Bad Intentions

by Matt Lynn

  TWELVE

  The corridors seemed different now. Crooked and twisted, they were no longer the straight and narrow paths Jack had once imagined them to be. Shadows seemed to fall everywhere, and he walked across their carpets with a watchful tread, eyeing every person and each machine through fresh and suspicious eyes. Do they know? he found himself asking constantly.

  The office had been alive with gossip and rumours when Jack arrived at his desk at just before nine that morning. Kizog had increased its offer for Ocher, this time. to £13.56 billion. The news had been released to the stock exchange at eight, and Jack had heard only the briefest report on the radio. He was anxious to learn more details. The Reuters news service on his terminal took a few moments to spring up on to the screen, and Jack scrolled hurriedly through the stories reeling across the screen. A newsflash timed at 8:02 was headlined in red, and a longer story had landed at 8:27. Jack punched it up.

  Kizog increases Ocher offer to £13.56bn

  In a move that took markets by surprise this morning, the British pharmaceuticals giant Kizog dramatically increased its offer for its Swiss rival Ocher from £28 per share to £31.69, an increase of 13%, taking the total value of the bid to £13.56bn.

  The market had been expecting Kizog to increase its offer after the Ocher board pledged itself to fight the takeover, but had expected Kizog to wait until the first offer period expired. With the second and final offer now tabled, Kizog now has fourteen days to win the battle.

  Commenting on the increase, Kizog chairman· Sir Kurt Helin said: 'This offer represents a full and generous price for Ocher, and underlines our commitment to building a modem and international company to capitalise on the opportunities in our industry, and in particular the opportunity offered by our new Ator vaccine.'

  Analysts expressed surprise both at the size and the speed of the increase. 'This will stretch Kizog's finances to the limit,' said Roger Tumbull, pharmaceuticals analyst with James Capel, the stockbroker. A spokesman for Ocher said the board would study the increased offer before making a formal statement.

  Fourteen days, thought Jack. Not long. Not long at all. Perhaps when the bid was over he could start to put this nightmare behind him. Perhaps that would be the time to make his move. Or perhaps before. It was, he decided, too soon to know.

  Layla was already lolling around in the doorway, her red hair tied up in a bun, held back with a large hairpin. Does she know? wondered Jack. Was she on the inside or the outside? There was no way of knowing for sure, but he suspected not. She seemed too sure of herself, too confident, too relaxed. If she knew, surely she could not act so calmly? Or perhaps, Jack speculated, she is a tougher woman than I suspected. 'The Chairman must be in a terrible hurry,' said Jack. 'To raise the offer so quickly. We might have won anyway, at the original price.'

  Layla seemed to take the remark very seriously, perching herself on the edge of Jack's desk. 'Then why would Sir Kurt do it?'

  'The defence document,' replied Jack firmly. 'Perhaps it is right. Maybe we don't make anything like the money we claim we do.'

  Layla shook her head. 'Unbelievable,' she said.

  'Did you talk to any Zurich Financial people?' Jack inquired. 'They would know if it was for real or just rhetoric.'

  Layla stood up from the desk and walked across the room. 'I couldn't get to anyone who was working directly on the defence,' she said. 'The high-level work is all being done out of Switzerland rather than London. But it does seem they think there really is something strange about our accounts. Whether it is enough to blow a hole in the take-over I don't know. I wouldn't have thought so.'

  She doesn't know, realised Jack. They haven't told her.

  He got up to leave, taking his jacket from the door, explaining that he had to leave for a meeting with the finance director. 'Have you sent a report to the Chairman yet?' Layla shook her head. 'Not enough evidence.'

  'I wouldn't if I were you.'

  She turned to face him. 'What are you on about, Borrodin?' she demanded.

  'Nothing,' Jack said, attempting a smile. 'Just be careful.'

  Jack left her pondering the remark as he stepped out into the corridor. The same neat offices, behind the same neat partitions, each with another loyal employee tapping away at a keyboard, were stretched out along the passages and hallways. Where did they fit into the picture? Jack asked himself again. Surely none of them knew.

