Bad Intentions

by Matt Lynn

  Jack saved the two files on to his hard disc. The body count was starting to look a little higher than he would have expected. He made four more calls. Each time he dialled the number, he found he was increasingly concerned about the person he was ringing; I hope they are there, he whispered to himself. Call number seventeen was to Basle. Hans Gerter had worked at Roche for eighteen years, all of them in the lab. He tried the company, but was told only that Herr Gerter no longer worked there. No other information was available. Typical Swiss, thought Jack. He put a call through to an acquaintance who had been working for Roche in Bangkok, but who he knew had now been transferred back to Switzerland. He asked if he could check Gerter's file. Nothing important, he said, just doing a favour for a colleague. The guy said he would call back. Jack waited, making the remaining three calls, relieved in each case to discover the person was alive and well. Yet somewhere in the back of his mind he sensed he already knew what had happened to Gerter. Dead, came the reply, only twenty minutes later. In a gas explosion at his house outside Basle. He and his wife and daughter were all killed in the blast. Jack asked if the file said anything about what Gerter had been working on in the past couple of years. No, came the answer. The files were silent on that point. Nothing at all. Most unusual. Except that he had been collaborating on a biotechnology project with Genentech.

  Jack put the phone down and sat silently, motionless, behind his desk for a few moments, lost in his own thoughts. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach he could feel a knot tightening. Why had Tara wanted him to check up on these people? he wondered.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a voice at the door. 'Council of war,' said Layla briskly.

  He could see her red hair was wrapped up behind a hairband today, and behind her she had Sam, the third of the special assistants, in tow, trailing her like a puppy. Jack's finger flicked to the F7 button on his workstation, killing the files, and he checked the list was face down on his desk before looking up. 'Come inside,' he said.

  Layla and Sam walked into the twelve feet by twelve feet office, Layla sitting down on the chair, Sam perching on the edge of the desk. 'If you check your e-mail in the next thirty seconds, you'll find you're wanted in the boardroom,' said Layla mischievously.

  Jack glanced back at his screen, and, in the right-hand corner, saw a 'message pending' icon start to flash. 'Board meeting at 4.30. Special assistants required to attend,' it said.

  'What's the word on the corridors?' asked Jack.

  'Talk that the Chairman could be about to announce his resignation,' replied Sam.

  'That old chestnut,' said Jack. 'The Chairman will be taken out of here in a box. Any other ideas?'

  'Talk also of some major new strategic plan,' said Layla. 'Don't know where it comes from. Some of the old stagers just think he has a strange look in his eye.'

  The door to the boardroom on the fifth floor was open by the time they arrived there at four-thirty sharp. Inside the long oval-shaped room, Sir Kurt Helin was sitting at the head of the table that stretched through its length. Sitting next to him was Ralph Finer, flanked by Sam Taylor, and Kenneth Strong, the marketing director, and alongside him, Alain Perez, chief of European operations, Bill Laidler, North America, and Frank Rodgers, Asia-Pacific. Sam Taylor sat next to the Chairman, and by his side were Dr Scott, and Geoff Wheeler, the PR man. Jack, Sam and Layla nodded to each of them, and took their seats at the far end of the table.

  There was a silence, left hanging over the room for ninety seconds or so. There was a playful smile spreading across the Chairman's face, and a look of contentment in his eyes. In front of him, there was a jotter, and he was scribbling notes furiously.

  The Chairman put his pen down and spread his palms flat on the table-top. He took a deep breath and composed himself. 'Don't you just love the scent of battle,' he said.

  There was no response. The Chairman pushed his chair backwards, folding his hands behind his back, and began pacing around the table, looking at no one as he spoke. 'This isn't a formal board meeting but there is an issue I believe it is important we all discuss together. As all of you I am sure will be aware our results this year will not be everything we would have hoped for. Selinokose has gone off patent and sales have I understand dropped quite substantially. Turrownese is facing stiff competition and can't be expected to maintain sales for much longer. Our pipeline of new products in the last few years has not been as full as we would have liked. All in all, the company faces a difficult situation. Not an alarming situation, but one of gradual stagnation. This is dangerous. Our stock price will fall as this becomes clear, and, in time, we will become vulnerable to predators.'

  He stopped, turned sharply on his heels, and looked across the boardroom table. 'Who here wants to be taken over?'

  The Chairman leant forward, putting his hands on the table right next to Jack, and cast a narrow glance around the room, hunting for signs of dissent. 'We are in a state of drift. That means we are not in control of our own destiny. And this is not a situation which I as Chairman can allow to continue. We must seize the initiative, and take back control of our own future.'

  The Chairman raised his left hand, a gesture those around the table recognised as a command of silence. 'The logic of our situation dictates that we must make a bold leap. I have therefore decided that we must launch a take-over bid for one of our major competitors.'

  Beneath the table, Jack felt a nudge in the shins from Layla. He looked down, and saw a note in her hand. 'He's lost it,' she had written. Jack ignored it, looking back at the Chairman.

  'So who's it going to be? Anyone you particularly dislike? Someone you'd like to see ground into the dust? Any particular scores to settle?'

