Shorn of the arms dealer’s distinguishing marks, what remained was … anonymous. Had random onlookers been asked to describe Adam Gray after glimpsing him in a crowd, that would have been the recurring word. He was handsome enough in a way that could charitably have been described as “generic,” none of his features particularly distinctive. Even his background was hard to determine; most of the hypothetical onlookers would have thought him Caucasian, but the more observant might have picked out other traits. Some Hispanic ancestry? Persian, perhaps, or Arabic? It was impossible to be sure.
“It’s an improvement,” said Tony, looking up. The other team members were in various states of sleep throughout the cabin. “Welcome back.”
“Not quite yet.” Adam held up the case containing Albion’s medical equipment. “There’s one more thing to do.”
“You don’t want to let it happen naturally?” Holly Jo asked. “You look exhausted—you’ve been awake for nearly twenty-four hours. You really need some sleep.”
“I want Syed’s persona wiped.” There was a tinge of disgust to his otherwise flat voice. “Now.”
Tony looked toward Albion. “Will it be safe without Roger to work out the amount?”
“It’s a standard dose.”
Tony hesitated, then took the case. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. I don’t want this guy’s thoughts in my head anymore.”
The two men went to the rear cabin. Adam sat and tugged down his shirt collar as Tony took out the jet injector. “Is this set?”
“Yes. Do it.”
Tony cautiously placed the nozzle against Adam’s neck and pulled the trigger. Adam flinched, then leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
Tony waited, counting thirty seconds on his watch. “Adam? You okay?”
“Yes.” He slowly opened his eyes. “Do a memory check. I want to be sure he’s gone.”
“Okay. Uh … what year did Syed go on the hajj?”
“That was … 2005.” Adam caught Tony’s dismay. “No, it’s okay—that came up during the debriefing, remember? When you asked how he first met Fathi. If we pulled it out of his memory, now I remember it too.”
“Sorry.”
“No problem. Ask something else.”
“How about … the name of Syed’s first imam when he was a kid.”
Adam thought for a few seconds. “No idea.”
“How old was he when he first fired a gun?”
Another pause. “Nothing.”
“He’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God. You must be relieved to be rid of that bastard.”
Another emotionless “Yes.” Adam rubbed the mark on his neck, then stood. “How long before we land?”
“About thirty minutes. I need to go straight to STS once I’ve seen Roger to the hospital; I imagine Morgan’s got a boot with my ass’s name on it. Harper too, I expect. You should go home, though. You could use some sleep.”
“So could you.”
“I didn’t get shot at. You deserve the morning off for that, at least. Never say I’m not a generous boss.” He grinned.
Adam didn’t respond to the joke. “Okay. I’ll be at STS by noon.” He returned to the main cabin.
“See you there,” Tony said with a sigh.
WASHINGTON, DC, UNITED STATES
After the plane touched down, Albion was taken away by an ambulance, Tony going with him. The rest of the team dispersed. Holly Jo offered to share a taxi with Adam, but he declined.
He returned to his apartment. The living room was plain, even spartan. White walls with no pictures, comfortable but utilitarian black Ikea furniture, a desk in one corner with an Apple laptop upon it. No ornamentation of any kind. There was no television. No stereo, not even a radio. The entire place was devoid of personal touches, anything that might give a hint about its occupant’s private life.
It did not occur to Adam that there was anything unusual about this.
He entered the bedroom, unpacking his baggage and putting everything in its proper place, then pulled the curtains to shut out the morning light. He undressed and was about to get into the bed when he hesitated. The moment passed and he climbed in, switching off the lights. Despite his tiredness, it took some time before he finally fell asleep.
He knew what was waiting for him.
The dream was one he had experienced too many times before. He ran down a street; where he was, he didn’t know. Something terrible had happened. People fled the other way, screaming and crying, frightened faces flashing past as he battled against the tide.
But there was one face ahead that was not moving. He reached it, kneeling down. It stared up at him. The eyes were wide but lifeless, unmoving, surrounded by dirt and blood.
The dead man’s face was his own.
Adam jerked awake, breathing rapidly. The breaths slowed. He looked at the glowing figures of the clock beside the bed. Barely an hour had passed. He closed his eyes again, but knew that the same dream would find him once more.
READING, ENGLAND
This was the most important day of Bianca Childs’s life, yet all she could think about were her sore feet.
The pain was her own stupid fault. No, actually, it was James’s fault for insisting that everybody “dress smartly for the investors. Yes, even you, Bianca.” Laughter all around, though hers was decidedly forced.
That said, turning up at the lab to discover she was the only woman not in high heels had produced some weird kind of peer pressure, compelling her to make a rapid drive from the science park to fix the anomaly. In hindsight, though, spending just ten pounds on the first pair of black stilettos that fit, from a place calling itself Megasave Shoe Warehouse, had been asking for trouble.
So now she was in a rented function room at a hotel, trying not to fidget as James concluded the presentation that could make her career … or see the whole company knocked back to square one. Or even zero. Of the several research projects Luminica Bioscience had sunk its dwindling capital into, Thymirase was the one with a chance to be a breakout success. And she had been its primary architect; her ideas, her two years of solid work, had led to the lab team piecing together the complex chains of molecules that would become a miracle drug.