  Finer would certainly have all the information. Jack had counted on him as an ally and had been rudely awoken by the meeting yesterday. Naive, he told himself. The finance director was clearly the Chairman's man. And his loyalties were always going to be elsewhere. He could have done without the meeting this morning; there were other things to think about. But orders were orders. And if he and Tara were to have a chance, he had to play along as if he suspected nothing.

  Playing dumb shouldn't be so hard, he decided. It is what I have been doing all along. Another couple of weeks won't make any difference.

  Inside he could feel the anger rising; he had been loyal to this company and it had betrayed him completely. But then, he decided, it had been naive of him to have ever trusted them. Insecurity was everywhere these days, and he was just exploring its outer edges. Welcome to the nineties, Jack decided with a wry smile.

  Finer was instantly friendly when Jack walked into the room. A smug expression dropped on to his face, and he shook Jack's hand warmly, slapping him on the shoulder as he turned round. Jack took a seat and told Finer that he was feeling just fine. 'Thanks for asking.'

  'I know it's been rough on you,' he said with a concerned smile. Jack nodded. He saw no need to reply.

  'It's the same for all of us. There is a moment when you cross the bridge, and it is shaky, but once you are on the other side, everything is OK again.' Again, Jack just nodded, saying nothing. 'You are dealing with this in a very mature way, 'Finer continued.

  'I'm a mature person,' replied Jack. 'Perhaps that is why you chose me.'

  'The Chairman and I discussed it. It was mainly his idea, but I felt I could vouch for you in terms of character.'

  Well, thanks for nothing, thought Jack. That says a lot for my character. 'What am I supposed to do? I mean, my duties. I assume they have changed slightly.'

  Finer said that he would move on to that later. He pulled open a drawer on his desk and pulled out a file of papers. There were a couple of things he wanted to discuss, he told Jack. Money first. The money Shane promised to give him in return for the drug.

  'A promise is a promise,' replied Jack. 'Then again I don't suppose Kizog wants to pay big bucks for leaking a Kizog drug to a Kizog controlled counterfeiting ring. And I can't say I feel like arguing the point with him.'

  Finer sat back in his chair with a generous smile spreading across his lips. 'Think of it as a signing-on fee,' he said. 'A sort of golden handshake.'

  'Two hundred and fifty thousand?' said Jack.

  'The rewards are much better once you cross over to this side.' Finer looked down at the papers on his desk. 'Obviously this money doesn't need to be declared to the Inland Revenue.' He chuckled. 'In fact, better that it isn't, don't you think?'

  'Naturally,' replied Jack with a forced smile.

  Finer went on to explain that the money would be paid into an offshore bank account. It was up to Jack, but he would recommend setting up an international business company in the Turks and Caicos Islands. Most discreet, he added. Jack would be the sole owner of the offshore entity, but under the local laws there was not even any need to register its shareholders. Much more secure than Switzerland these days. The money would arrive by a circuit of wire transfers, transferred from another offshore company. Nothing need be disclosed about where the money came from, nor what it was for. Once it was lodged in the account, it was up to Jack what he decided to do with it.

  'The Chairman wanted me to tell you something else,' Finer continued. He paused, as if unsure how to phrase himself. 'This is just a temporary situation. It is not a perma
nent state of affairs. The company has some unexpected problems. Copying other companies' medicines is not a long-term policy. Simply a way of bridging some short-term cashflow difficulties. He doesn't want you to think this is something we envisage you, or indeed any of us, being involved in for very long. Once the take-over of Ocher is completed, the condition of the company should start moving back towards normality.'

  'My duties,' persisted Jack. 'I still don't know what I am meant to be doing.'

  'The clandestine operation has very few points of contact with the more normal operations of the company,' replied Finer. 'But there is a large amount of administration to deal with. I have been working on some of that. But with this take-over, and then with the task of integrating Kizog and Ocher, my time is really taken up. We see you moving into that role, liaising between the sides of the operation. For the meantime, you'll be working with Miss Fuller, and Mr Shane, learning some of the details of how that side of things works.'

