Dead End

by Brian Freemantle

  Dingley sighed. ‘We picked up an address book and found a listing in Arlington for an Alan Smeldon. He left there about a year ago. The couple who took over his apartment think he went to California. He didn’t leave a forwarding address.’

  ‘Nothing else?’ persisted Parnell.

  ‘Like I said, nothing that takes us forward,’ refused Dingley. ‘Everything kept very neat and tidy. That’s what Ms Lang was, very neat and tidy. You thought of anything that might help us, Mr Parnell? A friend of Ms Lang’s, maybe.’

  Parnell shook his head, unsure when he’d last had a comprehensible thought. But then, abruptly, the clouds cleared in his head, to a moment of crystal clarity. ‘The key!’ he exclaimed. ‘You asked Giorgio Falcone for the key to get into Rebecca’s house. But she had one, in her purse. Would have had to have had one, when she left me, to get back into her house!’

  ‘There wasn’t one among the property Metro DC police surrendered to us,’ said Dingley.

  ‘Did you and your partner do the search?’ asked Jackson, entering the conversation at last.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dingley.

  ‘You find any evidence of someone having been there before you?’ persisted the lawyer.

  ‘We didn’t,’ said Dingley. ‘But we’ve got forensics there now. They’re better at finding out the little things than we are.’

  Seventeen

  Richard Parnell thought one of his better successes – maybe even his only success so far at Dubette – was perhaps his refusal to be distracted by the fame-or-fear procession up and down the open-plan, glassed corridor to Dwight Newton’s lair. He would have ignored the bustle that day, too, if Beverley Jackson’s remark hadn’t included an FBI reference. Parnell looked up in time to see company lawyer Peter Baldwin hurrying towards the vice president’s innermost office, leading two briefcase-carrying, dark-suited men.

  He said: ‘How do you figure it’s a Bureau thing?’

  ‘They’re lawyers and I know lawyers, remember? They’re cloned in a lawyer factory, somewhere hidden in Ohio.’ Beverley had the bench space next to him for the avian-flu investigation.

  ‘Barry doesn’t look like that.’

  ‘He was a prototype that didn’t work – they abandoned the model.’

  ‘He sure as hell worked for me,’ said Parnell, uncaring at the American phraseology. He felt better. Not totally better, convinced as he once had been that he could climb mountains and swim oceans, but the cotton-wool feeling had gone from his head, and every moving part of his body didn’t ache at the slightest motion. The previous night had again been more of an exhausted collapse than sleep, but it had been rest of sorts, and that morning, alert as he now had to be, there hadn’t any longer been the confused disorientation of making monsters out of shadows.

  ‘Pity he didn’t work so well for me.’

  It was more a throwaway line than an inviting complaint – an invitation Parnell wouldn’t anyway have accepted – but he thought it confirmed that Beverley Jackson was someone who always demanded the last word in any one-to-one conversation. He decided to allow it to her, because he wasn’t interested in trying to out-talk the woman.

  What he was far more interested in was configuring something from the earlier influenza pandemics with the current outbreak, which yet again he accepted to be an illogical expectation but for which he’d hoped after Sean Sato’s initial, seemingly encouraging discoveries. Tokyo’s response to Parnell’s SARS query was as Lapidus had predicted, that their research was predicated on a connecting transmission link between that and avian flu, and that they had anticipated the exploration would be duplicated in America. Parnell copied the email to Russell Benn, together with his reply that the pharmacogenomics unit were treating the two respiratory conditions separately. As an afterthought he made a separate copy to the vice president, towards whose office he’d just seen the legal procession head.

  By then he, Beverley Jackson, Ted Lapidus and Sato had exhausted every microscope comparison with the limited Tokyo samples without finding anything approaching a visual match to the spiked 1918 haemagglutinin gene or the structure of the 1968 Hong Kong virus. It was because there was a momentary hiatus in their work that Beverley had been looking out into the corridor, and it was the woman who said again: ‘And then there were more!’

