Alchemist (32 page)

‘Wednesday.'

‘Good stuff. Need a hand, let me know?'

‘Thanks – appreciate it – but I think the Human Resources people have got it in hand.'

Rowley seemed chirpy. ‘I'm going down to my cottage in Sussex next weekend – why don't you come? Give you a break from London and see a bit of the countryside.'

‘Thank you, squire.'

‘Cousin of mine, Mike Keehan, has got the best antiques emporium in Britain – down in Hove. Famous place called Michael Norman Antiques. Kit you out with some furniture for your pad – unless you intend going modern?'

‘No, I love antiques – if I can afford them.'

‘Mike'll sort you out. You'll be gobsmacked by the place.'
Rowley raised the stack of documents a few inches higher. ‘Where do you want all this?'

‘What is it?'

‘Published data on human trials on the Bannerman dental cavities genebuster.'

Conor stared at it despairingly. ‘
More
published data?'

‘Afraid so.'

Conor shook his head and pointed around the room. ‘Did you ever see so much goddamned published data in your life?'

‘Got to admire a man of principle.'

‘That's one way of looking at it.' He pointed to one of the last remaining gaps on the floor. ‘Want to dump it there?'

Rowley put the bundle down and left. Conor turned his attention back to his screen. He had forty eMail messages, and he replied to the thirty that needed an answer. When he had finished, he sifted through the pile of junk mail on his desk, and followed that by flicking through
Human Genome News
and
Scrip
. Then he hit a couple of keys on his computer terminal and punched up the file containing the specification notes he had begun to draft for the first US patent application for Dick Bannerman's work.

He typed a heading: ‘Recombinant Protein', leant back in his chair and read through a sheet of notes listing items he needed from Montana Bannerman. Wondering if she was back at work today, he dialled her extension.

A secretary answered and informed him that Miss Bannerman had gone to lunch. She was expected back at two. He looked at the clock on his computer screen. It was five past one. The morning had flown. He logged off, deciding to take a quick lunch break himself and eyed the paper on his desk. You weren't supposed to leave any open documents on your desk even during a lunch break, but there was just too much to clear away. He decided to take a risk on no one checking up, and headed for the lift up to the thirtieth-floor canteen.

It was officially called the canteen, although in style it looked more like a smart brasserie, and in size it felt like the departure lounge of an airport. All the tables were stainless steel, and the
chairs were hi-tech tubes of twisted steel. The floor was covered in the usual lush emerald carpeting.

The place was packed, although Conor noticed one or two empty tables, and there was a subdued hubbub of conversation. As he joined the short queue at one of the self-service counters, he saw the blonde frizz of Montana Bannerman's hair right in front of him. She was wearing a navy blazer, a matching short skirt, and he glanced fleetingly down, with a prick of lust, at her shapely legs.

She was talking to a man in his late fifties, with a bald dome and long grey hair hanging down over his collar. Even from behind, Conor recognized the image he'd seen in photographs of Dr Bannerman.

He waited for a lull in their chat, then said, quietly: ‘Good to see you back, Miss Bannerman. Are you better?'

She turned and gave him a warm smile. ‘Mr Molloy! Hi, thank you, I'm much better. Have you – er – met my father?'

‘No, I haven't had the pleasure. How do you do, sir?'

‘Mr Molloy's a patent attorney, Daddy, working on the US patents for your research.'

Dick Bannerman shook Conor's hand, eyeing him warily. ‘Is that right?'

‘Well, I'm not sure how much we're going to be able to achieve – you've sure published a lot of papers.'

‘So far as I'm concerned, the less you achieve the better,' Dick Bannerman said sourly.

‘Daddy!' Monty said.

‘I don't give a bugger about patents,' the scientist said, staring Conor Molloy straight in the eye.

‘Nope, well, I guess patenting genes is a pretty contentious issue right now,' Conor replied genially.

They had reached the counter and Dick Bannerman took two trays, handing one to Monty. Conor helped himself to another. He watched Monty's face framed by the bright tangle of her hair as she selected her food and was pleasantly surprised to see that, in spite of her slender figure, she seemed to have a healthy appetite. He found something very attractive about women who enjoyed food.

