Dead End

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘I want everyone involved,’ insisted Newton. ‘And I want to be kept in the closest touch. About everything.’

  ‘I hear the message,’ said Parnell. It would be difficult not to, so often had it been repeated.

  Back in his office, the door secured again, Parnell sat for several moments gazing down at Barbara Spacey’s sealed report, wondering if the man he had just left had read it before their confrontation, confused by Newton’s pendulum mood swings. Impatiently Parnell tore open the envelope, not expecting the brevity of the woman’s assessment. In Barbara Spacey’s opinion the events to which he had been subjected had profoundly affected him psychologically. He was making every effort, much of it subconsciously, to suppress any obvious reaction, but would be overly worried by the reaction of others towards him. She was unsure of the true depths of his feelings towards Rebecca Lang and believed Parnell felt, although he might be unable to identify the reason, a deep sense of guilt. There was a marked absence of the overconfidence that she had commented upon in her first report. She wanted another interview in the near future.

  She might, thought Parnell. He didn’t.

  Sixteen

  There appeared to be no resentment at Parnell’s announcement that he was joining the expanded flu research team and it was automatically accepted that he would be its leader. From Tokyo there were frozen specimens of the current bird flu virus, as well as quite separate – and unexpected – samples of SARS from the masked palm civet cat, the wild animal species considered a culinary delicacy in China, and suspected of being the source of a renewed but so far limited outbreak of the disease that became an epidemic in the Far East in 2003. There were also cultures from two human victims of the new SARS outbreak in China’s Guangzhou city. The inconclusive research notes on both from Dubette’s Japanese subsidiary ran to forty pages and included warnings from the World Health Organization of a potential pandemic from both respiratory illnesses.

  ‘We didn’t know we were getting the additional severe acute respiratory syndrome material?’ queried Parnell.

  Ted Lapidus shook his head. ‘Maybe Tokyo is treating them as allied conditions to examine in conjunction.’

  Parnell said: ‘And if the viral composition is different, we could confuse ourselves.’

  ‘It could be something Russell Benn and his merry men want to work on at the same time,’ suggested Beverley Jackson.

  ‘I’ll find out,’ said Parnell. ‘And if it is, then let them. Here, for the moment, we’ll leave the WHO worrying about SARS pandemics. We’ll concentrate on avian flu and come back to SARS as a separate project.’ A part of his mind was still preoccupied, which he guessed it would be for a long time to come, but Parnell believed the majority of his concentration to be back upon the work at hand and it pleased him. It made him feel in charge of himself, which he’d always been supremely sure of but hadn’t felt for the last few days, needing to be reliant on – or at the mercy of – others. Which, he acknowledged, had been Barbara Spacey’s psychological assessment.

  ‘We could have a boost for our flu experiments,’ said Sean Sato. ‘Did a Web surf yesterday while I was waiting for the Tokyo stuff to arrive. The Scripps Research Institute in San Diego, working with the National Institute for Medical Research in England, have found how the 1918 influenza transferred from birds to humans. The importance of the discovery, from our point of view, is that it’s genetic.’

  ‘Take us through it,’ said Parnell.

  ‘They worked with genes from the 1918 virus recovered from an Inuit woman whose body was preserved in a frozen Alaskan tundra grave, and from kept samples from US soldiers who died in the pandemic,’ recounted Sato, enjoying the audience. ‘And isolated the bird-flu viral protein, haemagglutinin. It’s got spikes, like darts. It’s the darts that locked it on to human cells, like spears, and by which it gained entry to cause the infection …’

  ‘Which no one would have understood at the time, because the human flu virus wasn’t isolated until 1933,’ intruded Lapidus.

  ‘We know that of the fifteen different strains of bird influenza that have been identified, only three until now have ever mutated to infect humans, in 1918, 1957 and 1968,’ said Sato. ‘What they haven’t been able to discover is why, having made the species jump from bird to human, it becomes so pathogenic from human to human.’ He hesitated again, to make a point. ‘I’ve pieced together some other already published data. We’ve got Tokyo’s material to confirm the opinions, but one analysis suggests the current avian flu is similar to the human virus that caused the 1968 pandemic. There’s another theory that it possibly has a haemagglutinin-type protein like that of 1918.’

