Alchemist

  The keys puttered steadily, click-click-click, pause, click-click-click, pause, punctuated by frequent backspacing and curses. Dick Bannerman pecked away with one finger of each hand, watching the rows of black letters appear on his grey screen AGT TCA TGG GAA ATC TTA GTA AAG CAA …

  Groups – codons – of three of the four bases, Adenine, Thymine, Guanine, Cytosine, that were the building blocks of all life. He read them off a long column of horizontal dashes that looked like a strip of barcoding, on a sheet of developed film beside him.

  There’d been only one hiccup so far, earlier in the week: his original tests had shown that the Maternox contained DNA, but when he’d tried to incubate it, it had not worked. In subsequent tests he discovered it was not DNA, but RNA. RNA viruses were used sometimes as delivery systems in genetic engineering. It seemed that within the Maternox capsule was contained some form of attempt at genetic engineering. But what?

  Through a reverse transcriptase, he had copied the RNA into DNA, from which he had then done a series of vertical gel tests, which were captured on the sheets of film each containing two hundred bases, the first of which he was now entering on his screen. He’d had to think of a suitable name for this test; something by which he could identify it, but which would mean nothing to anyone else.

  CAPSULE I. SEQ, he typed.

  Then he called up the Internet address of the London Genome Data Bank, the British centre of the Human Genome Organization, entered it and waited for a connection. After some moments, the familiar Welcome to the Human Genome Resource Centre greeting appeared on the screen, with a list of instructions and options.

  The Human Genome Organization (Hugo) was only the world’s most ambitious ever scientific joint-venture. All scientists had free access to its series of international programmes, within which all new genes identified were instantly pooled into a common database. The aim of the project was to have all 100,000 genes of the human body identified and sequenced by the year 2005.

  Dick Bannerman called up his Proscan program and instructed his elderly computer to do a database search to try to find a match between the two hundred bases he had just entered and any known existing gene. He pressed carriage return to start the process, then sat thoughtfully back in his chair. These Genome searches could sometimes take several hours.

  Nine o’clock. It could be a long night ahead but he didn’t mind, he was enjoying being back in his old laboratory, felt comfortable here, far happier than in the damned Bendix Building, in spite of all its equipment and staff.

  What a mess, he thought; what a damned bloody mess Monty had got them into. She was a good kid and she had meant well, but he wished to hell he had followed his own instincts and never allowed himself to be swayed by her. Sure they had always struggled with funding before, but they had got by, they had been their own people here. They’d not had to answer to creeps like Crowe, had not had to fill out forms in triplicate every time they needed a new box of pipettes or wanted to go to the toilet.

  Crowe was someone for whom he had very little time. It was true that unlike most chief executives in the pharmaceutical industry he did actually have a scientific background – and an impressive one at that – but Bannerman found him conceited and opinionated. Above all, his real objection was that he considered him typical of the breed of businessmen scientists whose only interest in research was the commercial profit.

  As he left the lab to walk across the campus for a bite to eat at the refectory, he was wondering how watertight their contract with Bendix Schere was, and whether his solicitor could find some way of getting them out of it before the old lab had gone for good.

  Feeling a little brighter after his snack, Dr Bannerman arrived back in his lab and noticed immediately that the figures on his computer were static, indicating it had stopped searching. He sat down and stared at the screen.

  There was a line dividing it down the middle. On the left were the columns of the bases he had entered, headed: TARGET FOR MATCH. On the right was a fresh set, headed: CLOSEST MATCH. Beneath, it said:

  PERCENTAGE MATCH:

  86%

  DEFINITION:

  Poliovirus

  (RNA Poliomyelitis)

  He shook his head in disbelief. Polio. Was that what the Maternox was doing? Delivering the gene that caused polio to pregnant women? No. There had to be some other explanation. He picked up his voice-activated recorder and dictated this latest finding into it. Then he added some interim conclusions.

