Alchemist (64 page)

There was a pause, then: ‘Oh, sure, I guess. But it's going to take me the best part of a week to get this Office action done.'

‘If you fax me, I could get the material you need and jump on a plane with it.'

‘Let's see, today's Monday. The earliest I could get this out would be the end of the week. I have a kind of crazy schedule. Thursday week, 8th December – if we met in the morning, would that suit?'

Conor agreed to make the journey over but there was another pause and he could sense that something else was coming.

‘Conor, I have to tell you even with the reduced application I still don't like the prior art, but I'll see … Now, how's the weather over there?'

Conor answered, surprised at the sudden non sequitur. ‘Cold. How is it in Washington?'

‘Winter's here, we're thinking of moving to Australia.'

‘You serious?'

‘Who knows? So, you got a girlfriend over there yet?'

‘Just playing the field,' Conor said, not wanting to get drawn into talking about Monty.

‘Sounds like nothing much has changed.'

‘Thanks a lot!'

‘You're in the right company, that's for sure; Bendix are really doing the business on Genetics now – they're taking a big lead in the numbers of patents.'

‘Yup, they seem pretty aggressive in the field.'

‘Can say that again. OK, I have to get on, good talking to you.'

‘You too.'

As Conor hung up, America suddenly seemed much further than just five weeks and a few thousand miles away. He made a mental note to make sure he eMailed his mother before the day was done. She must think he'd forgotten her.

A rap startled him and Martin Walker, head of Group Patents and Agreements, glided through the doorway like a fish through reeds.

Walker was every bit the bland Bendix Schere man. Sporting a suit so stiffly pressed it might have been cardboard, he held a wodge of papers in his hand and his expression, wholly devoid of emotion on the previous occasions Conor had met him, was grave.

‘Some rather sad news, Mr Molloy; I thought I'd tell you in person as you were colleagues. Mr Rowley has had a very tragic accident in Hawaii over the weekend. I'm afraid he's drowned.'

Walker proffered one of the pages he was carrying. ‘Dr Crowe wants this circulated to everyone who knew him. It'll be in the company magazine's next issue, of course.' He laid the page down on Conor's desk.

Conor stared with unfocused eyes at the memorandum. ‘Char – Mr – Rowley is
dead
?'

‘Super chap. Terrible loss. One of these silly accidents, it seems – the result of high spirits. So unnecessary, but that's how it goes. I'm going to miss him a lot; he really knew his patent law.'

Conor somehow read the sheet. It was headed: From The Chief Executive's Office.

To all personnel:

I regret to have to inform you that our colleague, Mr Charles Rowley of the Group Patents and Agreements Department, is missing, presumed drowned, whilst on a business trip to Bendix Hilo in Hawaii
.

Mr Rowley was a highly valued employee who played a key role in the development of Bendix Schere's Genetics Research, and he will be sadly missed by all who knew him
.

Dr Vincent Crowe, Chief Executive
.

‘Do – er – do you know how it happened?' Conor said, his voice faltering.

‘I understand it was after a beach barbecue, when Mr Rowley accepted a midnight bet to swim across a bay and back. Apparently he'd been warned about the treacherous
currents. I don't quite know what happens about a funeral in these situations – I'll keep you posted.'

‘I'd appreciate that,' said Conor on automatic pilot.

‘I'm going to have to find someone else to take over his work and liaise with you – not going to be easy – he was very
au fait
with the whole Bannerman situation – you'll just have to muddle along as best you can for a day or two.'

‘Sure.' Shock had paralysed Conor's brain, and he felt as if all his intelligence had been sucked out.

‘Perhaps we'd better have a meeting in the morning. Come along to my office at nine, all right?' Then he was gone.

Conor sat absorbing Crowe's memorandum for some minutes after Walker had departed. Slowly, his initial numbness began to be replaced with a growing disquiet, as something stirred deep in his memory.

Monty stepped out of the lift into the entrance atrium shortly after six and cast a quick glance at the security desks, but there was no sign of Winston Smith. All the guards on duty were occupied with the stream of people leaving the building, making sure they returned their visitors' passes.

