Parnell paused, mentally rehearsing his promised approach. ‘I think it would be appropriate for my unit to be thanked officially, by letter, for their contribution yesterday.’
‘You’re the unit director,’ said Newton, sharply. ‘Haven’t you thanked them?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then it’s done,’ insisted Newton. ‘Just as I thanked you, last night.’
‘I’ll tell them Dubette is grateful.’ But not tell you I’m doing it by the official letter you’re frightened will lock you into a scandal, Parnell decided. He’d known in advance what Newton’s response would be, and had only asked the question because he’d promised the unit he’d do so. Newton’s rejection was still … What? Indicative, he supposed.
‘When’s the meeting with the FBI?’ asked Newton, abruptly.
‘Not fixed yet,’ said Parnell.
‘But it’s about Rebecca …? Her death …?’
They were shit-scared about France, Parnell guessed at once. With every cause and reason. ‘They didn’t tell me what it was about. But it has to be connected with Rebecca, doesn’t it?’
‘There’s … I’m sure you’re aware …’ stumbled the vice president.
‘You got something to say, why don’t you say it, Dwight?’ demanded Parnell.
‘After Rebecca’s murder, your discovery could totally destroy Dubette if it ever became public,’ blurted the thin man.
‘Dwight! That’s what I told you, in as many words, remember? I’m not going to talk to anyone about it. Neither is anyone in my unit. Your only risk – Dubette’s only risk – is if some of this stuff has already been shipped, for sale or use. And people start dying.’
‘I know. And thank you, again. For the assurance, I mean.’
‘That’s what we need, not my positive assurance, but far more importantly the positive guarantee from Paris that every-thing’s recovered. Destroyed. We’re agreed on that, aren’t we! We can’t be anything else but agreed on that!’ challenged Parnell, abandoning all his previous reservations about what he said at this encounter. Abandoning, too, any reliance upon Newton to achieve anything. Into Parnell’s mind drifted Beverley’s cynicism: You’d be surprised what someone will do to keep five hundred thousand a year and stock options. The vice president and Benn were still shell-shocked, their ears ringing – deafened – from the reverberations of an explosion they hadn’t ever imagined.
‘That’s what we’re getting,’ promised Benn.
Parnell wasn’t at all sure that was what they were getting – or would get. He still needed to be convinced, even, that Dwight Newton had done everything he should to contain the situation. Fleetingly doubting it was something he should do as head of department – but very much aware of his undertaking to distance everyone else in his unit from any further involvement – Parnell personally transferred all the exploding HPRT cultures to Russell Benn’s section – to which Benn had still not returned – pedantically insisting that he got, while he waited, an individually itemized receipt from Benn’s impatiently sighing secretary for every sample. He missed Barry Jackson’s returned call while he waited, but reached the lawyer at his second attempt, glad of the further delay because it had given him time to think and decide upon something else, something he initially dismissed as paranoid, until forcing himself to confront Rebecca Lang’s murder, and his insisting upon driving home the previous night with Beverley, and the fear of blazing headlights in his rear-view mirror. Jackson said the following morning, before eleven, was good for him, and Benton promised they’d be expecting him at the FBI’s Washington field office any time after nine.
When he went back to Jackson to confirm the FBI encounter, Parnell said: ‘There’s something else I think I need to do, before tomorrow. You free at lunchtime?’
‘I don’t often eat lunch.’
‘I wasn’t inviting you to lunch anyway.’
Russell Benn said: ‘Parnell’s got us by the balls. And he knows it.’
‘You think I need to be told that?’ said Newton, impatiently. The conversational carousel had gone around and around since Parnell left, always arriving back at the point at which it began.
‘You’ve got to call Saby.’
‘I don’t need to be told that, either!’ retorted Newton.
‘Why hasn’t he come back to you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s been despatched, hasn’t it? Some of the stuffs already gone into distribution.’
‘We’ve got to give him time!’
‘Are New York giving you time?’
‘I’ve got another couple of hours.’
