by John Holt
Carlos once again explained the reason for his visit.
The man shook his head slowly. “As we told you some days ago we know nothing about Trenton Pharmaceuticals. And we know nothing about what is happening in the Javea Valley.”
Carlos shook his head. “I don’t understand. I was there. Just two days ago. Something is going on.”
“Mr. Lopez,” the official interrupted. “I repeat we cannot tell you anything.” He paused for a moment and smiled. “Now if you will excuse me, I am an extremely busy man, and I have things to do.” He then turned and walked away.
Carlos remained in the waiting area for a few minutes, shaking his head, and tapping his hands together.
“Mr. Lopez,” a voice called out. “You must leave.” Carlos looked up. It was an armed guard. “Now, if you please, sir.”
Carlos slowly stood up and started towards the exit. As he stepped out into the street he stopped and looked back. “We cannot tell you anything,” he murmured contemptuously. “Well, somebody somewhere knows something, that’s for sure.” He thought for a few more moments. Then he nodded his head. He decided to try the regional governor’s office.
* * *
“Mr. Lopez, is it?” a voice asked as an official swept into the waiting room. “My name is Andretti. Marcus Andretti. I am secretary to His Excellency, the Governor.” He held out his hand. Carlos took hold. “Now, Mr. Lopez, what exactly can I do for you?”
Carlos took a deep breath. “I have just returned from the Javea Valley,” he explained. He shook his head and started to rub his hands together nervously. “I was wondering… that is, my newspaper was wondering what was going on there.”
Andretti looked at him for a few moments, and then frowned. “Weren’t you here a few days ago?” he asked.
Carlos nodded. “Yes, I was,” he said firmly. “I spoke to your press secretary.”
Andretti smiled and nodded his head. “I thought so,” he said. He shook his head and paused for a few moments. “Mr. Lopez, we had no comment to make on your previous visit. We have no comment to make now.” He shook his head once again. “We know nothing about Javea Valley.”
Carlos sighed. Here we go again, he murmured. “What can you tell me about Trenton Pharmaceuticals?”
There was a pause. The secretary then shook his head. “Trenton Pharmaceuticals?” he repeated. “I am afraid I don’t understand. So if you don’t mind…”
Carlos did mind. He minded a great deal. Nobody knew anything, or if they did, they weren’t prepared to say so. “I have proof that Trenton Pharmaceuticals is involved in something going on in the Javea Valley.”
The secretary looked at Carlos for a few moments. “Proof, you say,” he replied. “What kind of proof?”
Carlos nodded his head and started to smile. At last I’m getting somewhere, he thought. “Photographs,” he said. “Photographs, and a small bottle.”
The secretary shrugged his shoulders. “I see,” he said nonchalantly. “Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”
Carlos shook his head. “No,” he replied quite simply. Whether he had deliberately forgotten the email that he had sent, or that he honestly considered that it did not count, is unclear. “I’ve told no one about it.”
The secretary nodded. “Senor Lopez. We have no comment to make,” he said firmly. “I suggest that you forget the whole thing.” He turned around and started to walk from the room. As he reached the doorway, he stopped and turned back to face Carlos. “I advise you to forget all about Trenton Pharmaceuticals. Forget about the Javea Valley. Just keep away from it.”
With that the man turned and walked away.
* * *
Carlos slowly walked back to his car. He was now more convinced than ever. There was no doubt in his mind. There was something going on up at the valley. Something that the authorities wanted kept quiet. He was determined to find out what that something was. As he reached the corner of the street he could see his car on the opposite side of the road. Two men standing close to the car saw him and quickly moved away. Carlos never noticed them. He had one thing on his mind and one thing only. He was angry. He kept repeating the last words that the secretary had said to him. “I advise you to forget all about Trenton Pharmaceuticals. Forget about the Javea Valley. Just keep away from it.”