  Jack was starting to enjoy the euphemisms. The finance director was clearly uncomfortable referring to the counterfeiting ring directly; as though it left a stale taste in his mouth. 'How many people know about that side of things?' asked Jack. 'I feel I should know, otherwise I don't know who I can discuss it with.'

  Finer looked troubled by the question. 'Obviously as few people as possible. There are several, but for the meantime, I'd be happier if you only discussed it with myself and the Chairman. You won't need to deal with anyone else internally, at least not for the time being.'

  Jack nodded, hoping to create the impression the instructions seemed entirely normal and understandable. 'One question, if I may?' he said.

  The finance director smiled his most indulgent smile. 'Of course, Jack.'

  'The videotape of myself with Shane,' said Jack. 'Can I take it that was designed to make sure I went along with the company's plans for me?'

  Finer shifted uncomfortably. 'Obviously the company needs guarantees,' he replied. 'These are very sensitive matters.'

  Guarantees, thought Jack. Useful things to have. 'What would happen if I ignored it?'

  'The Chairman has a thing about loyalty, Jack,' Finer said. 'You know how he is.'

  'I understand,' replied Jack breezily. Finer smiled. 'Good.'

  He seemed relieved, thought Jack. He stood up to leave, the two men shaking hands warmly, and he turned towards the door. He stopped at the edge of the hallway, paused, and looked back at Finer.

  'None of that was really necessary,' he said. 'You guys know how I feel about this company. I would have been happy enough to work alongside you in whatever capacity you chose.'

  Finer smiled. 'Then we'll get on just fine.'

  'Thanks for everything, Ralph,' said Jack warmly. He turned away, and began walking down the hallway towards the lifts. Dumb enough, he thought. At least to fool that bastard. A smile started to play on his lips. I may yet have something to teach them about betrayal, he decided.

  Tara shifted the lamp on her desk. The bulb shone a dim light, illuminating the stack of papers, documents and maps she had stacked on the surface. In front of her the window was open slightly, and a gentle breeze blew into the room, ruffling the papers strewn there. Through the window, with the curtains drawn, she could detect the pale shadow of the moonlight shining down on the village.

  There was, she realised, a pastoral restfulness to the surroundings that was quite unlike anything she had known before. The house had a kind of cosy charm that had made her feel at home and at peace. She felt there was a neighbourhood; a neighbourhood, which she, with only a little more work, could become a part of. The man at the local shop said a cheery hallo to her now if she went in to buy something. So did the lady at the small bookshop. She suspected that they saw few Eurasians in the village, and they had barely acknowledged her existence at first. But the cleaning lady who came twice a week had told them all about her, and she felt as if she was being accepted. There was a cat – she was unsure where it came from, although the animal appeared more than well fed – who stopped by to ask for scraps of food, scraps which she gladly provided. She was starting to feel as though she belonged.

  Those thoughts only occupied her mind for a few brief seconds, before her concentration turned back to the task in hand. She could not be certain, but she suspected that Jack would be along later. He had looked rattled enough yesterday morning for her to realise events were moving quickly. Tara had no way of knowing what might have happened to him, but she sensed it would be significant. Their stories were bound together, of that she was sure. There was no other rational explanation.

  She wanted to be ready. Her thoughts needed to be organised, and her evidence prepared.

  The documents from the World Health Organisation had been invaluable. Tara had moved the kitchen table into the study, and set up a PC next to her desk. She had arranged a modem connection to the Lexis/Nexis database, paying the signing-on fee and the twenty dollars a minute connection charge from her own pocket. It was extravagance, she knew, but what else was she to do with all the money Kizog was paying her? The WHO documents she could have found in the Kizog library. But this way she could work at home, in silence, undisturbed, and, crucially, observed by nobody. She had no doubt they would be looking closely at every move she made. And she didn't want anyone to know what she was doing.