‘Are you eating on your own?' Monty asked him.

‘Yup.'

‘Like to join us?'

Conor registered the look on her father's face. ‘Don't worry, thanks – I don't want to intrude if you're discussing business or something.'

‘We're not,' she said with an insistent smile.

‘OK, sure, thanks.'

They found a table against the far wall, in front of a floor-to-ceiling video image of a Fragonard painting of an idyllic lakeside picnic. As they unloaded their trays and sat down, Dick Bannerman said: ‘I don't understand why the jeepers they can't have windows up here. Bloody daft to be on the thirtieth floor, with magnificent vistas out across London, and we have to look at videos of paintings.'

‘I agree with you, sir,' Conor said.

Bannerman stared back at him with undisguised disapproval, as if he'd been hoping for an argument, then liberally shook salt over his salad, without having tasted it.

Monty shot an apologetic glance at Conor, who smiled back. It was evident, from just a couple of minutes in their company, that her father gave her a hard time.

He addressed Monty direct. ‘I'm really sorry for you – all you went through last week. It must have been horrendous.'

‘It was,' she said. ‘Trouble is, no one knows the long-term effect of that chemical. Just have to hope I don't wake up one day and find my arm's dissolved.'

Conor winced. ‘Anyone figure out how the accident happened yet?' He watched Monty shake her head in reply.

‘Do you think it's morally right to patent genes?' Dick Bannerman barged in without warning.

Conor poured some Coke into his glass beaker. ‘I think the whole field of genetic science opens up more questions than it can answer.' He glanced warily at the tables either side, but the occupants were engrossed in conversation. All the same, he lowered his voice a fraction.

‘Bendix Schere calls itself
the world's most caring company
. But can any company that genetically engineers and patents a mutant rabbit that gets terminal cancer five days after it's born really be totally caring?'

‘Do you believe that all control over life should be the sole domain of God?' Dick Bannerman spoke aggressively.

‘No, I don't, sir.'

‘Are you religious?'

Conor hesitated, caught a sudden stare from Monty and glimpsed a silver chain around her neck, inside the open collar of her white blouse. ‘I don't practise, but I guess I have religious beliefs somewhere along the line.'

‘So tell me,' the scientist said, his tone overtly hostile. ‘If you don't think God should have total control over life, then why are you against genetic engineering?'

The attack threw Conor for a moment. ‘I'm not against it at all. It's just that – there's so much scope for abuse that I believe companies have to behave responsibly.'

‘Is creating a rabbit that will automatically develop cancer any worse than taking a healthy rabbit and injecting it with carcinogens?'

‘Daddy,' Monty said, cutting in. ‘Don't you sometimes think the rabbit has a right to an ordinary life?'

‘Nothing on this planet has a divine right to anything. We have a moral obligation to treat animals humanely, and I think we do.'

‘I sometimes think science is progressing too fast. We don't have time to think about the ramifications,' Conor said, testing him.

‘Far as I'm concerned it doesn't progress fast enough,' Bannerman replied. ‘Do you like going to the dentist, Mr Mulrony?'

‘
Molby
,' he corrected. ‘No, sir, not especially.'

‘You ever had cavities?'

‘Yes, I have.'

‘Ever tried to imagine what it was like going to the dentist fifty years ago, when he had no injection to give you and pedalled the drill by foot? Would you like to have had your appendix out a hundred years ago, strapped to a wooden bench and drunk on cheap brandy? Pharmaceuticals and technology have made the world a better place. You know why? Because they've got rid of pain. Very few people in the Western world have to suffer pain any more. Probably in the
next quarter century we will have eliminated it altogether. If a few mutant rabbits is the price we have to pay, I can accept that. I can live with that.'

Conor felt an element of despondency. Bannerman was turning out to be more conventional than he had realized; his potential value was fast receding. It was then that the scientist leaned forward.