  Parnell looked up in time to see Howard Dingley and David Benton passing. Parnell almost expected them to be walking in step, but they weren’t. As he went by, Dingley looked into the unit and gestured. Parnell said: ‘They’re FBI.’

  ‘So I was right,’ insisted Beverley.

  Definitely a last-word syndrome, thought Parnell. He said: ‘It was set up at the funeral.’

  ‘What’s our next step forward?’ impatiently broke in Sean Sato.

  There was something proprietorial in the way the Japanese-American spoke, as if his earlier findings qualified him above the other two under Parnell’s supervision. Parnell said: ‘The obvious one, animals. We’ll try to synthesize, in mice to begin with. See if we can bring about a mutation and then monitor it, to find the bridge the virus crosses.’

  ‘All of us?’ queried Lapidus.

  ‘We don’t need to be involved, all of us, this early,’ acknowledged Parnell. ‘You three kick it off. I want to go back on that research Sean found, see if we can take it further and open up a separate path. We’re going to need more samples from Tokyo, too. We’ll jointly discuss each day’s progress.’

  ‘You’re second-checking?’ seized Lapidus.

  Parnell was surprised at the interjection. ‘Of course. Nothing’s going to leave this department unless it’s been second and third and fourth time checked. And that’s before it goes into the statutory three-phase licensing process.’

  ‘We going to manage that in our lifetime?’ asked Lapidus.

  ‘It’s somebody else’s lifetime we’re concerned with,’ reminded Parnell.

  ‘I didn’t mean …’ started Lapidus, disconcerted.

  ‘I’m talking about what emerges from this unit, not anything else,’ Parnell halted him, sparing the man. ‘We all clear on what we’re doing?’

  The two other men nodded. Beverley said: ‘Perfectly.’

  Kathy Richardson looked up at Parnell’s emergence from the restricted laboratory, shaking her head at his enquiring look as he approached, to let him know there were no messages. Inside her office the woman was enclosed behind the battlement of file boxes, some already filled, many more waiting to be filled with the raw data she was in the process of sorting.

  He said: ‘It’ll get better.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise. And I’ll send my own emails.’

  ‘You needn’t.’

  ‘Democracy rules in the Dubette pharmacogenomics unit.’

  ‘I’ll get the T-shirts and the fender stickers printed.’

  Parnell laughed openly at the gradually emerging independent irony, convinced he’d made the right choice in Kathy Richardson, as he had with everyone else. His email to Tokyo was brief, a simple request for more samples. Parnell experienced a nostalgic déjà vu of his open-minded, free-exchange period in pure research when he began communicating with the Scripps Research Institute in San Diego and the National Institute for Medical Research in London. Literally within an hour, there were enthusiastic acknowledgements from the directors of both, each promising the raw experimental data of their respective findings that had not appeared either on the Internet or in the scientific journals. From each it was flatteringly obvious the quickness of their responses came from their recognition of his name and reputation on the genome project. Parnell wondered, and quickly wished he hadn’t, whether the notoriety of the past week might also have contributed.

  So immersed was he that Parnell had forgotten the presence of the FBI investigators further along the corridor until Kathy Richardson’s warning arrival, Dingley and Benton hovering close behind. She said: ‘They’re asking for a minute or two.’

  Parnell waved them
in.

  ‘That’s all, just a minute or two,’ promised Dingley.

  Benton said: ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Better than it was,’ said Parnell. ‘But only just.’

  ‘How’s that?’ said Dingley.

  ‘Trying to adjust. Getting used to things,’ said Parnell.

  Both men nodded, as if they understood.

  ‘You wanted a minute or two,’ prompted Parnell.

  ‘Trying to fit in, to everyone’s convenience, is all,’ said Dingley.

  ‘Any progress?’ asked Parnell, offering seats.

  ‘A lot of people still to see. Nothing clear yet.’

  ‘When’s there going to be anything that’s clear?’ pressed Parnell.

  Benton made an open-handed gesture of uncertainty. ‘A lot of people still to see,’ he echoed his partner.

  ‘How’d it go with the vice president?’ asked Parnell, directly.

