Alchemist (68 page)

‘And since?'

‘I've been in communications ever since. You don't get to kill people in communications, you just monitor them.'

She studied his face closely, with a teasing grin. ‘Are you telling me the truth, big boy?'

‘What the hell do you mean?'

‘Oh, it just seems an odd coincidence. This Charles Rowley's name was on your computer screen with a black Christmas tree beside it, and now he's dead. Just wondering, that's all.' She looked testingly at him for a moment, then kissed him on the cheek. ‘Right, more important matters! Tonight's entertainment and the choice is yours: you have ten seconds to get a hard on or we go out for Mex.'

Sunday 4 December, 1994

‘
The overall objective of this collaboration is to see if eis – and transacting components from bacteriophase lambda – can be utilized in mammals to mediate site-specific integration of plasmid DNA into a unique chromosomal alt site
.'

Conor lay sprawled on the sofa in Monty's living room, wearing only his towelling dressing gown, absently sipping coffee; it had gone cold but he barely noticed as he concentrated on the document. A branch of kindling crackled in the grate and spat at him, but he didn't even register it.

‘
The assumptions are as follows:
' he read. ‘
First, in order of priority, we must consider –
'

A kiss on his cheek broke his concentration. ‘How many pieces of toast?'

He noticed, suddenly, the smell of grilling bacon and realized he was starving. ‘Two, I guess, thanks.'

Conor put the report down as Monty left the room, picked up his laptop and opened his eMail folder. Methodically he began working his way through the last 236 messages, all containing the name ‘Maternox', that had been picked up by
his Trojan Horse and placed in his Minaret Internet dead-letter drop. He had collected this material yesterday afternoon from yet another hotel room. But now he came across nothing relating to the Medici File, nor anything else of interest; just routine eMail traffic, mostly sales reports and marketing memos.

Monty whipped some eggs in a mixing bowl, then immersed four slices of bread, turning them to soak up the egg evenly, and dropping them in turn into the frying pan. Her eyes drifted to the window. It was a beautiful day; a heavy frost had coated the garden and fields in a snowy whiteness that sparkled in the light of the winter sun, but she ignored Nature's special effects as she kept her eyes peeled for any unfamiliar movement out there.

She had been followed home on Friday night, she was certain. She'd called in at the old lab to find out how her father was getting on, and had sensed a car tailing her afterwards. A pair of lights which had been maintaining a steady distance behind her had suddenly disappeared when she'd turned off on to her cart track.

She had slowed right down a few yards up the track, watching the main road in her mirror for those lights as they went past, but she'd seen nothing. Even when she climbed out of the MG and ran back down to the road, there was only the blackness of the night. Then, later, when Conor arrived, he'd seen a small saloon on the verge with its lights off and a silhouette behind the wheel.

Several times during the past two nights she had got out of bed, walked to the window and peered through the curtains. Conor was leaving for Washington on Tuesday and she wished they could go together on the same flight, but her father did not expect to have a result before late Wednesday night at the earliest.

She was deeply nervous for Conor. Charley Rowley had gone to Hawaii and had been killed. She was afraid something similar could happen in Washington. And she felt uncomfortable at the thought of being on her own in the middle of nowhere for two days.

With her fear for Conor's safety in America in mind, Monty
decided that she should at last go and approach the Chairman, talk to Rorke off her own bat.

Ribbons of smoke rose from the pan. ‘Ready!' she called out.

Conor came into the kitchen. ‘Wow, French toast – my absolute favourite breakfast!' She served him his two slices, with the rest of the plate stacked with bacon, then sat beside him. There was maple syrup and a jug of fresh orange juice on the table. ‘I'm dangerously hungry!' he said, pouring syrup over Monty's toast, then over his own.

‘Will you still fancy me if this makes me fat?' she joked, eyeing her own portion appreciatively.

‘I guess I could always have the guys in the Bendix Transgenics Division clone a thinner version of you. So even if I didn't fancy the actual
you
any more, I'd still fancy your genes, OK?'

