Rupert considered making Nigel Small wait a little longer, but glancing at the clock on the wall above his desk, he saw that it was already later than he would like. He had a lot to do today, but he wanted to make sure he gave as much time to the Gen8tyx affair as it required. He was actually looking forward to Small's report.
"Deborah, please send him in."
Nigel Small, contrary to the image his name may project, was a giant of a man. According to his file, he had played pro-football for three years, making himself millions of dollars in the process. He was as shrewd a man as he was large. When a broken leg had forced early retirement, he had invested his money wisely, and had built a powerful business. His achievements were not to be compared with those of Rupert's, but for any other man, they were admirable.
Rupert had always suspected that there was more to Nigel than there seemed. In recent years, his business empire had grown considerably, perhaps faster than would ordinarily have been expected from any normal, successful entrepreneur. Rupert's contacts had fed him some useful information on Nigel's interesting business strategy. If his contacts were right, Rupert would be best advised not to underestimate the man. He could be dangerous.
"Nigel, thank you for coming. Please sit, make yourself comfortable. Can I offer you tea, coffee, perhaps something stronger?"
Rupert was a gracious host. Even if the hospitality was an act, those who were invited to meet the man always commented on his manners. Few realised that behind the warm welcome, was a calculated effort to allow Rupert to exert his power over his guests, to put them off guard, and to dominate their presence.
Nigel Small was not a stupid man however. He recognised the cold calculating eyes behind the famous Rohloff smile, and although he played along, he never let himself be fooled or lulled into a false sense of security or cordiality. Every meeting between these two men was a game of poker. A game which Nigel was honest enough to admit he seldom won. One day, he promised himself, that would change.
"So…I am looking forward to hearing your report on the Phase Two trials. Very much. But before you do, please update me on the situation in Miami and Orlando. In particular, I would also like to understand why I was not informed of the incident in South Africa?"
Rupert's opening card immediately threw Nigel off balance. How had he known about Alex Swinton's execution so quickly? It had only been two days ago?
"I apologise. There was no intention of not informing you. I just wanted to update you face-to-face. And to give you the good news personally."
Nigel reached inside his attaché case and pulled out a small black electronic device, which he placed upon the table in front of Rupert.
"The missing hard disk. It was recovered from Alex Swinton in South Africa, as I promised it would be, hidden in a left-luggage locker at the airport."
"Has it been analysed?"
"Of course. It contains the last remaining rogue copy of the Orlando File. The data has been downloaded, and I have left a copy with your secretary. With your permission, I will arrange for this to be returned to Sonderheim in Purlington Bay."
"Good…I knew I could rely upon you. However, I am still a little concerned about our friends at the Washington Post? I hear that Kerrin Graham has disappeared?"
Nigel went slightly red. It was not his fault that those who worked for him were incapable of completing their missions successfully. However, since he was in charge, it was he who took the blame.
"…It is true that at present we have not been able to locate him for over twenty four hours, but I am confident he will soon be found. We are also confident that he does not know as much as we had previously thought. Now we have recovered the last outstanding copy of the Orlando File, there is little chance he will find out much more about the Orlando Project."
"Are you confident, Nigel, or are you sure?" Rupert asked quietly. "There is a difference, after all…"
"At this stage we are only confident, but…"
"Then I expect you to take no action against him until you are 'sure'. The power of the press must not be underestimated. The Washington Post remains one of the biggest thorns in our side, and despite all attempts, our influence over them remains negligible."
"I understand. However, I believe that this matter will be resolved sooner rather than later."
"Make sure it is. You have seven days to do so. It will look very bad for you if you have not concluded the affair before the board meeting. Now, let's move on to other matters. Tell me how it is going in Purlington Bay!"
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Purlington Bay
Day Eighteen
Trevor Simons felt wonderful. He was standing outside on his balcony overlooking the bay, admiring the view and breathing in the fresh salty air. He had just eaten breakfast and it had been delicious. For the first time in months he could taste the fantastic flavour of the fresh coriander leaves he always had served on top of his eggs. That he would regain the full function of his taste buds was not something he had expected, and the sensation had pleasured him almost as much as the spontaneous sex he had enjoyed with his attractive nurse the night before.
He felt strong and powerful. His legs and arms pulsed with energy, and the confines of the room, no matter how pleasant they were, had begun to irritate him. It had only been four days since he had woken from the long induced sleep, but the changes he was noticing in his body on a daily basis both amazed and scared him.
What if the changes were only temporary?
To be shown a vision of how his body used to be, to experience such vitality again, only for his body to fail once more? That would be something he couldn't cope with. Over the years he had forgotten what it was like, but now the memories had been refreshed, to know and feel the life force within him again so strongly, to be able to make love twice in one evening, and feel aroused once again the next morning…to hear the birds singing clearly, and to see with the eyesight of a twenty year old…
Having tasted the fruit of the vine once again, he would settle for nothing less. No, if this was not permanent, Trevor would kill himself while the memory was still fresh.
