Dead End (44 page)

‘What's the difficulty?' demanded the Frenchman, the clipped English perfectly modulated.

‘I don't know that there is one,' said Parnell.

‘What, then?'

‘I received the missing test samples.'

‘You acknowledged that. And gave me the results,' reminded Saby.

‘When we talked the last time, you told me there were batch designations from which you could tell if everything had been withdrawn? If, in fact, there had been any release?' reminded Parnell, in return.

‘Yes?'

‘I thought by now all the checks and comparisons would have been carried out, through your marketing division and against their records?'

‘Is French marketing a matter for the head of Dubette's pharmacogenomics?'

Too quick an answer – and the wrong answer, decided Parnell, feeling the first lurch of positive concern. ‘Yes, when Dubette's pharmacogenomics unit discovered what could have caused human, not to say a commercial, damage to that marketing!'

‘I'm sorry,' the Frenchman immediately retreated. ‘I did not wish to sound discourteous. I have already been in contact with New York. And with your vice president.'

‘Yes?' questioned Parnell.

‘I think we're straying outside the proper channels of communication, as I believe we did when we last spoke.'

‘It's a simple question,' persisted Parnell, careless of the irritation. ‘Have you got it all back or haven't you?' He didn't need to be told, Parnell decided.

‘Let's remain within the proper channels of communication,' refused Saby, outright.

‘You're …' started Parnell, too loudly, but stopped.

‘What were you about to say?' demanded the Frenchman.

‘We're in the wrong channel of communication,' said Parnell. Certainly you are, you evasive bastard, he thought, only slightly venting his feelings by slamming down the telephone. He slammed the office door, too, startling everyone in the laboratory on his way out.

Parnell was prepared for another waiting-room sit-in, but Dwight Newton didn't keep him waiting, frowning up at the obvious anger when Parnell thrust into his office.

‘It got out, didn't it?' challenged Parnell, immediately. ‘Some of that French shit got distributed and hasn't all been got back? How much? Where? What's being done?' Parnell ended with his hands on Newton's desk, leaning over towards the man, who visibly pulled back in his chair.

‘Sit down,' said Newton, weakly. ‘Why don't you sit down?'

‘I don't want to sit down! I want the answers to the questions!' Why had he left it? There'd always been the nagging doubt, but he hadn't responded to it, as he should have done. Which virtually made him as guilty as everyone else.

‘Please sit down,' repeated Newton. He felt beaten, exhausted, too tired to use his authority or fight any more.

Parnell did sit but stayed forward in his chair, demandingly. ‘What are the answers, Dwight. Saby's just told me you know it all.'

The research vice president shook his head. ‘Not everything. People are still working on it, to get it all back. It'll get done.'

‘Where?' demanded Parnell.

‘Africa. Just Africa.'

‘Just Africa!' echoed Parnell, incredulous. ‘Africa's an entire fucking continent! Which countries in Africa, for Christ's sake?'

‘I don't know, not precisely. New York does, I think. I guess it'll be East Africa. That's where the French have their colonial links, isn't it?'

Parnell forced the control, determined against overlooking anything in his fury. ‘How much?'

‘I'm not sure.'

‘How much, Dwight?'

‘I told you I'm not sure. Maybe a few thousand doses.'

‘A few thousand doses of
each
? Or a few thousand in total?'

‘I'm not sure,' parroted Newton. ‘I've told you, it's being gotten back.'

‘It's been weeks now! There's no way of knowing how much has been used – what's been started!'

He knew how to escape, Newton abruptly decided. All very simple, very easy. Why had it taken him so long? Too long. Still time. He'd just get out. Quit. Grant couldn't force him to stay. No one could. Premature retirement, like Harry Johnson from the police force. Be simple enough to get a physician's note if he needed one. Couldn't imagine that he would. Maybe something official involving his pension or severance or stock-option valuation. His lawyer could handle all that. His lawyer and his doctor – that was their job. Newton actually felt a physical relief at the jumbled thoughts, unaware that he was slightly smiling.

