Dead End

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Stop him … get the microphone …!’ said Grant, from behind, not realizing that he was still away from his own sound equipment and that the shout only reached the first few rows.

  Parnell was conscious of someone running from behind, and thrust instinctively backwards, pushing away the man whose microphone he’d snatched, retreating deeper into the room as he did so, the live mike clutched in his other hand.

  ‘Stop him … get the microphone …’ said Grant again, back at the podium, his now hysterical voice amplified.

  ‘Do you want me stopped or do you want the truth?’ demanded Parnell, warding off the scrabbling attendant again.

  There was a moment of silence and then a groundswell of noise began, inaudible at first but forming into a recognizable chant of, ‘Let him speak, let him speak.’

  And Parnell did.

  Thirty-Seven

  Richard Parnell did not return to Washington DC for a further three days, because of the immediate and unpredicted effect – which the New York Post awarded the macabre headline, Fall Out – of his denunciation and the aftermath of a continuing, back-to-back series of meetings and interviews with US Food and Drug Administration officials and their French counterparts, specially flown-in French intelligence officers, officials from five West African countries at the United Nations, World Health Organization executives, the familiar FBI duo and Barry Jackson. Jackson demanded to know why the fuck Parnell hadn’t told him what he intended to do, to which Parnell replied that the lawyer would have tried to prevent it on grounds of libel, commercial slander and breach of confidentiality, which Jackson at once agreed was exactly what he would have done, an admission that ended the argument. Parnell maintained telephone contact with the executive vice president administering Dubette’s affairs from New York, and briefly with Beverley – and even more briefly with his mother in England – but it was a full two weeks before he and Beverley were alone together, at her insistence, at her Dupont Circle apartment.

  When he arrived she gestured him away from her and said: ‘I want to make sure you’re the same guy I used to know.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m the same guy that I used to know.’

  ‘“Hero’s” been used a lot. Then there’s “brave” and “courageous” and “whistle-blower extraordinary” – and I’ve even cut out “genius” from Newsweek. Take your choice.’

  ‘I think I’ll pass on the lot. Christ, I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I’ve missed you, too. And been as worried as hell.’

  ‘It’ll take time, for things to settle. But they are settling.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me think you were a lily-livered shit who’d sold himself out?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure I could do it. Didn’t know until I actually got into the room that there was going to be a microphone I could grab. I was going to try to get on the stage. Grant could have stopped me then, prevented it all coming out.’

  ‘How did you know he hadn’t kept his word about issuing the health warning about the French shit?’

  ‘With what you called my toy. From home, on the laptop, I accessed the United Nations and the World Health Organization and the public websites of every West African country on the map. There wasn’t a warning on one of them. And if there had been, it would have been a media sensation anyway. And there wasn’t one. The son of a bitch – and all the other smaller sons of bitches – thought they were God and little people didn’t matter. Me included among the little people.’

  ‘The papers and television said he ran.’

  ‘There was incredible confusion. He didn’t actually run but he got out of the room before I finished talking. Couldn’t be found in the hotel. No one expected him to commit suicide, of course. Me least of all.’

  ‘Would you have still done it, if you had?’

  ‘I’ve had meetings with government people from Guinea-Bissau, Monrovia, Sierra Leone, Ghana and Niger. With more scheduled. There’s never going to be an established figure, but a conservative estimate is that over a thousand people have died. It’ll be even harder to put a number on those who’ve been permanently harmed. Of course, I would have done it. Pushed the bastard out of his penthouse window, from which he jumped, if I could have done.’

  ‘It was his favourite view, according to what I’ve read. Stood there all the time.’

  ‘When he wasn’t fucking up people’s lives. Prying into people’s lives.’

  ‘Do you know the full extent of what he had, on so many people?’ asked Beverley.

  Parnell shook his head, in disbelief. ‘There was actually an entire room, linked to his office, to hold it all. The FBI are still going through it. They’ve already found most of the computer-accessed stuff Johnson supplied when he was in Metro DC police. Seems he used police authority to get into every competitor system, particularly any police records on any of its executives. And there’s the entire stolen evidence of Edward Grant being caught in a parked car getting a blow job from a hooker. Johnson’s plea bargaining, says he’s got a lot to tell the Bureau. Bellamy and Montgomery are trying for a deal, too. And Metro DC want an out of court settlement for wrongful arrest – seems the idea was to discredit me, get me thrown out of the country. Barry actually warned me it could have happened, if I’d been convicted.’

  ‘I need to ask it,’ declared the woman.

  ‘You don’t,’ anticipated Parnell. ‘All three deny knowing anything about Rebecca’s murder. Or who did it. Johnson’s got some story about a truck stop in New Jersey that the Bureau are trying to check out.’

  ‘So, we’ll never know?’

  ‘Whatever, whoever, Grant organized it. And he’s dead.’

  ‘Is that enough?’

  ‘It’s got to be.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Would you believe the emergency board have asked me still to be vice president in charge of research and development! The stock is trading at little more than pennies and obviously they want to use the appointment for all its publicity value. But, having caused so much damage, I figure I should try to repair some of it. And I meant what I said about believing we’re close, with SARS. And not wanting to give up on the flu research.’

  ‘I was frightened Dubette might have invoked the confidentiality clause.’