  No one, not even Lapidus, spoke for several moments, digesting what the Japanese-American had just suggested. It was Parnell who said: ‘You just outlined a double-barrelled, global pandemic that would make a death toll of twenty million in 1918 little more than a starting figure.’

  ‘I know,’ said Sato, quietly. ‘It frightens the shit out of me.’

  ‘This information’s public?’ questioned Beverley.

  ‘On the Internet for everyone to read,’ said Sato, gesturing towards the dead-eyed computer at his station. ‘Who knows how many people have put it together?’

  ‘Why hasn’t there been some WHO warning?’ demanded Lapidus.

  ‘Against what?’ demanded Parnell, in return, surprised at the question. ‘There’s no vaccine or prevention – that’s what we’re supposed to be trying to find. To issue dire predictions and make the connections that Sean has just done would simply cause panic.’

  ‘Scripps – and London – synthesized haemagglutinin?’ queried Beverley.

  ‘That’s my understanding,’ agreed Sato. ‘I’ve downloaded individual copies of everything I’ve found for all of us.’

  ‘If it’s synthesized, we’ve got something positive to begin with,’ judged Beverley.

  ‘I’m frightened as shitless as Sean by his doomsday scenario,’ said Parnell. ‘Let’s start by making the most obvious comparison open to us, the synthesized haemagglutinin against what’s come in from Tokyo, looking for matching spikes … matching anything. And then against the 1968 Hong Kong flu, to see if there’s a possible fit.’

  ‘Which way are you thinking of going?’ asked Lapidus.

  ‘The only way,’ answered Parnell. ‘One step after the other. You got any thoughts?’

  The Greek scientist shook his head. ‘Don’t like the idea we can’t culture in chicken eggs.’

  ‘At the moment that’s the least of our problems. Let’s get reading and get started.’

  Despite Lapidus’s assurance Parnell crossed to Kathy Richardson’s office, forbidding her from going anywhere near the specialized laboratory in which the potentially virulent Asian samples were being stored, but asked her to prepare files in which they could record and cross-reference their experiments. The woman said she had already been told and appreciated the dangers, reminding him with a hint of stiffness that she had long experience as a medical secretary. Parnell also asked her to obtain a map of the flu-affected countries in Asia upon which the incidence of outbreaks could be charted. He dictated a lengthy email to Tokyo, asking why they had included the SARS material in their shipment, and requested daily reports on the increase or otherwise of flu outbreaks in the region, to update his intended map, and advised in advance that he might ask for more physical samples.

  Parnell entered Russell Benn’s laboratory complex at the end of what had obviously been a similar conference to the one he’d just held, and was ushered at once into the man’s side office with the permanently percolating coffee and the Dubette-logo mugs. The black professor described what he’d just conducted as a jam session, as yet without any formulated approach apart from chemically reanalysing what Tokyo had already done. He didn’t know why the SARS stuff had been included either, and looked forward to Tokyo’s reply to Parnell’s query. He listened intently to an account of the geneticists’ discussion and, when Parnell fi
nished, said: ‘Jesus H. Christ!’

  ‘It’s theory at this stage,’ cautioned Parnell.

  ‘With a basis,’ argued Benn. ‘You told Dwight?’

  ‘Nothing to tell him, until we’ve satisfied ourselves. We know the cause – it’s the way to the cure or prevention we’re looking for.’

  ‘I haven’t said how sorry I am, about Rebecca,’ declared the other man, suddenly. ‘Which I am, truly sorry. And for what it almost caused you, personally. With terrorism in the mix, it’s one big crock of shit.’

  ‘Let’s hope the FBI can sort it out.’ Parnell regretted Benn’s reminder. For a brief while it had actually gone out of his mind but now it was back.

  ‘They any idea what it’s all about?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘I guess they’ll be spending time here?’

  ‘I guess,’ said Parnell, guardedly. He didn’t want to say or do anything to anyone that might stop the exchange of information between himself and the FBI investigators.

