Going Grey (18 page)

"If nobody believes anything any more," Kinnery said, "why are we sitting here?"

Leo had a way of looking through people with a kind of weary patience, too powerful to bother with the effort of a steely glare to make his point. "Because you involved me the moment that Shaun rang me," he said. "And now I can't walk away."

"That's a generic
you
, I hope."

"If it's something that can save troops' lives, or can be misused against us, then it's not your fifth-grade science project to do with as you please."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is."

Kinnery looked around as discreetly as he could. There were just a few people at other tables and none was close enough to eavesdrop, but he saw spies everywhere. "I don't have a definitive evaluation of how practical this is."

"Very well. Just answer yes or no to my questions." Kinnery had to hand it to Leo. He was completely unflappable. "Is this ability transferrable in any way?"

  "If you mean contagious, no. If you mean a source for cloning, no. If you mean heritable, I believe the subject's sterile. If you mean a useful live model to study for further development, yes."

"In its current state, is it capable of being used tactically by us or by others? Forget the economic implications for a moment."

That was the question Kinnery had been dreading, the one he'd tried to avoid asking himself. If Ian was a threat, the best outcome he could hope for would be to spend the rest of his life in confinement. If he was an asset, he'd be exploited relentlessly. Both would mean the same quality of life for him, as leper or lab animal or utility.

Kinnery realised he'd made the worst possible mistake. He should have grabbed Ian and made a run for it, not allowed himself to be summoned to sit within biting distance of a predator at the top of the food chain. This was suicidal.

"It depends what you mean by tactical," Kinnery said at last. He searched for a layman's answer, trying to purge it with euphemism. But he didn't even have the full facts himself. "It's not simply the security angle, or even what an individual subject can do. It's more about the implication for all other transgenic work. It's a spectacular example of exploiting non-human characteristics. I did it first, and others have followed since, but this is an order of magnitude more significant. The potential for new therapies is even greater."

Leo blinked a couple of times, looking slightly past him. "I can imagine the medical implications. I just want to know what it means in terms of its original purpose. If this is real and usable, we don't want it ending up in India or China. Or even Europe. Or anywhere else Shaun does business. Nor do we want to find that your company was doing other high-risk research that we weren't aware of. Who else has this information?"

"Nobody," Kinnery said. "You'd be surprised how easy it is to abuse the system. Poor record-keeping and no enforcement."

"All right, assuming any of this is true, the priority is to secure your subject."

"We need to move him as soon as possible. I used to be sure he was safe where he was, but I have absolutely no idea what else might leak. "

"You can't do it yourself. You'll be followed."

"I realise that."

Leo glanced past Kinnery and nodded. Kinnery's pulse began pounding. Was that the signal to bundle him into a limo with darkened windows? But the nod summoned a waiter who appeared with a dessert menu. Kinnery's heart rate dropped back to as near normal as it could right then.

"I'm not giving you a location," Kinnery said.
Last throw of the dice. Oh God.
"Unless you can offer some protection."

"Until I know what the exact risk is, I won't know what I need to protect him from."

"I don't
know
the exact risk. I wasn't able to carry out even the most basic tests. The woman looking after him wouldn't let me."

"So we both have a lot to discover, then."

Kinnery was floundering. He had nowhere to take this. His only trump card was knowing where Ian was, or at least where he'd been most recently. But he didn't even know what Ian looked like today or what he'd look like tomorrow.

"So what can you offer?" he asked.

Leo carried on reading the menu. He tapped his fingernail next to a line of elegant print as if he'd finally settled on a dessert.

"One thing I have that nobody else does," he said. "A trustworthy security resource."

"No agencies.
No.
"

"I mean someone I can trust
personally
, and that's a very short list indeed." Leo smiled to himself, no humour or satisfaction, more a bittersweet pain that brought him closer to a frown. It looked like the real thing. "I have people in mind. You give them the location, and they'll extract your subject safely. Then I'll take care of things."

"Take care."

"Literally. I'm not the Russian mafia."

Kinnery realised he was now the one taking an awful lot on trust. No: he was desperate and cornered. Part of him wanted this all to be over with, even if it meant jail. All those murderers who buried their victims in the garden, or dumped them in lakes, and let the passing time gradually reassure them that they were further away from being caught every year – how did they live with that? It was agony. And it was never, ever over.

"I insist on participating in that care," Kinnery said.

"You will." Leo took out his cell. "Make time to come on a trip with me tomorrow or the day after. I assume there's no reason you can't drive."

"None."

"Good. We can share the driving. You can explain the details to me on the way." Leo leaned forward a little as he tapped a number and stared in defocus at the seat-back behind Kinnery. His tone changed when someone picked up. "Hello, my dear. Sorry to trouble you, but I really need to come and see the guys ... I know ... okay ... no, it's not something I can discuss on the phone ... is that okay? I wouldn't ask if it weren't important. I hate interrupting their leave."

Leo seemed to know them well, whoever they were. He made a few noises, then rung off with a few fond words that were definitely addressed to a woman he knew well.

"Personal staff?" Kinnery asked. "Mercenaries?"

"Neither." Leo put three hundred-dollar bills on the table. "And while we're at it, let's not bandy around emotive terms like
mercenary
. That has a strict legal definition. But if you want to use it pejoratively, let's also apply it to scientists who amass fortunes from medical patents, shall we?"

Kinnery tried to imagine who a man like Leo would trust. He wondered if he would want to trust them too. But if he didn't, it was already far too late to change his mind.

If he'd had had any doubt that he'd mounted a tiger, he had none now.

