The Illusion of Smoke: The Prequel

by Ivee Olivares



  THE ILLUSION OF SMOKE

  A SONNCLERE MYSTERY

  Ivee Olivares

  Copyright 2013 Ivee Olivares

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means - electronic (Internet), mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording or otherwise - without prior permission in writing from the author. Exception to the rule would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organisations, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Furthermore, while the author endeavours to thoroughly research her topics especially on science, she cannot claim that her facts are one hundred per cent accurate. In many cases, she exercises artistic license and would not hesitate to stretch the truth for literary effect.

  For more information, visit:

  www.IveeOlivares.com

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  READ ON...

  BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  To mdb, Ian,

  who was there at the start.

  The first one is for you.

  PROLOGUE

  Hartford County, Connecticut, USA

  Friday, May 7, 09:04 pm

  Dr Madeleine Mitchell steered her black Jeep Cherokee along the farm's single lane dirt road. Though it was dark—just her headlights and a sliver of moon in a starless sky to guide her—she reckoned she could manage the drive blindfolded. After slogging back and forth on this track almost every day for the past ten years, she had memorised every dip, bend and pothole along the way.

  The earth-scented breeze drifting through her open window made her shiver. Madeleine tucked a curl of chestnut hair behind her right ear and peered into the darkness. All that her eyes could see, plus what lay hidden in the shadows, belonged to her. She owned over a thousand acres, empty for the most part but for a few trees and shrubs. Once fertile tobacco land, the farm had been left to grow wild, encouraging an increase in the number of crickets. Mesmerised, she listened to their cheery chirping. Or stridulating, if she wanted to be more accurate. But no one was around to share that particularly felicitous word with. Madeleine sighed. Apart from the company of crickets and other silent nocturnal wildlife, she was quite alone.

  She had been more than halfway home to her apartment in the city when she realised that she had forgotten her cell phone at the laboratory. Although her phone was the latest in cellular technology, she didn't actually use it much, especially at work. She was specifically careful not to utilise it to upload or transfer sensitive data. Wireless systems were easily hacked. But tonight, she was expecting a phone call from an old colleague. Not one to waste time, she turned around and drove straight back.

  She had bumped into Dr Warren Thomas on a rare shopping trip to Manhattan a year ago. While taking a breather at a patisserie near Barney's on Madison Avenue, she had felt the heat of someone's stare. Glancing up, she was startled by Warren's electric blue eyes, and she spilled the cappuccino she had been enjoying. She hadn't seen Warren since her abrupt departure from Medtech Pharmaceuticals over a decade ago, and yet she recognised him immediately. The years had not diminished his good looks or his athletic physique. Unlike him, she had to work hard and spend inordinate amounts of money to keep her youthful appearance, which she deemed important as a female as well as a professional in the field of science.

  Madeleine couldn't help but feel a twinge of bitterness and resentment. Whereas she had retreated in disgrace, the smart and talented Warren had climbed Medtech's ladder. While she had skulked in the backwaters of Hartford County, he had reached the top in the medical research and development field. It should have been her with the accolades and promotions. She had sacrificed so much for her work. Where was the reward for her dedication? Her prize for her contribution to science?

  Madeleine fell back against her seat and breathed heavily. She had tried and failed to hoist the blame for her shameful dismissal on others. Her bosses at Medtech first; her ex-husband second. Sadly, she knew her spectacular fall from grace had been her own doing. She couldn't escape the truth. It would be pointless to take it out on Warren as well.

  As charming as he was ambitious, Warren insisted that she give him her number, promising he would call. Several months later, she was surprised when he actually did. Now he was in town for business—a long way from Medtech's headquarters in New Jersey. And before she could stop herself, she had agreed to meet him for drinks to catch up on the past she had struggled to put behind her. The fact that she normally finished work late did not discourage him.

  'Why not, Mads?' he said over the phone. His voice sounded as rich and smooth as the single malt scotch whiskey he favoured.

  Why not indeed? She smiled, picturing his thick dark hair and broad shoulders. She imagined his bright blue eyes twinkling in amusement as if he could read her mind. He was now divorced; so was she. And he had always had a soft spot for her. Besides, he pointed out, he had been one of the few who had shown her sympathy during the scandal. He had been on her side. More importantly, he didn't call her Mad Mitchell or Mad Doctor as the others did.

  'You owe me a drink. How about it? For old times' sake.'

  She had also forgotten how persuasive he could be.