  ‘It must be distracting.’

  ‘I’ll cope.’ How well, Parnell wondered, remembering the difficult drive from Washington and Barbara Spacey’s analysis.

  ‘Look forward to our working properly together.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Parnell. He hesitated, on the point of trying to draw the man on the French experimentation that Dwight Newton had dismissed as a failure, but decided against it. It was hopefully something he could learn – or at least get a guide to – from the FBI. After itemizing it as he had that morning, it was inevitable the two Bureau agents would ask about it.

  At Giorgio Falcone’s insistence Parnell travelled in the lead funeral car. Apart from the restaurateur, there were two occasionally weeping aunts and a niece. What whispered conversation there was between them was in Italian. In English, to Parnell, Falcone said: ‘Dubette offered to pay for everything. I told them I didn’t want their charity.’

  ‘I thought you might,’ said Parnell. He’d been surprised by the Dubette contingent in the following cars. Personnel director Wayne Denny was with Dwight Newton, Russell Benn and Burt Showcross and two other men whom Parnell didn’t know but assumed to be from Rebecca’s division. He hadn’t expected Barry Jackson or the two FBI men, either.

  ‘The undertakers told me they’ve sent four wreaths, one from the president himself.’

  ‘Rebecca was very popular. They valued her work.’

  ‘That’s what the man said who came to see me about paying for the funeral. The FBI came, too, yesterday. Asked me about the previous boyfriend, like you did. I wasn’t able to help them beyond what I told you. Do they think he did it?’

  ‘No,’ said Parnell. ‘They need to talk to everyone who knew Rebecca.’

  ‘And they’ve searched Rebecca’s house. They wanted a key. They asked for photographs of her, too.’

  What had they found at the house? wondered Parnell. He felt exhausted, straining to keep any coherence in his speculation. He’d worked until nine on the day of his return to Dubette and wished he hadn’t when he’d finally left the complex, because the car lot was almost deserted. And now, almost two days later, he ached physically from what he imagined he had to do to remain alert to everything and everybody around him. He’d scarcely slept on the night of the return, and the following day actually jumped, only just stopping short of crying out, at a lorry’s backfire. And after that stared so hard at whom he judged to be two different suspiciously behaving men on two separate occasions that they’d frowned back with equal suspicion, one, Parnell guessed, on the point of confronting him to ask what the hell he was doing. Although he knew it was an irrational expectation and was impatient with himself for it, he’d still wanted something positive from their experiments and had been tetchy with everyone when there wasn’t. He’d hardly slept the previous night, either. And he’d eaten nothing since he couldn’t remember when but crackers and cheese and now there was none left of either in the apartment. All the wine had gone, too.

  ‘You’ll let me know, if you hear anything?’ pressed Rebecca’s uncle.

  Parnell brought himself back to the older man beside him. ‘If I hear anything.’

  The service was in a Catholic church in Bethesda and there was an already waiting cordon of television and stills cameras, which jostled into action as the mourners formed up behind the flower-draped coffin to file into the church behind it. The priest was young and bearded, which Parnell considered odd until accepting it to be yet another irrational reaction. Parnell allowed his mind to wander during the service, believing it a brief and welcome opportunity to release the self-imposed, exhausting tension. He caught snatches, though, disjointed references to violence and tragedy and young life savagely cut short, intermingled with insistences upon God’s infinite wisdom and mysterious ways. He stood and sat in time with everyone around him who stood and sat, and matched with them the opening and closing of his blurred hymn book, from which he didn’t try to sing. There was more filming when the procession moved towards the grave, which Parnell, bringing his mind to bear once more, realized was that in which Rebecca’s mother and father were interred. The aunts and the niece wept on during the dust to dust, ashes to ashes ritual. So did Giorgio Falcone. There were probably others whom Parnell didn’t see. They all threw individual flowers into the gaping hole. Falcone plucked a lily from a waiting wreath and offered it, and Parnell dropped it into the grave, without looking down into where Rebecca’s body lay. As he turned back towards the grieving family with whom he had been standing, Parnell saw that his commemorative flower had come from one of the Dubette wreaths. His spray of white lilies and his handwritten card – Goodbye, my love to be – had been relegated to the second row of the banked floral tributes, behind Dubette’s elaborate creations. Determinedly Parnell reached forward, bringing his into the front, unconcerned at the flurry it caused among the hovering media.

