Alchemist

  Dick Bannerman was perturbed by the Messianic gleam in Crowe’s eyes as he spoke, and wondered if he should have led the conversation on to such dangerous ground. He was acutely aware that being confined to a hospital bed did not give him an equal battle station.

  ‘Half of history’s heroes have been branded either madmen of heretics.’ Crowe had found his soapbox. ‘Copernicus, for saying the earth went round the sun; Galileo for backing him up; then there was Charles Darwin. I could list ten thousand names. I dare say you’d even be on it. Look at you, you have a Nobel Prize yet you’re ignored by the mainstream scientific community and until we came along you spent most of your working life knocking on doors with your begging bowl.’

  ‘At least I never did anything illegal or immoral.’ Bannerman was not willing to hedge his bets any longer.

  But Crowe shrugged. ‘The truth is, is it not, that in our field we sometimes have to do things that may seem a little unpalatable, for the greater good.’

  ‘And is that what you’re doing with Maternox, Dr Crowe?’ This time Dick Bannerman took his courage in both hands. ‘By using it as a cover, what you’re really trying to do is genetically engineer a psoriasis gene into the germ-line of the foetus. At some point in the future, when that foetus, that baby, becomes an adult, it will develop psoriasis – and it’ll pass that gene on to its own children in turn. Right?’

  Crowe nodded as if he’d found a convert. ‘Very perceptive.’

  ‘I presume you’re doing so in order to develop a future market for your drugs?’

  ‘Precisely. It’s a new strain of psoriasis, of course, for which we’ll have new pharmaceuticals lined up, ready to market. But not just psoriasis, Dr Bannerman. We’re working on the development of genes that will produce a whole range of new chronic diseases in future generations – new cardiovascular disorders, new areas of renal failure, new forms of clinical depression, new stomach ulcers – all of which will require the right medication. We deliver the genes into the germ-line via the mother, and then we make sure the drugs are ready to patent and launch in twenty, thirty, forty years’ time, when the diseases begin to manifest. Rather elegant, don’t you think?’

  Bannerman was stupefied. ‘Elegant?’

  ‘Do you know of any other business in the world where a company is in a position to create a biological need for its products?’

  ‘Yes. The narcotics cartels of Colombia.’

  Crowe wrinkled his nose. ‘A crude and inefficient example that does not begin to compare.’

  Dick Bannerman studied the madman before him, praying he was one of the isolated variety. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘One in six women around the world requires infertility treatment, and most of them take Maternox, Dr Bannerman. In twenty years’ time, their children will have started to become adults with symptoms of new strains of psoriasis, of depression, of arterial or renal disease, of whatever. As a result,’ and now Crowe began to sound like a triumphant sales rep building up to the moment that was going to clinch the deal, ‘by the first quarter of the next century, around one fifth of the western world will be dependent on pharmaceuticals manufactured by Bendix Schere. And we don’t intend limiting the genetic engineering of new diseases solely to Maternox; no, we’re hoping to use many of our other household products to deliver disease genes. All we have to do is get the gene delivery method right.’

  ‘And delivery of the psoriasis gene is not working in your Medici Trial, is it?’

  ‘We are experiencing a few teething troubles,’ Crowe said.

  Dick Bannerman appealed to him. ‘Don’t you have one shred of morality in you? Not one tiny speck of humanity?’

  Crowe stood square, facing the geneticist, eyeing him coldly. ‘Dr Bannerman, do you believe in God?’

  ‘What does God have to do with this?’

  Crowe glanced fleetingly at Dr Seligman then replied, ‘God has a very great deal to do with it. We live in a world running increasingly out of control; and why? Because it’s in the evil clutches of a despot who’s reigned unchecked for thousands of years. A charlatan, an arriviste poseur, a sadistic bully and a mass murderer. His name is God, Dr Bannerman. The Holy Father. The Almighty.’

