Bad Intentions

by Matt Lynn

  'Almost pure profit as well,' said Shane. 'Not bad for a night's work. I reckon we've earned ourselves some fun.'

  Shane looked up to the far corner of the warehouse. He could just make out the security camera, glaring down at them, taping every move. He was pleased. The evening was working out very well, he thought to himself. The boy doesn't suspect a thing.

  Dr Scott appeared flustered, the lines on his face creasing up, betraying the nervousness that was eating away at him. The Chairman observed him coldly. Little courage, he reflected to himself. The pressure was starting to fray his nerves, compromising his judgement and destroying his composure. Predictable, decided the Chairman. It takes a certain kind of steel to withstand this pressure, and the research director was made from a weaker alloy.

  Across the office, the Chairman could see his public relations man entering the office. He stood up to greet him, shaking him warmly by the hand. It was late, and all three of them would be leaving the building soon. But not until they had finished this meeting. Geoff Wheeler stood in front of the Chairman's desk, placing two sheets of paper in front of him.

  The Chairman glanced down. Over the top of the page he could see the Reuters logo. He skimmed through the story. It described how a pressure group in Germany, the European Alliance Against Biological Weapons, had called a press conference earlier that day. They had put forward the theory that Ator might have its origins in military research into biological warfare agents, perhaps carried out by one of several Third World dictatorships, and perhaps using technology exported with the complicity of the German government. It quoted the leader of the pressure group as saying the evidence strengthened the case for a ban on bioengineering in Germany, and went on to quote a professor at Munich University as saying the views expressed were only those of a minority fringe organisation with little scientific credibility. He did, however, concede that relatively little was known about the origins of Ator, and no theory, no matter how weird, could be ruled out until science delivered the real answers.

  The Chairman chuckled, and passed the report on to Dr Scott. 'Will this story get any coverage?' he asked, looking up at Wheeler.

  The PR man shook his head. 'Reuters are carrying it, but as far as I can tell, none of the mainstream international news organisations are running with the story. We had a couple of calls about it, but I declined to comment.'

  The Chairman turned to Dr Scott, who by now had finished reading the story. 'Your view?' he asked softly.

  Dr Scott placed the story carefully back down on the desk. 'The Greens in Germany are always looking for any excuse to whip up public feeling against bioengineering,' he answered. 'This has the look of another publicity stunt.'

  The Chairman nodded. 'No connections between these people, and any of the other scientists researching the origins of Ator.'

  'Not so far as I am aware,' replied Dr Scott. 'All those inquiries were, I believe, effectively terminated. The trouble is this story will not lie down and die. Every time people start investigating the origins of the virus, a few of them are bound to start looking at the military possibilities.'

  The Chairman had closed his eyes for a moment, and was sitting far back in his chair, seemingly lost in thought.

  'This is the first time the theory has appeared in any of the general media, and we can't guarantee that it won't be picked up some time,' said Wheeler. 'I suspect it is just a matter of time, unless these people could be silenced as well.'

  The Chairman opened his eyes again, slowly, shaking his head as he did so. 'No,' he replied. 'A pressure group is too risky. They will have supporters among the public and among the politicians. The speculation has to stop soon. I think the time is approaching to explain the origins of Ator once and for all.'

  Tara knew she was being watched. She could sense it. The tracking of the video cameras, mounted on every wall, was so intense, she could almost feel the video tape recording her every move. The security guards who trudged around the buildings seemed to always have a particularly beady eye open for her. And none of her colleagues she could trust. Many, and perhaps all, would no doubt be reporting back on her.

  There was no hope of evading detection. Not inside this building. And since concealment was useless, she decided she might as well be brazen.

  She knew that Zmitt worked on biological weapons. She knew that he had done work in the past with Dr Scott, and she knew that he had been involved with work done at Kizog. The links were there, but they were tenuous. She knew that she needed more. Most of all, she knew that time was running out.