Who did they think they are? And what have they got to hide. Keep away from it, indeed. Keep away from what? That sounded almost like a threat. Whatever happened to the freedom of the press? How dare they? Carlos had a job to do, to provide a service to the public, to report the news. And he was determined, more than ever, to do that job. Were they trying to stop him? Well, let them just try it. His newspaper would lap it up. He would get to the bottom of it one way or another. Nothing was going to stop him, or stand in his way. He would find out the truth, and expose whatever it was that they were covering up. Then they would be sorry. They would live to regret this day. They have just picked the wrong man to tangle with, he thought. That’s all…, the wrong man.
He suddenly shook his head, and cursed. I should have asked for names, he murmured. Names, or badge numbers. Who they were, and what they were. Some reporter he was! He shook his head once more. Perhaps it didn’t matter perhaps he could still expose them without the names. He shrugged. He would have to manage without them, wouldn’t he? He had no choice, did he? He could hardly go back and ask for their names now.
* * *
He got into his car, and secured his seat belt. As he did so he looked out of the window. Two men walked by. He nodded at them absentmindedly, and switched on the ignition. There was a loud hissing noise. Carlos glanced down and then shook his head. There were a lot of odd noises these days, he thought. What was that one? “Just old age probably, wear and tear,” he murmured. The car was now ten years old. He had bought it almost three years ago. The first year or so it had been fine, but over the last six or eight months it had been nothing but trouble. One thing after the other, shock absorbers, new clutch, and, only last month, new brake pads had been installed. The car was beginning to spend more time in the garage than it was on the road. He sighed and shook his head. He really needed a newer car that was all. Sadly that was out of the question, at least for the time being. There was no way that he could afford one, not at present. One day, perhaps, he thought ruefully, knowing that the day was many days away. Perhaps when he had produced his world exclusive for the newspaper, or his million-seller novel, and won the Pulitzer Prize.
He started to laugh, and shook his head. He put the car into gear. There was another loud noise. Carlos ignored it. He checked his mirror, signaled, and slowly he pulled away. The two men were still watching him closely. He saw them as he drove past. He thought nothing of it.
* * *
Carlos decided to take the old road back into the Javea Valley. It was a longer drive but it would bring him out on to the opposite side of the valley, and much closer to the camp. Besides he had a slight detour to make along the way, a detour that sounded promising.
Earlier he had received a call on his cellphone. Somebody was, at last, willing to talk to him. “I understand that you are interested in what is happening down in the Javea Valley,” the voice had said.
“That’s right,” replied Carlos quickly. “How do you know?”
There was silence for a few moments. “I saw you at the Regional Governor’s office,” the voice continued. “I heard you asking questions. You weren’t getting very far, were you?”
Carlos sighed. “I was getting nowhere fast,” he replied. “No one would tell me anything, why not?”
The voice started to laugh. “Money my friend, big money,” he replied. “As simple as that.”
“Who is this?” Carlos asked.
The voice remained silent for a few moments. “No names, you understand,” the voice then continued. “But I might have something of interest. Meet me in two hours. I’ll tell you all you want to know.”
Carlos wondered if it was Andretti. It didn�
�t sound like him, but who else could it have been? If it was him why hadn’t he said something just now, back in the office? Why deny everything? Carlos shook his head. Did it matter, he wondered. Perhaps he just wasn’t free to speak. Maybe he was being watched. Carlos shook his head once again, and took a deep breath. What mattered is that he was now prepared to help. “Where?” Carlos asked.
“Do you know the old Mine Road?” the voice asked. “The one off Palmira Heights?” Carlos knew the road. “Four miles past the junction there is a dirt track. Five hundred yards down that track is an old abandoned shack on the right hand side,” the voice continued. “I’ll see you there.” The line went dead.
* * *
Carlos checked his watch. Time was passing quickly and he did not want to be late for his appointment. It was going to be tight, but he could just do it on time, although it was getting later than he thought. It would be getting dark by the time he arrived. He shook his head. So what, he murmured. Did it matter? So it was going to be dark. What about it? He really had no choice did he?