  He stood back, holding his chin with his hand, waiting for an answer. Then he chuckled. 'But seriously...' and he began pacing around the room again, circling the table with a gradually quickening pace. 'There have been friendly, informal conversations with some of our rivals. Those conversations have led me to conclude that there is no prospect of an agreed merger. The other option, therefore, is for us to launch a hostile take-over. Fine, fine. If that's the way they want to play it, so be it. It's worse for them and better for us. By going hostile we can choose from a greater range of targets, since there is no need to restrict ourselves to those that will come to the table willingly. I have studied the potential candidates, and I have concluded that our interests are best served by targeting the Swiss firm Ocher. It has an excellent marketing capability, a good product pipeline, but one or two well-publicised problems with its anti-depressants have I believe opened a window of vulnerability that we would be wise to exploit.'

  With uncanny timing, he finished the sentence just as he reached his own chair at the head of the table. Sitting back down, he broadcast a grin across the room. 'Of course, that's just my opinion. Feel free to argue.'

  There was a silence lasting seconds, perhaps minutes. Finally Laidler raised his head above the parapet. 'I think its a fine idea, sir,' he said. 'The expansion of the sales force and volumes through taking over Ocher would give us exactly the kind of muscle we need in the North American market.'

  'I think it is the one strategic play that shows real vision,' said Perez.

  'A bold move,' chimed Rodgers.

  What a bunch of yes-men, thought Jack. They must know this is a high-risk strategy. Winning would be fine, but losing would put the company in play.

  'There are arguments against, Chairman,' said Finer.

  At last, someone with guts, thought Jack.

  'It would be very dull if there weren't,' whispered the Chairman.

  'It could be tough to make the numbers add up,' Finer said. 'Ocher made profits last year translating into sterling at about £600 million. Assuming an exit ratio of about twenty, which frankly I think we would be lucky to get away with once you add in the control premium, then you are looking at a price of around £12 billion. We don't have that kind of money in the bank. We could borrow it, but the interest charges wo
uld be crippling. The only other option is to issue our paper in exchange for theirs. But I can't see that working either. Right now Ocher stock is more highly rated than ours. Therefore we can't issue Kizog shares for Ocher shares without diluting earnings. As soon as the market realises that, which will take about five minutes, our stock price will head south, meaning we have to issue more paper, thereby increasing the dilution of earnings. End of story. The numbers don't wash.'

  Finer finished his spiel and leant back in his chair. Jack glanced across at him, impressed by his performance. He turned to look at the Chairman, curious to see how the analysis had gone down. He paused, furrowing his brow, and turned to Finer with a quizzical expression on his face. 'As usual we rely on Ralph for an acute assessment of our situation,' he said.

  Jack noticed the look of relief on the finance director's face; and the look of annoyance passing through the other executives. 'Obviously we are not in the right position to mount an immediate take-over of Ocher, for the reasons the finance director has most cogently explained,' the Chairman continued. 'What he forgets is that the problem only exists so long as Ocher's stock is more highly rated than ours. If our share price were higher than theirs then a paper offer for the company would in all likelihood succeed. Now, I'm sure all of us are aware that pharmaceutical stock prices move quickly in response to encouraging news from the laboratory of major new products coming through the pipeline. Dr Scott, can you help us out on this point?'

  All the eyes around the board table turned to the research and development director, who so far had remained not only silent but almost motionless as well. 'Chairman?' he said.

  The Chairman rapped his knuckles on the table. 'Anything major coming through the pipeline?'

  'We have a whole range of products going into testing at any given time,' he started.

  'Quite so,' said the Chairman. 'But I believe we may be close to discovering a vaccine for Ator.'

  The eyes round the table remained rooted on the research director. Dr Scott hesitated, fumbling for a reply. 'It is true that we have some very promising leads that may soon turn into something solid.'

  'And am I not correct in supposing that given the threat the Ator virus poses to the world, the governments of the industrialised world will pay for a global vaccination programme to eradicate this threat?'

  'That would probably be a correct assumption, Chairman,' answered Dr Scott.

  'Thank you. We would of course offer it to them at a minimal cost, given the gravity of the situation,' continued the Chairman. 'We would not want to risk accusations of profiteering. Even so, the vaccine should provide additional revenues of between £2 billion and £3 billion annually. Let us be optimistic then about the work of the laboratory. Assuming it is successful our story will run like this. We announce the news of the bid for Ocher, paid for in a mixture of cash and Kizog stock. At the same time we announce the news of the Ator vaccine, arguing that we need to take over another company to give us the manufacturing and marketing resources to make the most of the new product. Our stock price I feel sure will rocket on the news. That will then make the offer very attractive to Ocher's shareholders.'

  The Chairman's eyes swept the table, and he raised one hand into the air. 'End of story. We win. Any disagreements?'

  There were nods around the table. 'We have an agreement then,' continued the Chairman. He turned towards Dr Scott. 'You will have responsibility for ensuring that the Ator vaccine is delivered in some plausible shape for this announcement to be made.'