In the meantime he was going to savour every single second of this energy. Every moment of the day would be a treasure, and every ounce of life would be lived to the full.
The doctors had taken samples of his blood every eight hours since he had arrived in the clinic. Today he would meet them and be informed of the results.
He glanced at his watch. 10.30am. The meeting was less than an hour away.
He showered and shaved, taking great pleasure in removing the strong stubble from his chin with the edge of his razor. It had grown in fast and dark, with no signs of the usual grey. He was almost tempted to leave it and let it develop into a beard.
His eyes were bright and the red blood vessels were gone. He looked great. He felt great. He prayed that the doctors would tell him he was great.
When he had put on his favourite pale brown slacks, and a thin blue cotton shirt, he opened the door to his room and strolled down the corridor of the clinic. As he walked past the other closed, white doors, each with its own two digit number on the front, he wondered if the other patients were responding to their treatment as well as he was to his. He hoped they were.
At the end of the corridor he came face to face with a pressing new dilemma. Should he take the elevator or the stairs down to the level below? He flexed his legs, bending down and almost touching his toes. He lifted one leg off the floor, bending it at the knee.
He was fit enough to take the stairs.
At the bottom of the steps he turned right and continued along the next corridor, following the sound of voices.
It was a long corridor, and as he made his way down it, the end seemed to get further and further away. His heart began to pound in his chest, and he suddenly felt exhausted and light headed. He needed to sit down.
The voices were just ahead of him now. He turned another corner and entered a communal area where seve
ral groups of people were sitting around tables, or lounging on soft, red sofas, drinking water or juices, reading, talking or simply watching the others around them.
Trevor found a seat and sat down. He bowed his head slightly trying to catch his breath. His heart was beating fast, and his legs were tired. As he acknowledged the symptoms he felt the fear surge within him. Fear that the treatment had not worked after all, fear that his body was not as strong as he had hoped. Fear that he was still going to die.
He felt a warm hand on his own, and he looked up to see his beautiful nurse kneeling in front of him, and looking caringly into his eyes.
"Trevor, are you okay?" she asked. "Did I not tell you to wait for me? You shouldn't be walking around by yourself."
"I feel terrible…tired…so tired…I don't think the treatment has worked!"
The nurse smiled back.
"No, that's not necessarily true. You must understand that you've been lying in your bed for a week, and apart from last night, you've not exercised at all during that time. It goes without saying that you will have some muscle atrophy, and that you need to start to exercising again, slowly… Being tired just now is normal. Don't worry, it's honestly to be expected. But you'll still have to take things easy for a while." She said reassuringly.
"Wait here, I'll get a wheelchair, and then I'll take you into the doctors. They're waiting for you with your results."
The nurse stood up and walked away, and as she did Trevor felt the panic within him subside.
'…Being tired just now is normal. Don't worry…' She had said.
He looked around him. There were about twenty other people in the room with him. Some old, some young. He noticed one or two familiar faces. Public faces, people of power and influence. One in particular caught his attention. He was in the far corner playing table tennis and his face was disturbingly familiar.
Just then the nurse returned pushing a wheelchair.
"Trevor, taxi's here… jump in!" she smiled.
"Rebecca, do you know who that man is over there? The one facing us playing table tennis?"
"I'm not really allowed to disclose details of any of the clients. Confidentiality is key here."
"He looks like old Sam Novak, the Senator for Texas. Is it his son?"
"Sam Novak's son is not a client at this clinic. However, if you are able to recognise Sam Novak yourself, I am not disclosing any confidential information to you, am I?" she winked.
Trevor looked at her, then glanced quickly back at the man, then back at Rebecca.
"That's Sam Novak? It can't be. Sam Novak was forced to retire five years ago due to ill health, Parkinson's I think it was, and he was significantly older than that man is…"
"I'm sorry, Trevor. I couldn't possibly comment." She said turning his wheelchair and pushing it towards the doctor's office. "Anyway, once you're done with the doctor, if you wish I could bring you back to talk to him…maybe you would like to play a game of table tennis together. I hear that Sam likes a good game with the newcomers, but I must warn you, he's as quick witted and sarcastic as they come, and nowadays his memory is as sharp as a pin. If you ever crossed him in the past, he'll remember you for it, and he’s certain to exact a cruel revenge from you over the table tennis table."
Trevor tried to turn around, straining to look at the table tennis player as Rebecca pushed him away. It seemed hard to believe that the old man was still alive, let alone playing table tennis, and with the agility and looks of someone almost twenty years younger than the eighty years of age he should be.
If the Orlando Treatment can do that for Sam Novak, it would only be a matter of time before Trevor Simons would be back out fishing for sharks on his deep sea fishing boat. Suddenly Trevor no longer felt tired.
Yep, he felt great again. Just great.
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Washington D.C.
Day Eighteen
6.45 a.m. E.S.T.
Buz Trueman was a hard man. Ex-marine, ex-senator, and more recently ex-husband, his divorce had just come through, he had few friends, and he really didn't care. He lived for power. And he had a lot of that.