  The tirade continued. ‘How many human beings has this monster murdered in his name? Can anyone total the combined deaths of the Crusades, the Holy Wars, the Roman Catholic Inquisition that reigned in Europe from 1229 until 1834? Not to mention the numbers put to death in the past thousand years as heretics …’

  Crowe’s eyes were blazing. ‘Name me a land where there is bloodshed that is not caused by the Great Impostor and his son, and I’ll name you two where there is! Well, we’re going to change all that, Dr Bannerman. We’ve finally realized where God is coming from. The conspiracy is out. Now we’re taking charge of our own destiny, entering a new age, and I want to offer you the opportunity to join us. Work with us!’

  Dick Bannerman dismissed him in one. ‘Count me out, Crowe.’

  Incongruously Crowe’s voice was quiet and friendly when he spoke again. ‘There’s something you need to understand, Dr Bannerman. It’s not profits that interest us – it’s control. Over the next quarter-century we’re going to dominate the pharmaceutical industry: we will control the manufacture, distribution and retailing of most of the world’s medications. We will be able to control pain and, more importantly, reproduction. Think of it … we will have more power than any known political party.’

  Once again Dick Bannerman’s reply was succinct. ‘You’re off your trolley, man.’

  Dr Crowe didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Oh, I’m sure that given time to reflect you’ll begin to see our point of view. In fact I’ll level with you, Dr Bannerman. You see, we need your help; we really need it quite badly.’

  ‘Yes, you do! You’ve got problems delivering the psoriasis genes via the Maternox because you’re using the wrong methodology. You’ve made one very basic flaw, which probably only three people in the world could spot; I’m one of them.’

  Crowe looked at him brightly. ‘Ah? Perhaps you could enlighten us?’

  ‘I’d rather see you in Hell.’

  ‘Perhaps you would, my friend. But I’m afraid you won’t be permitted the luxury of that choice.’ He signalled to Seligman, who leaned across and adjusted a flow valve on the drip stand.

  Almost instantly, Dick Bannerman felt the paralysis returning to his muscles. He tried to speak, but found it was all he could do to draw breath.

  ‘One of the major features of Bendix Clinics is their total privacy,’ Crowe was saying. ‘We can ensure that our guests are never disturbed – ever, if need be.’ He smiled. ‘Do you understand?’

  The geneticist grunted something inaudible.

  ‘No?’ Crowe was solicitous. ‘Allow me to be a little more specific: either you can help us now, or we can keep you alive and conscious, in a totally immobilized state for as long as you like – ten, twenty, thirty, perhaps even forty years. I don’t know how long you’ll be able to take it, without reading, writing – just lying there staring at the walls. I imagine you’ll find it rather like being buried alive, although not quite so claustrophobic. You can let me know if I’m right because we’re going to intubate you again now, and give you the opportunity to think about it for a day or two.’

  As Dick Bannerman grunted a protest, Seligman reached above him and made a further adjustment. Within seconds, his entire body seemed to have locked solid. He saw the doctor’s fingers prise open his jaw, then the curved white spout of the endotracheal tube approaching, like the bill of an oyster-catcher.

  A few moments later he was staring at the Van Gogh and listening to the steady clunk-puff … clunk-puff … clunk-puff of the ventilator. The room was empty.

  111

  Washington. Wednesday 7 December, 1994

  Conor felt as if his heart was going to tear in two. ‘Monty,’ he mouthed. ‘Oh my God, Monty.’

  He grabbed the edge of the fallen table, jerked it uprigh
t beneath Monty’s feet, scrambled on to it, grabbed the flex just above her head and pulled with all his strength.

  It ripped away more easily than he had expected and her dead-weight sagged against him, unbalancing him. He flung his arms around her, cradling her, trying to shield her as they both spilled down on to the floor.

  Her body felt soft, she had not yet gone stiff. He touched her cheek. It was still warm.

  Screaming out to his mother to call an ambulance, he tried desperately to recall the first aid drill he had learned at school. Airways. Airways was the first. The flex was cutting into the skin of her neck, but it unwound easily. Her complexion was blue and there was a ghastly, sightless expression in her eyes. He put a hand beneath her nose, then in front of her lips. Nothing. She was not breathing.