  Dr Scott's private laboratory was several hundred yards down the set of corridors. Tara left her own lab, and began walking casually through the hallways. She could feel the eyes upon her, but decided to ignore them. Dr Scott's laboratory was empty, as it always seemed to be. Punching the code into the lock, she opened the door gently and stepped inside. It looked little different from the last time she was here, and Tara would not have been surprised to learn that he had not visited it since. Nothing had been disturbed. She went straight to the shelves of papers at the back of the laboratory, and began her search. Many of the files were of no interest to her; they covered reports and developments on different commercial drugs Kizog had developed over the years. It was the work on leprosy she needed. She scuttled through the pages as fast as she could. And when she found the formula that she needed, she committed it to memory.

  'I thought you were unwell.'

  Tara spun round. Dr Scott was standing behind her, his face slightly red, his tone harsh and unyielding.

  He stepped towards her. Stay calm, Tara told herself.

  'This is a private office,' said Scott.

  'I know. I'm sorry,' Tara apologised, her mind searching for a plausible excuse.

  'What are you looking for?' he persisted.

  Dr Scott was leaning against the workbench now, his small eyes squinting closely at Tara. She could feel his gaze bearing down upon her, questioning and probing.

  Tara composed herself. 'There are things I don't understand.'

  'Then ask me,' he replied. 'We are all here to help.'

  'The similarities between Ator and leprosy,' she began carefully. 'I was hoping some of your earlier research into the disease might be useful. We are still having trouble getting the vaccine into a stable enough condition to be used outside the laboratory. I was wondering if you might have done work on a leprosy vaccine. If so that could help.'

  Tara watched him closely while she spoke, trying to judge his reaction. She was wondering if he believed her. 'We never developed a leprosy vaccine,' answered Dr Scott firmly. 'Nothing has been done on that project for years.'

  Tara sensed he was backing down, unsure how to handle the situation. 'Did Josef Zmitt work on the project?'

  Dr Scott seemed genuinely surprised by the question. 'You know about Zmitt?'

  Tara smiled. 'I am a biochemist,' she replied, her boldness growing. 'He did some interesting work on viruses in the sixties. With you. You wrote a paper together when you were still a student.'

  'Zmitt died many years ago,' answered Dr Scott nervously.

  'I was just wondering if he contributed to work here?' Tara persisted.

  Dr Scott shook his head. 'No, he never did.'

  He's lying, thought Tara. 'His ideas on transmission mechanisms might have led somewhere if he had developed them,' she continued, trying to soften her tone.

  'This isn't academia,' Dr Scott snapped. 'You should be careful about which ideas you follow up.'

  FOURTEEN

  The Chairman was standing in the doorway, leaning against the edge of the wall. His expression was kind and friendly, the smile benevolent and concerned. 'You are making progress?' he asked quietly.

  'It's a fascinating experience, sir,' said Jack bluntly.

  He rested his arms on the desk, hoping to conceal some of his work. The lines between the counterfeiters and the company were laid out in the spreadsheets. The faking of medicines was clearly a m
assively profitable operation, generating revenues of at least £1 billion a year. Most of that he reckoned would have to be profit. Jack hadn't seen any of the figures yet, but it was unlikely the costs were any higher than in a legitimate pharmaceutical company; he estimated the margins at around ninety per cent. Or around £900 million a year. Perhaps more.

  The Chairman walked forward, standing close to Jack's desk.

  'Why do you think we chose you for this task?'

  'My managerial qualities, perhaps.'

  The Chairman nodded. 'Quite so,' he replied. 'Your talent certainly. But something else as well. You are a loner. Your parents are both dead, you are not married.'

  Disposable, thought Jack. 'That makes a difference?'

  'Loyalty,' replied the Chairman. 'People without ties are always more loyal. The world is a forbidding place. They cling to organisations, because that is the only security they can find. I think that may be true in your case.'

  'I have been loyal so far,' said Jack.