‘I'm always being misunderstood, Mr Molloy. I'm not against progress or science. I'm against a company like Bendix Schere saying,
Right, everyone, we've identified the genes that cause psoriasis; the genes that cause cardiovascular disease, renal failure, depression, duodenal ulcers, breast cancer, you name it. Now we're going to patent these genes and hold the world to ransom for the next two decades. Pay our prices or die!
' There was a gleam of passion in Dick Bannerman's eyes as he spoke now. The sentiments were coming not merely from his heart, but from the depths of his soul.

‘Do you realize the power that lies in patenting genes? It's the power of
Life
or
Death
. It's not a question of saying,
OK, we have a better cure than someone else – take the Bendix pills, they're better than Wellcome's, or Pfizer's or Beecham's
. It's a question of,
Look – we know what kills you, or makes you suffer like hell. We alone own the lock and key. You, madam, have a breast cancer gene: we can either switch it off for you or leave you to die, and this is our price
.' Bannerman raised his eyebrows. ‘What price any individual human life?'

Conor stared at him and felt better. This man's attitude gave him hope. He had an ally here, if he was careful, a very powerful one indeed. ‘You
can't
put a price on it.'

‘That's right,' Bannerman said. ‘There's no limit to what people would pay to remain alive or to be free of pain. You, me, my daughter, we'd all pay our last cent, and for whomever we love too, no question.'

‘But do you think, Dr Bannerman, that a company like Bendix Schere would ever go as far as holding the public to ransom?'

‘Let me tell you something: you know the founder – the late Joshua Bendix?'

‘Sure – his picture's in the front of the Bendix Bible.'

‘Do you know what he used to tell every new salesman who joined the firm? He used to have them come up to his office and he'd say: “I'm not interested in medicine. I'm interested in one thing, and one thing only:
profit
. And if we happen to help a few people down the line – that's not my problem.”' Bannerman looked at Monty, then at Conor, with a defiant glare. ‘That's the company you and I are working for, and don't be fooled into thinking anything's changed.'

Conor had to struggle to keep a triumphant smile off his face.

At a quarter past six, Monty took the lift down to the lobby. She normally left the Bendix Building later, waiting for the rush-hour traffic to die down first, but tonight she had a call to make on her way home.

A trickle of people were filing out through the three security gates. She chose the middle one, pleased to see it was manned by the Jamaican, Winston Smith, the only guard who was remotely chatty.

His permanently forlorn expression always made her want to stop for a moment to try to cheer him up. They had struck up a friendship of sorts when she had first read his name on his badge. She had asked him if he realized that he shared the name of the hero in George Orwell's
1984
. He hadn't, but he had gone and bought the book and enjoyed it, and had since been asking her for other book recommendations; being on late shift, he had plenty of time to read.

He sneezed as she stopped by his desk now. ‘Sorry,' he said nasally, pulling out his handkerchief and blowing his nose. ‘Are you all right, Miss Bannerman? – heard you was hurt in that business last week.'

‘I'm fine, thanks.'

‘That was terrible. They don't find out what happened yet?'

‘No,' she said.

‘I liked Mr Seals. Not many did, but he was OK, that guy was.' He sneezed again.

‘You got a cold?'

He nodded. ‘This my regular. Going to last me into Christmas.'

‘Tried vitamin C, zinc and garlic? It's my guaranteed remedy.'

He sniffed. ‘Not no ordinary cold, Miss Bannerman. I get this most of the year round, on and off – reckon that's why they keep me employed here.'

She looked at him, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?'

He glanced round the lobby, as if to check it was empty, but still lowered his voice. ‘Ever since the tests I did.'

‘What tests?'

He lowered his voice even more. ‘Ten years ago – 'bout that – they were offering employees a thousand pounds each to try out some new drug they was developing. I more or less got a permanent cold since.'

‘What was the drug?' she asked, horrified.

He raised his hands. ‘They didn't tell us.'

A lift pinged, the doors opened and various bodies came out and walked across the lobby towards them. Neither Monty nor Winston Smith spoke until they had gone out into the night.