  The jeep hit a pothole, jerking her out of her reverie. Madeleine swore. She had allowed herself to be distracted, which was not like her. Worse, she found herself beginning to relax. Evidence: she had made a date to have drinks with a former colleague tonight. Unfortunately, she couldn't afford to be complacent. Not yet. She had spent nearly a decade working on a special project at her lab. This project would make up for all that had happened, for all her pain and humiliation. It would right all the wrongs in her life. And pay exceedingly well, if she played all the angles just right. Her work was almost done. The end was in sight. She needed a few more days to verify results of the last round of tests. Only then would she allow herself to truly relax.

  The Cherokee's headlights illuminated the main barn. Normally, Madeleine would park under the large oak tree in front. Tonight, however, she drove around the barn to the back entrance and turned off the engine. The back door was closer to her office.

  The lab was a complex of converted barns and various outbuildings in a long abandoned tobacco plantation. She had been fortunate enough to purchase, refit and operate it from funds raised from her inheritance and her divorce settlement. Gene, she thought of her ex-husband for a minute. They hadn't spoken in ages. Would he approve of her work? Or would he think she'd become genuinely mad?

  In any case, she had chosen this isolated farm f
or its history as well as its privacy. The dirt road guaranteed little outsider traffic. The isolation suited her research purpose and provided a secure place for the lab away from prying eyes.

  The Connecticut River Valley, where Hartford lies, had had a long history of growing tobacco. Native Americans began the tradition by cultivating the nicotine-rich plant along the banks of the river. The area became well known for its broadleaf and shade tobacco, the type used as outer covers or wrappers for fancy cigars: difficult to grow, but a premium product. Sadly, due to intense competition from other tobacco producers in Ecuador, the Honduras, the Dominican Republic and other countries, tobacco production in the US had declined considerably. Comparably, many of the plantations surrounding her farm had been abandoned, their barns and auxiliary buildings left to rot. There were a few stubborn farms still in operation, though. Tobacco planting usually began in May. Driving to the lab in the summer, she would see white cloth tents erected to protect the leaves from harsh sunlight. And after harvest in August, she would breathe in the sweet scent of curing tobacco seeping out from the drying sheds. The valley had the right conditions: good climate and loose, drainable soil. Perfect also for her requirements.

  Her main barn, decrepit on the outside, disguised a small but state-of-the-art laboratory inside. The other buildings concealed modern greenhouses and storerooms for the special crops and seeds. None of the buildings would attract unwanted attention from the neighbours, even if she were worried about the neighbours. The nearest working farm was miles away.

  In any case, for extra security, Don, her lab manager lived on the premises as a caretaker. He grew vegetables and raised cows and pigs—enough to make his cover convincing. Don also handled security within the lab. Recently, she had him add closed-circuit cameras that fed footage to an off-site location, where it was also archived.

  'Aren't you being paranoid?' Don asked when she instructed him to purchase the latest surveillance equipment. It had cost a minor fortune.

  'Perhaps I am,' she retorted, grinning. 'You know the saying—it's better to be safe than sorry.' Afterwards, Don teased her about being a control freak. A mad freak perhaps?

  Alighting from her jeep, Madeleine noticed that the building Don occupied was unlit. She remembered he was visiting his elderly mother in a neighbouring county. Even though his mother wasn't seriously ill, Madeleine didn't feel it was appropriate to dissuade him from spending time with her. In any event, he would be back by the weekend. What could happen in one night?

  As she approached the steel-reinforced wooden door of the barn, she could smell the faint aroma of cured tobacco seeping out of the old woodwork. Inside, she quickly disabled the security system. She didn't bother to turn on the lights; she knew her way around in the dark. She planned to be in and out. It shouldn't take her long to find her phone.

  Moving quietly through the lab, she immediately saw the mess and frowned. Jane, her new lab technician, wasn't the tidiest of workers. While she encouraged riotous propagation in the fields for other reasons, neatness and orderliness in the lab were essential to the accuracy of their work. Inopportunely, at a critical moment in the project, her long-time technician and friend, Linda, had had an accident. Eight months ago, Linda's car had been blindsided by a speeding car, and shoved hard into a tree. The other driver had taken off without slowing to see how Linda was. Hit and run. It was pure luck that Madeleine had finished at the lab earlier than usual that day and had come upon the scene. She called 911. An ambulance arrived after the longest fifteen minutes she'd lived through. If the crew had come fifteen minutes later, Linda wouldn't have survived, the doctors told Madeleine at the hospital. Eight months in, and Linda was still undergoing rehab, learning how to walk again.