  'Quite so,' replied the Chairman. 'Your loyalty has been exceptional. As I said, you appear to have adapted well. Surprisingly so.'

  Is he suspicious, wondered Jack. Maybe I am playing too dumb. 'There is something I don't understand.'

  The Chairman smiled. 'I am always here to help.'

  'What is the point of the counterfeiting operation? Where does the money go?'

  'I'm disappointed,' the Chairman replied. 'I would have thought you could have worked that out for yourself.'

  The cat was sitting outside her kitchen door, peering up at her with hopeful eyes, and Tara decided to empty her fridge. There was not much there. Since she had moved into this house, she had been eating mostly in the canteen at the laboratories, and hadn't cooked more than a couple of times. There was some milk and some leftover scraps of chicken. She put them on separate saucers, and placed them outside, rubbing the head of the cat as she did so. Why not, she thought. I won't be needing them.

  The meeting with Dr Scott last night had rattled her, leaving her nervous, and uncertain about her next move. Perhaps I went too far, she wondered to herself. Exposed myself too much. It was hard to know. But the circle would be contracting from now on. Of that she was certain.

  Be prepared, she told herself. Walking upstairs, she sat down at the table and began collecting together the papers strewn out in front of her. The formula she had seen in Dr Scott's office was still committed to memory, but, deciding it was better to be safe than sorry, she began writing it down in her notepad, making some notes on the side. From the bedroom she collected a black sports bag, and emptied it of the few clothes that were still inside. Dividing the papers she had into neat piles, classified according to subject, she packed them into the bag. Keep these with me, she told herself. They are too important to leave behind.

  Turning to the computer, she switched the machine on, flicking the switch on the modem, and waiting whilst it brought itself to life. Patiently she watched the screen as the Internet connection sorted itself out; the modem had to dial three times, and, not for the first time, she found herself wishing the system was quicker. Using the mouse, she logged into the e-mail programme. And, pausing for only a moment whilst she decided what to say, Tara started tapping out a message to Jack. Though it surprised her slightly, she admitted to herself that she was worried about him.

  The Chairman stood with his back to the office, gazing down at the complex below. Dusk was falling on a cloudless sky, and he could see the office and lab workers drifting through the compound on their way to the car-park. Good people, in the main, he reflected. People who had worked hard, and who expected their salaries and their pensions to be paid by this company for the rest of their lives. People who wouldn't know what to do with themselves if the company wasn't there any more.

  Certain things, he had long since realised, just had to be done. It was for the best.

  He turned around. Seated around the room were Angus Shane, Dani Fuller, Geoff Wheeler and Ralph Finer. The Chairman walked across the room, and sat down on a large black armchair next to Finer. He looked across at Fuller. 'You believe it is time to act?'

  Fuller nodded. 'They are getting close,' she said. 'Tara Ling has been fishing around with the past, looking into the work of Josef Zmitt. She even asked Dr Scott about it yesterday.'

  The Chairman turned towards Finer. 'And Borrodin?' he asked. 'How much does he know?'

  'Probably only as much as we have fed him,' stated the finance director confidently.

  'I spoke to him today,' said the Chairman. 'He seemed too calm. Is there much evidence of contact with Miss Ling?'

  'He visited her house the other evening,' answered Shane roughly. 'Our man watching the place reported he stayed there about two hours. Probably shagged her.'

  The Chairman smiled. 'I suspect not, somehow.' Shane shrugged. 'Anyway we have enough.'

  'We filmed him in the distribution centre?' asked the Chairman.

  'We have him on film taking the shipment of counterfeiting drugs into the warehouse,' said Shane. 'I don't appear. Just him. And we have tapes of him talking about selling formulae for money. My voice is not identifiable. Just his.'

  'There should be plenty to make the story stick,' interrupted Wheeler.

  The Chairman looked across at his PR man. 'And Ling?'

  'Plenty to make the story stick on her as well,' Wheeler replied. 'The documentary evidence is all in place.'

