Monty could almost feel the progress that was being made.

  Her father pointed to a television camera above the door. ‘What’s that for?’ he said suspiciously.

  ‘Safety,’ Crowe replied. ‘If someone’s working here on their own late at night or over a weekend, and they have an accident, they might need help. This way Security can keep an eye on all the labs in use and act swiftly.’

  Rorke led them on through more labs, some even larger, some much smaller, all equally well equipped. Monty compared all this to their own dingy Victorian premises. They could have fitted Bannerman Research Laboratories into a single floor of this building a dozen times over, and as she thought of their hopeless struggle to survive she began to feel increasingly angry. Angry at governments which had ignored the importance of scientific research for decades, angry at all the organizations and foundations which had made her father beg like a dog for every scrap of money. She looked at him now, hoping against hope that some of the excitement of this place was rubbing off on him also.

  ‘Ah, Mr Seals!’ Crowe said, raising his voice suddenly to hail a long-haired man in a white coat who had just emerged from one door and was about to go through another. When he realized it was Crowe and Rorke, he straightened his shoulders and immediately walked up to them.

  ‘Mr Seals is Chief Lab Technician for our genetics department. This is Dr Bannerman and his daughter, Miss Bannerman.’

  Monty watched Seals’ face as he gave her father a look of recognition and admiration, and then said politely: ‘Very pleased to meet you both.’

  He was in his mid-thirties, with lank brown hair that tumbled across his forehead and rested on his shoulders. When he tossed it back with a practised motion a single stud was revealed in his left ear. He would have been very good-looking if it wasn’t for the ravages of teenage acne that had left his skin slightly pockmarked.

  ‘You have quite a set-up here,’ Dick Bannerman said.

  ‘Thank you. I’m afraid a lot of the techniques we’re employing are based on your own work in your published papers.’

  ‘Nothing to apologize for,’ Bannerman said. ‘That’s why I publish them – to share knowledge. Do you share it too?’ he asked pointedly.

  Seals reddened. ‘I’m afraid that’s not my decision.’

  ‘I guess you have a lot of bricks and mortar to pay for here.’

  ‘Modern equipment is very expensive, Dr Bannerman, as I’m sure you appreciate.’

  Monty admired the way the young man first held his ground, and then became increasingly animated as he explained the new generations of gene-sequencing machines they had just got up to speed. She saw in him a lot of youthful energy and a sense of purpose, of mission. Without realizing it, she found herself comparing him to their elderly plodder of a Chief Lab Technician, Walter Hoggin, for whom computers continued to remain a mystery, and anything hi-tech was something to be regarded with suspicion. And she knew that however fond of Walter she might be, it was people of the calibre of this Seals character that they really needed – but could not afford.

  A squat gold frog, the size of a football, occupied centre stage of Sir Neil’s massive desk. Monty wondered if it was a trophy and thought, irreverently, that it was not dissimilar to Rorke’s own shape. She disliked frogs and this one had a reptilian smile that made her shudder when she glanced at it.

  There were few other items on the desk: a leather blotter, a silver receptacle for pens, a dictating machine and telephone, and a computer terminal. There was not a single sheet of paper in sight anywhere in the office, and she suddenly realized that she couldn’t remember seeing any paper in any of the labs either.

  To the right of the desk was a tall, white machine that Monty at first thought might be connected with the air system. She had noticed similar machines in all the downstairs labs. Then she recalled seeing such a machine in a movie recently, and realized what it must be: a paper shredder.

  The four of them were seated at a conference table, ready to drink the tea just poured by Rorke’s secretary. Rorke picked up his spoon and began to stir his cup, then he spoke.

  ‘Dr Bannerman, let’s be direct with each other. I know your views about patenting scientific discoveries, and in particular human genes, and I’m not unsympathetic. But in the real world, money has to come from somewhere, and our profits at Bendix Schere come from the manufacture of pharmaceuticals on which we hold patents.’ He raised a hand. ‘The life of a patent in the UK is only twenty years. We have exclusivity for that period. But considering the resources we have to invest in developing our products, it’s really a very short time.’

  Monty wondered if her father was going to launch into one of his antipatenting polemics, but to her relief he sat impassively, staring back at Rorke. He had obviously been impressed by what they’d been shown that afternoon, and whilst he might have strong opinions, and contempt for the establishment, he was no fool. And what he had seen today was a display of the finest research tools that money could buy.