  There was another hands-spread movement from Benton. ‘He had counsel with him. That’s why we stopped by. We’re certainly going to need to speak to you again, in the next little while. Your lawyer told us he wants to come along.’

  Parnell reminded himself, as he had at the moment of his premature arrest, that America was the land of litigation and that he didn’t know anything whatsoever about the law. ‘I’ll warn him to be ready.’

  ‘That’ll be helpful,’ thanked Dingley.

  ‘What about the forensic examination of Rebecca’s house?’ demanded Parnell. ‘Was there any evidence of it having been searched, before you?’

  ‘Still being gone over,’ avoided Dingley.

  ‘Still?’ queried Parnell, disbelievingly.

  ‘They’re very thorough guys,’ said Benton. ‘That’s what their job is, being very thorough.’

  ‘What about the flight listing?’ persisted Parnell.

  ‘You should wait until you’re with your counsel,’ said Dingley.

  ‘What the hell for?’ demanded Parnell, loud-voiced.

  ‘It means you should wait until you’re with your counsel,’ said Benton, in another of his irritating echo responses. ‘And tell him there’s going to be a fingerprint request.’

  ‘What?’ asked Parnell.

  ‘Elimination,’ said Dingley. ‘It’s routine.’

  ‘Will you have something, when we meet?’ said Parnell.

  ‘Maybe. Who knows?’ avoided Dingley, again.

  From the other side of the glass partition, Kathy Richardson was gesturing with one hand, the other holding the internal telephone.

  Benton said: ‘We’re in the way.’

  Dingley said: ‘What’s a good time for you?’

  ‘That depends on Barry. I’ll call him, with the choices, and get back to you.’ It made sense, he knew, to have the lawyer with him, but he wasn’t totally convinced of the need. He said: ‘Why don’t we get on with it now?’

  Dingley shook his head. ‘Your lawyer was very clear, Mr Parnell.’ There was a close-to-imperceptible head movement back in the direction of Newton’s suite. ‘We get the rule book dictated to us, like we just have, we’ve got to go with the rule book. We make one mistake, it’s all over.’

  ‘What mistake? What’s all over?’ said Parnell

  ‘Taking the wrong step in the investigation,’ said Dingley.

  ‘You still think I might be someway involved!’ demanded Parnell, indignantly.

  ‘We collect evidence, Mr Parnell,’ said Benton. ‘We leave other people to decide what to do with it. You’ll get back to us, right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Parnell. ‘As soon as I’ve talked to my lawyer.’

  ‘We’re obliged,’ said Benton.

  Parnell delayed responding to Dwight Newton’s summons while he tried to reach Barry Jackson, leaving Kathy Richardson to make the contact after thirty minutes. From his side office, Parnell hadn’t seen the lawyers’ departure, but the research division vice president was alone when Parnell reached the man’s suite. The greeting pendulum had swung again. Newton was hunch-shouldered behind his desk, glowering up from a lowered head.

  ‘You talked about confidential work under progress here!’ Newton accused at once.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Parnell, surprised.

  ‘You heard what I said!’

  ‘I heard what you said. I didn’t understand what you said.’

  ‘I’ve just been officially interviewed,’ protested the other man. ‘Asked about work we were doing here on something that emanated from France.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Parnell. He was content for Newton to lead.

  ‘Which you told them about,’ the research vice president continued to accuse him. ‘That’s information governed by the confidentiality contract you signed.’

  ‘I don’t recall any clause in that contract covering a murder investigation.’

  ‘They’re talking terrorism, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘You knew about the Air France flight listings. It came up in court.’

  ‘Those guys are treating it as sinister – trying to make a connection to Dubette. Because of what you told them.’

  ‘I didn’t disclose any secrets, Dwight. I don’t have any secrets, so I can’t have breached any confidentiality contract. They wanted to know about anything – and I mean that, anything – that Rebecca might have regarded as out of the ordinary in the last few weeks. She was curious why she and her department had been bypassed, about France. That’s what I told them. That it was out of the ordinary and she hadn’t understood why. Simple as that. Simple as that and only that, because there was nothing more to tell them, was there?’