  ‘Poliovirus possibly indicates intent to use an oral delivery system. Most viruses can’t be used to deliver genetic material orally, because they can’t survive in the human gut. Poliovirus can. It is simple to produce a defective poliovirus that cannot replicate.’

  He read the words on the screen again. 86 per cent match was close, but not identical. He decided it was essential to put the whole of its sequence into the database.

  He disconnected from the Genome Data Bank and began the long and monotonous task of entering a further six thousand bases, one finger, one letter, at a time …

  It was close to midnight before he had the final percentage match back from the Data Bank but this meant he had the whole sequence mapped.

  His data revealed that the first 2000 bases and the last 2000 showed an 86 per cent match to polio. But he was struck by the match of the central 2000 bases. He stared at the screen again.

  PERCENTAGE MATCH: 98% OVER 2000 BASES

  He had been right in his suspicion. The poliovirus was a vector, a delivery system; it occupied each end of the string. The fact that it was an 86 per cent match rather than 100 per cent was, he presumed, explained by the fact that the virus had been doctored to prevent it replicating – and therefore infecting the recipient with polio.

  It was finally beginning to make sense, although he desperately wished he was mistaken.

  He thought of the files that had gone missing from the Stacks – one in particular – and read the unblinking letters that were now spelling out its name on the screen in front of him.

  ‘You bastards,’ he said under his breath, struggling to contain his sickening horror in a blast of anger. ‘My God, you bastards.’

  A reflection glanced off the screen and a shadow slipped across his desk. He spun his chair round, startled, to see Dr Vincent Crowe standing in the lab. Right behind him.

  The Chief Executive was immaculate as always, in a camel coat with a velvet collar. He held his hands behind his back as he spoke.

  ‘Good evening, Dr Bannerman. I just happened to be passing – thought I’d drop by and have a chat. Haven’t seen much of you in the past week or so.’ He gestured towards the doorway, where another figure now appeared. ‘I’m not sure if you’ve met Major Gunn, our Director of Security?’

  92

  Hubert Wentworth was tired. It was 2 a.m. but he rarely went to bed early. The television flickered silently in front of him and all three bars of the electric heater glowed. He needed to stretch his legs, take a hot bath and then he would hope to drop off for an hour or two. It had been a useful night’s work, yes, time well spent.

  Time.

  Putting his affairs in order.

  A time to be born, and a time to die. The words echoed around his mind like a half-remembered tune. Ecclesiastes, yes. A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted. Death was close now and he was not afraid. He had never been afraid of dying; there was nothing that could come close to some of the horrors of life. The release, the escape. Not for him, Do not go gentle into that good night.

  Go, finally, to Françoise, who had been waiting for him for thirty-three years.

  He had seen the doctor again last week and the report from the oncologist was not good. An operation was needed; radical surgery. But he was not sure he wanted to go through with it; a few years ago, yes, there might have been a point then. So much unfinished business then. But now it was different; a week, maybe two, that was all he needed. Surgery. Pain. Physiotherapy. Prolonging the agony
. No, he did not want that.

  He stared fondly at his collection of toy cars; painted lead models a few inches long of the saloons, convertibles, sports cars and commercial vehicles of his childhood. They evoked in him memories of a time when life had stretched out ahead and seemed so full of promise. How very different it had all turned out, he thought, his eyes fixing on one of his favourite photographs of Françoise. She was smiling, so warmly, so happily. Sun-tanned, red scarf tied round her head, sleek black hair underneath, the smile, the one that was for him and him alone.

  You’ll get over it, they said. Two years. Time is a great healer.

  They were wrong. Thirty-three years and he had thought of no one else, day and night. He had cared for Sarah, yes of course, their daughter, she had meant the world to him, had been his life. But all the time, in her every movement, every sound, he had seen and heard Françoise. He had often wondered if she’d ever realized quite how much she wrenched his heart.

