Samson felt that the stare he was being subjected to was some kind of examination and one he was bound to fail. When the silence became unbearable, he decided to blink first. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think I understand… I appear to be unaware of the advance you refer to…’
‘Since receiving this bloody awful news, I’ve been making enquiries — discreet enquiries — and I’ve been told that a cure for the condition is no longer outside the realms of possibility. There is apparently a valid alternative to simply lying down and accepting one’s fate.’
Alarm bells rang in Samson’s head on hearing the word ‘alternative’. He feared he was about to be drawn into the world of complementary medicine, something he had little time for, believing its so-called ‘therapies’ to be either bogus or, at best, variations on the placebo effect. ‘Really, sir?’
‘As pioneered in Berlin.’
‘Berlin?’ echoed Samson, before suddenly realising what his host was referring to. ‘Ah,’ he said, looking down at his shoes as if not entirely pleased with the direction the conversation was moving in. ‘I think I do recall something about the unique case you’re referring to, sir.’
Samson’s host was clearly annoyed at Samson’s perceptible lack of enthusiasm. ‘What is it about you medical people?’ he demanded. ‘You’re so bloody conservative when it comes to anything new. Well, what do you think? Was a cure achieved or wasn’t it?’
‘I’m not exactly au fait with all the details of the case, sir, although of course I did read the reports. I would, however, say that
… sometimes unusual medical procedures are carried out on patients who are believed to be beyond help.’
‘Are you suggesting this patient was used as an experimental animal?’
Samson threw up his hands in horror. ‘Far be it from me to criticise the decisions of European colleagues. As I understand it, it was a one-off, carried out on a patient who was already facing a poor prognosis for other reasons. It was a very risky course of action and could perhaps only be justified by another condition the patient was suffering from. It was a very long way from being a routine procedure; it’s doubtful whether it ever could be.’
‘My son is a very long way from being a routine case, Sir Laurence.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘The importance of his being able to father healthy children at some time in the future cannot be overstated.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can it be done?’
Samson hesitated, clearly unhappy at being unable to dissuade his host from the course he was set on. ‘It’s theoretically possible, I suppose, if a perfect donor were to be found and everything else were to go like clockwork. The conditions, of course, would have to be ideal… but I feel I must stress that the preparations for such a procedure would demand a very great deal of the patient. It has the potential to be a catastrophic undertaking…’
‘And the alternatives to this potentially catastrophic undertaking, Sir Laurence?’
‘Point taken, sir,’ Samson conceded.
‘Then set it up. I’m putting my son’s health in your hands. I want him cured and I want it done in complete secrecy. No one must ever know of this.’
Samson shook his head and gathered himself for one last attempt at changing his host’s mind. ‘I said it was theoretically possible, sir,’ he said. ‘But the practical difficulties involved in setting up such an operation and keeping it a secret are just too…’ Words failed him, and he lapsed into silence.
‘I’m well aware you can’t do this alone, Sir Laurence. I’m not a complete idiot. To that end I have approached a group of trusted friends, people in positions of power and influence. They will provide you with all the resources and help you need. You only have to ask. Well, what do you say?’
‘I think I need time to think it over, sir.’
‘Call me tomorrow.’
TWO
A gold carriage clock on the marble mantelpiece chimed the hour, the only thing to break the prolonged silence in the room apart from the almost imperceptible rumble of London traffic outside the double-glazed windows on a grey day in February.
‘I thought we should all meet with Sir Laurence to discuss exactly what it is we have been asked to do and to make sure we all understand exactly what we are getting into,’ said the owner of the Belgravia house. ‘There will be no official sanction for what we’re doing, no committees or advisory bodies to call upon, no spreading of the blame should things go wrong and no overt rewards if they don’t. We will be and must remain the only people ever to know about this mission, apart, of course, from the man who has called upon our friendship and loyalty.’
The others in the room nodded their understanding.
‘Can we be certain it will work?’ asked a clearly nervous man, whose unease had caused him to break the pencil supplied with the pad in front of him. Like the others, he wore a dark suit, the uniform of the city, although the ties that some wore belied anonymity to varying extents. The question was put to a silver-haired man whose neckwear bore a snake and staff motif, proclaiming his link to the medical profession.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Sir Laurence and I agree: there can be no guarantees. The main element of the procedure is a risky business at the best of times — without taking into account the reason for it in this case — but, given the circumstances, it’s almost certainly the only chance we have of… rescuing the situation.’
The man at the head of the table — a Cambridge graduate by his tie — gave a slight smile at the euphemism but added, ‘And the only chance we have of preventing a monumental scandal.’
‘Aren’t we jumping the gun here?’ said the nervous man. ‘I mean, we seem to be going for broke before we’ve even considered the alternatives…’
‘There aren’t any,’ said the Cambridge man, adopting an expression that seemed to suggest this was the reaction he’d been expecting from the nervous man. He looked down at the table as if willing the time to pass. Although bound in this instance by a common friendship, the two men had little time for each other, being poles apart in terms of personality and outlook. The Cambridge man was positive and self-confident to the point of arrogance while the nervous man was prone to analyse everything in great detail and was seen as caution personified.
‘It would not be easy, of course,’ continued the nervous man, ‘but surely the risks involved in what you are proposing are just too great to contemplate? I think that, with decent PR and sensible management, the storm could be weathered. History suggests-’
‘Times have changed’, interrupted the Cambridge man, ‘and so have people. This includes their perception of many things we might have taken for granted in the past. Had there been a feel-good factor abroad in the country at the moment, well, who knows, but the global recession, rising unemployment, sterling hovering on the brink — even the bloody weather’s been conspiring against us this winter. Something like this coming on top of everything else could trigger a complete collapse of public confidence. It could be the final straw for many when they discover that everything they believed in, trusted or revered is turning to dust, especially when they are left with no jobs, no savings, no prospects and no belief in anything. Sociologists — not that I have any great truck with that lot — are already mooting the prospect of anger turning to anarchy in the none-too-distant future.’
‘You say that no one would know apart from us,’ said the nervous man. ‘But surely others would have to be involved? I mean, it doesn’t sound like something that could be carried out by a single doctor at a secret location.’
‘A number of people will have to be involved along the way,’ agreed the Cambridge man. ‘But, as I understand it, there is nothing particularly unusual about the essential element of the procedure itself. Am I right, Sir Laurence?’
Laurence Samson nodded. ‘It’s not exactly routine but it is something that is carried out almost every day in some part of the country, albeit for other reasons. The difference in this case, of course, is the who and the why.
