“Yes, I told him all that. The production people said both bioreactors were churning out that insulin stuff. They extracted samples and Clive sent them to the lab with one question: ‘Is this E. coli?’ The answer came back: ‘Yes’.”
“And the field?”
“Clive walked the whole area. He didn’t see anything suspicious and he didn’t smell ammonia.”
“The ammonia organism did escape from that plant,” she said. “Terry’s NASA data shows it. And there was a field test down there. Challoner said as much on that disk.”
Terry said, “They must have realized it was out of control and got scared. Sprayed the field. Emptied the reactor.”
Milner nodded in agreement. “Yeah. There’s one more thing, though. When they left Genon, Clive and one of the other agents paid a visit to Richmond Police HQ. They talked to people there and trawled through their files, looking for evidence of a break-in or sabotage or anything else out of the ordinary at the plant. Again, nothing. But around that time two of the research staff who worked at the facility were killed in a car accident. The police attended the scene. Seems the car left the road, crashed down a steep embankment. No witnesses. Tyre marks on the road and bits of plastic from a rear light suggested a collision but the other driver didn’t stop.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Two more deaths? I wonder if they’d been working on the soil organism.”
Milner shrugged “Who knows? Let’s say it wouldn’t surprise me.”
Early that evening at the Research Institute in Florida some of the staff were taking a break in the lounge and watching the news on the big flat-screen television. Silvia and Sara met up with Matt at the coffee machine.
“Do you have any more sequence for me yet, Matt?”
“Yeah, some. I’ll pass it over. I was searching the databases for sequence similarities, but there aren’t any. That’s the trouble with this stuff. There’s so little on record.”
“Well, let me have it. Perhaps I will see…”
Sara Tennant pointed at the television. “Something’s happening in San Francisco, Silvia.”
They hurried over to the other half of the lounge and sat down in time to hear the newscaster say:
“Now let’s join our reporter in San Francisco, Craig Burdon. Craig, are you there?”
A youngish man appeared, holding a microphone. There was a large crowd in the room behind him and he had to speak over the background of conversation.
“Yes, Don. We have permission to film here, near the top of the Transamerica Pyramid. If you look out of the windows it’s like coming in to land on a cloudy day; nothing to see but a white blanket below us. With me is Matt Dryden. Matt, you were piloting a light aircraft at around the time the smog rolled in. Can you tell us what you saw?”
The camera switched to a ruddy-faced man in his forties. “Sure. You know, I seen cool mists rolling into the city many times, but this one was different.”
“In what way?”
“It started real close in, and it kind of creeped up the streets and between the high-rises like, sort of like fingers… no, more like tentacles. That’s it, like octopus tentacles. Only white.”
“You could still see the tops of the buildings?”
“Oh sure, more’n the tops at that stage. When I came back an hour later it had thickened up. Just about all I could see then was the Transamerica Pyramid, the Bank of America Center, and the tips of the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“So you’d never seen a fog like this one?”
“No, sir. Your California fog usually forms out to sea. This seemed to form right inside the city.”
“Thanks very much, Matt.”
“Sure thing.”
“Craig, do you have the latest figures on fatalities there?”
“I’m told it’s already topped eight hundred, Don. There may be more to come; the hospitals are still struggling to keep people alive.”
“That bad, eh?”
“You better believe it, Don. We’re above it up here, otherwise there’s no way I could speak to you. This stuff is really irritating. If you’re old or sick, or have any sort of breathing difficulty it would certainly get to you. The smell is pretty bad, too; the streets down there smell like – excuse me – stale piss. Back to you, Don.”
“That was Craig Burdon in San Francisco. Reports are just coming in of similar smogs in Calcutta, Beijing and Seoul. More on that after the break.”
Without a word Silvia, Sara, and Matt got up and went back to their labs.
CHAPTER 47
They rose early and made coffee in the room. Maggie was leafing through the copy of the Boston Globe which had been left outside the door.
She tapped the pages she was reading. “A lot here about Cyclone Amrita.”
“Whereabouts?”
“It crossed the coast in Bangladesh yesterday. Damage, flooding – even worse than Vietnam last month. Ammonia organisms again?”
“More than likely. We know they’re in the Bay of Bengal as well as the South China Sea.”
She shook her head. “More casualties and homeless people. And Bangkok’s had a second white smog.” She looked up at him. “We never did discover how the organism got to Thailand.”
“Or India, or China.”
“You know,” she said, “an accidental escape at Richmond is one thing, but having the organism pop up at almost the same time half-way round the world is quite another. What have those sites got in common?”
Terry took a sip of coffee. “Nothing. Well, they’re not heavily industrialized so a lot of people will be poor, dependent on agriculture – you don’t think Zak…”
“Not Zak, no,” Maggie said. “It was pretty clear from that Board meeting that he wanted to complete the development first. But someone must have taken batches of the organism out there.” She paused, her brow furrowing. “Terry…?”
“Yes?”
“When we saw Signett he mentioned manufacturing facilities overseas. Do you think Vance has subsidiaries in those countries?”
He met her eyes in shocked silence.