If it worked. Computer simulations said it should, and initial tests on animals—something Bianca was never happy with, but which James had decided were a necessary evil considering Thymirase’s potential—had produced the expected results. But testing on humans was another thing entirely, and Luminica didn’t have the financial resources either to engage in full-scale trials, or to deal with potential lawsuits if things went wrong.
Enter the investors.
Six people: four men, two women. They represented a venture capital group specializing in medical research, here today to decide whether they would put money into Thymirase. If they did, and the drug did everything Bianca believed it would, the licensing fees from the patents could potentially be worth billions. The investors would take the lion’s share, and as the company’s founder James Harding would claim a hefty chunk of the remainder, but all of Luminica’s fourteen employees were assured of a piece of the action. In a best-case scenario, Bianca’s slice would be worth …
She didn’t even want to think of the number in case doing so jinxed the deal. Anyway, it was too much—more than she could possibly need in several lifetimes. Even if she made sure that the people she cared about were provided for in perpetuity, the amount left over would still be obscene. There would be a lot of charities receiving unexpected—and large—donations.
God, her feet hurt. She tried to force a state of Zen calm upon herself to overcome it, with limited success, as James clicked on his final PowerPoint slide. It would soon be time for her to add her own contribution to the presentation. She tried to judge the investors’ feelings. Were they going to buy in? The mere fact that they were here at all was a good omen, but she had friends in other pharmaceutical start-ups who had come so clo
se to a life-changing deal … only for everything to collapse at the last moment.
She had a good feeling about this deal, though. The body language of the six expensively dressed visitors—none had bought their shoes for a tenner—was veiled, but they couldn’t disguise their interest. All were subtly leaning forward, necks craning as if trying to get closer to something delicious. Hungry Hungry Venture Capitalists. The thought brought an involuntary giggle, which she hurriedly tried to hide behind a fake cough.
But there undeniably was a hunger there. One man watched James with literally calculating attention, head bobbing millimetrically as if he were working a mental abacus. The others displayed similar subtle signs of their keenness.
Nothing had been signed yet, though. They still had to be convinced to take the final step …
James gestured in her direction, the VIPs’ heads turning as one. “So with that in mind, I’d like to introduce the person whose insight and dedication has led to the development of Thymirase: Dr. Bianca Childs.”
This is it. “Thank you, James. Thank you,” she said as she stood to polite applause. “But Thymirase was really a team effort—it wouldn’t have happened without the help of my incredibly talented colleagues. Some of whom are much better at public speaking than me, so thank you again, James, for making me face my fears!” The joke got a small amount of laughter.
“So, what I was supposed to talk about now,” she went on, “were the technical details of Thymirase—how it affects the protein kinases that build connections between neurons, the neurochemical boost this gives to a patient’s recall, and so on. But James has already done a very good job in his presentation of explaining what the drug will do to help sufferers of Alzheimer’s, so rather than repeat what’s already been said, I’d like to talk about something else instead.” She let James sweat for a moment, imagining his thoughts: Oh God, please don’t let the crazy hippie woman scare off the investors! “The reasons why I started the research that created Thymirase.”
James appeared relieved, if not entirely secure. Her audience, meanwhile, seemed intrigued. Even the most number-crunching capitalist could still appreciate a human interest story.
Bianca composed herself, trying to assemble what was essentially a huge ad lib. The last time she had done anything similar was an attempt at a performance piece while at university; she hoped this would be better received. She had tied back her long frizzy dark hair, but a strand had managed to work loose and drop down annoyingly over one eye, so she flicked it away before beginning.
“All long-term debilitating diseases have tragic costs,” she said, “both in the purely financial sense of treatment and care, and personally for the sufferers and their family. But Alzheimer’s is especially cruel, because not only is it currently incurable, but it destroys what makes people unique—what makes them them. If our personalities are defined by our experiences, by our memories, then Alzheimer’s literally kills who you are, one thought at a time. It’s painful for the sufferers when there’s still enough of them left to realize how much of their … soul, for want of a better word, has been eaten away. And it’s agonizing for their families, because they see someone they love being destroyed a little bit more each day, and there’s absolutely nothing they can do to stop it. I know how that feels, because I’ve watched it happen. Twice.”
She paused to draw breath and lick her drying lips. James was still on tenterhooks, not sure if she was helping or hindering. The investors, however, all watched with interest. Reassured, she continued.
“I’ve never talked about this much, because it’s still painful, even after the time that’s passed,” she confessed. “But when I was fifteen, my grandmother died after suffering from Alzheimer’s for several years. Seeing her reduced to a … a helpless shadow of herself was horrible, and what made it worse was that my mother was a nurse—she spent every day helping people, but there was nothing she could do to help her own mother. That was what started me on a medical career path—I wanted to do something more to help people like my grandmother.
