‘You going to tell them this?’ asked the lawyer, fluttering the affidavit.
‘Does what was almost allowed to happen in France constitute a crime in this country?’
Jackson gave an empty laugh. ‘You’re making a point I should have made!’
‘You think I should tell them?’
‘I think we first need to know what’s happened in France. One way, it could be as serious as negligent homicide. The other way, it’s a responsible double-check by a responsible international pharmaceutical company that prevented a catastrophe.’
‘What personal protection is that?’ asked Parnell, nodding to the statement on the table between them.
‘None whatsoever if Dubette’s into murder and they know you’ve sworn it.’
‘You know what a maze is?’ demanded Parnell, rhetorically. ‘A lot of dead ends with only one way out.’
‘I know what a maze is,’ said Jackson. ‘I do my best not to get into any.’
‘I wish I could get out of this one,’ said Parnell. He hadn’t told the lawyer about the two occasions with Beverley, and decided now against doing so: neither were important – dangerous – and last night he’d decided there wouldn’t be a third.
By the time he got back to McLean, Parnell calculated it was just after six in the evening in Paris and hoped he was not too late, annoyed for not saving the travelling time by making the intended call from his more conveniently close apartment. He risked a further few minutes confirming with Kathy Richardson that there’d been no contact from the vice president, although Russell Benn had called to thank him for the cultures, and wondered where he was and seemed surprised when she’d said she didn’t know.
Parnell got the Paris number from the Dubette directory and dialled it himself, his no-longer-always-open door securely closed against intrusion. There was an uncertain moment before a woman answered from Henri Saby’s office, and a further worrying, echoing gap after he’d identified himself, before a man’s voice came on the line.
The English scarcely accented, Saby said at once: ‘It seems we have a lot to thank you for.’
Parnell hadn’t realized how tensed he’d been at the fear of calling too late in the day, until he felt it easing away. His excuse for making the call carefully prepared, Parnell said: ‘There’s still some we need to look at. I thought I’d just run through the list I’ve been given.’
‘I’ve already done that with Dwight.’
‘It was a double-check that picked up the problem.’ Parnell hadn’t expected the advantage of the Frenchman knowing his name or how the danger had been isolated.
‘Sure,’ accepted Saby. He reverted to French and verbally ticked off with a curt ‘oui’ each of the outstanding items Parnell recited from Russell Benn’s list.
‘That’s all there is, nothing more?’ asked Parnell. He’d let the conversation run to gain the other man’s confidence.
‘That’s everything,’ confirmed Saby.
‘And all the production has been stopped?’
‘When was the last time you talked with Dwight?’
‘Not since this morning,’ replied Parnell, honestly. ‘He hadn’t spoken to you then.’
‘I told him everything had been halted.’
Saby’s English was so good that Parnell detected the doubt in the man’s voice. ‘What about distribution?’
There was a hesitation from the other end. ‘It’s being recalled. I told Dwight that, too.’
Parnell forced himself on, not wanting his immediate alarm to be obvious. ‘How difficult is that going to be?’
‘Not easy. But possible.’
‘I’m a research scientist,’ Parnell seemingly apologized. ‘I don’t know anything about marketing. Is there batch numbering… some way you can be sure you’ve got everything back?’
‘There are batch numbers,’ allowed Saby, questioningly.
Not a complete enough answer to the question, Parnell decided. ‘From which you can be sure of getting it all back?’
‘I’ve discussed all this with Dwight. Why not talk to him?’
‘I will,’ said Parnell, knowing that he didn’t have to: Paris couldn’t guarantee recovering medicine that could result in people – children – dying.
‘The additional stuff you want?’ Saby unexpectedly asked. ‘You want to use the box number rather than the normal delivery, like before?’
What the hell did that question mean? ‘Yes,’ risked Parnell. Remembering the word from Rebecca’s conversations, he added: ‘You’ll let me know the waybill number? Tell me direct, I mean.’
‘What about Harry Johnson?’
What about the head of security? wondered Parnell. ‘In view of the sensitivity, I think it’s best if you tell me. I can involve Harry from this end.’ And he would, Parnell decided, if he could find a way.
Twenty-Four
There was a familiarity about being collected from Washington Circle by Barry Jackson and logging in at the FBI field office, and not needing the stipulated escort to find his way to the two waiting agents with their oddly cloned dress code. Today’s was muted brown check. The waiting coffee was an innovation.
‘So, how’s it going?’ asked Jackson.
‘That’s our problem,’ admitted Dingley. ‘It’s not. We’ve interviewed everybody – even Alan Smeldon, the guy Rebecca had the previous relationship with – and so far we’ve got diddly squat.’
‘We’ve even started to wonder if Ms Lang wasn’t the victim of a crazy, just picked at random.’
‘She wasn’t picked at random,’ insisted Parnell, irritably. ‘Her keys were taken, her house searched.’
‘I said we even started to wonder, not that we’re going that route,’ placated Dingley.
‘Which is why we wanted to talk to you again,’ said Benton. ‘You thought about anything more that might help us along?’
‘Absolutely nothing. I was expecting you to tell me of some progress,’ said Parnell. Virtually the only subject of his conversation with Jackson on their way to the field office had been France. Parnell had told the lawyer of his doubts about the tainted medicines being recovered, although he had not told him about the box number or secret delivery, or Saby’s reference to the Dubette security chief, because he couldn’t see a connecting relevance. Jackson had advised against prematurely disclosing Dubette’s drug mistake, arguing it could confuse rather than assist the investigation.
‘I told you we were just touching bases,’ reminded Benton.
‘Like I said,’ offered Dingley. ‘We’ve gone back through Ms Lang’s life since before grade school. We couldn’t find a single person with whom she’d ever had what you’d call an argument.’
‘Which keeps bringing us back to Dubette,’ picked up Benton. ‘And where we hoped you might help us further, Mr Parnell. We’ve got this feeling – a feeling, nothing else – that there has to be some connection to Ms Lang’s workplace.’
‘Let me ask you something,’ said Dingley. ‘You familiar with anyone out at McLean who carries a knife? Maybe one of those little itty bitty clasp things that people sometimes use to pare their nails?’
‘ What?’ exclaimed Jackson, seconds ahead of Parnell saying the same thing.
‘Something sharp like a knife,’ repeated Benton. ‘A chisel, even.’
‘I don’t understand this questioning,’ said Jackson.
‘You mind if Mr Parnell answers us first?’ said Benton.
Jackson moved to speak, but before he could Parnell said: ‘I suppose a knife might be the sort of thing a security guard or officer might carry. Something sharp might be part of a police car’s equipment.’
‘That’s what we thought, about security guards,’ said Dingley. ‘Harry Johnson told us he never carries a knife. Nor do any of his people, as far as he’s aware.’
‘What about police-car equipment?’ asked Parnell.
‘We asked the two who took you into custody,’ said Benton. ‘They said no, too.’