He put his foot down on the accelerator, the car gradually picked up speed. There was that hissing sound once again. Only it was louder this time. What was it? Whatever it was there was nothing he could do about it. He decided that he would get it checked out as soon as he could. More expense, he thought. It was all pay out just lately. It couldn’t be helped though. There was something wrong, and the car needed to be checked, and that was that. In the meantime he had work to do, important work. He changed into fourth gear. The car started to shudder. He looked down at his speedometer, thirty-five kilometers per hour. The car shuddered once again. He eased off of the accelerator. The car slowed slightly, and the shuddering stopped.
A few minutes later he had reached a fork in the road. The left hand would take him to the hospital at Punta Rojas. The right hand would take him to Palmira Heights. He took the right hand turn. “Palmira Heights,” he murmured. There was a well known accident black spot less than a half a mile away. He would have to slow down soon he realized. Then he saw the sign. Bend, it said, quite simply. It always amused Carlos to see that sign. The road had been full of bends and twists for the past three or four miles, but there hadn’t been a word said. Not a sign anywhere. But now, at the bend to end all bends, they, whoever they were, provided a warning.
It was a massive bend, almost turning back on its self. At the centre of the bend the road started to slope steeply downwards. In the past three years there had been a dozen or more accidents at this bend. Eight people had died, and six had been badly injured.
He shook his head and began to wonder if he had made a wise decision in choosing this route. He hadn’t really much choice, not if he wanted to keep that appointment. Four more miles along this road there was a dirt track off to the left. Five hundred yards down that track was a timber shack. That was where he was to meet with his mysterious caller. He had to use that road. Besides, he would be all right as long as he took care, wouldn’t he?
Just drive carefully, he murmured. Take it easy. No speeding. He checked his watch. He had plenty of time so there was no need to rush. He put his foot on to the brake. There was no response. He checked the speedometer, forty and climbing. He put his foot down on to the brake pedal once again, and began frantically pumping. There was still no response. The needle was now showing forty-five, and still rising. He suddenly heard that strange hissing sound once again, louder still. Then he noticed the smell. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing, odd noises or peculiar odors coming from underneath the hood. Car mechanics was not one of his strong points, but he was fairly sure that he knew what that smell was. Brake fluid, he murmured.
He tried the footbrake once more, nothing happened. In desperation he took the car out of gear and started to freewheel down the slope. He snatched at the handbrake. The car started to slide to one side. He quickly put the car back into second gear and steered towards the inside of the road. There was a sound of screeching metal as the car hit the rocky face. The glass to the passenger side door shattered, the door panel crumpled. Then there was a loud bang and the windscreen grazed with a thousand cracks. Carlos put his arm up and hit the windscreen hard, sending hundreds of small shards onto his lap and onto the passenger seat. The car was now travelling at fifty kilometers per hour. It hit the side of the rocky outcrop once more and spun violently, sliding towards the edge. For a brief moment, it seemed to stop at the edge. It then flipped over and ran down the slope. It turned over three more times before the gas tank finally exploded and the vehicle burst into flames.
By that time Carlos was already dead. His neck had been broken at the first impact.
* * *
The formal inquest concluded that Carlos Lopez had died as a result of multiple injuries sustained during a most unfortunate accident caused by failure of the brakes on his car. It was noted that extensive works had been carried out to the braking system only a few weeks before the accident. Instructions were issued that enquiries be made with the garage that had carried out those works.
* * *
The following day Richard Dawson received a second email, from Carlos, telling him to forget all about the previous enquiry. It had all been a big mistake, and he was not to worry about it anymore.