  ‘And get even worse publicity? They wouldn’t have dared, once I’d got it all out.’

  ‘Seems like some of the media descriptions fit.’

  ‘There are some changes I want to make. I don’t see any reason to keep Barbara Spacey. Or Russell Benn.’

  ‘There’s some coverage of the woman’s special assessments, for Grant.’

  ‘He had what amounted to a manual for a blackmailer. Or a control freak. I guess he was a combination of both. You know what Barbara Spacey’s real psychological assessment was of me? I was supremely arrogant, unlikely ever to adjust to the Dubette management and work system and someone likely to be a continuing unsettling influence at McLean.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth!’ said Beverley.

  ‘When the FBI are through with all of it, I’m going to have every single assessment destroyed.’

  ‘If you’re going to take the job, you’ll be staying?’

  ‘If you’ll have me.’

  ‘That wasn’t quite my question,’ said Beverley.

  ‘Answer mine.’

  ‘If you’ll have me.’

  ‘You ever going to tell me what went wrong between you and Barry?’

  ‘No. That’s his business – his problem – not yours.’

  ‘How do you know it won’t happen with us?’

  ‘We make love, don’t we?’

  A Biography of Brian Freemantle

  Brian Freemantle (b. 1936) is one of Britain’s most prolific and accomplished authors of spy fiction. His novels have sold more than ten million copies worldwide, and have been optioned for numerous film and television adaptations.

  Born in Southampton, on the southern coast of England, Free
mantle began his career as a journalist. In 1975, as the foreign editor at the Daily Mail, he made headlines during the American evacuation of Saigon: As the North Vietnamese closed in on the city, Freemantle became worried about the future of the city’s orphans. He lobbied his superiors at the paper to take action, and they agreed to fund an evacuation for the children. In three days, Freemantle organized a thirty-six-hour helicopter airlift for ninety-nine children, who were transported to Britain. In a flash of dramatic inspiration, he changed nearly one hundred lives—and sold a bundle of newspapers.

  Although he began writing espionage fiction in the late 1960s, he first won fame in 1977, with Charlie M. That book introduced the world to Charlie Muffin—a disheveled spy with a skill set more bureaucratic than Bond-like. The novel, which drew favorable comparisons to the work of John Le Carré, was a hit, and Freemantle began writing sequels. The sixth in the series, The Blind Run, was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best Novel. To date, Freemantle has penned fourteen titles in the Charlie Muffin series, the most recent of which is Red Star Rising (2010), which brought back the popular spy after a nine-year absence.

  In addition to the stories of Charlie Muffin, Freemantle has written more than two dozen standalone novels, many of them under pseudonyms including Jonathan Evans and Andrea Hart. Freemantle’s other series include two books about Sebastian Holmes, an illegitimate son of Sherlock Holmes, and the four Cowley and Danilov books, which were written in the years after the end of the Cold War and follow an odd pair of detectives—an FBI operative and the head of Russia’s organized crime bureau.

  Freemantle lives and works in Londan, England.

  A school photograph of Brian Freemantle at age twelve.

  Brian Freemantle, at age fourteen, with his mother, Violet, at the country estate of a family acquaintance, Major Mears.

  Freemantle’s parents, Harold and Violet Freemantle, at the country estate of Major Mears.

  Brian Freemantle and his wife, Maureen, on their wedding day. They were married on December 8, 1956, in Southampton, where both were born and spent their childhoods. Although they attended the same schools, they did not meet until after they had both left Southampton.

  Brian Freemantle (right) with photographer Bob Lowry in 1959. Freemantle and Lowry opened a branch office of the Bristol Evening World together in Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, England.

  A bearded Freemantle with his wife, Maureen, circa 1971. He grew the beard for an undercover newspaper assignment in what was then known as Czechoslovakia.

  Freemantle (left) with Lady and Sir David English, the editors of the Daily Mail, on Freemantle’s fiftieth birthday. Freemantle was foreign editor of the Daily Mail, and with the backing of Sir David and the newspaper, he organized the airlift rescue of nearly one hundred Vietnamese orphans from Saigon in 1975.

  Freemantle working on a novel before beginning his daily newspaper assignments. His wife, Maureen, looks over his shoulder.

  Brian Freemantle says good-bye to Fleet Street and the Daily Mail to take up a fulltime career as a writer in 1975. The editor’s office was turned into a replica of a railway carriage to represent the fact that Freemantle had written eight books while commuting—when he wasn’t abroad as a foreign correspondent.

  Many of the staff secretaries are dressed as Vietnamese hostesses to commemorate the many tours Freemantle carried out in Vietnam.

  The Freemantle family on the grounds of the Winchester Cathedral in 1988. Back row: wife Maureen; eldest daughter, Victoria; and mother-in-law, Alice Tipney, a widow who lived with the Freemantle family for a total of forty-eight years until her death. Second row: middle daughter, Emma; granddaughter, Harriet; Freemantle; and third daughter, Charlotte.

  Freemantle in 1999, in the Outer Close outside Winchester Cathedral. For thirty years, he lived with his family in the basement library of a fourteenth-century house with a tunnel connecting it to the cathedral. Priests used this tunnel to escape persecution during the English Reformation.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 2004 by Brian Freemantle

  cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

  This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media

  180 Varick Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  A Biography of Brian Freemantle

  Copyright Page