The Genesis Flaw

by L. A. Larkin

  ‘I was trying to help people, Serena. Please understand!’

  ‘Yes, I do, of course I do. But what happened?’

  He stared at the horizon.

  ‘To tell you would lead to my death.’

  ‘What? Are you trying to say they’d actually kill you?’ There was a hint of mockery in her voice, which she instantly regretted. Fortunately, it went straight over his head.

  ‘Serena, nobody can stop them. Go home and forget all this.’

  Serena couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. While she suspected their products were unsafe, she couldn’t imagine people at Gene-Asis actually murdering anyone.

  ‘So, why are you still alive?’ she challenged, doubting his sanity.

  ‘Me? Because I’m no threat to them now. The world thinks I had a mental breakdown. Who would believe a crazy old goat like me? Ah, but they didn’t expect me to turn up in Sydney, did they? Oh no. Heffernan and Grimes would have had the shit kicked out of them for that.’

  He almost smiled. ‘Did no good, though.’

  ‘So why are they victimising you?’

  ‘Because I tried to tell the truth. I tried to publish my Zimbabwean research.’

  ‘Were you developing Supercrop Ultra?’

  ‘No, one of its predecessors, Supercrop 13.’

  ‘Thirteen! But that’s been sold for years! My God, what’s wrong with it?’

  He stood up abruptly, peering down at her short-sightedly, his glasses still in his hand.

  ‘Do you have any family, Serena?’

  ‘Yes. Brother, niece ...’

  ‘Let this go and enjoy them while you still have them.’

  Serena stood, her feet sinking into the soft mud.

  ‘I can’t. I owe it to my dad. I have to know—could T-Speed canola have caused his lung cancer?’

  The professor placed his hand on her sunburned shoulder.

  ‘Yes, it’s possible. We had many problems with it, as we did with the rest of Supercrop 13. But the problems—well, they got buried.’

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m sorry, Serena.’

  Eventually she spoke, her voice small. ‘How does it bring on cancer?’

  ‘Through breathing the pollen. Our lab tests on rats showed the foreign DNA caused abnormal thickening of the lungs’ cells, which could lead to cancer.’

  Serena straightened, her face pale. ‘So, Gene-Asis knows it causes cancer?’

  ‘It depends what you mean by “knows”. You have to realise Gene-Asis does the absolute minimum in terms of testing before release. They don’t want to discover a problem: they simply want the product out on the market.’

  She swallowed. It felt like she had a stone stuck in her throat.

  ‘And Supercrop Ultra? What’s wrong with it? Will it cause cancer too?’

  He placed his glasses back on his nose and, tight-lipped, stepped into the water. ‘No, I’m not going there.’

  ‘Stop! Please,’ she called.

  He paused and looked around fearfully.

  ‘They’re trying to cover their tracks, to hide the truth …’

  He stopped.

  ‘I’ve said enough.’

  ‘The truth about what?’

  He touched his dripping beard, tugging at it, agitated.

  ‘You haven’t listened to me, have you? You’ll get hurt. All I’ll say is that Supercrop Ultra is a finger in the dyke. It’s only temporary. It’s a band-aid, not a cure.’

  ‘A cure for what?’

  He smiled ruefully.

  ‘Remember, Serena, I’m crazy.’

  ‘When did you hand the report over to Gene-Asis?’

  ‘Sixth of December 2011; I remember it well,’ he said, sighing loudly, head down, staring at the water lapping around his ankles.

  ‘So who would have a copy?’

  ‘If one exists, it will be in a maximum-security file.’

  ‘But surely if Supercrop Ultra is a cover-up for earlier errors, then the scientists who developed the latest range would have to use your research as reference?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, wringing his hands.

  ‘Yes, you do! Help me! There are four scientists behind Supercrop Ultra. They’re Singh, Xu, Koch, and Munroe, who’s gone missing. Surely they had access to it?’

  ‘Philip Munroe is missing?’

  ‘Yes. He criticised your work, didn’t he?’

