of the president. In addition to scientifically examining everything in their laboratory, French anti-terrorism officers had personally questioned him about the AF209 flight listing being in Rebecca Lang’s possession. Like everyone at Dubette headquarters, he had been unable to explain it but had assured the investigators of his full co-operation on any future developments.
Edward C. Grant picked up on that, insisting that all subsidiaries offer every assistance to official enquiries and investigators. The promised media release had been prepared well in advance by Dubette’s public affairs division and faxed to every overseas branch. The president invited improvements, additions or corrections from every link-up. There was no challenge from any foreign division.
‘This has the utmost priority,’ concluded Grant. ‘I want daily input from all of you. We must know, here in New York, of everything that happens in your countries. Nothing – nothing whatsoever – is too small or inconsequential…’ He hesitated and then, as if they’d had a choice, said: ‘Thank you for participating, particularly those of you for whom your local timing is inconvenient.’
The parent board remained in session after the closedown of the satellite connection, but the discussion was a pointless repetition of what had been debated before and after the global conference. They adjourned both for the electronic equipment to be removed and to watch the midday television news in an outer office. All three major networks carried the press release threatening legal action against malicious publication, tacked at the end of stories about the global conference. To groans from almost everyone – and the outburst of ‘shit’ from Grant – all three described it as an emergency session and listed the current stock-market loss.
To Dwight Newton’s surprise, lunch was provided, in the restored boardroom. By the time they emerged, Dubette’s stock was down a total of ten points on the day.
‘Sorry I couldn’t see you yesterday,’ apologized Newton. ‘I was up in New York.’
‘I saw the stories on television. And read about it in this morning’s Post,’ said Parnell.
‘You got something on the flu research that’s going to lift our spirits and maybe our stock ratings?’ said Newton.
‘Not exactly,’ said Parnell.
The vice president frowned. ‘What is it then?’
‘There seems to have been a misunderstanding,’ said Parnell.
Newton’s frown remained and he felt a twitch of apprehension. ‘About what?’
‘When we spoke about that business from France, I understood you to say it was something that hadn’t worked.’
‘I don’t recall, exactly,’ said Newton, warily. ‘Why?’
Liar, thought Parnell. ‘That’s not what I understood from the FBI guys. They thought it was something ongoing. Something that’s being adopted?’
It wasn’t a problem, Newton decided. ‘Maybe I gave the wrong impression. Like I said, I don’t really remember. It’s some changes being made to the routine formulas coming out of France on proprietary stuff: cough mixtures, linctuses, decongestants, that sort of thing.’
‘What type of changes?’
‘Colourings, mostly. For better recognition. All placebos, but we had to check them out chemically, of course. That’s what it was, safety checks.’ Newton was sweating now under the regulation white coat, again glad he was wearing it.
‘At the seminar I thought the president referred to it as a way of preventing piracy of our products?’ persisted Parnell.
There was nothing dangerous in the truth, Newton thought. ‘That too. It’s a winner, every which way. If the formula is pirated, it makes it more expensive than our competitors. If the products are bought genuinely, it makes them easier to recognize by people who can’t read too well.’
‘I looked on my list – everything made available to check out genetically,’ pressed Parnell. ‘I couldn’t find anything as up to date as that.’
Newton smiled. ‘Wasn’t that list provided before we checked out the French stuff?’
‘Only for our French subsidiary? Nowhere else?’
‘No.’
‘Why not across the board?’
‘I told you, specifically targeted. It’s in the Third World where the piracy is greatest and where the literacy and comprehension is the lowest.’
‘I’ll ask Russell for some samples, shall I?’
Newton’s frown return. ‘What the hell for?’
‘I thought I was getting everything? That’s the arrangement, isn’t it?’
‘And I thought your unit had been very specifically tasked.’
‘It has. And we’re working on it in every way that’s open to us. I’m not for a moment suggesting we break away, certainly not on something like placebo infusion you’ve already cleared to be totally safe. I just want to stick with the working arrangement we agreed when we set my unit up, to get everything and look at everything over the course of time.’
There was no danger, Newton told himself again. He shrugged. ‘Sure, get samples from Russ. Just don’t take your eye off the main ball, OK?’
‘I won’t take my eye off the main ball,’ promised Parnell, an assurance more for his satisfaction than Dwight Newton’s.
Twenty
Parnell tried to seize the moment and see Russell Benn that afternoon, talking generally of comparing their separate progress – not disclosing his lack of it – but the chemical research director pleaded pressure of work and postponed a meeting until the following day, which Parnell guessed to be a delay to consult with Dwight Newton, and which lost him his hoped-for advantage. Benn was waiting when Parnell arrived, his desk cleared, the coffee prepared. Once again Parnell had gone into Benn’s territory, and he continued the concession, providing his empty account first. Benn declared himself impressed by what he called the generosity of the Scripps Research Institute and the National Institute for Medical Research in sharing their research material more or less in its entirety, disclosing in return his division’s equal failure even to know where to start upon a commercial vaccine after Parnell further conceded his department hadn’t yet succeeded in synthesizing a gene from the Tokyo samples, nor produced anything worthwhile from their animal testing.
‘What about the complete mapping of the poultry genome?’ asked the black scientist, displaying his medical- publication awareness.
Once more, fleetingly, Parnell had the impression of being tested. ‘It gives us – and every other researcher and group trying to do what we’re attempting – three thousand million bases, to compare against three thousand million human genetic bases, to find one, just one, that might provide a mutating-inviting host cell.’
‘Which you’re doing?’
‘Of course we’re doing it,’ said Parnell, although refusing to rise to the other man’s challenge. ‘But there are at least six different strains of domestic chicken farmed in China, quite apart from all the other global test species. But let’s just stay with China. Which, alone, gives us a multiplication of eighteen thousand million.’
‘I can work out the mathematics for myself,’ patronized Benn.
‘But not, chemically, a quicker way towards a treatment!’
‘Maybe neither of us will be the lucky ones,’ Benn said, with forced philosophy.
‘I didn’t believe we were allowed to think like that here at Dubette.’
‘We’re not,’ smiled the other man. ‘Don’t tell anyone I ever said it.’
‘I spoke with Dwight yesterday, about the work you both did on the French stuff,’ announced Parnell, impatient with the sparring.
‘It was just placebo additions to existing formulae,’ dismissed Benn, the confidence confirming Parnell’s belief of prior consultation with Dwight Newton.
‘Dwight explained. He agreed the improvements should be added to everything else I’ve been given, to be