  ‘We could kick some funding into your laboratory in Berkshire,’ Rorke went on. ‘But I don’t think we’d get the best value for our investment that way, and frankly I don’t think, even with proper funding, that you can reach anywhere near your true potential with your current set-up. Dr Crowe and I both believe you’re the finest genetics scientist in this country, and probably the world. And you still have a great many highly productive years ahead of you, whether we do business together or not.’

  Bannerman smiled, waiting for the crunch.

  ‘If you were given the right facilities, and the right funding, I think you could achieve very much more – and that’s not to demean all you’ve done to date.’

  ‘What kind of facilities?’

  ‘The kind you’ve seen down on the sixth, seventh and eighth floors here; the kind we have at our UK plants in Reading, Birmingham and Edinburgh. Or overseas in Bern, Frankfurt and Charlottesville.’ Rorke paused and picked up his teacup. ‘Our proposal is very simple: we’d like you to join the Bendix Schere Foundation as head of our entire worldwide genetics research programme.’

  Bannerman shook his head. ‘I’m very flattered, gentlemen, but I’m a scientist not a businessman. I want to do research – not run an organization.’

  ‘I think perhaps Sir Neil hasn’t made it quite clear,’ Crowe said. ‘Research is exactly what we want you to do, and nothing else. You would have the entire human resources and all the facilities in the Bendix Schere Foundation to utilize in any way you wanted.’

  Dick Bannerman didn’t miss a beat. ‘I couldn’t abandon my own staff.’

  ‘I don’t think that would be a problem,’ Rorke said, looking expectantly at Crowe.

  ‘No,’ Crowe said, a little hesitantly. ‘I’m sure we could keep your key people.’

  ‘All my staff are key people,’ Bannerman said. ‘It’s damned hard getting work of the kind they’re specialized in. I’d want an assurance from you that there wouldn’t be one single redundancy before I even considered any proposal. And I’d want your assurance that my daughter could continue to work as my right hand.’

  ‘I’m sure we could give such an undertaking,’ Rorke said genially, ignoring the warning signal Crowe was trying to communicate with his eyes.

  There would have to be some give and take over staff, Monty knew, but she was thrilled by the proposal, and encouraged that at least her father had not rejected it out of hand.

  ‘Could you tell us exactly what budget would be available, and what remuneration we’d receive?’ she aske
d, eager to have the details made concrete.

  Crowe smiled and produced, seemingly from thin air, two identical documents, one of which he handed to Monty, the other to her father. They were the first actual pieces of paper Monty had seen in the building.

  The bold wording at the top said: RESTRICTED CIRCULATION: MAIN BOARD DIRECTORS ONLY. FROM THE CHAIRMAN’S OFFICE. Beneath was the heading: ‘Proposals for the Acquisition of Bannerman Genetics Research Laboratories.’

  ‘They are buggers, these people, aren’t they?’ Dick Banner-man said as the lift sank rapidly down towards the ground floor.

  Monty raised a finger to her lips, looking warily at the lens above the door. ‘They might be listening,’ she whispered.

  He shrugged, but said nothing more until they were outside the building and walking towards the car.

  ‘Why did you say they are buggers, Daddy?’

  ‘Laying on that fancy lunch – thinking I’m going to be impressed by something like that.’

  ‘I was impressed,’ she said. ‘I was very impressed with the company and with them.’

  ‘They’ve got some decent kit,’ he said. ‘A few gizmos we could do with.’

  ‘A few?’

  ‘I can see the plus points,’ he said. ‘But I can also see one hell of a lot of minuses.’

  ‘I can’t see any minuses,’ she said. ‘None at all.’

  8

  London. Saturday 22 October, 1994

  DR BRUCE KATZ. MR DUNSTAN OGWAN. INTERNATIONAL FACTORS. MRS V. ALASSIO. MR JOHNSON – FORD MOTOR COMPANY. R. PATEL. A. COHN. CROSSGATES TRAVEL. MR OBERTELLI. MISS REDMAYNE.

  Conor Molloy surveyed the battery of signs that greeted the passengers exiting from the customs channels into the arrivals concourse at Heathrow, then stopped when he couldn’t see his own name amongst them. He leaned on the brake bar of his baggage cart, scanned the sea of faces and handwritten placards more carefully.