She walked over to the lift beside the Directors' express and stood right in front of it, staring at her distorted reflection in the copper doors, and waited, listening, then stepped aside as the doors opened and several figures came out. It was just at that point that she heard a rumble which seemed to be coming from behind the same shaft, but, as before, it carried on down below her and faded.

No mistake. There was definitely another lift in operation, one which did not serve the ground floor.

She looked down at the white marble tiling. The health hydro was in the basement beneath: the exercise machines, squash courts, computerized golf driving range, swimming
pool, Jacuzzis, saunas. On an impulse she entered the next lift that arrived and pushed the button for the hydro. A moment later she stepped out on to a plush carpet the colour of grass, and noticed a strong smell of chlorine.

A handsome fair-haired muscle-man in an all-white track-suit sat by the computerized turnstile, fresh towels stacked all around him. He greeted her slickly, with an Australian accent. ‘Hi there! You joining us this evening?'

‘I haven't been down before – mind if I take a look around first?'

‘Sure. Just let me check your pass and you go right ahead. My name's Bud, and anything you want to know, please ask me.' He gave her a winning smile.

Monty walked along a corridor lined with doors to the male and female locker rooms, then came into a busy open-plan space signposted, ‘Cardiovascular Area'. Some of the men and women on the rows of gleaming white machines – computerized treadmills, stairmasters, life-cycles – were reading the company magazine whilst their legs pounded.

Across the far end of the room she saw a fire exit sign. Edging past a shell-suited instructor who was showing a middle-aged man how to use a Nautilus machine, she walked over to it. Glancing round to see if she was being observed, she pushed the door open and walked through it into a second corridor lined with a variety of fire-fighting apparatus and, rather sinisterly she thought, hospital trolleys bearing oxygen tanks and masks. There was also a large glass cabinet marked: ‘
CARDIAC RESUSCITATION
–
EXPERIENCED MEDICAL PERSONNEL ONLY
.'

Another fire door by the cabinet drew her attention. With some difficulty she pushed it open. It led directly into the bottom of an enclosed stone staircase that only went up and which was labelled:
‘EMERGENCY EXIT VIA GROUND-FLOOR LOBBY. ALARMED ROUTE TO BE USED ONLY IN EVENT OF FIRE
.'

Monty heard a faint whir and looked up; to her dismay she saw a video camera was tracking her, pointing directly at her, its lens rotating as it changed focus.

Quickly, she went back into the corridor which seemed to
follow the edge of the building. She tried every exit door she reached, but all of them led out to a concrete staircase that, again, only went up.

Eventually making her way back to Bud on the front desk, she told him she would think about a personal fitness programme and then she took the lift back up to the lobby. As she went outside, she dug her hands into the pockets of her Burberry against the biting cold of the night air, and pondered.

If the unseen lift didn't stop at the lobby or the hydro, where
did
it start and end? What did it connect to what? And why the hell was it concealed? Maybe it was some kind of service lift, to do with the canteen, or for moving lab equipment around? That was possible; in any normal circumstances, she might even have thought it was probable. But here that explanation did not feel right.

Instead of heading towards her car, she walked right round the outside of the building. She counted eight fire exit doors which tallied with the number she'd counted in the basement, and saw nothing that looked like a separate or concealed entrance.

Disappointed, she unlocked her MG, noticing Conor's car was still in the lot. Good, she thought, checking she had the spare key he'd given her. She had promised to cook him a meal in his flat, and needed time to go to a supermarket first.

She removed her overnight bag and the shopping, set the MG's alarm, then checked the street before walking up to Conor's front door. It had become routine for her to check if she was being followed and she sometimes wondered if she was being over-paranoid.

Lingering traces of Conor's cigarettes soothed her as she prepared a meaty chunk of fresh monkfish for the grill. Then, hoping he wouldn't mind, she picked up the phone and made a quick call to Anna Sterling, to discuss their plans for an evening together later that week. To her relief, Anna told her that Mark had to go to Brussels for a few days on business and she was joining him. Monty had not been feeling comfortable
about seeing her friend, knowing what she did and not being able to say anything.

