by John Holt
* * *
Was it really only five weeks ago since they had started the work? Since the machines had come in to clear the land? And then, just three days later the construction crews had arrived, and the works had commenced in earnest. Roadways were formed, and lighting put in. The drainage system was installed. A water supply and electricity was provided. Then the marquees were put up, and the equipment had started to arrive. There was lorry load after lorry load. Now it was all done, all finished. All that was needed now were the tests relating to the air conditioning system, and the air locks to be carried out. After those tests the next item on the agenda was the volunteers themselves. They would all be arriving early the next week, the man thought. “Monday,” he whispered. Then he shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t be Monday,” he murmured. “That was to be a public holiday, one of those endless festivals they seem to constantly have over here.” What was it this time? One of those religious parades no doubt. He started to smile. Some saint or other. It didn’t really matter who it was, or what it was, did it? They were all the same, just an excuse for a day off, and to have a party. Oh, and a fireworks display.
He shook his head once again and sighed. Luis looked up at him, but still said nothing. “Tuesday, then,” the man announced. He looked at Luis. “I said Tuesday,” he repeated. “That’s when the volunteers will be arriving.” He paused for a few moments. “We’ll start the tests tomorrow,” he said. Then they would be ready, and then the real work could begin. “First thing,” he said. “I want them finished by noon. No later.”
Ramone looked at him, and nodded. “First thing,” he repeated. “As you say, Mr. Clark.”
Ramone turned and started to walk back down the valley slope. Clark continued to stare back down into the valley for a few moments. He shook his head. “Tuesday,” he whispered, trying to hide his disappointment. One more day wouldn’t make much difference would it, he murmured? After all he had been planning this whole operation for a little over three years now. One day more was nothing. He shrugged his shoulders. Tuesday was as good a day as any other. He reached into his pocket and took out a sheet of paper. On it was a list of names. He slowly looked down the list. There were fifty-eight of them in total.
He started to read. “Maria Montoya, Hernandez Arrabal, Dolores Carlita, Manuel Cortez.” He paused and looked up. It was a good cross section, he thought. He started to tap the paper. He had selected them well. Men, women, and children, aged from ten up to sixty-eight. All of them had been paid the agreed five hundred dollars, except the children of course. They had only received fifty dollars each. They didn’t really need money, did they? Perhaps a bag of sweets would have been more than sufficient. He shook his head. It was too late now. The man smiled.
Peanuts, he murmured, a paltry five hundred dollars. He shook his head, and started to laugh. It may be a paltry sum to him, but to these volunteers it represented at least six months pay for toiling the land, or working in the local quarry, or at one of those sweat shop factories in the town. Or even up at the oil plant. No, five hundred dollars for a few days work was a pretty good deal as far as they were concerned. Okay, so they had to be ill for a short time. Sure it would be uncomfortable for a while. In fact it would be very unpleasant, maybe even a little painful in some cases. That was the whole idea, wasn’t it? That was the whole purpose of the exercise.
They would be injected with a simple virus, and Trenton Pharmaceuticals would then start to treat them, to cure them. The whole operation would be properly monitored. There wouldn’t be a problem. They would all be fully recovered and well again in a few, short days. Then they would all return to their homes, none the wiser, and none the worse for their experience, with a pocket full of money. And that would be that, simple.
* * *
Trenton Pharmaceuticals had paid over the eight million dollars to the Costa Rican Government, as agreed, in exchange for permission to set up the test site. It was money well spent; a similar operation in the States would have cost hundreds of millions, and would have been subject to so much government control it may never have actually happened.
The eight million dollars was meant to go towards necessary improvements to the local hospital. Somehow, however, the money had made its way into the private bank accounts of the four government officials who had agreed to the whole operation. So the money hadn’t gone where it should have. Clark shrugged his shoulders. What about it? That wasn’t his problem was it? It didn’t matter to him. He certainly wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. So some corrupt government official had pocketed the cash, so what? It had happened before, and it would happen again. Why should he be bothered? Why should he care anyway? All that he cared about was getting the job done, and then getting back to the States, the sooner the better. He hated being in this desolate place. He hated the people, he hated the heat, and he hated the isolation. Yes, the sooner he was home the better. Then the real work would begin. Then they could start full-scale production. Then the money would start rolling in.
* * *
The plan had been called Operation Crystal Clear. To the outside world, though, it was anything but crystal clear. He smiled once again. “Operation Crystal Clear,” he whispered. The name had been his idea; Crystal Clear signifying seeing something clearly, to find answers. He shrugged once again. Whether or not it succeeded in that regard, was still unknown. However, one thing that was perfectly clear was the vast amounts of money that the plan would create. The potential of the whole thing was enormous. Conservative estimates indicated that the vaccine would make at least twenty billion dollars, maybe considerably more. Worldwide sales would be astronomic. More than all of the others put together. He had no idea what the vaccine actually was, or how it worked, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to know. That was down to the chemists, and the scientists, the backroom boffins with their test tubes, and their Bunsen burners. It was they who had put the thing together. All he was required to do was to sell it, and make large sums of money. That was what he was good at. He rubbed his hands together. Once these tests were over, and the drug proved to be a success, he would have no trouble selling it. Foreign governments would be clamoring for it.