  At any rate, Jane had come highly recommended by Don. While Madeleine didn't trust anyone completely, she didn't have time to make her usual discreet inquiries before hiring qualified staff. Besides, Jane's credentials and references seemed to check out. And apart from her messy habits, she was conscientious and quiet, a shy, little mouse.

  Madeleine could see that Jane had cleaned the test tubes, pipettes, Petri dishes and beakers, but hadn't put them away properly. At least not in the specific manner Madeleine instructed. Madeleine made a mental note to remind Jane again as she stored the items away herself.

  How she missed Linda. Just when they had reached a breakthrough that brought the project so much closer to successful completion, she'd had the mishap. How she'd wished Linda had been here to celebrate the project's turning point with the rest of the team. Unlike her own treatment by her former employers at Medtech, Madeleine would make sure her friend reaped the benefits and rewards of her dedication and hard work.

  Madeleine climbed the stairs to her office at the mezzanine floor. She switched on a lamp and rummaged through her desk. The cell phone was under a sheaf of papers she had forgotten to file in her eagerness to meet Warren. She checked her phone: two missed calls and one text message. All from Warren. She texted him back. Am on my way. Will go directly to the bar near your hotel. Except half an hour later, she failed to notice that she was still clearing up her desk.

  Until she heard a noise.

  It sounded like the heavy door at the front entrance swinging open. Madeleine froze. Coming to her senses, she switched off the desk lamp, plunging the room in blackness. She went over to the door and opened it a crack. Seconds later, she spotted the intruder. He wore a black mask and jumpsuit and carried a large black bag. She watched him pad cautiously through the lab floor. Who was he? And how had he gotten in? She was alarmed by his boldness. Then she remembered that she hadn't reset the security system when she entered. She hadn't anticipated staying this long.

  The intruder paused as if sensing Madeleine's presence. Madeleine held her breath. After a second, the intruder acted peculiarly. Rather than turning on a flashlight and searching the place for valuables, he ignored all the expensive equipment in the main work area and headed for the backroom. Straight for the lab's safe.

  Madeleine exhaled, as if realising at that instant she was still alive and, therefore, needed to breathe again. Nonetheless, she remained motionless as she considered what to do next.

  The laboratory safe was built into the wall. It had a sophisticated combination lock that discouraged the use of an auto dialler. Unlike in the movies, such a machine would have to cycle through thousands of combinations, which could take several hours. The safe's door and inner walls were also made of steel and composite aggregate material. They should be impervious to any portable x-ray devices that might be used to aid cracking the safe's combination. The only weak spot in the safe was the face of the lock itself. Moments later, she heard the whir of drilling equipment.

  The sound startled her. Now Madeleine became more alarmed. For one, this was not a common burglar. Questions ran through her mind. How had he known where to find the safe? How did he know what equipment to use? Judging by the decisiveness of his actions, the burglar couldn't have had time to try an x-ray machine, or auto dialler for that matter. The intruder seemed familiar with the lab and the safe. Too familiar. And yet Madeleine could count on her fingers the number of persons who had access to the lab. Apart from the safe's installers, they consisted of her employees.

  Her first thought was of Don. Had he been here, would this be happening? Was the burglar aware Don was going to be away? How had her caretaker conveniently chosen tonight to be absent? Her next suspicion was Jane, the new lab technician, of course, and Don's recommendation. Could they be in this together? They had become close, Madeleine remembered now. Romance seemed to be in the air, except Madeleine couldn't figure out what he saw in her. Then she counted her researchers, Abbie, Bill and Zack, who specialised in Biochemistry, Plant Molecular Biology and Genome Sequencing respectively. Lately, the three had been becoming friendlier with each other, going out together often after work hours even though she adamantly discouraged fraternisation among her staff.

  Could it be one of them? It h
ad to be. It was too dim to tell which one, but only her employees would realise what was stored inside the safe. Or at least have an inkling that she stowed the product, seeds and samples of the work in progress there. Except none of her employees knew exactly what the project was really all about.

  The advantage of a small operation with a handful of staff was the ability to maintain close control. In creating a private laboratory, she limited contact with the scientific community. She also vetted employees thoroughly and restricted and monitored their internet activity. On top of that, Madeleine took extra precaution with regards to information. She made sure it was segmented, and she broke up work responsibility and activity such that each employee had access to only a part of it. Crucially, data on paper was constantly shredded and burned, and data on computers encrypted. Her research was too important for her not to be paranoid. Still, it wasn't inconceivable that after working so long in the same lab, her employees would eventually figure it out. They were intelligent people after all.