Built like a tank, heavy and tall, regulation army hair-cut with large biceps and a big-barrelled chest, if he hadn't been a shrewd and intelligent businessman, he would have done well as boxer or a professional wrestler. The survivor of a street education in the Italian district of New York, he had first broken his nose in a fight at the tender age of seven. Buz had lost the fight, and he had never forgotten the shame he felt when he had limped home, blood pouring from between the fingers of his hand as he tried to stop the blood and hold his face together. His mother had hidden him from his father, a butcher who had arrived in New York from Italy just after the war, and when he had eventually asked his son about how it came to be broken, Buz had lied and said he had fallen over.
His father had laughed, and told them that the whole neighbourhood knew that his son had been beaten up in a fight, and that he had cried and run away. Buz senior had called his son a wimp, and had laughed some more.
After that Buz had deliberately sought out fights, often starting them himself, determined to prove himself and make his father proud of him. He lost twelve straight fights in a row before one day he almost killed a boy two years older than himself. When his father had picked his son up from the police station, he was smiling. On the way home, he took his son to the cinema, and bought him some ice-cream. His father hadn't stopped smiling for days.
After that, Buz never lost a fight again.
As he grew older, Buz's business acumen came to the fore. After a rather unspectacular stint in the Marines, he went back to New York and opened a stall selling electrical goods. Soon he had a proper shop, then a chain, which grew from one city to another. New York, Chicago, San Francisco, one by one his electrical business opened outlets in all the major cities across America.
As the years passed and the money began to roll in, he swapped the street brawling for the corporate boardroom, although it was well known but never proven that occasionally he would resort to the tactics of his youth to sort out a wayward business rival.
With a personal fortune estimated well in excess of $13billion dollars, he had everything he needed, apart from everything which he didn’t have. And he wanted that too. When Buz Trueman decided that he wanted something, no matter what it was, he got it.
Nowadays, there were few people on the American continent, or anywhere else for that matter, that would knowingly go up against him. Buz Trueman didn't take prisoners, and he seldom lost. He had built his empire through hard work, ruthless business practices, and more than anyone's normal fair share of luck.
But giving credit where credit is due, when Buz Trueman needed some luck and there wasn't any around, he went out and made his own. Or he would buy it.
To put it mildly, Buz Trueman was well-connected. Although officially he was not a politician, the number of Congressmen, Senators and even Presidents that were or had at one time or another been in his pay book, gave him more political clout than most of the Senators sitting in Washington.
His tentacles reached deep into the military, the FBI and CIA, and even controlled many of the upper echelons of the NSA. His information and security network was one of the most advanced in the U.S. and little of any importance slipped unnoticed past his network of spies, advisors and information gatherers.
Buz Trueman was indeed a well informed, powerful, and even dangerous man.
The ideal person to be in charge of Security Operations for the Chymera Corporation.
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Buz closed the door and walked quickly towards his desk. He reached the red phone just before it stopped ringing.
"Buz, I'm glad I caught you in. I wanted to discuss something with you. Something that concerns me."
Buz had just arrived in his Washington office, and hadn't even had time to hang up his coat on the old-fashioned mahogany coat stand in the corner of his palatial pen
thouse suite. The sun was only just rising over his stunning panoramic view of the city, and already his boss was calling him about work.
"Kendrick, good to speak to you. How can I help?"
"Buz, rumours are circulating amongst some of the Vice-Presidents of the Corporation about the Washington Post. What's it all about?"
Buz cursed under his breath. It was the Orlando affair again.
"Don't worry. It was a problem, but I'm hopeful that it should soon be sorted. The fact is David Sonderheim, the head of Gen8tyx made a complete balls up of the transition of power from Gen8tyx to Chymera. He had six of the former Gen8tyx executives killed, and now a relative of one of the deceased, who is incidentally a reporter for the Washington Post, has got hold of the story. Since then Sonderheim has authorised a series of badly concocted attempts to silence the man. I've discussed it with Rupert already. He was supervising the affair from afar, but now he has handed it over to me. We want it resolved, and fast."
"Why don't you just kill him?"
"We have reason to fear that the Washington Post may already be in a position to publish something…"
"Shit! The Phase Three trials are about to start! Listen Buz, can you take care of it before the next board meeting? Next week?"
"That's our goal. It doesn’t help that your guys have never been able to silence the Washington Post. They’re a bloody pain in the neck. Sonderheim's latest attempt alerted the reporter, a Mr Kerrin Graham, and he's gone underground. As soon as we locate him, we'll bring him in and find out what he knows. We'll take it from there. No more messing around. I'm only sorry that Sonderheim was allowed to run wild with this one for so long. He's a bloody scientist, not a politician."
"Agreed. Do your best, that's all I'm asking. Hey, is your name not down for Phase Three?"
The Orlando File Omnibus : (Omnibus Version-Book 1 & Book 2) Page 21