  Dead, too, now. His eyes went to the photograph on the mantelpiece. Sarah and Alan on their wedding day. Both gone. They were lucky, they were out of here. In death they had escaped. Not like him; he had been condemned to a living hell, driven by one obsession that had taken thirty-three years to come to fruition.

  They had taken his wife and his daughter and they had never said sorry. They had built the Bendix Building as a monument to their success when it should, instead, have been a headstone for Françoise, except she would never have liked anything so vulgar.

  He reached forward and stroked the photograph of his wife. I promised you I would never rest until I brought them to justice.

  Moist eyes fixed on Françoise, he leaned back in his armchair, then looked proudly at the row of documents, each neatly stacked and labelled, that sat on the floor at his feet. His watch said 2.10. He yawned and raised a hand to his mouth, ever mindful of his manners.

  Thirty-three years. He had come close to nailing Bendix Schere on the powdered milk scandal fifteen years ago, but they had got wind of the story, put pressure on his publishers, threatening them with lawsuits and withdrawal of advertising. And, within days, fatal accidents had claimed his two key sources.

  For thirty-three years he had watched Bendix, stalked them, scoured newspaper archives for every column inch ever written about them, and struggled his way through every paper published by their scientists. Maternox. Thirty-three years of waiting patiently, waiting for that one time they would fail to cover their tracks. And now here it was.

  The Medici File.

  He leafed through each sheath of the documents he had assembled, checking them, page by page. He thumbed the files on Sarah’s death first. Zandra Wollerton had done a thorough job there, poor girl. Too thorough. He had a copy of the fax she had obtained from Sarah’s doctor to Dr Linda Farmer, Director of Medical Information at Bendix Schere, reporting the possible link between her virus and the Maternox. Then there was the report on his son-in-law’s apparent suicide in his car, sketchy as the inquest had not yet taken place, but not to be ignored.

  He checked in turn each of the files on the other three women who had died in labour after taking Maternox, ensuring everything was in meticulous order. Next he scanned through the printout from Conor Molloy’s desk. Then finally, he re-read his own detailed report. All he needed now was the result of the Maternox tests from Dr Bannerman.

  He had settled on The Sunday Times as the newspaper to whom he would give the scoop. If he could stand the story up, he had been guaranteed the works. The splash and spread. The paper required the results of the test, accompanied by affidavits from Dr Bannerman and from Conor Molloy. When they had those, they would move into action and start hitting Rorke, Crowe and the rest of the Board of Directors with calls.

  He replaced each of the documents inside their clearly marked folders and carried them into the hall. Tomorrow he would lock them in the office safe.

  Then he plodded back to his chair. Nothing to do now but wait for Miss Bannerman to make contact. A lovely lady, plucky and kind; he envied her youth and energy. He liked the American with her, Conor Molloy. A trifle intense, perhaps, but he was all right. He liked Americans, there had been good times in Vietnam before –

  He picked up the channel selector and routinely checked the news headlines on Teletext, which he did every hour or so; it made him feel professional, even though his paper rarely featured national news.

  A car bomb had gone off in central London; first reports indicated two people were dead. The IRA were back again, he thought gloomily; too many different warring factions and splinter groups for the ceasefire to hold indefinitely.

  He looked at his watch once more. It was old, with a winder that had to be turned by hand, and its face had yellowed. A cup of tea would be welcome, most welcome. A cup of tea, then a breath of fresh air, then –

  He was startled by what sounded distinctly like a footstep upstairs. He raised his eyebrows, puzzled, then after a moment stood up, went out into the hall and listened. There was no sound at all; the house was utterly still. Must have imagined it, he thought, walking through into the kitchen.

  93

  Wednesday 7 December, 1994

  Have to get away from here, Monty thought. Just get right away.

  Shivering from shock and the icy night air, she pushed a hand into her mackintosh pocket, and as her fingers closed round the keyring and the cold, sharp shapes attached to it, she felt a small amount of comfort that at least in her panic she had not locked herself out.