  The other man gave the impression of relaxing, although only slightly. ‘What did Rebecca say about France?’

  ‘Only that she couldn’t understand why things weren’t normal. And that Burt Showcross told her to leave it. Which is what I told her, particularly after you told me the French idea hadn’t worked out.’

  Newton examined Parnell steadily for several moments. ‘They spoke to Showcross. And Russell Benn.’

  Parnell wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. ‘With the lawyers present?’

  Newton nodded. ‘Do you think they will want to see you again?’

  ‘They do,’ confirmed Parnell. ‘Barry Jackson will be with me.’

  ‘He’s representing you, personally. I’d like our people there, as well.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Dubette have got to be protected, from all this terror rubbish. You’ve seen the papers. And the television.’

  ‘All this terror rubbish?’ queried Parnell.

  ‘Misleading accusations,’ specified Newton.

  ‘Dwight! I’m not up with you on this!’

  ‘I know the case they’re trying to build: that Dubette, with its access to drugs and chemicals, has some connection with terrorism. That’s why the FBI are involved in the first place.’

  ‘I really don’t believe this! There’s a perfectly understandable and acceptable explanation for why Rebecca had that flight number in her bag: her job was to deal with samples coming in by air from overseas. And Dingley and Benton have accepted it, as far as I am aware.’

  ‘That’s not my impression.’

  ‘Impression?’ questioned Parnell, pointedly. ‘A second ago you told me they were building a definite case.’

  ‘We’re talking about company lawyers being with you for the next FBI interview,’ said Newton.

  ‘You were talking about company lawyers,’ contradicted Parnell. ‘I wasn’t. I’m going to see the Bureau guys again, with just my lawyer. And if I get the slightest indication of Dubette being compromised, I’ll stop the interview and tell you, immediately.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s the attitude we welcome,’ said Newton.

  ‘It’s not an attitude,’ contradicted Parnell again. ‘It’s common-sense refusal to be panicked when there’s no reason nor cause to be panicked.’

  ‘I’ve got to see the board, up in New York.’

  ‘I’m sur
e you have,’ said Parnell, unsure why he was being told.

  ‘Which will have to include your refusal to co-operate.’

  ‘Dwight, don’t you think the FBI might imagine that I – and Dubette – have something to hide if I arrive next time surrounded by attorneys? I’m not refusing to co-operate. I’m refusing to let there be any wrongful suspicion … wrongful suspicion about me and wrongful suspicion about Dubette. Make sure you tell the board that, in those words.’

  ‘I’ll definitely make sure of that,’ said Newton, in an attempted threat that failed.

  ‘There’s nothing to hide,’ insisted Parnell once more. I haven’t, he thought. He increasingly wasn’t sure about Dwight Newton or Russell Benn.

  When Parnell got back to his department, Kathy Richardson said Jackson had suggested ten the following morning. When he told Dingley, the FBI agent said: ‘You told him about fingerprints?’

  ‘He wants to know why.’

  Eighteen

  Richard Parnell was at Jackson’s office by eight thirty – and had to wait fifteen minutes for the lawyer’s arrival – wanting advice not so much for the meeting that was to come but for the uncertainties that appeared to be arising from those that had already taken place.

  When Parnell finished, Jackson said: ‘What do you think you’re telling me?’

  ‘Let’s not go this route,’ protested Parnell. ‘From the moment we first met, in the middle of the night in a detention cell, I don’t know how many days or weeks ago, I’ve not known what the fuck I’m telling you or anyone else! It’s feelings, nuances, uncertainties: square things that don’t go into round holes. It’s all wrong. Rebecca’s dead, murdered, and something’s wrong and I’m not talking about her being killed or my getting accused of it.’

  Jackson tried silently to pick his way through the jumbled declaration. ‘You think there is something to link Dubette with terrorism?’

  ‘Absolutely not. But there’s something.’

  ‘Something big enough – important enough – to have got Rebecca killed?’