  ‘He worked with me in Zimbabwe. He was in charge. If he’s gone missing, I guess the poor bastard must’ve stepped out of line.’

  ‘You think so?’

  He nodded. Serena watched him for a moment as he kicked at the lake’s surface. Despite the sun’s first rays on her body, a cold dread chilled her. ‘You think he’s … dead?’

  ‘I hope not,’ he answered.

  Serena stepped into the water so that she could face the professor, trying hard to control her mounting fear.

  ‘Would these scientists have seen your original research?’

  ‘Possibly. Yes, probably.’

  ‘Would anyone else in Australia have seen it?’

  ‘Yes, the Asia-Pacific CEO.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Al Bukowski, of course.’

  They stood in silence. The mist among the reeds had cleared and the sun beat down on them. Apart from their voices, there was not a sound; not a ripple on the water, not a crack of branches, not a bird song.

  ‘I’ve said too much. I must be mad.’

  He swam off, fracturing the still water like it had been rent into shards of broken glass. A cloud moved across the sun, plunging the lake into shadow, and a magpie swooped over her head, forcing her to duck. She ran into the water after him, asking him to stop. He ignored her and reached the lake’s shore.

  ‘Wait!’

  He paused, shivering in the trees’ shade. She dragged herself out of the water. He glared at her.

  ‘Never come near me again. Never! I want nothing to do with this.’

  Red-faced with rage, he shoved her away. Shocked at his sudden mood change, Serena silently watched him disappear into the trees.

  Chapter 17

  Serena wanted to get out of Shelleyman Bay fast. It was clear that the two cops were not protecting McPherson but were in the pocket of Gene-Asis. They probably received a nice little kickback for guarding the poor man. As soon as she had mobile coverage, she called the airline and brought her return flight forward to eleven o’clock that day. This left four long hours before she could find herself in the comparative security of the plane.

  Serena parked outside her holiday apartment. Four backpackers laughed loudly, jostling for pavement space as they walked by. The cars parked along the street were empty. Except for the woman who owned the units, who waved at her from her kitchen, Serena couldn’t see anyone watching her. There was no police car in sight.

  Serena raced up the steps to the second floor and unlocked the apartment door. A salty sea breeze blew through the rooms; her balcony door was wide open. Had she left it open this morning? She thought she’d locked it but, in her agitated state, couldn’t be sure.

  Heeding the professor’s warning, she took a kitchen knife from a block of six on the workbench. She stepped quietly through the open plan lounge/kitchen. Nothing had been disturbed. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, but not enough to see inside. She opened it, slamming the door against the wall. The horizontal window slats were open, as she had left them, and the orange muslin curtains of her four-poster billowed softly in the breeze. There was no sign of an intruder. Lastly, she checked the bathroom, and then returned the knife to its block. She took a very deep breath and released it slowly. She noticed a trickle of red down her knee: the swim must have opened up the wound. She found a Band-Aid in her toiletries bag, which she placed over the cut.

  ‘A band-aid. Not a cure.’ A cure for what?

  She threw her overnight bag onto the bed. Something rectangular and flat moved on the pillow. She hadn’t noticed it t
his morning. No, she was positive it hadn’t been there. From where she stood, it looked like a very old photograph. Moving a few steps closer, she picked it up.

  It was indeed a photograph, in colour, of two people on a dusty track: a man and a woman arguing. His arms were raised in anger. One corner of the photograph had been burned away, leaving the edges charred and brown. Serena examined it closely, and her eyes widened in horror as she recognised herself and McPherson on the track outside his house. It had been taken yesterday afternoon. As a result of the burned corner, half of Serena’s body had disappeared from the picture.

  She spun around, dropping it on the bed, eyes darting around the room. How had they got in? Serena was certain she’d locked the balcony doors, so had they forced the lock? Or had they been given a key to the apartment? Serena shuddered. Grimes and Heffernan must have followed her back to the professor’s house and taken this photograph yesterday. What if they’d seen her this morning?