‘We’re going to stay together on this, aren’t we, Dwight? You and I? I mean …’
‘I know what you mean,’ cut off Newton. ‘Of course we’re together on this. What else can we be?’ He fervently wished he knew – that there was some escape he could make, abandoning the other man.
‘I don’t like my balls being in a vice,’ said Benn.
‘I’m in there with you.’
‘You think you can trust the son of a bitch?’
‘How the fuck do I know – does anyone know?’ erupted Newton. ‘He came to me – didn’t blow any whistles to any authorities.’
‘As far as you know,’ cautioned Benn. ‘That reassure you? It sure as hell doesn’t reassure me.’
‘Just making a point,’ said Newton, wearily. He didn’t think he’d slept at all the previous night and he was having problems now concentrating upon every point being made to him.
‘What did Grant say?’
‘He didn’t believe it was like Parnell said, that it was a spur of the moment decision to analyse the samples, just because they were there.’
‘What are you going to tell the board?’
‘What the hell can I tell them? We screwed up. Parnell might – just might – have saved us. Saved the company.’
‘We screwed up,’ echoed Benn, although with emphasis.
‘I’m not going to dump on you, Russ. How can I?’ repeated Newton.
‘You really sure we’re all right? I got commitments, Dwight. More commitments than I know what to do with – know how to handle.’
‘We’re going to be all right.’
‘Providing Parnell stays all right. You should call Paris.’
‘Let’s give Saby another couple of hours.’
‘Another couple of hours, that’s all,’ conceded Benn. ‘I think whatever Parnell does – or might do – depends on whether or not France has started distributing.’
Barry Jackson went line by line through Parnell’s sworn affidavit and still didn’t speak after several moments. Finally he said: ‘Sometimes lawyer-client confidentiality is a burden.’
‘One we’re both having to bear,’ said Parnell.
‘You did the right thing, swearing this statement,’ reassured Jackson. ‘You think Dubette killed Rebecca?’
‘I think someone in Dubette knows who did. And why.’
‘You going to tell the FBI that tomorrow?’
‘Without an iota of proof?’ challenged Parnell, in return.
‘You going to tell them this?’ asked the lawyer, fluttering the affidavit.
‘Does what was almost allowed to happen in France constitute a crime in this country?’
Jackson gave an empty laugh. ‘You’re making a point I should have made!’
‘You think I should tell them?’
‘I think we first need to know what’s happened in France. One way, it could be as serious as negligent homicide. The other way, it’s a responsible double-check by a responsible international pharmaceutical company that prevented a catastrophe.’
‘What personal protection is that?’ asked Parnell, nodding to the statement on the table between them.
‘None whatsoever if Dubette’s into murder and they know you’ve sworn it.’
‘You know what a maze is?’ demanded Parnell, rhetorically. ‘A lot of dead ends with only one way out.’
/> ‘I know what a maze is,’ said Jackson. ‘I do my best not to get into any.’
‘I wish I could get out of this one,’ said Parnell. He hadn’t told the lawyer about the two occasions with Beverley, and decided now against doing so: neither were important – dangerous – and last night he’d decided there wouldn’t be a third.
By the time he got back to McLean, Parnell calculated it was just after six in the evening in Paris and hoped he was not too late, annoyed for not saving the travelling time by making the intended call from his more conveniently close apartment. He risked a further few minutes confirming with Kathy Richardson that there’d been no contact from the vice president, although Russell Benn had called to thank him for the cultures, and wondered where he was and seemed surprised when she’d said she didn’t know.
Parnell got the Paris number from the Dubette directory and dialled it himself, his no-longer-always-open door securely closed against intrusion. There was an uncertain moment before a woman answered from Henri Saby’s office, and a further worrying, echoing gap after he’d identified himself, before a man’s voice came on the line.
The English scarcely accented, Saby said at once: ‘It seems we have a lot to thank you for.’
Parnell hadn’t realized how tensed he’d been at the fear of calling too late in the day, until he felt it easing away. His excuse for making the call carefully prepared, Parnell said: ‘There’s still some we need to look at. I thought I’d just run through the list I’ve been given.’