‘What the hell's so funny?' demanded Parnell.

‘I'm sorry … nothing … I wasn't smiling.'

‘You're not making sense!' protested Parnell.

‘I don't know it all. New York's handling it. But I know it's under control.'

‘How the hell can it be under control when there are thousands of doses unaccounted for!'

‘I told you, they're being gotten back.'

‘There's got to be a public warning!' insisted Parnell. ‘Everything's got to be named and warnings issued, to prescribing doctors and pharmacies. Public notices.'

Newton felt quite calm now, as if he were discussing something in which he was quite uninvolved. ‘You're probably right. But I don't have that authority. Only New York could initiate a programme like that.'

‘Then New York's got to do it,' insisted Parnell.

‘I'll speak to them,' said Newton.

‘Do I have your word on that, Dwight? We're talking urgency here!'

‘I know. You've got my word. I promise I'll speak to New York. If they can't assure me everything's been recovered, I'll talk about public warnings.'

‘Maybe we should both speak to New York?'

‘I'll suggest that, too,' undertook Newton.

‘Don't suggest it!' pleaded Parnell. ‘Make it happen!'

‘Or what?' picked up Newton. In a week – just days – he'd be away from all this.

‘Or someone's got to,' said Parnell.

‘
Yes
?'

‘
Are you alone? Able to talk
?'

‘
Yes. What is it
?'

‘
They want to see me again.
'

‘
So
?'

‘
It's something about forensics.
'

‘
So
?'

'I don't know what they've got, Mr Grant.' The tone was wheedling, subservient
.

‘
What could they have
?'

‘
Nothing, I don't think.
'

‘
We've talked everything through.
'

‘
I don't want anything to come out wrong … for Dubette, I mean.
'

‘
I don't want that either, Harry. That's why we're talking like we are talking now. Why you have this number, so we can protect Dubette at all times. You got anything more to tell me
?'

‘
I want to know you're with me.
'

‘
When have I ever not been
?'

‘
I just want to know.
'

‘
You know. What about Clarkson
?'

‘
He's OK
'

‘
He's top of the tree.
'

‘
I guess.
'

‘
When are you seeing the FBI again
?'

‘
Coupla days. Three.
'

‘
Let me know.
'

‘
It'll be the flight number … something about the fucking flight number.
'

‘
Remember.
'

‘
Yes.
'

‘
It happened. What's the problem
?'

‘
OK
.'

‘
Let me know, OK
?'

‘
OK.

‘Edward C. Grant, the president of Dubette Inc. himself!' said Benton, turning off the wire-tap replay.

‘I haven't been up to New York in quite a while,' said Dingley.

‘Time we went again,' said Benton.

Thirty-Two

D
wight Newton had risked doubling the dose of the strongest tranquillizers Dubette made, welcoming the light-headed feeling of unreality and sure he could hold on for what he had to do. He was tempted to take a third but didn't, knowing he couldn't afford a mistake. It had been sensible as well to talk first about what he intended, with both his personal physician and his lawyer, although he was disappointed at the blood-pressure reading his doctor had insisted upon taking, despite it supporting the reason for his quitting Dubette. But because Dubette manufactured it, he knew the prescribed calcium antagonist would keep it under control. The word stayed in Newton's uneven mind. That was what he was going to do, just minutes from now: free himself of Dubette's control. Not Dubette's, Newton corrected himself immediately: the tentacle-encircling control of Edward C. Grant. He smiled emptily at people he didn't know entering the corporate building, and again in the elevator, and when Grant's personal assistant suggested it was going to be a nice day, Newton replied that he was sure it was going to be a very nice day indeed, pleased at the quickness of his reply.

