‘A few.’
‘How’d you score?’
‘Pretty good. I’ve still got a job.’
‘What happens to these assessments?’
‘They go on your personnel file.’
‘So, who has access to that file?’
‘Personnel. Senior executives,’ Barbara Spacey gestured towards the outside laboratory. ‘You’ve got the authority to see your guys’ assessments.’
‘I didn’t know you’d made any.’
‘I haven’t, not yet. About to start.’
‘Who else has access?’ persisted Parnell.
‘Legal department… Security.’
‘Seems a lot of people.’ suggested Parnell.
‘Dubette’s a caring company.’
‘I think you told me that already. Some people would say it was an inquisitive company.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘It wouldn’t be difficult for me to think just that.’
‘Which I might judge to be paranoia.’
‘Do,’ invited Parnell. ‘Are you familiar with a very famous book by an English author named George Orwell, about a control State? It’s called…’
‘Nineteen Eighty-Four,’ she finished for him. ‘Yeah, I’ve read it.’
‘How’d you diagnose that?’
‘How about paranoia?’
‘I thought it was about the danger of a control State.’
‘I don’t remember Winston Smith, who tried to fight the system, coming out of it all that well,’ said the woman.
Twenty-Five
Richard Parnell didn’t set out upon a warned-against personal investigation, although there was something about the last meeting with Barbara Spacey that stayed in his mind, like a distracting noise for which he couldn’t locate a source. But there suddenly seemed to be a lot he found distracting. Although he fully understood his mother’s concern, her insistence upon such regular contact was intrusive and he found it irksome having to respond to letters from former vague acquaintances in England who’d obviously got his Washington address from closer, genuinely concerned colleagues, and written as if it were a members’-club obligation. The most positive, persistent distraction of all, of course, remained the discontinuity within his unit. The lack of a single, feasible experimental idea to further the influenza research had made the previous night’s end-of-day discussion virtually pointless, although he’d thought Sean Sato’s suggestion of a combined discussion with Russell Benn’s unit worth pursuing, until being told by Benn that morning that his scientists didn’t have anything to contribute either. Parnell was increasingly accepting Ted Lapidus’s view that they weren’t ever going to find a treatment as objective logic rather than impatient defeatism, although he hadn’t yet openly admitted it.
It was the persistent nag of uncertainty from his meeting with the psychologist that prompted Parnell to go to the personnel department, in a part of the complex so remote he had to use the wall guides. As he moved through connecting corridors, he supposed it would have been a courtesy to tell Wayne Denny that he was coming, but accessing his own personnel file – without any positive reason for doing so – scarcely justified bothering the department director.
He was greeted at the enquiry section, quite separate from an open-plan, glassed-off office beyond, by a blonde, milk-fed girl who clearly recognized him without needing to read his ID tag. Hers identified her as Sally Kline. Adopting the American informality, he called her Sally. She called him professor. With ‘have a good day’ glibness she assured him retrieving his file wouldn’t be a problem, which it obviously wasn’t, because she returned from a side room with a manila folder in minutes. Directing him to one of the several reading tables, she asked if he wanted coffee. Parnell thanked her but refused.
The folder was thicker than he’d expected. And far more detailed. All his references had been taken up and there were copies of every scientific publication paper he could remember submitting. Surprisingly – the beginning of what became intense, even unsettling, curiosity – there were confirming copies of all his academic testimonials – school as well as college – duplicating every one he’d disclosed on his original application. A substantial reason for the file’s thickness were cuttings of what Parnell judged to be every newspaper account he could remember – and some he couldn’t – of his work on the international genome project, including all the interviews he’d given after his participation became public. There was also at least a quarter of an inch taken up by media accounts of Rebecca Lang’s murder, the inexplicable terrorism connection, his initial arrest and subsequent release. Several, he saw, were even from British newspapers, from which he was able to see how widespread the coverage had been in England and better appreciate his mother’s concern. Beyond the printed text were a selection of photographs of him at the time of his arrest, and afterwards, on the court steps. They were on top of an assortment of other prints, two of him gowned and mortar-boarded at graduation ceremonies, and three showing him in rowing strip at college events. Barbara Spacey’s first and second assessments, her third yet to come, were attached to his itemized personal records, the second so specific that it ran to two single spaced A4 pages.
Parnell’s surprise had grown into astonishment by the time he finished the dossier. It contained, he calculated, more information than he knew about himself – certainly things he had totally forgotten about himself. And more, much more, than he believed any employer, no matter how caring, to use Barbara Spacey’s justifying word, would or should need. His remark to Barbara Spacey about Nineteen Eighty-Four was very apposite. Parnell’s mind jumped. The FBI had traced Rebecca back to grade school, according to Howard Dingley. Had they had access to her Dubette file? The answer should be obvious, but so very little of what he knew about Rebecca’s murder investigation seemed obvious that it was definitely worth mentioning to the two agents.
He ached from the concentration with which he’d read all about himself, realizing for the first time that he’d been hunched over the table for forty minutes. Sally Kline responded at once to the summons bell. Through the glass behind her, Parnell saw several obviously alerted people looking at him in the smaller office.
‘Everything OK?’ she asked.
‘Fine.’
‘I filled out all that’s necessary for you,’ she said. ‘All you need to do is sign your access.’
‘I’m sorry?’ frowned Parnell.
‘The log,’ explained the girl. ‘Every file has an individual log, recording the date and the arrival and departure times of anyone reading it. I filled in everything for you. All you need to do is add your signature, to agree my figures.’
The document was upside down on the counter before him, but he could see there were three entries above his own name. ‘That’s who’s read it before me?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed the girl.
Parnell accepted the offered pen, tensed for the users’ log to be reversed towards him. He instantly registered the names Barbara Spacey, Harry Johnson and Dwight Newton. Each was timed and dated. The security chief was listed, ahead of the vice president, as having spent fifty minutes with the dossier, starting at ten past five in the evening, four days before Rebecca’s death. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve just remembered something. Could I just quickly check what I’ve forgotten? It won’t take a minute.’
‘If it’s only a minute,’ said Sally. ‘I’ve already written down your hand-back time.’
‘A minute,’ pledged Parnell. Which was all it needed to find his itemized personal records and confirm that the number of his Toyota was dutifully recorded.
Three days before the Sunday when Rebecca was killed would have been the Thursday he’d found his car damage – the car whose make and number Johnson had told the FBI he hadn’t known.
When he got back to his unit, there was a message from Henri Saby in Paris that the missing samples had