  On a yellow Post-it note stuck to the top of her computer screen, Tara had written out a message to herself in neat capitals:

  'FOLLOW THE VIRUS'. Every time she sat down, it caught her eye, a reminder that spurred her on to fresh efforts. No matter how tired she might be, the message remained there, chilling and stark, chiding her to continue with her investigations.

  On the table next to the PC, Tara had laid out a cheap, school-children's map of the world she had bought at the bookstore in the village. Tara loved maps. She always had done, ever since she was child, gazing wistfully at them, locating her own place in them. As she studied the WHO documents, she isolated reports of Ator, placing a mark for each outbreak. The first recorded cases, dating back to 1984, had occurred along the border between Namibia and Angola; a hospital in Osjakti, close to Ruacana Falls, from where cases had spread as far south as Windhoek, and north up to Luanda. From there it had derived its name from the Portuguese word for plague, atormentor, which was what the local doctors first thought of it as. Tara marked the sites on the map. By 1986 the disease had started appearing along the borders of Burma and Thailand, reported first in Mong Loi, along the Mekong River, by the junction of Thailand, Burma and Laos. Tara marked the positions. By 1987 it was reported in Mghanistan, breaking out first in Dushambe, close to the border with Tadzhikistan. Later that year it manifested itself in Chouluteca, along the border between El Salvador and Nicaragua. In the years since, Ator began spreading out from those centres, with one or two isolated cases starting to be reported in North America and Western Europe from 1990 onwards.

  Tara stood back and pondered the map. She needed not just the detail but the overall picture. And, as it had done in the past, the longer she looked at it the more mysterious it became to her. It was like assembling a jigsaw puzzle of an abstract picture; there was no way of telling how the pieces fitted together. She could see little rational explanation for the pattern spread out before her. The virus jumped from Africa to South-East Asia, to the Middle East and to Central America. Tara was aware that movements of people around the world could transmit viruses at lightning speeds, and they could also be incubated in carriers, carriers who were unaware of what they were delivering. Even so, the pattern seemed random and bizarre, drifting around the world purposelessly, without any shape or pattern to its movements. It was possible the virus was mutating from some common ancestor, and could be doing so simultaneously in different parts of the world. But even then, there would have to be some genetic differences between the regional viruses. That was not the case. Ator was genetically watertight, perfectly coded. It was one of the purest viruses she had ever studied. That it coul
d have mutated simultaneously around the world in such a short timeframe was unthinkable.

  She returned to the PC, connecting it back to the database. The Lexis/Nexis logo flashed up on the screen. She searched through her notes for the names she had written down, the three people she knew had died whilst researching the Ator virus. The first name she tapped into the machine was David Sunningdale, the researcher at Bristol Myers-Squibb. Briefly, the small row of red lights on the modem blinked whilst the machine searched through its records. The computer spat out half a dozen papers and lectures, four of them on Ator. Tara pressed save and moved on. She tapped in the name of Alicia Thomas. The computer fetched up five papers, three on Ator, two of which were co-authored by Hans Gerter, the researcher at Roche; Genentech was majority-owned by Roche, and it was not that surprising that its scientists sometimes worked together. Tara pressed save. She tried Gerter's name by itself. Seven papers came back, the two she had already seen, plus two more on Ator. Tara pressed save and print. She got up to reload the printer. There must be a hundred pages or more here to look through, she thought to herself.

  Armed with a fresh pot of coffee, Tara settled down to read. She studied the pages slowly and diligently, digesting every word, marking each part she found relevant with a blue felt-tip pen. Sunningdale had been following a similar track to the one she had been pursuing herself. He had been investigating the spread of the Ator virus in an attempt to build up a more complete picture of the transmission mechanism. His work was far more detailed than hers. It highlighted some curious aspects of the virus. One was that it transmitted relatively easily and quickly between compact population groups, but that it did not hop easily between areas; it needed close proximity to thrive. The other was that it appeared to strike particularly venomously among young males. He had illustrated these points with data on how the virus had struck most savagely at small mining communities, in factories, and in military encampments, all places where young men worked together in close proximity.