‘I’ve already done that with Dwight.’
‘It was a double-check that picked up the problem.’ Parnell hadn’t expected the advantage of the Frenchman knowing his name or how the danger had been isolated.
‘Sure,’ accepted Saby. He reverted to French and verbally ticked off with a curt ‘oui’ each of the outstanding items Parnell recited from Russell Benn’s list.
‘That’s all there is, nothing more?’ asked Parnell. He’d let the conversation run to gain the other man’s confidence.
‘That’s everything,’ confirmed Saby.
‘And all the production has been stopped?’
‘When was the last time you talked with Dwight?’
‘Not since this morning,’ replied Parnell, honestly. ‘He hadn’t spoken to you then.’
‘I told him everything had been halted.’
Saby’s English was so good that Parnell detected the doubt in the man’s voice. ‘What about distribution?’
There was a hesitation from the other end. ‘It’s being recalled. I told Dwight that, too.’
Parnell forced himself on, not wanting his immediate alarm to be obvious. ‘How difficult is that going to be?’
‘Not easy. But possible.’
‘I’m a research scientist,’ Parnell seemingly apologized. ‘I don’t know anything about marketing. Is there batch numbering … some way you can be sure you’ve got everything back?’
‘There are batch numbers,’ allowed Saby, questioningly.
Not a complete enough answer to the question, Parnell decided. ‘From which you can be sure of getting it all back?’
‘I’ve discussed all this with Dwight. Why not talk to him?’
‘I will,’ said Parnell, knowing that he didn’t have to: Paris couldn’t guarantee recovering medicine that could result in people – children – dying.
‘The additional stuff you want?’ Saby unexpectedly asked. ‘You want to use the box number rather than the normal delivery, like before?’
What the hell did that question mean? ‘Yes,’ risked Parnell. Remembering the word from Rebecca’s conversations, he added: ‘You’ll let me know the waybill number? Tell me direct, I mean.’
‘What about Harry Johnson?’
What about the head of security? wondered Parnell. ‘In view of the sensitivity, I think it’s best if you tell me. I can involve Harry from this end.’ And he would, Parnell decided, if he could find a way.
Twenty-Four
There was a familiarity about being collected from Washington Circle by Barry Jackson and logging in at the FBI field office, and not needing the stipulated escort to find his way to the two waiting agents with their oddly cloned dress code. Today’s was muted brown check. The waiting coffee was an innovation.
‘So, how’s it going?’ asked Jackson.
‘That’s our problem,’ admitted Dingley. ‘It’s not. We’ve interviewed everybody – even Alan Smeldon, the guy Rebecca had the previous relationship with – and so far we’ve got diddly squat.’
‘We’ve even started to wonder if Ms Lang wasn’t the victim of a crazy, just picked at random.’
‘She wasn’t picked at random,’ insisted Parnell, irritably. ‘Her keys were taken, her house searched.’
‘I said we even started to wonder, not that we’re going that route,’ placated Dingley.
‘Which is why we wanted to talk to you again,’ said Benton. ‘You thought about anything more that might help us along?’
‘Absolutely nothing. I was expecting you to tell me of some progress,’ said Parnell. Virtually the only subject of his conversation with Jackson on their way to the field office had been France. Parnell had told the lawyer of his doubts about the tainted medicines being recovered, although he had not told him about the box number or secret delivery, or Saby’s reference to the Dubette security chief, because he couldn’t see a connecting relevance. Jackson had advised against prematurely disclosing Dubette’s drug mistake, arguing it could confuse rather than assist the investigation.
‘I told you we were just touching bases,’ reminded Benton.
‘Like I said,’ offered Dingley. ‘We’ve gone back through Ms Lang’s life since before grade school. We couldn’t find a single person with whom she’d ever had what you’d call an argument.’
‘Which keeps bringing us back to Dubette,’ picked up Benton. ‘And where we hoped you might help us further, Mr Parnell. We’ve got this feeling – a feeling, nothing else – that there has to be some connection to Ms Lang’s workplace.’