But Anna reminded Monty that she had bought theatre tickets in London for Wednesday week. Monty wondered if her father would have got a result from the Maternox tests by then, and felt guilty that she had not gone down to the lab with him tonight. At least he'd agreed to use their lab, finally. And anyway if she
was
being followed, he was safer alone.

As she began slicing the melon starter, she heard the key in the door lock, and Conor came in, his face ashen. He kissed her distractedly, without his usual warmth, then paced awkwardly around the open-plan kitchen.

‘You OK?' she asked, concerned.

He nodded, but said nothing.

‘Let me get you a drink – whisky?'

‘I need one, a very large one. So will you.'

He eased off his Crombie and slung it on one of the chairs, followed by his red paisley tie, and undid the top button of his shirt. After this, he sat on an arm of the sofa, untied his black Oxfords and tugged them off, leaving them where they fell.

Nervous of whatever he was about to say, Monty grabbed the Glenfiddich and poured a large slug for him, followed by a smaller one for herself.

She added ice, took their drinks over, then sat on the sofa. ‘What is it?'

He clutched his glass. ‘Charley Rowley. I guess you didn't hear?'

‘Hear what?'

‘That he drowned in Hawaii.'

She almost dropped her whisky, feeling as if something had just detonated inside her.

Conor rummaged for his cigarettes and lit one. ‘I can't believe he's dead,' he said.

‘Conor, this is terrible! God, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.'

‘I –' He shook his head. ‘Something's very wrong about it; there's something doesn't make sense.'

‘Or makes too much sense?'

There was a sudden, uncharacteristic flash of anger in
Conor's voice when he next spoke. ‘An accident! Every time it's just another goddamn
accident
. Rowley was scared as hell when we left the pub. I remember him in the taxi looking out of the rear window. And this wasn't a guy who got scared of anything.'

It was Conor who looked scared, she thought, his face still drained of all colour. ‘Did they give you any details? How it happened?'

‘High jinks. He got drunk, tried to swim in the dark – that's what they're saying.'

Monty slipped down beside him and put an arm around him. ‘I'm sorry; you really liked him, didn't you?'

‘He was one of the good guys; they're thin on the ground in Bendix Schere.'

‘They're thin on the ground in life.' She gently prised the cigarette from him, held it with shaking fingers and took a puff. ‘Is my father next?'

‘I don't think they're going to harm one of their major assets.'

Monty wished she could detect more conviction in his voice.

‘One of two things is going to happen, Monty. If your father finds nothing of significance in those capsules, then we've been barking up the wrong tree.'

‘And if he does?'

‘Then we have to make the decision whether we go to Rorke, or the police, or the CSM –'

A sharp buzzing sound in the hall startled them.

Monty froze. Conor's face stiffened as well. There was another buzz; it seemed louder, more intense.

‘Entryphone,' he said, walking back out of the room.

‘Careful, Conor, don't let anyone in.'

‘I'm not going to.'

Conor lifted the internal phone in the hallway. ‘Hello?' Monty watched his face. ‘Pizza? No, I didn't order any pizza. What address do you have?' There was a pause. ‘This is Apartment Two; you rang the wrong bell. OK, no worries.'

Monty edged her way to the curtainless window and peered
down into the street. A motorcycle was parked outside, the large red words
‘PIZZAS PIZZAS'
on its pannier.

Firm, strong hands slipped around her waist, moist, warm lips kissed the back of each ear in turn, then the hands held her more firmly. His face nuzzled hers. ‘Just a false alarm.'

In the draught, goose pimples ran down her legs and arms and she pressed further back into his body for warmth. ‘I'm sorry – I've never been so jumpy.'

‘Don't apologize,' he said quietly. ‘Being jumpy keeps you vigilant. Being vigilant is smart right now.'

They ate on the sofa, using the coffee table. Conor forked the last morsel of monkfish into his mouth. ‘This is delicious,' he said. ‘You're a demon in the kitchen! There's a great restaurant I'm going to take you to one day in Washington –' He stopped, suddenly remembering. ‘I have to go to Washington next week. Just for a couple of days.'