She gave him a dubious grin. ‘So what changes shall I make in a cloned version of you?' She slipped a hand inside his dressing gown, and pretended to make for his groin. ‘Think there could be room for improvement down there?'

‘Thanks a lot!'

She leaned across and licked the sticky syrup off his lips affectionately. ‘No I don't really want to change anything. I like every single bit of you.'

And I'm deeply frightened for you
.

They wrapped up warmly and set off for a walk after breakfast. As they crunched across the hard, frosted grass on the back lawn, a faint tinge of smoke from Monty's fire hung in the air.

‘God, it's beautiful here,' Conor said, looking round in awe. ‘Just incredibly beautiful.' He sighed. ‘You know, sometimes I find it hard to believe this whole world was created simply by two bits of dust colliding out in space and causing one tiny spark.'

‘Does that mean you believe in God?'

‘I believe in forces of the universe. I don't like to use the word “God” – more some kind of intelligent energy out there. Something of far greater power than man.'

Monty stared at the watery half-crescent of the moon, still suspended in the noonday sky like a ghost. A red helicopter clattered by, heading in the direction of the military airfield a few miles to the south. She turned her head suddenly towards Conor, and spoke. ‘I love you,' she said. Then added meekly, ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Sorry?' He smiled back, a tiny glint on the far hill catching his eye at the same time and distracting him.

‘Yes – I – I can't help it. I love you. I really do.'

Conor said gently, ‘You don't have to apologize.' He looked back at the hill, not wanting Monty to see his concern. After a moment, he saw the glint again. Binoculars, or a telephoto camera lens?

Unaware that danger was closer than she thought, Monty continued, ‘I – I'm so scared of something happening to you to us.' He touched her shoulders lightly with his fingertips and kissed her forehead. Strangely, the words of his mother over a couple of months ago, on his last night in Washington, echoed in his mind.

You don't have to go. There are other companies – right here … You just don't know what you're getting into. Maybe I've taught you too much, given you false confidence. Believe me, I've seen it for myself, I've experienced what they can do. Think again while you still have the chance
.

Maybe she was right, but how could he have lived with his conscience if he had just not tried? And anyway if he had not come here, he wouldn't have met Monty.

He squeezed her shoulders, and told her, ‘I love you too. More than anything in all the world.'

Tuesday 6 December, 1994

The alarm went off at five in the morning in Conor's flat. He sat up immediately and switched on the light. He had to get up
early in order to finish some work before catching his flight to Washington.

‘Want me to make you some breakfast – eggs or something?' Monty offered.

‘It's OK, you go back to sleep,' he said quietly. ‘I'll get some coffee in the office.'

She heard him showering, then rooting around packing last-minute bits and pieces into his suitcase. Then he kissed her on the cheek. ‘Call you this evening – you're not going down to your cottage on your own?'

‘I'll stay here, like we discussed.'

‘Promise?'

‘Promise.'

‘Good.'

She reached out and took his arm. ‘You will be careful, won't you, Conor?'

‘Washington's my patch, I'll be fine. Just get over and join me as fast as you can.' He kissed her again, then she heard the click of the door and he was gone.

Wide awake now, she rolled out of bed and walked naked through to the living room, which was tinged with orange from the street lighting. She watched Conor emerge from the front door, put his briefcase and hold-all into the boot of his BMW, and hoped he might look up so she could wave, but he didn't.

To her horror, as he pulled out, so did a Ford saloon a hundred yards further back. Keeping its lights off, it followed Conor's car down to the junction at the end of the street, then turned right, after him.

She felt a stab of panic, unsure what to do. Conor was going to the office and it was early in the morning: all she could think of, suddenly, was Jake Seals.

Wishing to hell that Conor had a car phone, she dressed in her clothes of the night before, grabbed her coat, checked that she had the spare keys to the flat, then threw herself out of the door into the morning darkness.

The MG's screen was misted on the inside; she cleared a small patch, then drove off far too fast, taking several lights on amber and one on red.