  The Chairman sighed. 'It is a little earlier than I wanted to act.'

  'Not all the variables were ever going to be entirely under our control,' said Wheeler. 'I think this is the time.'

  Glancing towards the window, the Chairman noticed the first red streaks of a fierce sunset. 'Very well,' he said quietly. 'Proceed.'

  Jack instructed the computer to dial into his Internet connection; Tara had assured him that it was the safest way of communicating. He had his doubts, reminding her that the Internet was notoriously insecure, but Tara insisted that such an anarchic and chaotic system made it extremely difficult to find anything. Jack trusted her. She was far more computer-literate than he was.

  He waited a few minutes while an irritating slice of net babble downloaded itself on to his computer. There was the usual stack of files; ads for computer parts; technical problems and advice with the system; and the heap of gormless messages from anoraks. Jack brushed past it and clicked on to the e-mail function. A message was waiting for him.

  To: keef@pill.demon.co.uk//from: sharon@labb.demon.co.uk:

  Found the Zmitt files. I think I have the connection. We need to talk.

  Jack clicked on to reply, and began typing: 'OK. Can you come round here tonight? Pick me up outside and we'll go somewhere else. Somewhere public, where we can be safe?' He pressed send, and watched the message disappear down through the modem. Tara's message had been sent at seven-fifteen and it was now a quarter to eight. He hoped that she was still at home, and had her machine switched on to receive the message.

  There was not long to wait. Jack had wandered through to the kitchen to make himself a coffee. As he stirred the granules and the boiling water, he was wondering what the files Tara had dis covered would reveal. By the time he returned, the 'message waiting' signal was flashing on his screen. Jack keyed into read, and the message flashed up on the screen.

  To: keef@pill.demon.co.uk//from: dani@century.compuserve.co.uk:

  I don't know what you are planning or why, but it is time to move. Kizog are about to act.

  Jack's heart froze. They knew his e-mail address, or at least Dani Fuller did. Perhaps they had read his conversations with Tara. In which case, he should try to warn her at once.

  It was too late. The 'message pending' signal was flashing again, and Jack pulled it up on to the screen.

  To: keef@pill.demon.co.uk//from: sharon@labb.demon.co.uk:

  Got your message. Coming right over. See you soon.

  Jack walked away from the screen. He dialled Tara's number. It rang and rang, but the
re was no answer. He hung up. Obviously she had already left. There was nothing to be done now except to wait. She would be here soon enough.

  He drank the coffee and paced nervously around the room. The importance of the message from Dani was taking time to sink in. What did she mean by saying Kizog was planning to act? And why was she contacting him with the information? A warning? If so, what was the point?

  What game was she playing now?

  His nerves were starting to fray. His stomach was alive with butterflies, and he could start to feel a headache pounding away at the back of his skull. Time to move, the message had said. The source was probably hostile, but that was not necessarily a reason to disregard it. Jack put on his overcoat, and checked he had his wallet and his credit cards on him. There was thirty quid in his pocket, all the cash he had on him. It would have to do.

  Stepping outside into the cool night air, he looked up and down the street. He could see nothing suspicious. But then, what do I know? he reminded himself. Anything could be going on. He walked up to the end of the street, checking the main road, wondering if he could wave at Tara as she approached his flat. He had decided he would be happier if she wasn't seen there. After a couple of minutes he realised it was useless. This road was not the only way into the street. And he might miss her entirely.

  Up in the distance he could see two men were standing outside his flat. Tall men, wearing slacks and sports jackets. Under the dim street-lamps they were almost indistinguishable. Probably henchmen of Shane's, thought Jack. Trouble.

  They looked unthreatening. There was no menace in their stance, nor in their expressions. But they were blocking the entrance. There was no way Jack could walk past them. He slowed slightly as he approached the entrance to the building, and the taller of the two men, edged forward slightly to confront him. 'Mr Borrodin?' he asked.