back to the assignment we’ve been given.’
‘Has everything been stopped in France?’ said Lapidus.
‘The vice president was talking to New York overnight,’ said Parnell.
‘So, what’s the answer?’ demanded Lapidus. ‘I – none of us – want to get caught up in a licensing situation.’
It was career concern, which was understandable, accepted Parnell. Positively, he said: ‘That’s not going to happen either.’
‘It surely had to go before the licensing authorities in France?’ said Sato.
‘These are things I’m going to find out,’ promised Parnell. ‘I have to…’
‘Find out today?’ broke in Peter Battey. ‘We none of us know what the hell’s going on. Which isn’t any way to work. How we came here to work.’
Another base to cover, thought Parnell. ‘If I can. I’m waiting to hear from the vice president. We didn’t get the whole range of French products made up from the new formulae. When we do – something else I’m hopefully arranging today – I’ll personally do the testing, no one else. After all, we scarcely need confirmation.’
‘Everything requires confirmation,’ contradicted Beverley.
‘Which Dwight and Russell can provide, after my initial examination,’ suggested Parnell.
‘You involved us,’ said Lapidus, close to an accusation. ‘We found the bad science, we’re caught up now in bad science. Your professional reputation’s established. Ours isn’t.’
‘What is it you want?’ asked Parnell.
‘Written acknowledgement that this unit – each of us named – found and exposed the bad science,’ declared Lapidus.
There couldn’t have been more than one smoky-bar-room or wine-and-cheese session to have reached that decision, decided Parnell.
Beverley said: ‘Get real, for Christ’s sake, Ted! You think you’re going to get something like that on paper from Dubette!’
Beverley hadn’t been in a smoky bar room or had cheese and wine, Parnell knew. ‘I’ll try to get it, in the form of an official letter of thanks, which is the best I imagine I can hope for. If I can’t even get that…’ He hesitated, embarrassed at what he intended to say. ‘If I can’t get that, taking into account my professional reputation, will you all accept individually written letters from me to each of you?’ From the uncertainty that went through the group before him, Parnell guessed none of them had anticipated such an offer.
Lapidus, clearly once more the dominant figure, said: ‘I think we need to consider that.’
‘I don’t,’ said Beverley. ‘I don’t think I need any sort of letter. I think this is fucking ridiculous!’
‘I’d be happy with something from you,’ Sean Sato told Parnell.
‘So would I,’ agreed Mark Easton.
Parnell shook his head. ‘Do what Ted suggests, think on it. While you’re thinking on it, keep always in mind that I’ll do everything possible, everything in my power, to avoid your careers being affected by this. I don’t, in fact, see why your careers should in any way be affected, apart from being bettered, but obviously it’s something worrying you…’
‘Some of us!’ qualified Beverley.
‘However, I’m looking beyond this,’ picked up Parnell. ‘I could not be happier, more satisfied, with the way this unit’s worked out. We’ve considered what’s worrying… some of you… Now hear what’s worrying me. What’s worrying me is that this is going to fuck up what we’ve had going, thus far. I don’t want it to. And I hope you don’t want it to – won’t let it – happen either.’ He looked at Beverley. ‘What we’ve done for Dubette should establish us, not knock us off balance, damaging what we’re building between us. Have I made myself clear?’
‘I hope we both have,’ said Lapidus.
Parnell decided a further hour without contact from Dwight Newton was sufficient. Refusing to wait any longer – or risk being fobbed off on the telephone by one of the man’s protective secretariat – Parnell made another unannounced approach into the centre of the Spider’s Web. This time he did stop off at the chemical research unit and wasn’t surprised to be told Russell Benn was with the vice president. At Newton’s outer office, the man’s personal assistant, an indeterminately aged woman with crimped hair, not wearing a wedding band, said the vice president was in conference and could not be disturbed, under any circumstances. Parnell said he would wait but asked that the woman tell Newton that he was doing just that, waiting in the outer office.
‘He told me he wasn’t to be disturbed under any circumstances,’ repeated the woman, making no move towards Newton’s office.
‘And you told me,’ said Parnell.
‘I’ve no idea how long it’ll be.’
‘As long as it takes,’ said Parnell, settling himself in an easy chair in direct line with Newton’s office door. He ignored the magazines on a side table, near a tall plant with polished leaves, reminiscent of the FBI field office, inwardly unsettled by the doubt of the previous evening’s conversation with Beverley. Surely Newton had called New York – spoken to Edward C. Grant! It was inconceivable that Newton wouldn’t have made the call. Salaries and stock options didn’t come into the consideration – any consideration. For Newton to have hesitated, looked for an excuse or an escape, would be criminal. Literally criminal, opening him – and Dubette – up to both criminal and civil prosecution. But what if Newton hadn’t telephoned New York? Had looked – was still looking – for a way out? Should he go over the vice president’s head, as Beverley had asked if he would? He’d have to, Parnell accepted. He’d have no alternative. Another recollection from the previous night swirled into his mind, his now embarrassing insistence upon travelling home with the woman in her car. About which he shouldn’t be embarrassed, he told himself. The danger did exist. Without any reason, any evidence, for the speculation, he asked himself if it would increase, become any clearer, if he did go directly to New York? He didn’t have to, he realized. There was an intended meeting with the FBI team. He wasn’t sure – didn’t care – if it came within their jurisdiction. They’d have to take some action if he told them. It would, after all, amount to possible mass murder.
‘Would you do me a favour?’ he called to the obstructive personal assistant. ‘Would you just slip a message to Dwight and tell him I’m waiting out here. That the FBI are waiting on me to fix a meeting?’
‘He doesn’t want to be interrupted.’
‘Just tell him that,’ insisted Parnell.
‘He doesn’t want to be interrupted,’ the woman repeated.
‘He’ll want to be, about this.’
She hesitated, looked for guidance to the other secretaries, each of whom shrugged, refusing advice or involvement, and finally got to her feet. She reappeared almost immediately at Newton’s office door, smiling with relief. ‘He says to come in.’
‘What meeting with the FBI?’ demanded Newton, virtually as Parnell crossed the threshold.
‘They want to see me again.’
‘What about?’
Russell Benn was beside the desk again and Parnell thought they looked like two boys exchanging secrets. ‘They didn’t say. I was told you were in conference. I thought I might have been invited.’
‘You were just about to be.’
‘Fortunate I came by, then. Have Paris been stopped?’
‘Yes.’
Parnell was unsure whether to believe the man. There was a possible way of finding out, he thought. ‘Had any been distributed?’
‘They’re checking.’
‘They don’t know?’ queried Parnell, disbelievingly.
‘It was the middle of the night!’ said Benn.
‘Now it’s getting towards the middle of their day!’ insisted Parnell.
‘They’re checking,’ repeated the vice president.
‘You haven’t yet seen the cultures.’ The overnight HPRT production was enormous.
‘I’d like to go over them in my laboratory,’ said Benn, unable to meet Parnell’s look as he spoke.