  In addition, if they had guessed the true purpose of her work, they would also know that a break-in wouldn't be reported to the authorities. The safe wasn't connected to any alarm. And even if no one would hear them breaking into the safe, their only risk was being caught on the closed-circuit cameras. Hence, the black suit.

  Madeleine's first instinct was to protect her work. Fortuitously, she had already taken care of that. Only she knew where the research notes and items were kept. They were already locked away in a secure place. She had emptied the safe yesterday, a couple of days ahead of schedule. She had become increasingly vigilant as the project neared completion.

  As far as Madeleine could discern, the burglar's efforts were going to be in vain. He wouldn't find anything in the safe or in the rest of the lab no matter how hard he searched. Her mother used to say: you never keep your valuables where they are expected to be found. Her advice applied to jewellery and money. Her mother should know. She had plenty of those. It made sense for Madeleine to adapt the same principle in her research. No one knew except her. And the intruder wouldn't get anything from her if he tried.

  Furthermore, with regards to the lab safe, Madeleine was also one step ahead. Before set up, she'd had the manufacturer put in an additional feature she designed herself. While other safes had auxiliary locking mechanisms triggered by drilling, she had had a special device built in. Rather than just locking out the safe completely, this one also released a chemical that seared the skin, thus branding the culprit for life and making identification a lot simpler.

  Abruptly, Madeleine heard a commotion coming from the back room. The burglar lurched out, his screams muffled by his black headgear. He was holding his arms out in front of him, as far as he could stretch them. His hands were on fire, like flaming heads on a couple of matchsticks. It transpired that the black suit and gloves he wore were not fire proof. Instead of protecting its wearer, the material had reacted with the chemical booby trap and set him alight. However, as the burglar staggered across the lab floor, he clapped onto a desk piled with paper and a few cardboard boxes. The items rapidly ignited. Wailing, the burglar fled out the front entrance.

  Madeleine grabbed her handbag and made for the stairs. As she ran down, the point of one of her heels caught on a step. Screaming, she tumbled down, landing on the lab's stone floor. Perhaps she blacked out for a second. When she came to, she could see that the flames had already spread. The lab was on fire. Even if she could reach the extinguisher, she knew it would be useless—the fire was too big already.

  Madeleine coughed and choked as she watched the flames envelop the space. Her eyes smarted from the smoke. She had to get out fast. It was too late to save her lab. Not that it mattered anymore. Her security had been compromised. Who would she trust now?

  With the burglar gone, Madeleine should have also felt relief. Yet once again she was alarmed. Although the lab's security system wasn't wired to alert Hartford County's Fire Department, it wouldn't be long before the flames would gain momentum. Smoke would rise up to the sky, reminiscent of a Native American smoke signal. And even if they would barely see it in the Connecticut evening, residents would soon smell it and call the authorities. How long would it take the fire engines to arrive?

  Truthfully, it wasn't the fire fighters she worried about. It was the investigation that would be conducted after the fire. The authorities would want to learn the nature of her research. They would ask lots of questions, demand explanations. It would only spell big trouble for her. Not that the Hartford PD had proven to be especially sharp. When the officers grilled her about Linda's accident, she replied that they had been on their way home after a day's work on the farm. For a while, Madeleine waited anxiously for the police to follow up with more queries. Except they didn't. Perhaps they assumed she had been referring to an honest-to-goodness working farm. To be fair, why would they think otherwise? This time it would be a different kind of investigation. Madeleine didn't need to consider the options. There were none. Only one.

  She searched for her handbag and hobbled out the front door with one broken shoe. She forgot she had parked at the back. Limping her way around the barn, she also realised she had left her phone on the desk again. Hopefully, it would burn and erase her connection with the lab. Warren was already waiting for her at the bar. Madeleine sighed. She couldn't go back for it again. Sorry, Warren. Hope you'll forgive me for standing you up. Perhaps it's just as well. With his charm, she might have found herself confiding things she would later regret.

  She climbed into her Cherokee and drove off, stopping at a safe distance. Inside the jeep, she retrieved the slim black remote control from a secret pocket deep inside her handbag. It was the one gadget she never misplaced. Never forgot. She keyed in the passcode to unlock the device. She paused a beat, appreciating the magnitude of what she was about to do. She hadn't anticipated she'd ever need to use it. Then she remembered the storerooms. She had been meaning to empty them, dispose of the stock. Too late now. Circumstances were forcing her hand. All of a sudden, Madeleine was glad she had a back-up plan. Her work here was done. Grimly, she pressed the red button.