“And then,” she went on, “five years later, when I was at university, my grandfather—on my father’s side—also died from Alzheimer’s. And it was just as painful to watch as it had been before.” Her throat suddenly felt raspy; she swallowed. “And again I felt … helpless. There was nothing I could do about it. After his funeral I decided that there should be something I could do. There had to be a way to help people who were dying from this horrible disease. So I made up my mind: I was going to find one. And now, ten years later, my greatest hope in the world is that … that Thymirase might be it.”
She blinked, startled to realize that she had begun to tear up. Reliving the past had been more affecting, more painful than she had expected. She was about to say something else when she was interrupted by another surprise. The investors were applauding her. Not in a Hollywood way, jumping to their feet with tears in their own eyes, but still out of more than mere politeness.
Cheeks flushing with sudden embarrassment, she offered stumbling thanks before sitting back down. “Well, thank you, Bianca,” said James with an approving—and relieved—nod. He turned to the investors, “I think that shows the kind of drive and determination that everybody working on Thymirase shares. Luminica Bioscience isn’t just about money—what we do is also from a personal desire to make the world better.”
Bianca wanted to tell him to stop the hard sell before he spoiled things, but fortunately it was now clear that the presentation was concluded. Hands were shaken, pleasantries exchanged; then those not directly involved in the business side of the deal decamped to let the money start talking. As Bianca headed for the exit, James quickly whispered: “Good story. I think it helped.”
“I meant everything I said,” she whispered back, mildly affronted. But he had already moved on. She huffed, then left the room.
She was looking forward to taking off her awful shoes, letting her hair down, and discussing the presentation with her friends, but instead she found two people—a raven-haired woman in a sharply cut trouser suit and a fair-haired man in his midthirties—waiting for her in the hallway. “Dr. Childs?” said the former.
“Yes?”
She held up an identity card. The name beneath her photo was Emma Sergeant, but Bianca’s eyes snapped to the turquoise logo in the card’s corner: the lion and unicorn of the royal coat of arms, symbol of the British government, with SECRET INTELLIGENCE SERVICE written beside it. MI6 was appended in a thinner gray typeface. “May we have a word, please? In private.”
Bianca almost laughed. “Is this a joke?” Why would MI6 possibly want to talk to her?
“It’s no joke,” said the man. He had an American accent. “It’s very important. We need to speak to you about Dr. Roger Albion.”
“Roger? I haven’t seen him for, I don’t know, three or four yea—” She stopped as a horrible fear struck her. “Is he all right? Has something happened to him?”
Her colleagues were still looking on curiously. “Can we talk in private, please,” said Sergeant, more as a command than a request.
“Er, okay.” Bianca gave a helpless shrug as she moved with the two visitors out of earshot. “What’s going on? What’s happened to Roger?”
“You do know him, then?” said the man.
“Yes, he was my professor when I was doing my doctorate. And my friend, too. Is he okay?”
“I’m afraid he’s in the hospital.”
“What happened to him?”
He lowered his voice. “He was shot.”
“Shot!” Bianca cried. “Oh my God!”
“He’s in a stable condition, but he’s had to undergo surgery, and is very weak. He’s asked to see you.”
“How did he get shot?” Bianca demanded, before coming up with another, more immediate question: “Who are you?”
The man took out his own ID card. “My name’s Tony Carpenter. I work for the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“The CIA?” Now she
was completely lost. “What’s Roger got to do with the CIA?”
“He was helping us with an operation. The reason we asked our British partners”—he nodded at Sergeant—“to find you is that Roger thinks you can help us too.”
“How? What kind of operation?”
“I can’t discuss that here, I’m afraid. But it’s a matter of national security. We have a jet waiting; we can talk about it on the flight.”
“On the flight? Wait a minute,” said Bianca, now feeling as if the ground had opened up under her feet and sent her tumbling down the rabbit hole. “I can’t just jet off to the States at the drop of a hat. I’m in the middle of something; I need to be here to answer questions for our investors …”
“We’ll take care of everything with Mr. Harding,” said Sergeant impatiently.
“And,” added Tony, “I’m very confident that the venture group is going to buy in to Luminica to secure the Thymirase research and patents, even without you here. Just a feeling.”
“How do you know about … oh. Right. CIA. MI6.” She gave the pair a disapproving frown. “I’m pretty sure there are laws against that.”
Sergeant looked to be struggling not to roll her eyes. “Dr. Childs, we can’t force you to go, but we—that is, Her Majesty’s Government—think it’s very important that you do. As Mr. Carpenter said, it’s a national security issue. Lives could depend on it.”
“I don’t understand how, though,” Bianca protested. “Roger’s in pharmaceutical research; he’s a neurochemist, like me. He helps develop medicines. How does that affect national security?”
“The best person to explain that is Roger himself,” said Tony. “He specifically asked to see you, and said you’re the only person capable of duplicating his work.”
“Me?” That came as a surprise; he was a friend, yes, but she’d had no idea he rated her so highly.
And what was his work? What could he be working on that was so important to the CIA and MI6? She had to admit, she was now curious …
The Shadow Protocol Page 7