  Terrified they might turn up at any moment, she threw her clothes and toiletries into her bag. Tempted to tear up the photograph, she decided to keep it. If anything happened to her, it might be a clue. Picking it up as if it were a poisonous insect, she dropped it in her bag. It landed face down. On the back were five words written in thick black marker pen:

  ‘LOVED ONES ARE SO PRECIOUS.’

  Sucking in air, she stared at the words. Her hand shot up to her mouth. Then, yanking the bag from the bed, she ran to her car, leaving the apartment door wide open.

  Chapter 18

  Serena stared out of the airplane window at the tropical storm clouds below, repeating to herself that she was safe. Pressing the button on her control panel, she asked the flight attendant for another glass of white. To hell with it. Once he returned with the wine, Serena tuned into the latest news coverage. She tried to focus on the screen in front of her, keen to forget the last twenty-four hours. But her mind was on overdrive.

  Serena had what she’d longed for: confirmation from a Gene-Asis scientist that T-Speed should be taken off the market and investigated. But instead of feeling victorious, she felt only sadness that her dad’s death could have been prevented. She remembered the phone conversation with him shortly after he’d bought T-Speed: how excited he’d been about the promise of this fast-growing canola which meant an additional crop each year. With the extra money, he was going to visit the UK and spend time with her.

  She shook her head: the memories were too painful. She tried to focus on what she’d learned about the Zimbabwe research but the image of the photograph on her pillow kept returning. The professor had called himself a coward, but she now understood the paralysing nature of fear. The photograph had done more to disturb her than had any verbal threats. This was no longer just about her; her family had become involved. How much did Gene-Asis know about them? She had stumbled across Gene-Asis’ Achilles heel—the professor’s incriminating report. But she couldn’t track down this report if it endangered her family.

  Through her headphones, the news reporter’s voice cut into her thoughts. Two huge fires had broken out on the Central Coast and 300 fires were burning in country Victoria. Another fire in the Royal National Park had forced road closures, and the evacuation of Bundeena and Engadine. Firefighting resources were stretched to the limit. It was depressing viewing.

  ‘We have just received news that the body of Tony Mancini, CEO and Senior Vice President of Gene-Asis Asia-Pacific, was found hanging in his office …’

  Serena sat forward and gawped at the screen.

  ‘The exact timing of his suicide is unclear, but we do know that his body was found by his PA, Karen Connelly. We understand there was no suicide note but his death is not being treated as suspicious. He leaves behind him a wife and a three-month-old son. A private funeral was held yesterday at Beauty Point Catholic Church, attended only by close family.’

  The image on screen then cut to Mr Mancini’s brother, Marco, standing outside a suburban house.

  ‘We don’t understand why. He was so happy. He couldn’t get enough of Tom, his son. The day before he died, he was telling me they were planning to have another kid. So why would he commit suicide?’ Marco broke down and sobbed.

  There was another cut, to a crowd of baying reporters. They surrounded Al Bukowski outside the Gene-Asis building in Sydney, barking questions at him, shoving microphones in his face. He raised his hands, hushing them, and the reporters quietened. The camera zoomed in on his face and, for the first time, Serena could study his features. Two dark-brown eyes, deep-set into a heart-shaped face, looked into the camera. He appeared sombre, and spoke slowly and deliberately, with a firmness that denied any weakness and forbade interruption. He betrayed nothing of the fury that Serena had no doubt he felt over the leak.

  ‘I am greatly saddened by Tony Mancini’s death. He worked tirelessly to feed the Asia-Pacific region, to help farmers increase their yields. He passionately believed, as I do, that, despite climate change and our growing population, Gene-Asis can win the war on hunger. But he was more than CEO of our Asia-Pacific operations: he was a good friend of mine. I will be doing all I can to comfort his grieving widow and family. And, on their behalf, I ask you, the media, to respect this family’s privacy. That’s all. Thank you.’

  As he turned to enter the Gene-Asis building, a reporter from the Sydney Morning Herald yelled at him, ‘Mr Bukowski, who will be taking over operations here?’

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he replied, ‘I personally will be running the Asia-Pacific operations for however long it takes to appoint his successor.’