  'Boom,' she said quietly as the main barn with the modern lab exploded with a violent bang. A giant ball of fire ignited the dark starless sky followed by plumes of smoke that eclipsed the thin crescent moon. Shortly after, a series of smaller explosions erupted obliterating the other buildings as well as all the incriminating evidence. The Cherokee rocked in the force of the explosions and its windows shook with the intense pressure and heat. Madeleine shielded her face in case the windshield shattered. The noise would have surely woken up her neighbours. Not just from a few miles away, but within the whole county. Madeleine watched the flames. It was a beautiful, beguiling spectacle. In a short while, all traces of her research and laboratory would be lost. The thought tore at her heart. Nearly ten years of her sweat and blood gone up in smoke. Not to mention millions of dollars' worth of investment. But the money was the least of her worries. If all worked out, she would recover it, and much more besides.

  The smoke started to billow towards the jeep. Madeleine reached for the emergency gas mask stowed under the passenger seat. Smoke inhalation can be deadly. Except this wasn't just any kind of smoke. This particular smoke would have far more disturbing effects. Later on, she would learn from news reports that the smoke had disoriented and distracted the fire crew, police and other emergency services, causing confusion as they responded to the incident. In fact, the smoke hung over the nearby farms for more than a day, leaving people wandering around in an insouciant daze. It would take a while for the residents of Hartford County to recover. When they did, they wouldn't remember, much less understand, what came over them that night.

  After one last long, hard look, Madeleine quickly drove away.

  ONE

  London, United Kingdom

  Sunday, May 9, 8:06 am

  I've never really understood the attraction of travel. In this case, I refer to flying
abroad. Jetting off to another country. For me, there are two reasons to get on a plane. The first is for business, which is why I am on the M25 motorway on this grey and gloomy morning less than half an hour away from Heathrow Airport. Unhappily, it is a trip that can't be helped. The second reason to get on a plane is for pleasure. That holds absolutely no interest to me.

  I appreciate, though, that I am probably alone in my sentiments. Each year, millions of Britons fly out of the thirty major airports around the United Kingdom, five of them centred round London. What's more, a huge and ever increasing number of travellers fly for pleasure. To date, popular holiday destinations are a short hop over to the continent. Nearby Spain, France and Portugal are convenient stops. Recently, however, holidaymakers aspire to journey farther afield. They venture out to exotic locations: Croatia, Dubai, and Thailand, to name a few. People I know, mostly colleagues, prefer warm climes, ideally by the beach, or anywhere that promises a reprieve from the often dismal British weather. The ability to travel to far and distant lands has inadvertently influenced British food habits. Disconcertingly, I've noticed more and more unfamiliar foods now available in the supermarkets: Serrano ham, Jamaican Jerk chicken, Turkish halva, among other things. When did such items become so commonplace as to be available at the corner shop? The British are becoming more and more adventurous. Unlike me.

  The first problem I have with travelling is the taxi ride to Heathrow.

  'What terminal did you say, Dr Sonnclere?' the driver asks. He grins at me through the rear view mirror in an attempt to start a conversation. When he speaks, the cab fills with the smell of his thick breath.

  Tobacco ... Ugh! ... Bacon, fried egg, butter ...

  I try not to cringe and open the window wider instead. The cab itself is inoffensive. It's a fairly new Vauxhall Estate and reeks of glass polish and leather. When I book cabs, I specifically request the dispatcher for a non-smoking driver.

  'But smoking isn't allowed in our cabs. It's the law,' the dispatcher explains.

  I try to reason that I have a sensitive nose. Living in a densely populated city such as London, I cannot avoid the smell of smoke, whether it's from a factory chimney, a car's exhaust pipe or a gas fire. For someone like me, it often causes great distress. Yet I have no explanation for it. Of all the kinds of smoke permeating the city's breezes, tobacco smoke is the most odious of all to me. Perhaps it is because, more often than not, the smell of tobacco is inflicted within close quarters.

  In addition, even if the driver doesn't smoke in the cab, I can still detect the tobacco on him. Smoke molecules penetrate porous surfaces and adhere to clothing, skin and hair. I explain this to the dispatcher, but it's like talking to a brick wall. Maybe I should have just said that I find the odour offensive. That should do it. But I don't. I've been criticised before for my bluntness.