  'How soon is that?' answered Dr Scott.

  The Chairman's eyes took one last tour of the landscape, surveying the audience, scrutinising and probing as his gaze fell upon each person in turn. He waved a hand to dismiss the room. 'As soon as possible. Bum up all the rats you need.'

  She was sitting alone when he found her. Leaning against the doorway, he watched her as she removed her glasses and pressed her right eye into the microscope. Her features were a picture of pure concentration as she peered down at the bacteria, her whole mind focusing on one insignificant speck of life. Perhaps not solid-to-the-bone boffin, thought Jack, as his eyes wandered across her sharply carved face; perhaps someone I might even find attractive.

  He knocked gently on the side of the open door and stepped inside. The room was six feet by eight, with only one window high up in the corner, through which little natural light managed to seep. The walls were white and bare, barren of decoration of any sort, and along one side of the room ran a single stainless-steel shelf, polished until it glimmered. It struck Jack as more of a prison than an office.

  On her workbench, a white mouse was scratching against the bars of its cage. Jack bent down, and the animal peered up at him, clinging to the metal with its paws. 'Very sweet,' said Jack, surprised by the effect close proximity to Tara was having on him.

  'He has leprosy.'

  Involuntarily, Jack stepped back, moving as far away from the cage as possible, eyeing the creature warily from a distance. 'You don't know much about disease, do you?' said Tara playfully.

  Jack shook his head. 'It's hardly contagious at all,' she continued. 'Even between humans.'

  'What about leper colonies?'

  'They were mostly suffering from syphilis. The symptoms are pretty similar. And the colonies were as much for treatment as prevention. It is a very debilitating disease.'

  'He looks OK,' said Jack hesitantly. 'No limbs falling off. Nothing like that.'

  'Leprosy takes a long time to develop. Often many years. In humans anyway. The mouse I'm not so sure about. I'm watching him closely.'

  'Well, I'm sure he's very useful.'

  'He's miraculous.' Tara started to explain. 'One of the major problems with leprosy has been that you can't get the bacteria on to a lab plate. It's impossible to isolate it. That is why there has been so little progress in finding any drugs to use against it. The mouse is a real breakthrough. His leprosy mimics human leprosy. By testing compounds on the mice we can start to build a picture of which chemicals might be effective in combating the disease.'

  Jack nodded. 'And Kizog developed the mouse?'

  'Strange, isn't it?' replied Tara. 'For a relatively uncommercial disease. I found the files in the library, and this one I have just infected.' She walked across to the cage, and peered down at the small rodent. 'I'm keeping a close eye on him to see how he develops.'

  'The mouse convinced you to stay,' said Jack, leaving the question hanging in the air.

  'Among other things,' she replied vaguely.

  'Despite your reservations?'

  Her eyes met his. 'Did you check up on the others?'

  'I ran a check on the top twenty researchers in the field,' said Jack. He passed across a sheet of paper, with the name of each of the researchers and their current whereabouts written on it.

  'Three of them have died in the past year,' he continued, before adding, 'The circumstances in each case looked quite innocent.'

  'You think so?' asked Tara warily. In her eyes there was a look of curiosity, but also of suspicion.

  'The lady in California was obviously murdered, but it could have just been a random robbery. Otherwise, what else do we have? A road accident, and a household explosion. These things happen.'

  'But a coincidence, don't you think?' said Tara.

  'There must be hundreds of scientists working on Ator. Thousands even.'

  'Sure,' Tara replied sarcastically.

  'So we are talking about three from thousands,' Jack persisted, his voice rising as he spoke. 'A tiny percentage.'

  In the background Jack could hear the mouse clawing at the bars of its cage. 'But these three were among the best,' she said quietly. 'They were so close.'

  Jack leant forward. 'What were they close to, Tara?' he demanded. 'A cure?'

  Tara turned away from him, and for a moment she seemed to be shaking her head. 'Perhaps. Any of them could have been close to finding a cure. Or perhaps closer to something else.'

  'Lik
e what?'

  She shrugged, her brown eyes flashing up to meet his. 'To finding the truth,' she replied.

  FIVE

  Tara nodded to the guard, pressed the red button, and stepped inside the airlocked chamber. She stood alone, enclosed inside the tiny cubicle, feeling the air rush past her. Two minutes later, the seconds counted down on the digital screen in front of her, the green light ahead of her flashed, the door opened, and she stepped into the viral chamber.

  The anti-viral suit, a silver, crinkly overall, covering her from head to toe, weighed her down, making her move slowly as she made her way through the small, airlocked laboratory. The room was pale and odourless, sickly almost. Inside the air was constantly recycled through a separate air-conditioning system, kept free from any contact with the outside world to make sure none of the germs kept here could find their way into the atmosphere outside. The airlocked door was there for the same reason. And only the anti-viral suit stood between Tara and instant contamination.

  It was still and calm in here, thought Tara; isolated beyond reason. In a way she liked it; a place of perfect solitude. And yet she also recoiled from the room; its isolation was imposed and unnatural, a prison for molecules too deadly to be allowed to escape, a warehouse of plague.