  Still crouched down, keys clasped in her hand, she crept back a few paces until she was on the pavement, looking in both directions up and down the street. Reflections of the flames bounced back at her from every window; slivers of blue flashing light slid like disembodied spirits over the roofs of the parked cars; sirens shrieked, wailed, cried, like nocturnal beasts of the urban jungle.

  She heard the voice through the loud hailer asking people to move further back, losing its patience now, becoming exasperated. A young man ran past her, clad in a dressing gown and slippers.

  This isn’t happening. She closed her eyes for a brief moment. Please God let this be a dream.

  She stood up and walked along the pavement. People were peering out of their doorways, dogs were barking. It felt strange to be walking naked beneath her mackintosh and barefoot in London; but everyone else looked strange also; right now the whole world had suddenly gone out of kilter. She would wake up soon.

  The front door of Conor’s apartment building was open, and a dark-skinned man was looking out. He gave Monty a nervous smile. ‘A bomb? It is a bomb, yes?’

  ‘I – I think so.’

  ‘The IRA,’ he said and shook his head. ‘The ceasefire was just a sham, a publicity stunt. These people are not –’

  But Monty had squeezed past him, stumbled up the stairs, locked herself in Conor’s apartment and put on the safety chain. Her watch said 1.45. Been in bed about two hours, she thought, feeling sober now, completely one hundred per cent sober. Goosepimples pricked her skin like thorns, and she shivered. Eight forty-five in Washington, she calculated. Phone Conor, phone him and tell him. Warn him.

  No calls from home, he had said. Strictly no calls from home. Have to go out, find a pay phone. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, jammed them hard up against her teeth. Levine. Detective Superintendent Levine. She thought of the police officer, remembered his words as he had handed her his card.

  ‘You can get me on these numbers day and night – there’s my direct office line and my home number. Don’t feel embarrassed about calling if anything frightens you; get on to me immediately.’

  She rummaged in her purse, retrieved the card, made her trembling finger hit the right buttons.

  The phone was answered on the third ring and she recognized his voice instantly, even though he sounded very sleepy.

  ‘Yes, hello?’

  A siren screamed past the window, making speech impossible for a few moments. As it faded, she heard him repe
at, ‘Hello? Hello?’

  ‘It’s Montana Bannerman,’ she said.

  Levine suddenly sounded much wider awake, his voice taking on precision-tool efficiency. ‘Yes, Miss Bannerman, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Someone’s tried to kill me. My car has just blown up; a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘Yes, I’m OK. There were two youths – they – they –’ Her voice cracked as the horror got to her.

  There was a brief pause, then he said: ‘Right. I want you to stay where you are, keep the door locked and don’t answer it to anyone until I arrive. I’m going to take you into protective custody. Pack an overnight bag and I’ll get to you as quickly as I can – take me about half an hour across London. All right?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, choking as emotion overcame her.

  She replaced the receiver and wiped away the tears rolling down her cheeks with the back of her hand. Then, suddenly, she stiffened, feeling as if a bolus of cold water had been injected into her insides.

  … take me about half an hour across London.

  How the hell did he know where she was? How did he know she was in London, and not at home in the country? She hadn’t had time to tell him.

  She felt gripped with panic as the room seemed to shrink around her, the walls closing in on her. Half an hour. Take him half an hour.

  Jesus.

  She ran into the bedroom, ripped off her mackintosh, yanked her small suitcase open and threw on her clothes. She raced into the bathroom, shovelled her wash things and cosmetics into her arms, chucked them into her suitcase, stuffing everything in, glancing anxiously at her watch every few moments.

  Five minutes had passed. She put her mack back on, unlocked the main door cautiously and looked down the stairs. The coloured man was still standing in the doorway but there was no one else around. Clutching her suitcase and handbag, she descended, squeezed past him without speaking and ran. Away from the burning car, away from the crowd. Kept on running until she had reached Cromwell Road.