BRAYNE ESTATE—
CHALTON FARM, WESTERHAM FALLS, MAINE
JULY.

Rob had spent nearly two weeks trying to work out why Tom called him every weekday morning at exactly the same time, voice only, with no clue to where he was. The penny finally dropped.

He's signed up. He's doing one of those graduate officer things.

Tom insisted on making the calls. That meant he was on a fixed timetable, something with structure and regulations. It wasn't some shitty menial job at all, then. It was something military.

The realisation left Rob feeling slightly shaky. He didn't regret one second of his time as a Marine, but this was Tom, Little Matey, Kiddo, the focus of his life and still his little boy even if he was now a twenty-year-old man. All Rob could see for a moment was injury, death, and the sort of fear that the average bloke couldn't imagine.

Come on. I loved it, despite the bad days. Tom's going to do fine. I can even help him. Something I can understand for a change.

Rob waited for the call on the veranda of the guest cottage, coffee in hand, phone on the table next to the sun lounger. The cottage was bigger than the first married quarters he'd lived in with Bev, set in wooded grounds the size of bloody Norway. He couldn't even see the main house from here. This wasn't the real world at all. It was Mike's own little kingdom, and it wasn't real for him either. It was Mike's attempt at the simple life.

Three hundred acres. Christ, I could live rough in the woods and nobody would even know I was there. All without stepping outside the boundary.

The phone vibrated on the table right on time, buzzing angrily like a trapped bee. Rob pounced on it.

"Hi kiddo. How's it going?"

"Pretty good, Dad. Got your day planned? Playing polo? Going to the country club to teach them how to light farts?"

"Leo's coming for dinner. Apart from that, another day of sitting on my arse." Rob couldn't avoid it any longer. "Why didn't you tell me you signed up?"

"What?"

"The sponsorship. Some graduate officer entry thing, yeah? So you're on some leadership program now. What is it, Navy? Army?" The silence told Rob nothing. He tried to joke a reaction out of Tom. "Oh my God, is it the Crabs? It's okay. Lots of blokes lead useful lives in the RAF. Did you think I'd object?"

"Sorry, Dad, it's not that at all." Tom sounded a bit crestfallen. "Are you disappointed?"

For a moment Rob wasn't sure. Maybe it was relief. The answer threw him. "No, not at all, kiddo. I just guessed wrong. Sorry."

"I don't want to tell you in case it doesn't work out."

It sounded like something Tom really wanted. "Have you told your mum?"

"No. I don't even mention Mike to her. Well, not who he is, anyway."

"I'm not asking you to lie to her."

"Maybe not, but sometimes you need to keep things from people for their own good. She'd tell Paul. He's all right, but I don't think he needs to know you've got a rich mate."

Tom never called his stepfather
Dad
. He rarely mentioned him at all. The lad was a diplomat. "Okay, I won't keep asking," Rob said. "You can tell me when you're ready. Whatever it is, I'll be proud of you."

"You'll be the first to know. I promise." It sounded like the subject was closed. "Got to go, Dad. Talk to you tomorrow."

What was there to worry about? Tom was Captain Sensible, perfectly capable of making his own decisions. Any other student who got Mike-sized checks would have pissed the money up the wall by now, but Tom was investing it for the future. Rob realised that he was worrying more about how redundant he'd become in his son's life than whether Tom was making the right choices.

But that's the plan. Stash away some money for him, see him settled in a good job, and  make sure he's got a roof over his head. Then I can get myself sorted out.

There was still a year to go. That was plenty of time. Rob tidied the cottage like he was preparing for an inspection, an ingrained habit that took over whenever he felt at a loose end. He was running his fingers over the edges of picture frames and the tops of cabinets to check for hidden dust when he heard Mike tap on the open patio door.

"You want me to shoot the cleaning company, or tell them to get down and give me twenty?" Mike wandered in, hands in the pockets of his shorts. "It's safe to come back in the house, you know. Don't be a stranger."

"You should still be on shagging duties, mate."

"That doesn't take all day." He gave Rob his mock-disapproval look. It was a lot like Leo's. "Livvie sent me to corral you for lunch."

"Okay. Do I look presentable?"

"You'll do. How's Tom?"

Rob checked his hair in the mirror above the fireplace. "Not enlisting."

"Oh. You asked him, then."

"I had to. It was driving me up the wall."

"You know he doesn't need to worry about a job. Dad's got enough companies he could work for. Hell, he could buy Tom his own IT firm."

"You're a saint, Zombie, but Tom's an independent little bugger."

"Well, whatever it is, he's thought it through. The guy's a planner." Mike patted Rob's back. "Now try to drag yourself away from that goddamn mirror."

The house loomed out of a screen of rhododendrons as they  walked past the indoor firing range and the empty stable block. From the road, the white clapboard frontage just looked like a posh farmhouse, with no hint of the steel doors, ballistic glass, and alarm systems. It was nowhere near as grand as Mike's parents' fort of a place with its high walls and live-in staff. The plot, mostly forest, didn't even have a proper perimeter fence. Mike seemed happy with a network of cameras, motion sensors, and modest five-bar gates at the entrance.

Livvie had a Glock 26, though. Mike had made sure she could use it.

Today her weapon of choice was a blowtorch. When Rob opened the kitchen door, the air was thick with barbecue smells. Livvie was grilling peppers with a blowtorch, blistering and blackening the skins. She was a terrifying cook. Rob had no doubt that she could look after herself.

"Leo just rang," she said. "Ten second call. He'll have someone with him."

Rob watched Mike's face fall. "Who?" Mike asked.

"He wouldn't say. ETA about nineteen-forty-five."