  I glance at the driver's profile then again at the mirror. The ID clipped to the dashboard identifies him as Carl. The picture doesn't look recent. His dark hair is now spiked and coloured with blonde tips. Apart from the stink, Carl exhibits the classic signs of a smoker: intermittent coughing, dull complexion and wrinkles around the mouth from constant puckering. And when Carl smiles again, flashing his yellow teeth, I add that characteristic to the list.

  If I were to engage in small talk with Carl, it would be to question his smoking habit, and perhaps convince him to quit.

  Cigarette smoking is the most popular form of tobacco consumption. When a smoker lights a cigarette, the tobacco combines with oxygen and a combustion process occurs. Along with heat and light, the process also releases the active ingredients in the tobacco such as nicotine. As the smoker inhales the smoke, nicotine is absorbed into his lungs through the millions of tiny air sacs called the alveoli. The gas exchange that occurs in the lungs then enables the nicotine to be absorbed into the bloodstream and eventually reach the brain. Once in the brain, it triggers a chemical reaction. Nicotine alters moods, increases heart rate and awareness thus making tobacco smoking highly pleasurable as well as highly addictive.

  Unfortunately, inhaling tobacco smoke also seriously affects health. The principal purpose of our lungs is to bring oxygen into the bloodstream and release carbon dioxide, but the inhaled cigarette smoke also carries carbon monoxide. This impairs the ability of the blood to transport oxygen not just to the brain but also to the rest of the body. Furthermore, tobacco contains several other toxic compounds or carcinogens that can cause genetic mutations. This can give rise to a host of diseases affecting the heart, liver and lungs, including cancer. In addition, tobacco growers often use additives in the agricultural process which increase the risks to people who consume tobacco.

  Carl eyes me questioningly, as if expecting me to share my thoughts. I shrug and answer him briefly with my flight information. I am not good at making light conversation. So I turn my gaze out the open passenger window. I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate my opinion regarding his smoking habit. If Carl wants to extend his life expectancy, he would have to do it without me. Besides, it's none of my business. Carl reaches for a packet of gum and pops a piece into his mouth.

  Recent rain on spring air ... Stream of exhaust trailing from a battered white van ...

  I resist the urge to request Carl to overtake the van. Obviously following the pre-catalytic converter vehicle that would probably fail its next emissions test doesn't bother him. Instead I sit back and contemplate the expanse of dullness that is the M25. Despite the melancholy Sunday morning, the motorway remains busy.

  I have just turned twenty-seven. Rather than celebrating with my mother and sister over Sunday lunch—exciting, I know—I am on my way to New York to attend the four-day International Conference on Biomedical Systems Engineering. I've been to a couple of similar conferences before, but by far, this is the most prestigious. Eight hundred participants from thirty countries are scheduled to attend. The program consists of lectures, symposia and workshops relevant to the field. Papers will be peer-reviewed, including one I submitted on artificial olfactory sensors. I could have taken an earlier flight but didn't want to spend the weekend by myself, especially my birthday weekend, in the Big Apple. I wouldn't know what to do with myself in The City That Never Sleeps.

  Of course, I have travelled before, yes, even for pleasure. I have visited Paris a few times. My younger sister, Cassia, studies perfumery there. My parents' families migrated a century ago from France so we still have distant relatives in various parts of the country.

  I've also been to Scotland on a rare family holiday when I was a child—although I don't suppose it counts. Scotland is, after all, a part of Great Britain. Not as exotic as jetting off to Nepal. Not to a Londoner anyway. All I recall is that my mother, my two sisters, Rosamund and Cassia, and I camped out in the Caledonian forest. It must have been shortly after my father died since I don't remember him being with us. Not that I recall much of him at all. The holiday probably wasn't a lot of fun because we haven't taken another family trip since. For the past twenty years, Mother has been preoccupied with building her perfumery business and my sisters and I with our studies.

  I do recall one thing. A peculiar smell of smoke. I must have witnessed a big fire. Mother reassures me that I am merely remembering our campfire. We cooked our food over it and huddled around it in the evenings for warmth. Except I know what I smelled.

  The Caledonian forest is populated by Scots pine, birch, juniper and other tree varieties, but mostly pine. It's most likely what we would have used in our campfire. Due to the high resin and sap content, pinewood burns hot and bright. The fire crackles and spits, producing a tarry smoke. I have never known my mother to lie to me. And for a long time I've been meaning to get to the bottom of this. Maybe if I ask her again, she might give me another answer. Because the smoke I remember was different. It hadn't been an ordinary campfire. And of all things, I trust my sense of smell.