There was little traffic as she raced up Warwick Road, across the White City roundabout. But once she was on to the Westway, she found herself overtaking car after car, constantly hoping that the next set of tail lights would be Conor's, but disappointed each time.

She saw the BMW in the almost deserted Bendix lot as she drove in through the security gate. Keeping up her pace, she ran into the entrance lobby, noticing only that Winston Smith was still absent, and took the lift up to Conor's floor.

It was too early for any security guard to be in place on the floor itself and she emerged from the lift to find an empty desk and blank screens. Using her smart-card, she let herself through and ran towards Conor's office. She stopped in her tracks. He was walking down the corridor towards her, still with his coat on, a coffee in his hand, a look of surprise on his face.

‘Hey!' he said. ‘What's up – what's happened?'

She stood for a moment, belief making her breathless. Then she glanced warily around, mindful of their agreement not to talk on the premises. ‘A – a couple of files, I thought you might need for your trip – I suddenly remembered where they were.'

He frowned, not cottoning on for a moment, until he saw the urgent signalling in her eyes.

Checking there was no security camera directly on her, she opened her diary, scrawled in large, shaky letters, ‘You were tailed from the flat', and held it up briefly to him.

He nodded for her to follow him, led her into the men's washroom, checked the cubicles were empty, then turned on all the taps in sight. ‘We have to assume we've got company all the time right now,' he said quietly. ‘But if they wanted to bump us off, they'd have done it last weekend down at the cottage. They're watching us because they're not sure what we know. Just keep calm; when you get to Washington it's going to be OK, I promise.'

‘Have you got Clinton laying on the National Guard?'

‘Something far better. Trust me.'

She saw the concern in his eyes, and regretted their parting even more acutely than before. ‘I do trust you,' she said heavily. ‘I'm just scared as hell.'

‘Stay that way,' he said. ‘Stay scared as hell but keep your head.' Then he pointed at the door.

She left the washroom and went down to her own floor, feeling a little foolish for having panicked, and tried to think clearly through her tiredness. Her head ached with a slight hangover from too much wine last night; and whisky, she remembered; and brandy. Christ. She pressed her fingers against her temples to ease the pain. To cap it all, the next two days without Conor stretched out in front of her like a chasm.

When you get to Washington it's going to be OK, I promise
.

Why? What was going to happen in Washington that was going to suddenly make everything hunky dory. It was like some global version of a treasure hunt –
proceed to Washington and find the next clue
. Except Conor wasn't a man who played games.

Was he?

She got herself a coffee then knuckled down to work, rereading the schedule that had arrived from the symposium organizers and running through the checklist for her father. In addition to his main address on Friday evening, he was expected to chair a discussion panel the next day, and had been asked to submit notes for circulation to the other panellists by the beginning of this week. And there would be interviews about his book.

Monty wondered if he had remembered; almost certainly not. She would remind him, but it was too early yet. She yawned and glanced at her watch. 6.20. It was going to be a long day, very long.

Then, impulsively, she did something she had not done for years: slipping her hand inside her blouse, she pinched her tiny silver crucifix in her fingers, and closed her eyes.
Please God
, she prayed silently,
let Conor be safe and let Daddy be safe
.

She had held off phoning Sir Neil Rorke yesterday, torn between her desire to do so and a feeling that it would be letting Conor down. But now she regretted her indecision. Washington was the mugging capital of America. Someone could easily get killed without too many questions being asked.

At 8.30 Monty rang Sir Neil Rorke's extension. She did not
know what days of the week he came in, and kept her fingers crossed.

His secretary answered. ‘I'm afraid Sir Neil's in Malaya for the opening of our new plant in Kuala Lumpur. He should be back on Friday. Would you like to leave a message for him?'

Monty hesitated, wondering whether to contact him in Malaya. But trying to communicate over a phone line, not knowing how secure it might be, was a non-starter. ‘No, thanks, it's not important,' she said.