  ‘But what about the launch in New York?’ persisted the same reporter, clearly surprised that the Global CEO was staying in Australia.

  ‘I will, of course, be attending it, Ms Harvey, as I hope you will be. This is our most exciting product launch yet.’

  He smiled the whitest, broadest smile Serena had ever seen. The reporter was apparently speechless, shocked and flattered that he knew her name. His charisma was undeniable, his confidence unwavering. Even Serena had to admit he handled the situation well. Plain-clothed bodyguards began escorting him into the Gene-Asis building, barring the entrance. ‘Is it true he was worried about product safety?’ shouted a Daily Telegraph reporter.

  Bukowski looked back, his eyes narrowed. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘But why hang himself at work?’ the reporter persisted.

  Bukowski ignored the question and disappeared into the building.

  Serena didn’t hear the next news piece—her mind was racing. The Asia-Pacific CEO had hung himself in his own office! No wonder Bukowski hadn’t wanted it to leak. It was as if Mancini were making a statement: he couldn’t go on with his work. Perhaps she was leaping to conclusions but Dr Munroe had been seen arguing with Mancini just before he disappeared. Over what? Safety issues? Supercrop Ultra? What if Munroe had been part of the team trying to ‘correct’ the safety issues in the Ultra range, the very same issues that Dr McPherson had identified in his 2011 report? And now Munroe was missing, Mancini was dead and McPherson was terrified witless.

  She quickly tapped out an email to Tracey:

  ‘Hey there. This is my new email address.

  The news is out about Mancini but I guess you already know that? There has to be a connection between Mancini’s suicide (in his office!), Mancini’s argument with Munroe and the prof’s concerns about Supercrop Ultra, which Bukowski is determined to launch in a week’s time. Any thoughts? And any news on Munroe’s whereabouts?’

  Serena added her new mobile number and pressed ‘Send’—her email would go when she landed and had synched her phone. She needed Tracey’s detective-like instincts on this.

  She took a few more sips of her wine and peered down at the dry red earth below. The sunlight poured in through the tiny window and, like stage footlights, lit up her face. At first she smiled, her eyes bright with excitement. If recent events were linked, as she believed, there was a trail of Gene-Asis cover-ups waiting to be
unearthed. She crossed her arms, her glass still balanced in her right hand. Unearthing them would be a challenge, but she’d spent the last ten years chasing and winning business from some of the most demanding clients in the world and she felt up to it. She knew that information was king, and she’d managed to discover details about her prospective clients that had given her the edge over her competitors. She would find the professor’s report.

  Her fair eyebrows creased into a frown and she felt a twinge in her stomach as anxiety began to well up inside her. She could only continue her investigations if she found a way to protect her family. Keith, his pregnant wife, Kerry, and their little girl, Katie, meant everything to her, despite the fact she’d neglected them over the last few years. Swift Farm now belonged to Keith. Keeping a watchful eye out for unwanted visitors over 443 hectares would not be easy. Keith would be out in the fields all day and Katie at school, which left Kerry alone in the house fairly often, except when she popped into town. If the threat were real—and after seeing the professor’s fear she believed it was—then someone would need to patrol the farm. What would her dad do?

  She glanced down at his old watch and ran her finger over its scratched face. Her father had been much loved by the local community. He’d coached the local junior footy team for years and was always willing to help out his neighbours: one year, he’d raised money for Mary Keane when she’d lost everything in a house fire. Over a hundred people had turned up for his funeral, including a number of officers from the local police force. Senior Sergeant Shane Weston had, with Sergeant Jim Evans, stood apart from the rest of the group, their heads respectfully bowed, in full uniform. Her dad had taught them to play footy when they were boys. Could she call in a favour? After all, if Gene-Asis could use Heffernan and Grimes to intimidate McPherson and anyone who came near him, why couldn’t she ask Shane to keep a protective eye on her family?

  Serena nodded and swallowed the last drops in her glass. She’d talk to Shane and Keith after she’d landed. But how to get her hands on McPherson’s report?