  There was an uncertain hiatus around the graveside, which Parnell finally stirred himself to resolve, leading the immediate family back towards the waiting cars. As they walked, Falcone said: ‘I wonder how many will come back?’

  ‘Come back?’ echoed Parnell.

  ‘I’ve closed the restaurant for the reception. You didn’t hear the priest invite everybody?’

  ‘No,’ said Parnell. It was already difficult for him to remember what he had or had not heard. The moment he relaxed he had the impression of his awareness ebbing and flowing.

  ‘He did. It’s expected.’

  ‘Of course.’ Parnell discovered, almost with a jolt, that he was back in the funeral car and assumed they were heading into Washington. He clenched his hands as tightly as he could to achieve a physical sensation, something on to which he could lock his mind to stop him drifting from what was happening around him, and he contorted his face, squeezing his eyes shut, for the same reason. It helped, just, but Parnell wasn’t sure how long it would last. A touch on his arm brought him around to one of the no longer crying aunts, who said in a heavily accented voice that she thought it had been a wonderful service, and dutifully Parnell said he thought so, too. She added that she was sorry for his loss and that he and Rebecca would have made a wonderful life together, and Parnell nodded but didn’t reply.

  The Wisconsin Avenue restaurant had a Closed notice at the window and the blinds were drawn. A black-suited Ciro, whom Parnell hadn’t seen at the funeral, unlocked the door, shepherding the staff in ahead of everyone and turning on the interior lights. It was not until he saw Falcone assembling the rest of the family mourners that Parnell appreciated that there was going to be a receiving line. He held back until the Italian beckoned him forward at the arrival of the others. As Parnell joined the line, the man said: ‘You count as family.’

  The handshaking, unheard commiseration ritual seemed to last forever and Parnell was embarrassed by it, glad when it ended. He moved away at once, taking from Ciro the offered glass of red wine, so full he needed to sip before carrying it more safely further into the room, tightening h
is self-control to face – and understand – the impending ordeal. At once he was conscious of Barry Jackson’s supporting presence at his elbow.

  The lawyer said: ‘You look rough.’

  ‘So you keep telling me.’

  ‘So you keep looking. Specific problem or just everything?’

  ‘Constantly watching my back, I suppose. And not sleeping.’

  ‘You could get something to sleep.’

  Parnell snorted a laugh. ‘I work for a drugs company and I don’t take drugs. How’s that for irony?’

  ‘Stupid,’ said Jackson. ‘If you’re not sleeping properly you can’t work properly. Or be as self-aware and careful as you’ve got to be. Take a pill.’

  Across the room, Howard Dingley and David Benton were moving among the Dubette contingent, nodding in head-bent concentration. Both were wearing subdued blue today. Following Parnell’s look, Jackson said: ‘They come back to you yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  As if on cue Dingley detached himself and crossed to them. As he arrived he said: ‘Making plans to come out to Dubette.’

  Jackson said: ‘You’re going to need to talk to my client again, of course.’

  ‘I’d think so,’ agreed the frowning FBI man.

  ‘I’d like to be there.’

  ‘Why’s that, Mr Jackson?’

  ‘To represent him.’

  Dingley smiled, fleetingly. ‘I’ll have to remember to appoint you as my lawyer if ever I get into trouble.’

  ‘My client’s not in any trouble, but call me any time.’

  No trouble apart from being a potential murder victim, thought Parnell. He said: ‘Anything come up since we talked?’

  ‘Nothing that helps join the dots together,’ dismissed the agent.

  ‘What about Rebecca’s house? You’ve been through the house. Her uncle told me.’

  ‘You’re not next of kin, Mr Parnell.’

  ‘I’m the person who was going to marry her and got wrongly arraigned for her murder and whom your partner a couple of days ago agreed it was worthwhile to talk things through with.’