  I am a research fellow at the London University of Science, Medicine and Technology. Apart from its reputation as
a premier educational establishment, the University is world-famous for its research and development facilities. Our laboratories draw in millions of pounds in contracts and grants from both private and public sectors. Furthermore, I am uniquely positioned as one of the few and one of the youngest chemists to ever specialise in the rarefied field of Olfactory Science. It hadn't been by design, but rather it is a field I fell into. Call it luck or fate—I have been born with an unusually keen sense of smell.

  The scientific term for my gift is hyperosmia. And I have been told that I suffer from it. To put it simply, I have a low threshold for odour. My nose can discern all sorts of scents even in minute quantities including those that escape ordinary human beings. I've been informed that this condition can occur as a side effect of drugs, or from environmental or genetic factors. Really, there hasn't been a lot of research into hyperosmia as it is pretty rare. Since I've never taken any illicit drugs or strong medication, my sense of smell is most likely the result of genetics and training. Despite my natural inquisitiveness, I have turned down invitations to become a subject of a major study into the condition. Being called a "freak" too many times makes me reluctant to offer myself up to such public scrutiny.

  My touchiness on the matter, however, doesn't stop me from performing experiments on myself. I have discovered that my sense of smell goes a bit further. When confronted by a cacophony of odours, I can distinguish and isolate each source. And provided I focus, I am also able to perceive an odour's concentration, strength as well as timbre. More extraordinarily, however, is that I have an excellent olfactory memory. It not only stores everything I've smelled, but can also conjure them up in my head at will. How can I explain it? I imagine it's like being a musician, specifically a conductor of a symphony orchestra. A conductor would be able to look at a sheet of music and immediately know how the piece sounds. Instead of merely reading notes, he would actually hear the notes, the chords harmonising inside his head. He would discern each instrument of the orchestra performing together in perfect time and perfect tune without actually having them perform before him.

  Whatever its root, my heightened sense of smell serves as a lifeline to the world. Even when I am not aware of it, it works constantly. My olfactory system perceives odours and brings the information to be processed in my brain. It's like an endless stream of data, a running commentary, or a dripping tap I can't turn off. Olfaction helps me understand my surroundings and enables me to form a proper response. Though it may be labelled an abnormal condition, I gladly suffer from it. It comes in handy, very handy indeed, with my job.

  As it happens, it attracts contracts that require not only my scientific background but also my special gift, as does my present project. I am developing a new muscle relaxant inhaler for a pharmaceutical company. It would be a type of fast-acting neuromuscular blocker that could be employed for outpatient procedures or as an adjunct to anaesthesia. Although my mother will probably disapprove, I hope that it would also benefit me personally since I suffer from insomnia. This trip to New York City is an unwelcome interruption in my research. I do not appreciate having my concentration broken.

  'Congratulations!' I recall Dr Armstrong had said enthusiastically when he announced the news that I had been selected to present my paper at the conference. 'You're making quite a name for yourself and our University.'

  Dr Armstrong is the head of the University's research labs and my immediate boss. He is an obese man with a huge barrel chest, short stubby legs and a full head of grey curly hair. When he smiles, his eyes turn into slits. They look like lines intersecting the circles of his black horn-rimmed eyeglasses. Or two tube stop signs side by side.

  I start to tell him that I have been plagued with second thoughts but perhaps sensing my conflict, he stops me.

  'You're young, Dr Sonnclere. You should go out, meet other scientists,' he continues. 'This will be good for you. It'll be good for the University, too.'

  If I could read between the lines—which I can't—I would grasp what he is actually saying. Even scientific journals are written in plainer language.

  'You need to learn to get along, Dr Sonnclere,' Dr Armstrong says finally with a forced, patronising chuckle. The effort causes him to wheeze a little which I suspect is an attempt to hide his discomfort or soften the blow of his criticism. He understands that I don't get it.

  Apparently, after years of burying myself in my studies and work, I have been left with questionable people skills. What does he mean by that? How are people skills even measurable? What a load of codswallop.

  The taxi comes to a lurch outside the massive steel and glass structure of the Heathrow terminal. This will be my first trip to New York, and I fear, will probably not be my last.

  'Do you need help with your luggage?' Carl leans over the back of his seat. His breath blasts my face.

  Stale mint ... Rancid tobacco ...

  'Have you considered trying Nicorette gum, Carl?' I ask him as he manoeuvres behind another taxi at the departure area. It should be more helpful than that awful gum he's been masticating for the last twenty minutes.