He rushed to his laptop, booted it up and started to search.
“God, you’re right. Jhupar Pharmaceuticals, Mumbai; Vance Enterprises, Bangkok; Shiji Pharm, Shijiazhuang. And there’s a couple more in the Philippines and Poland. Would a CEO visit his facilities abroad from time to time?”
“Most certainly. And he could have easily made a side trip during each visit. What about the timing?”
“Remember the Board meeting? The second bioreactor at Genon was due to go on line a couple of weeks later. And Signett said they were planning to test it with a pilot batch of the soil organism first. I wonder if he went on a tour of his Far Eastern subsidiaries immediately afterwards.”
“We could ask Rose. She’d be the one to keep his diary and arrange his trips.”
“Let’s do that. And if he did go out there we should confront him with it.” He glanced at his watch. “Come on, let’s see if Sam’s at our breakfast place yet.”
“Your car is ready, Mr. Signett.”
“Thank you, Rose.”
Signett was at his desk, unhurriedly putting papers into a thin leather document case, material to read on the flight to Washington. He smiled to himself. One of the things his rivals in the industry envied was his ability to anticipate events. In a little over three months’ time there would be a major product launch. He intended to exploit to the full the opportunity it gave him to project Vance Pharmaceuticals as a successful, expanding and forward-looking organization. He would reinforce that with the simultaneous announcement of a fresh biotech acquisition for the company. The takeover was pretty well agreed but he had to be sure of surmounting the regulatory hurdles. What could be more appropriate at this juncture than lunch with a patriot like his old friend Senator Tom McAdam?
He knew exactly what the Senator would say.
“Well, you know, Warren, in general I’m in favour of antitrust legislatio
n, but it’s getting out of hand. Who made America what it is? Entrepreneurs, wealth creators, people like you and me, Warren – not damned lawyers. The economy needs strong multinational companies, companies like yours, to stave off world competition. You know, all this openness and freedom of information business – transparency is what the management gurus like to call it – that stuff’s all very well if everyone’s doing the same thing. But does Russia? Does China? Or North Korea? Do they hell! How can you negotiate with these people? It’s like playing poker with your cards in full view.”
So would the Senator use his influence to ensure that the Federal Trade Commission didn’t stop Vance from making its new acquisition? Of course he would. There’d be a quid pro quo; there always was.
“Of course,” the Senator would say, “there’s an election in eighteen months’ time and we can't be sure the next administration will be equally sympathetic to your case.”
And he would reply, “I’m aware of that, Tom. Vance will, of course, be making the usual generous contribution to party funds. And to your own personal campaign fund, naturally – in the usual fashion.”
Then they would exchange smiles of understanding, shake hands, and he would fly back. It was all too easy, really.
“Did you phone Senator McAdam’s PA, Rose?”
“Yes, Mr. Signett. I said you’d phone again if there was any delay. Otherwise the Senator will meet you at the restaurant at twelve-thirty.”
“Fine.” He stood up. “I’ll be back this evening. No need to hang on here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He took the elevator down to the foyer. The top-of-the-range Lexus was already waiting outside with Graeme McKenzie, his chauffeur and bodyguard, at the wheel. Signett got into the back and put his leather document case on the seat at his side. The car swept out of the gates, turned left, and travelled about two hundred yards before it was rammed by an all-black SUV.
The doors of the other vehicle flew open and three men leapt out. Graeme drew his gun but before he could fire it the driver’s side window shattered and simultaneously a red flower bloomed on the opposite window. Graeme slumped sideways onto the passenger seat, a dark entry wound in his temple.
Figures loomed all around, blotting out the sunlight. Someone smashed in the remains of the driver’s window with the butt of an automatic rifle, reached in, and unlocked the doors. Signett found himself being dragged out of the car and thrust into the back of the SUV. One of his assailants got into the driver’s seat, another jammed a hood over his head and fastened his wrists in front of him. He was thrown back suddenly as the car accelerated away.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the stifling darkness of the hood. He could feel the heat of a close presence on each side, hear their noisy breathing. He thought they were probably taking him to Boston but he had no way of knowing.
They began to talk rapidly between themselves but he couldn’t understand a word. The language they were speaking was Chinese.
Maggie toyed with her coffee, swilling the liquid slowly in the cup. It was their third refill.
Terry looked at his watch again. “It’s nearly ten o’clock, for God’s sake! Where the hell has Sam got to?”
Some coffee spilled over the edge of her cup. She put it back in the saucer.
Terry’s cell phone sounded. He caught Maggie’s eye as he heard Milner’s voice.
“Sam! Where have you been?”
“Sorry, shit hit the fan. Are you at the breakfast bar?”
“Yes, but we’ve finished – ”
“Eddie and I are on our way. Come out on the sidewalk. We’ll pick you up in a couple of minutes.”
Several minutes later the police sedan drew up and they piled into the back. Sam turned round in the front passenger seat as Eddie drove briskly away.
“Sorry about breakfast, folks. Things have been kind of busy.”