‘Let me ask you something,’ said Dingley. ‘You familiar with anyone out at McLean who carries a knife? Maybe one of those little itty bitty clasp things that people sometimes use to pare their nails?’
‘What?’ exclaimed Jackson, seconds ahead of Parnell saying the same thing.
‘Something sharp like a knife,’ repeated Benton. ‘A chisel, even.’
‘I don’t understand this questioning,’ said Jackson.
‘You mind if Mr Parnell answers us first?’ said Benton.
Jackson moved to speak, but before he could Parnell said: ‘I suppose a knife might be the sort of thing a security guard or officer might carry. Something sharp might be part of a police car’s equipment.’
‘That’s what we thought, about security guards,’ said Dingley. ‘Harry Johnson told us he never carries a knife. Nor do any of his people, as far as he’s aware.’
‘What about police-car equipment?’ asked Parnell.
‘We asked the two who took you into custody,’ said Benton. ‘They said no, too.’
‘You talking about my car? How the paint was chipped off?’
‘We told you what our forensic s people thought,’ said Benton.
‘And there was Ms Lang’s seat belt, the seat belt you were always so sure she would fasten,’ said Benson.
‘What about it?’
‘It was cut,’ disclosed Dingley. ‘Forensic’s first impression was that it had snapped, but after the second autopsy they looked again and changed their minds. They’re saying now it was cut.’
‘What about the second autopsy?’ asked Jackson. He was looking intently between the two FBI men.
‘The medical examiner isn’t sure Ms Lang sustained …’ Benton stopped, coughed and resumed with what he thought better-chosen words. ‘… suffered all her injuries when the car went over the edge.’
‘You mean her broken neck?’ demanded Parnell, bluntly. ‘We know someone went down af
ter her, into the canyon: they had to, to get the keys to her house. Are you saying she was still alive? But that she was cut out and murdered?’
‘That’s the way the technical guys are putting it to us.’
‘That’s planned murder … assassination … a professional,’ said Jackson, still intent.
‘Which brings us back, God knows how, to the flight number and terrorism,’ said Dingley. ‘Terrorists are professional assassins.’
‘And you’ve traced Rebecca’s life back to before grade school,’ reminded Parnell. ‘You know she’s never had the slightest connection whatsoever with or to terrorism. And from your questioning of my mother and friends in England, you know I don’t either.’
‘See our problem?’ invited Dingley.
‘You’re forcing into the jigsaw pieces that don’t fit,’ said Jackson.
‘We’re coming around to thinking that,’ agreed Benton. ‘Which is the wrong piece?’
‘It’s got to be the AF209 flight number,’ insisted Parnell.
‘That’s the reason we’re here – you’re here,’ said Dingley. ‘Until we discover the relevance of that, to everything else, Ms Lang’s undoubted murder is a federal enquiry. And people along the road at the J. Edgar Hoover building are getting impatient as well as pissed off being told by the media what an inefficient, jerk-off organization the Bureau is.’
‘There was something wrong about my arrest,’ insisted Parnell.
‘Metro DC – uniforms particularly – couldn’t find an egg in a hen house,’ said Benton. ‘You were a victim of bad policing.’
‘They’d made their minds up!’ persisted Parnell.
‘They thought they had something being served up to them on a plate, commendations and headlines all round,’ sneered Benton.
‘You had a lot of trouble – obstruction?’ guessed Jackson, smiling expectantly.
‘Let’s say they weren’t overly co-operative.’
‘What about fingerprints?’ Jackson demanded unexpectedly. ‘Did they go along with the elimination?’
‘We didn’t get a match,’ said Benton, to his partner’s sharp look.
‘Match to what?’ pressed Jackson.
Dingley shrugged. ‘We got a half thumb print – a right thumb – from the flight number scrap of paper. It wasn’t Ms Lang’s. Didn’t match the two Metro DC guys, either. Or you, Mr Parnell. We want it kept under wraps, obviously.’
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