  Carl frowns. 'Don't work for me,' he mumbles.

  'Have you heard about electronic cigarettes?' E-cigarettes are a relatively new technology and not yet as widely available, but I could get him a packet if he wanted.

  He doesn't answer. I may have offended him. Instead Carl preoccupies himself with wrapping his gum in a piece of paper and depositing it in the slot behind the gear stick.

  I rummage inside my purse for a tip while he pulls my suitcase out of the boot. The University has a contract with the mini cab company and will cover the fare. Outside, Carl bows his head, uncharacteristically shy, and avoids meeting my eyes. He thanks me briefly, blasting me again with stale minty breath before examining his shoes with fascination. Then he reaches for a packet of Silk Cut from his breast pocket. As he lights up and takes a puff, I can almost picture the walls between his alveoli sacs breaking down, his arteries narrowing. I take my cue, grab the handle of my case and make my escape.

  Burnt jet fuel ...

  Lugging my suitcase, laptop, Macintosh and shoulder bag, I hurry inside to find the check-in desk. I should have saved myself the trouble and checked myself in online. Luckily, there's no queue for business class passengers. I hand the clerk my passport and ticket.

  'Dr Neroli Sonnclere?' he queries. The clerk's eyes widen with surprise when he finally looks up from studying the photo in my passport.

  TWO

  'That's me,' I say, making an effort to smile.

  Coffee, cumin, turmeric, yogurt ...

  The clerk's layered scent reminds me of my new laboratory assistant, Hanesh Patel. My previous assistant, Simon, hadn't taken it kindly when I told him to bathe daily and to avoid wearing cologne at the lab. Dr Armstrong informed me I'd been too brusque. For a person who rarely ventures into my lab, Dr Armstrong seems to know an awful lot of what goes on in it. There are no hidden cameras. I have checked. Later, I learned that Simon assumed I was making a judgmental comment on his personal odour and his choice of cologne. I had merely mentioned it because body odour and fragrance interfere with my work. When has being honest and straight to the point not been the right way to say things?

  The airline clerk flashes me an even wider smile. Come to think of it, he and Hanesh also look alike: slim build, white teeth against dark skin, perpetually grinning. Although at the moment, the clerk's smile appears frozen.

  He hurriedly peers down, making a job of studying the documents he has scrutinised already. Clearly he's discomfited. He's doing his best not to meet my eyes. More importantly, he's trying hard not to stare at my nose.

  In flat shoes, I am a shade over six feet tall. I am big-boned, pale-skinned with blue eyes and a strong prominent nose that is both my blessing and my curse. Though I usually tie it back, at the moment, my naturally red hair spills over part of my face in big, long waves. I am used to people gaping at me or doing a double take. I should be offended, but I
am used to it. Sometimes, for fun, I stare right back. I am about to inflict the full force of my attention on the clerk to see if I can make him cower, or maybe run, when I sniff an altogether dissimilar aromatic bouquet.

  Leather, woody aftershave, tangy mouthwash ...

  I pivot to the right where the smell is stronger and catch my breath. The man at the next business class counter is a couple of inches shorter than I am, square-jawed and stocky, probably mid-thirties. He's wearing a black leather jacket and dark denim jeans. He winks at the female clerk attending to him and then impatiently runs his hand through dark blonde hair as she distractedly checks him in. He isn't the type of man I usually encounter at the University. Or anywhere for that matter. He's ruggedly handsome. He sports a tan that suggests time spent outdoors and muscles that imply he's a man of action. There's an unmistakeable air about him. How can I describe it? Of danger. A thoroughly disreputable looking chap. How exciting!

  He notices me, too, and returns my gaze in equal measure, his light grey eyes travelling up and down, taking in my flat shoes, loose navy trousers and white blouse. Next, he studies my face and frowns visibly. When he picks up his bag, the muscles of his arm tense up against the leather of his jacket sleeve. He swings his small cabin luggage effortlessly as he heads towards the departure area.

  I am aware that I have let out a deep sigh. The clerk at my counter clears his throat to catch my attention. When I turn to retrieve my documents from my own counter, his grin has twisted into a snicker. I give him my fiercest glare in an attempt to wipe the impertinence off his face. Then I grab my laptop and mac and walk away.

  Heathrow is the biggest airport in the UK and one of the busiest in the world. With over sixty-five million passengers flying aboard more than ninety airlines to roughly 170 international destinations, the airport has enough passengers, personnel and activity for anyone not to notice the warm flush creeping over my face.