  Recovery position. He remembered that next. Then, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Oh God, he needed six of him. Tilt back her head, free her airway, press his mouth to hers, make a seal with his lips, pinch her nostrils shut, and blow hard three times. Immediately, he removed his mouth, located the spot directly beneath her chest diaphragm and pressed both his hands down together three times. Darling, come on, don’t be dead, please don’t be dead.

  As he brought his mouth back down to repeat the procedure for the fourth time, he noticed a flicker in her left eye and his heart crashed loose inside his chest. ‘Monty? Monty darling?’

  One tiny, slow-motion blink. A short shimmying of her lashes; flickering; both eyelids closed then opened again.

  Warm air. Coming from her mouth. Her lids closed. She was breathing. She was alive!

  More chest compressions. His mother came running into the room. He looked up at her, shouting, ‘Ambulance? Did you call them? Where are they?’

  His mother knelt beside him, examining Monty’s face.

  ‘She was hanging,’ he said. ‘From the light flex, she wasn’t breathing. Get an ambulance, for God’s sake, please.’

  Tabitha Donoghue stared at her. ‘She’s going to be all right. Keep going. Keep doing what you’re doing. Don’t stop.’

  Conor repeated the compressions, then the mouth-to-mouth, until Monty’s breathing was noticeably stronger. Normal colour was even beginning to return to her face. Then his mother took over. She knelt on the floor, held her hands palms down, a few inches above Monty’s chest, then began moving them in a slow, circular motion, up over her neck, her face, then back down.

  ‘You’re going to be all right, Monty,’ she said quietly, continuing the steady movement of her hands. ‘You’re back with us now, just relax, you’re safe now.’

  Monty opened her eyes and stared at them, blankly at first, confused. Her fingers curled, then opened like a newborn baby’s.

  Conor took her right hand and kissed it, then held it, squeezing it gently. Suddenly he felt just the faintest pressure from her fingertips. She was responding, he realized. She was trying to squeeze his hand back! He closed his eyes with joy.

  ‘Where’s my father?’

  Conor looked up with a start; he had been sitting at Monty’s bedside for the past two hours whilst she slept, going over and over the past days in his mind, working on his plan. He leaned over and kissed her. ‘How are you feeling?’

  She raised an unsteady hand to her neck and touched the livid red weals. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I – I –’ Her eyes closed again. ‘What happened, Conor? Please tell me what happened.’

  ‘Try to sleep. Don’t worry about anything right now. Just rest.’ He watched her anxiously. They should have driven her straight to hospital after she’d come round but that was too risky; she needed protection.

  ‘Where’s Dr Crowe?’ she whispered.

  ‘He’s not here, it’s OK. He won’t come back. My mom’s making sure of that. He’s not going to harm you.’

  She shook her head. ‘Outside. He was there. I was dreaming, it was horrible; he was looking in through the window; he wanted me to stand on the table and try again, he wanted –’

  Conor squeezed her hand and nodded at the floral drapes. ‘They’re drawn tight; no one can see in. We’re gonna be here with you all night, you don’t have to worry.’

  ‘My handbag. There’s a tape-recorder in my handbag. Play the tape.’

  ‘Try to sleep, darling.’

  ‘Play the tape, please.’

  Conor found her bag and saw the small Sony dictating machine. He took it out, pressed ‘Play’ and adjusted the volume as the words crackled out.

  ‘… we’d like an explanation from you, Dr Bannerman, as to what you’re doing with a Maternox formulaic template owned by the company.’

  ‘Would you prefer that explanation to take place in a court of law, or in front of the Committee for Safety of Medicines?’

  ‘Wind it back,’ Monty said. ‘Play it from the start.’

  The door opened and Tabitha Donoghue came in holding a steaming mug; she stepped carefully over the trail of salt that lay across the doorway, and which skirted the entire bedroom. ‘I brought you something to help you get your strength back. Could you manage to drink it, Monty?’

  ‘I – I don’t think so.’

  She sat down on the bed. ‘Just let it cool for a few moments and then try, OK?’