* * *
Alan Clark looked down into the valley once again. The compound was ready, and he had made all of the arrangements for the necessary volunteers. They were all peasants from the local villages, just as he had ordered. They would be easy to get, and, more importantly, they would be cheap. Furthermore they wouldn’t ask too many questions. Finally, should anything go wrong, there would be nobody to complain, or show any concern; who would be worried about a few peasant farmers? Besides out in the poorer areas of the country, life was considered cheap. He smiled. He was pleased with himself. He had organized it all, and he was way ahead of time. All that remained now were the air conditioning tests themselves, then the volunteers. Once the volunteers had arrived, they would be categorized, and classified. They would then be allocated their specific ward, and the clinical trials could commence in earnest. A few short days later he could expect the first results to come in.
* * *
Chapter Four
Javea Valley
Over on the far side of the valley a young man was watching the proceedings very closely. As he watched he constantly made notes on a pad or took a photograph. Carlos Lopez was a reporter for the local newspaper. He had been with the newspaper for only a short time, a few months; three months, two weeks, four days, and five hours to be precise. He was young, keen, ambitious, and wanted so much to make an impression. He was also extremely nervous. This was his first big solo story; his big chance to shine, to show exactly what he could do.
* * *
It had been the middle of the morning when he had been called into the editor’s office. It was the first time that he had been called for since he had actually joined the newspaper. He suddenly felt quite worried. He was well aware that he was still on trial, with still almost three months to go before his position wou
ld be made permanent. Maybe they had made their mind up already. Perhaps they had decided to let him go after all. Not good enough maybe. Not up to requirements. Perhaps he had done something wrong?
He scratched his head. He couldn’t think of anything. Maybe it was about that little mistake at the airport the other morning, he thought. Then he shook his head. That had been nothing but a stupid misunderstanding. All right so it was his fault, he had made the mistake, but he had already apologized. Besides, it had all been quickly resolved, and really there hadn’t been a problem. Not really, a storm in a teacup, nothing more. After all what had actually happened? He had merely waited at the wrong Arrivals Gate that was all. All right, so they had missed the arrival of Rafael Mendoza, the pop singer from Chile, or wherever. So what? He wasn’t exactly royalty was he? And besides, they did get to see him the following morning at the hotel, didn’t they?
Carlos shook his head once again. Anyway it hardly deserved the sack did it? He suddenly felt quite ill. He was sweating, and his hands began to shake. His heart was beating fast. Any moment now he was going to collapse. He reached out to the wall to steady himself. It wasn’t fair, it could have happened to anyone.
Perhaps if I got down on my knees and begged, or agreed to a reduction in pay, he thought, I might get a second chance. He stood outside the office door for a few moments, trying to build up some courage; trying to calm his nerves. He counted to ten, took a deep breath and gently tapped on the door.
“Come in,” a voice called out. “It’s open.”
Carlos pushed on the door, and slowly walked into the centre of the room, and stood in front of the large desk belonging to Salvador Morres, the editor, chief reporter, and owner of the newspaper. Carlos took another deep breath. “You sent for me, sir?” he said,
Morres looked up at him. He nodded. “I did Carlos. I did indeed.” He was holding a small bundle of papers. “There’s something going on up at Javea Valley,” he said. “We don’t know what it is, and it’s probably of no great importance.”
Carlos nodded but said nothing.
Morres smiled, and shook his head. “Wrong,” he continued. “Lesson number one, Carlos. As any newspaperman worth his salt will tell you, everything is of the greatest importance until proved otherwise.” He paused for a few moments, and smiled. “Don’t you agree Carlos?”
Carlos started to rub his hands together nervously. He really didn’t know whether he agreed or not. He took a deep breath. “Oh yes sir,” he blurted. “Absolutely.”
“Good,” said Morres. “That’s what I like to hear.” He handed the bundle of papers to Carlos. “I want you to study those, and then go up to Javea. Go and find out what is going on.” Carlos smiled and nodded and turned to go. “Take as long as you need. And take plenty of photographs,” the editor called out after him. “I want to know everything. Understand? Everything.”
Morres paused for a moment, carefully watching the young man. Was he doing the right thing, he wondered. Others had warned him against it. “He’s too young,” some had said. “He’s too inexperienced,” said others.
Morres shook his head, and smiled. “Carlos,” he called out. “Get me a story worthy of the front page. Do you think that you can do that?”
Carlos wasn’t at all sure whether he could, or not. At that moment he was in a complete daze. He hadn’t been sacked. He still had a job. More than that, he had a solo assignment. He could not believe it. Then he smiled, and took a deep breath. He looked directly at Morres. “Yes sir,” he called back emphatically. “You can rely on me, sir.”