Grant was at his favourite vantage point, at the penthouse window, when Newton entered, and he stayed looking out over the Manhattan skyline for several moments, even though he knew Newton was in the room. When he finally turned, there was a faint although satisfied smile on his face, and Newton thought, the supercilious son of a bitch thinks he's king of all he surveys.

The expression went at once. Grant said: ‘What's so important you had to come all the way to New York when I hadn't asked you to?'

Newton was uncertain at the quickness. He hadn't rehearsed what he was going to say and wanted to get it over with as soon as possible, but at the same time he'd hoped for a slightly longer lead-up, to savour the eventual moment. ‘I'm resigning, asking for premature retirement, whatever you want to call it!'

‘You're what?' exclaimed Grant, smiling in disbelief.

‘Quitting Dubette,' declared Newton. He took the envelope from inside his jacket and pushed it across the overly large desk towards the now seated president. ‘Here's the formal letter.' Newton wished his hands and face hadn't felt so numb. Still in control, though. Knew what he was doing. Saying.

‘Sit down, Dwight,' ordered Grant. ‘Sit down and let's talk.'

It was practically a replay of his conversation with Parnell, remembered Newton. He didn't like it having to appear that he was obeying the man. ‘There's nothing to talk about.'

‘I think there's a lot to talk about,' said Grant. ‘I won't have things sprung on me like this.'

Newton nodded towards the untouched envelope. ‘I'm not springing anything on anyone. I'm sick. Severe hypertension's the most obvious. It's all set out in there, in a supporting letter from my doctor.'

‘Hypertension is easily treated,' dismissed Grant.

‘It isn't my only problem.' Or yours, he thought. He'd expected more immediate anger from the man and was glad it hadn't come. All he wanted now was to get out, back to Washington. He'd take another tranquillizer on the plane.

‘I got the impression that things weren't right,' said Grant.

Newton was confused by the remark, not understanding it. ‘Then you can't be surprised.'

‘Barbara didn't think it was this bad.'

The response silenced Newton. His last formal assessment with Barbara Spacey had been months ago, just before the last seminar. And until now he hadn't known Grant received personal copies. ‘My recollection is that she had little to remark upon from our previous session.' He was sure that's what she'd written.

‘Easily aroused irritability. A tendency to believe himself manipulated,' quoted Grant.

‘I don't recollect that in my copy of her assessment,' protested Newton, his control faltering.

‘It was in my account,' stated Grant, simply.

‘You have …?' started Newton, running out of words in his astonishment at the apparent disclosure that those seemingly pointless, repetitive encounters with the tent-attired psychologist were Grant's way literally to get inside selected people's minds. ‘So, you're not surprised,' he managed.

‘You're my vice president supervising everything that's ongoing in Dubette research and development,' said Grant. ‘Is it likely that I am going to agree to your leaving, taking with you everything that you know?'

‘You don't have to remind me of the confidentiality agreement. I had it all re-explained to me by my lawyer, yesterday. I'm not looking for another job, with another pharmaceutical company. I'm getting out of the business. Quitting, like I told you.'

‘You've discussed it with your lawyer?' Grant's voice rose for the first time, although only slightly.

‘And my doctor.'

‘I don't want you to go, Dwight. Won't allow you to go. I want you to have a full medical at the centre at McLean, talk to Barbara again maybe, and we'll get whatever seems to be the problem out of the way.'

‘I'm going,' insisted Newton, sure his voice didn't betray the nervousness an encounter with the other man always engendered. ‘I've just told you I've talked with a lawyer. His advice is that you can't legally hold me.'

Grant frowned. ‘I think my lawyers might disagree.'

‘Do you want to put that to the test, in court?' Newton's voice still gave no hint of his inward, hollowing turmoil. It was difficult to believe he was confronting Grant like this.

‘I wasn't threatening, Dwight. Why don't you tell me what you want?'

The Edward C. Grant approach to any difficulty, thought Newton: beat it into submission or buy it. ‘I told you what I want. I want – intend – to leave.'