looked at genetically some time.’
‘Not sure we’ve got any batch samples left,’ said Benn. ‘Once we established the safety, I think they were all destroyed.’
‘Could you check?’
‘Sure.’
‘And if you don’t have made-up samples, you’d have the old and new formulae? And I could get shipped from Paris the old against the new, couldn’t I?’ insisted Parnell.
‘Sure,’ said Benn again. ‘Like I said, I’ll check.’
By noon the following day, Parnell received fifteen differently name-marked phials, with the comparable number of Dubette commercially packaged and identified bottles previously produced in France. Using that comparison he quickly discovered the major differences between the old and new formulae were liulousine and beneuflous, which the pharmacological register described as expectorants, and a flavouring agent called rifofludine, which in hot climates had a limited function as a preservative when refrigeration was unavailable. There were also six colouring agents, all of which were listed as simply that, non-medically-active colourants.
Also that day, the raw research material, each with its research notes, arrived from San Diego and London, both far more extensive and detailed than Parnell had anticipated. Parnell stored everything from Russell Benn’s division under refrigeration, separating the rifofludine for later temperature match. The whole operation took him less than an hour and was completed long before Russell Benn unexpectedly came into the pharmacogenomics unit.
‘Get everything you wanted?’ greeted the man.
‘If fifteen samples are everything I wanted, then yes, I have. Thanks.’ Parnell saw Benn looking at the just- opened packages occupying virtually all of his desk. ‘And it took all of this to discover the haemagglutinin protein of the 1918 flu epidemic.’
‘What are you going to do with it?’
‘Study it. Hope to get an idea – a possible path to follow at least. Somewhere among all this is the specific attempt by the Scripps Institute and the London School of Medicine to match the chicken genome. If they’d done it already, it would have been announced. I’m hoping we’ll get a lead from everything they’ve done, from which we might find a different approach for our particular needs.’
‘And if you don’t?’
‘We go on stumbling about in the dark.’
‘You get a lead I could follow as well, I’d appreciate your telling me…’
‘If I get any sort of direction, I’m not going to keep it to myself,’ assured Parnell.
There was an overwhelming temptation to start on the material at once, but Parnell remained strictly professional, actually helping Kathy Richardson make duplicates not just for the four seconded to the specific influenza team, but for Mark Easton and Peter Battey as well. He included the two men in the regular end-of-day general discussion, offering each their full dossier cases and suggesting their spare-time input.
‘What spare time?’ mocked the pebble-spectacled Battey.
‘Coffee breaks, lunch periods, those sort of times,’ Parnell partially mocked back. ‘I don’t know if we’re ever going to get anywhere, but if we don’t it won’t be for want of trying.’
‘I’d certainly like to get out of the cul-de-sac I’m in at the moment,’ complained Sato, whose Internet find the 1918 genetic discoveries had been. ‘All I’m doing is killing mice.’
‘What are you cutting your genetic strings down to, for ease of working?’ asked Lapidus.
‘Ten thousand at a time,’ said Sato. ‘You?’
‘Five.’
‘This way we’ll still be comparing when we’re old and grey,’ said Beverley Jackson.
‘Maybe we take a break from routine practical application and instead go through this stuff looking for a new approach,’ proposed Parnell. ‘The source notes alone might lead us somewhere. One, or both, will have already covered a lot of the ground that we’re duplicating.’
‘Is that an order?’ asked Beverley.
‘Let’s give it a shot, stop our eyes glazing over,’ said Parnell.
They all worked on late that night, with Parnell the last to leave, taking more files with him to continue working on at home. It had become a no-longer-unsettling habit to check his surroundings crossing the now sparsely occupied car park and constantly to check his mirrors once he began moving. He drove with his mind hedge-hopping between what he’d been studying – none of which had given him any new ideas – and stray, unconnected thoughts. Enquiring when he could have his own car back would give him an excuse to speak to the FBI agents in the hope of learning of any progress. There hadn’t been any mention of the second autopsy at their last meeting, but the funeral wouldn’t have been allowed unless it had been completed. He had no doubt that Russell Benn had been forewarned of his approach about France, which made nonsense of the man’s prevarication about there not being any surviving samples when there blatantly had been. How – why – had Rebecca had the Air France flight number? It had to be significant. But how? Why hadn’t she done as she’d promised and stopped probing? Had those headlights now in his rear-view mirror been there as long as he imagined? He slowed, eyes constantly flickering to the mirror, the more so when the lights grew bigger, brighter, but abruptly the following car pulled out and past with an impatient blast on the horn. No hurry to get home. No one waiting for him. He supposed he should eat, although he wasn’t hungry. He couldn’t remember what prepacked meals he had in the refrigerator. He’d choose something he could cut one-handed, with just a fork, so he could eat and read at the same time. He was still less than halfway through the San Diego material. He had to avoid the growing temptation to go out of sequence and read all the source notes instead of waiting for their numbered listing in the developing research narrative. Had Dwight Newton and Russell Benn told him the truth? He’d look further than the pharmacological register to find out more about liulousine, beneuflous and rifofludine. And the supposed harmless flavourings. But carefully. Unsuspected – unseen – by anyone. Rebecca’s murder was unquestionably connected to Dubette. And despite every FBI and lawyer’s warning, Parnell remained determined to discover that connection. Until he did, he was going to have his eyes a lot on the rear-view mirror, watching for headlights closing behind.
Parnell had always intended to stop when he’d reached that part of the San Diego material in which the attempts had been made to connect – and then intrude – the spike-shaped haemag-glutinin protein into a receptive human host cell, and awoke at two a.m., startled, cold and disorientated, to discover he’d sprawled across the table, too close to the remains of a now near-sickening, pre-cooked lasagne. The last litre bottle of wine, now empty like the glass, was on the table beside it. Parnell ached, from how he’d slumped for however long it had been, and his stomach churned from the smell of the abandoned food. His eyes felt as if there was grit or sand in them every time he blinked, and blurred when he initially tried to focus upon the papers to see what section he’d reached. Parnell forced himself to clear the table and dispose of the debris of the meal, leaving his clothes where they fell, almost literally to crawl into bed, his last conscious thought that he’d reached that part of the research from which he most hoped to find a way forward – everything he remembered reading before epitomized the purity of research science, but hadn’t taken his mind any further forward in any direction.
Parnell awoke again, later than he had intended, still gritty-eyed but glad he’d cleared away and didn’t have to leave the previous night’s litter festering in his urgency to get back to McLean. He was still the first to arrive, deeply into what he’d expectantly decided to be the genesis for their specific interest, before Beverley came into the unit, closely followed, almost in procession, by everyone else.
Parnell waited until they were at their benches before emerging from his office. ‘I know I’m going against our established schedule but anyone had any startling revelations overnight from what you might have read?’
There was no immediate response. Then Deke Pulbrow said: ‘We’re not big enough, don’t have sufficient resources, to do what we’re trying to do. You count how many countries contributed to decode the domestic chicken genome? Six countries, with all the resources of six leading scientifically advanced institutions. Competing against which there’s just six of us – six ordinary people, not six countries – you making up the seventh, Dick. What chance do you think we’ve genuinely, practicably, got?’
‘It comes down to fractions,’ admitted Parnell. ‘You saying, because it’s fractions, we shouldn’t try?’
‘No,’ denied Pulbrow, at once. ‘What I’m saying is that we’re pissing into the wind to imagine we’ve a chance in hell of finding anything, no matter how hard we try. And I can’t imagine anyone trying any harder than us guys are trying.’
There was another brief silence. Parnell said: ‘Deke’s point is taken. Anyone else?’