* * *
For some days now, Carlos had watched as a steady stream of lorries had brought supplies and equipment into the valley. Then he had watched as a small army of workers had erected the tents. It was then that the rumors had started to spread through the local villages. Some said that the camp was something to do with Attico International, the oil company from the north. They would be drilling quite soon now, so the story went. Others said that it was a secret military base, meant for training members of the Special Forces, whilst others said that it was nothing more than a simple construction site. There had been plans to build a super highway through the valley for many years, and now, at long last, it was finally going to be built.
Carlos had already checked with the authorities, and had drawn a complete blank. No, it wasn’t Attico he had been told, or indeed any other oil company for that matter. There were no plans for drilling in that location. It wasn’t the military either, and there was to be no road constructed. In fact, there was to be no construction of any kind.
So what was it? The authorities were saying nothing. They apparently knew nothing about it. They had absolutely no knowledge of it, whatsoever. It was as though the Javea Valley never existed. Which probably meant that they knew exactly what was going on, but weren’t willing to say anything. Carlos duly reported back to the office.
“Keep at it, Carlos,” Senor Morres had said. “If they are denying everything, you can be sure that something is going on.”
* * *
Carlos kept at it. This was his fourth day up on the slopes. He had been there for almost two hours so far that day, and had taken a dozen or more photographs, from the top of the hill, looking straight down into the valley. Although what those photographs were actually showing he was still unable to say. He shook his head and sighed, as he looked down into the valley. A group of tents, and that was it. A camp of some kind, obviously, that was the easy part. But he had no idea what kind of camp it was. The army, perhaps, he guessed. Then he shook his head. No, it wasn’t the army. The authorities had already ruled that suggestion out. Well then, perhaps it was top secret, he thought. Not for the public to know. Or maybe it was some other government organization. Perhaps it was a survey of some description, a study of the geology of the area, or maybe the wild life. Maybe it was to do with global warming or something to do with the rivers. Or maybe it was something to do with power or fuel. No, not oil, but what about solar energy, or wind? That was it, he decided. Perhaps there were plans for a wind farm to be built nearby. He shook his head. He hoped not. He hated seeing those wind turbines in the country, spoiling the environment. He wondered if a narrow valley was actually a good place to site a wind farm. He was no expert but he concluded that it probably would not be ideal.
He heaved a sigh. He was getting nowhere. It’s this, it’s that, maybe it’s so and so, perhaps it’s who knows what. It was all guess work, all speculation. There wasn’t a single shred of evidence or proof. It was hardly sufficient for a front-page story. He had to admit that after four days he still had no idea what was going on. A handful of tents meant nothing, nothing at all. Suddenly he started to laugh. That’s it, he murmured. I’ve got it. It’s a circus, and the big tent in the middle is the big top. He stopped laughing and shook his head. This was no joke. This was serious. He had to find out what it was all about, and get sufficient proof. He had to produce a story, hadn’t he? Not just any old story. This story had to be special. This had to be a story that was worthy of the front page. That’s what Senor Morres had said, the front page. He nodded his head, and sighed deeply. Was he really up to the task he wondered? He really didn’t know if he was, or he wasn’t, but he was determined to give it his best shot.
He looked up and glanced over to his left. On the opposite side of the valley he could see two men standing close to the edge. One man had his arms raised high above his head. He appeared to be shouting something. The second man stood a few paces behind. Who were they, Carlos wondered; reporters from another newspaper, perhaps. He shook his head. It wasn’t likely. They wouldn’t be making so much noise, would they? They would be like him, lying low, and keeping out of sight. No they were not reporters. Perhaps they were part of it, part of what was going on down in the valley.
Carlos nodded, sure that he was right. He picked up his camera and focused on the two men. He zoomed in as far as he could and clicked the shutter four or five times, in quick succe
ssion. Perhaps he should try to get to speak to them, to ask them what it was all about. He then shook his head. No that was not a good idea, he murmured. So far nobody had even confirmed that anything was going on. It was hardly likely that those two men would supply all the information he needed. If he wanted information he would have to find it out by himself, nobody was going to help him. He shrugged and looked back at the two men. The man with the outstretched arms was still there. The second man had started to make his way down the valley slope. What was it all about, Carlos wondered. What was going on?
If he was to find the answers to those questions he needed to get a little closer. He needed to see what was actually happening inside those tents. Only then would he have some idea as to what was going on. He would make his way down to the valley floor, and take a closer look. He slowly looked around. There was no sign of the two men that he had seen opposite. He looked up at the sky. The sun was now quite low down. It would be getting dark shortly. Another hour, or less, he estimated. He would wait a little while longer. Then he would make his move. He made himself as comfortable as he could and settled down to wait.
* * *
There was a sudden noise close by and Carlos awoke with a start. He sat up quickly, and glanced over to his right side. He could see nothing but he could hear a rabbit, or maybe it was a fox, running back into the undergrowth. He groaned and tried to stretch. As he did so sharp pains ran through his neck and into his back, for he had been lying awkwardly.