Dawson saw the email and grunted. I knew it all along, he murmured. It was all a big mistake, just as simple as that. Sorry. I just made a mistake. Forget all about it. Never mind about the great big waste of time, my time. Oh no, don’t worry about that. Never mind the trouble, the inconvenience, the hours that he had spent on that task. Well, okay, he hadn’t actually spent that long. Fortunately he hadn’t spent too much time on it at all. But he could have, couldn’t he? It was all the same to whatshisname, wasn’t it? Carlos you know who. He doesn’t know how long I spent. He doesn’t know if it were days, hours, or just a few minutes. Dawson shook his head again. Probably wouldn’t care anyway, just forget it he says.
He looked at the email once again. There wasn’t even an apology. Dawson shook his head once more. Probably nothing more than a young, keen reporter, out to make a name for himself. A pain in the neck more likely, he muttered. Then he smiled as he remembered that he had once been like that, a few years ago. He looked up and sighed. How many years was it anyway? He smiled and shook his head. Too many to remember, he thought, far too many.
He deleted the email and switched off the computer.
* * *
Chapter Six
The Trials Begin
The volunteers started to arrive late on the Tuesday afternoon, and three days later the clinical trials of a new antibiotic drug commenced in earnest. On that first day all fifty-eight volunteers were deliberately infected with a particularly virulent virus. Not that the volunteers were aware that was to happen. Over the next forty–eight hours the symptoms started to slowly appear. Firstly the rash appeared on the upper body. Secondly there was the vomiting, and finally the breathing difficulties. Of the fifty-eight volunteers, thirty-four contracted the disease. For the next three days they all received various doses of Batch 942/D. It was on the second day that it became clear things were not going exactly to plan. On that day two of the patients died.
* * *
Trenton Pharmaceuticals had set up their administrative area over on the far side of the compound. Although it was getting late Alan Clark was still hard at work. Those two deaths had un-nerved him. Not that he was overly concerned about the people themselves. Oh no, it wasn’t that. It was merely that their deaths had been totally unexpected. It wasn’t meant to happen. They should have made a full recovery. The drug hadn’t worked. Why not?
He was studying the finite details minutely. Was it the drug? Had it failed? Or was there another reason? Something not connected with the vaccine at all? He slowly nodded his head. There must have been something else, something about those two particular people, something about their physical makeup, perhaps, or their metabolism. Or maybe there was something about their general health, their i
mmune system perhaps? Or maybe they were already taking medication that reacted with the vaccine. Maybe it was something to do with their lifestyle. Perhaps they smoked, or were overweight. Perhaps there was something that might have caused the drugs to fail, that might have actually caused their death.
He scanned through the notes quickly. Suddenly he saw something. He sighed, and took a deep breath. “There’s the answer,” he said. He threw the papers down onto the desk. “I knew it.” He picked up the whiskey glass that was lying on the table, and drained it.
Suddenly there was a noise over by the entrance to the tent. He looked up. As he did so another man slowly pushed the tent flap open and came in. Clark nodded and started to smile when he recognized who it was.
“Yes Luis,” he said. “Come right in.” He looked at the bottle of whiskey on the side cabinet, and his own empty glass still on the desk. “Have a drink?” he said as he walked over and picked up the bottle.
The man shook his head. “I’m very sorry to bother you, Mr. Clark,” he replied. “So late like this.”
Clark looked at him, and beckoned him to come forward. “Not a problem, Luis. I’ve always time to speak to you.” he replied. “Now, what is it? You look very worried.” He paused for a moment. “Come and sit down.” He beckoned to a chair. “Let me get you that drink.” Luis shook his head. “All right,” he said. “So what can I do for you, Luis?”
Luis Ramone slowly walked over to the desk and sat down. He took a deep breath. “These deaths,” he said. “Two people dead. The drug is clearly not working is it?” He paused and looked down at the ground. “I mean, what went wrong?” He was rubbing his hands together nervously. “I am concerned that there will be others.”
Clark looked at him, and smiled. He shook his head. “Those deaths were unfortunate. No doubt about that,” he said. He sighed and took a deep breath. He looked down at his desk. “Those deaths were regrettable, but they weren’t because of the drug.” He shook his head once again. “That’s not why they died.”