  Conor wound the tape back to the top and the three of them listened in silence. When it had finished, some of the returning colour had drained from Monty’s complexion again and she was looking very distressed.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘We have to find my father. Couldn’t we try the British Ambassador? Or Dr Crowe will –’ She shivered suddenly, too frightened to speak her thoughts.

  ‘Do you have anything that belongs to your father?’ Tabitha asked. ‘Something personal that he’s worn or touched recently?’

  ‘No – I – don’t have anything, not here.’ Then suddenly she corrected herself. ‘I – what about – the tape-recorder? That’s his, he carries it round with him all the time.’

  Conor handed it to his mother. She cradled it in the palm of one hand, passing the other lightly over it. The door moved a fraction and one of the cats pushed its way into the room, followed by the other, and they joined the trio.

  Closing her eyes, Tabitha had begun to concentrate.

  ‘Want to dowse on your pendulum, Mom?’ Conor asked.

  ‘I don’t need to do that,’ she replied without opening her eyes. ‘I can feel him very strongly, I know where he is, I can visualize him. He’s a fine-looking man; he has very little hair on top, but it’s long and silvery-grey over his ears and at the back.’

  Monty stiffened in amazement. Then she realized that her father’s picture was frequently in the international press and it was quite possible Conor’s mother had seen him and remembered his appearance. Except that she did not look like a woman who needed to lie. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That sounds right.’

  Still with her eyes shut, Tabitha Donoghue continued. ‘He’s alive, but he’s kind of not alive. I don’t quite understand.’ Monty watched her anxiously. ‘He’s lying down, there’s something in his mouth, like a breathing tube; but he’s not unconscious, and his brain is alert.’

  ‘Is he paralysed?’ Monty said.

  ‘He’s in a small room, electronic machinery around him.’

  ‘What kind of a room?’ Monty asked.

  ‘It has no windows.’

  ‘Christ,’ Conor said. ‘How many storeys high is the building?’

  ‘About eight.’

  ‘Eight?’ he said. ‘You sure it’s not higher? It sounds like the Bendix Building.’

  ‘Eight,’ she said firmly.

  ‘The Bendix Hammersmith,’ Monty said. ‘The Clinic. That’s eight storeys high! Oh God, why is he there? He must be injured.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t feel any injuries. I feel this man’s body is intact.’

  ‘Please, Conor, we have to do something,’ Monty pleaded.

  ‘Tomorrow, hon, tomorrow,’ Conor said. ‘I know this much. They want your dad aliv
e, they need his knowledge. And I know exactly what we have to do; you’re just going to have to trust me. OK?’

  She gave a single nod, her face a mask of fear, and squeezed his hand weakly for comfort.

  112

  London. Thursday 8 December, 1994

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ Nikky said. She lay naked on the floor, slouched against the side of the bed, chewing an olive. She took a slug of her dry Martini and washed the olive down with it, then took another from the bowl and popped it in her mouth. With her free hand she poked around with her pubic hairs, pulling them straight, one after the other.

  ‘Who?’ Gunn said, lying back on the bed, his laptop on his thighs.

  She peered down between her legs. ‘Do you think my pubes are too long? Should I have them trimmed next time I have my hair done?’

  ‘Your pubes are fine,’ he said, distractedly.

  ‘At least they’re red, like my hair. How many girls have you been with whose pubes are the same colour as their hair?’

  Gunn grunted noncommittally, trying hard to keep his eyes open. It was one in the morning and he had been home less than an hour. He looked at the phone, waiting for it to ring. Waiting for that cretin McLusky in Washington to phone him with confirmation that Molloy and the Bannerman woman were both dead. Things were getting back on to an even keel, finally, but there were still a lot of loose ends to tie up. At least the goods were delivered and with luck he had Crowe off his back for a while.

  ‘What did you say?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I never met anyone who had the same colour pubes.’

  ‘You’re not just saying that?’

  ‘No, I’m not just saying that. Niks, I have to work, give me a break, I need ten minutes of quiet.’

  ‘“Niks, I have to work, give me a break, I need ten minutes of quiet,’” she mimicked and shoved another olive in her mouth. ‘Do you think it’s decadent to drink Martinis at one in the morning?’