“Where are we going?” Terry asked, looking for a grab handle. Dominguez was driving fast. “We wanted to see Warren Signett again.”
“You aren’t the only ones.”
“What do you mean?”
“Signett’s been snatched – kidnapped.”
“When?”
“Less than an hour ago. He was on his way to a meeting.”
Terry and Maggie exchanged looks.
“Sounds like the snatch was well planned,” Milner continued. “They got Signett just outside the plant; obviously they knew just when he’d be leaving. They shot the driver dead, lifted Signett, and they were gone before even the security guards at the gate could react.”
“Who’s responsible?” Terry said. “What do they want?”
“I don’t know, but I’d say Signett won’t be coming back any time soon – if at all. I was just saying to Eddie, this gives us a golden opportunity.”
Terry leaned forward. “To do what?”
“Well, with Signett out of the picture I think I can get his sidekick – the CFO guy, Ansel Wyatt – to tell us what he knows. Okay with you, Eddie?”
Dominguez shrugged. “Sure, why not? I figure all this is connected somehow.”
The SUV stopped and the engine died. The man on the right bundled Signett out and manhandled him, still hooded, into a building of some sort. The floor scraped under the soles of his shoes and their footsteps echoed in a larger space like a garage or warehouse. He heard a door opening and felt a shove in the small of his back. The acoustic closed in; he seemed to be standing in a room. There was another brief incomprehensible exchange and someone snatched off the hood.
He blinked at the sudden light, focused, and found himself looking at an elderly Chinese man with a leathery face and startlingly white hair. The man spoke.
“Take a seat, Mr. Signett.”
A chair was pushed hard against the backs of his knees, leaving him no choice. One of the men who’d brought him in left the room. The other two remained standing, one on either side. Signett was breathing fast. He tried to steady his voice.
“This is an outrage. I demand an explanation.”
“You are not in a position to demand anything, Mr. Signett,” the older man replied coolly. “However, I will give you an explanation.”
He placed his fingertips together and Signett waited for what seemed an age. The man started:
“Five years ago your company was expecting a major contract to manufacture and supply a low-cost generic anti-malarial to developing countries. You tendered very competitively through your Indian subsidiary, Jhupar Pharmaceuticals, in Mumbai, where the production costs are low – ”
“How do you know – ?”
“Have the courtesy not to interrupt, Mr. Signett. In fact you lost that contract at the last moment – to a Chinese company. Do you know why?”
Signett’s lips set in a thin line. “Perhaps you are going to tell me.”
“Yes, I will tell you. There is a mole inside your company, Mr. Signett. He passed on the details of your bid and the Chinese company undercut you.”
“I suspected as much.”
“But you never found the mole, did you? No. He is, in fact, still in your company. He works for me.”
Panic swelled inside Signett’s chest. His mouth was bone dry.
“This is not all,” the older man continued. “Four years ago, you acquired a company called Biomolecular Technologies. Someone there had modified an organism and arranged for it to fix nitrogen. You put it into production at your Genon plant in Richmond, Virginia.”
Signett’s eyes blazed. It was unbelievable how much information had leaked to this man. The mole must be very highly placed. His mind flicked through the senior management, trying to guess who it was. He was brought back by a hardening of his captor’s voice.
“The northern provinces of China are home to some of our poorest rural communities. But recently they have produced record crops. They are not using fertilizers, yet the ground there is unusually rich in nitrogen and the air smells of ammonia. Our investigations show that your organism is pres
ent and it is spreading throughout the region. That was not clever of you, Mr. Signett.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man smiled, but his eyes were like coals.
“You are too modest, Mr. Signett. The organism you acquired is quite unique. When you are a manufacturer that is a great advantage. But when you try to deny that the organism is yours it is a great disadvantage, because we can be quite sure that you are lying. You have made a mistake, Mr. Signett, and you have displeased some very powerful people. Now you are going to suffer for it.”
Signett tried to swallow.
“What do you want?”
“We want you to reverse the effects of the organism, Mr. Signett.”
He licked his lips.
“It can’t be done.”
The man smiled patiently.
Signett blundered on. “You could spray it, from the air,” he stuttered.
“Please, Mr. Signett, do not insult us. You will have to do better than that.”
“I can’t. I mean, I don’t know how to reverse it.”
“Then I hope for your sake that there is someone at your company who does. You will understand what I mean when you see the ultimatum that will be delivered to your office tomorrow.” He sat back and gestured with one hand. “Mr. Signett, the men you see here are expert in keeping people alive, even under rather extreme circumstances. You may live for one week or even one month. It all depends how strong your constitution is.”
The men on either side of Signett gripped his arms. One of them had produced a large knife.
CHAPTER 48
Dominguez stopped the police cruiser before they reached the entrance. Through the windscreen Terry and Maggie could see a black Lexus saloon which had partially mounted the pavement. The doors on one side were open. The whole area had been cordoned off.
A uniformed officer came over. Dominguez wound down the driver’s side window and showed his badge.
“Detective Dominguez,” he said. “We have an appointment in there. Where can I leave the car?”
“Best up there on the right, chief. Take it slow.”
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