Crocodile Tears (16 page)

“Here it is,” James said.

He was right. The Greenfields research facility had suddenly appeared in front of them, concealed in a miniature valley. It was somehow shocking after so much emptiness, like a glass-and-steel city, or perhaps a prison, or even a colony on another planet. It certainly looked completely alien here, in the middle of Wiltshire. The complex was shaped like a diamond, completely surrounded by a fence with links so tightly meshed that it was almost like a metal wall, glinting in the sun. A single sliding gate, heavily guarded, stood at the end of the tarmac road. At least the guards didn’t seem to be armed—but they looked threatening enough, even without weapons.

“What is this place?” James muttered, staring out the window. “It seems like a lot of fuss for a bunch of vegetables.”

There were about twenty buildings on the other side of the fence. Many of them were indeed greenhouses, but they were enormous, taller and more solid than anything that might be found in any garden. The rest were either offices, warehouses, or factories, most of them low-rise but some of them five or six stories high, with radio antennas, satellite dishes, and tall silver chimneys built onto the roofs. To one side, Alex saw what might have been a welcome center, sleek and white. A second building right next to the gate was square and solid with a sign marked SECURITY. But his eye was drawn to the construction at the very center of the complex. It was a huge dome, like something out of a science-fiction film, filled with vegetation. He could make out the leaves of palm trees licking at the glass, twenty or thirty yards high. Vines and knotted foliage hung down on all sides. It was connected to other buildings by four glass corridors, radiating out like points on a compass. The Biosphere, Alex thought. He didn’t know where he had gotten the name from, but it seemed right.

Greenfields looked brand-new. There was a network of black tarmac roads separated by perfect rectangles of freshly mown grass. Or perhaps the grass had been genetically programmed to grow to exactly the right height. Silent electric vehicles were ferrying men and women from place to place. Some of them—presumably the scientists—were wearing white coats. Others were in suits. The guards wore green camouflage jackets, as if to remind themselves that the environment was what this was supposed to be all about. And everywhere, on dozens of poles and on the sides of every building, sophisticated cameras and light sensors gazed down from every angle so that if a single wasp or bee had flown in, someone somewhere would have known.

There was a loud whine inside the bus as Mr. Gilbert turned on the intercom system. “Please don’t be alarmed by all the security,” he said. His voice, amplified and relayed through the speakers, didn’t sound very confident. “A lot of the work that they do here at Greenfields is sensitive. They have to protect themselves from competitors and from journalists and that sort of thing—and some of the plants they grow here have to be contained. I’m afraid we are all going to have to be searched as we go in—but it shouldn’t take long. Please remember to leave all cameras and mobile phones inside the bus. They’ll be perfectly safe here, and they won’t be allowed inside.”

There were general groans and protests, but as they drew closer to the gate, everyone began to open their backpacks, doing as they were told. They’d been on school trips before, but they weren’t used to blank-faced guards and body searches. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Tom muttered, glancing at Alex. Alex didn’t reply.
“It’s a very simple matter. Hardly worthy of your talents
.
”
He remembered Blunt describing the job. Why should he have been surprised by another lie?

The bus slowed down and stopped. They had reached the gate, which slid open slowly to allow them into a holding area. Someone rapped on the door and the driver opened it to allow a thin, unsmiling woman to step inside. Mr. Gilbert stood up and held out a hand, but she ignored him.

“Good afternoon,” she said. Her voice was clipped and somehow artificial. She sounded like a speak-your-weight machine. “May I welcome you to Greenfields Bio Center. I am the supervisor here at Greenfields.” She paused, running her eyes over the passengers as if committing the faces to memory. “My name is Dr. Myra Beckett, and I will be looking after you during your visit.”

It was hard to say how old Beckett might be. She was a severe, very masculine woman in a white coat that hung loose from her shoulders and somehow defined her. There was so little emotion in her face that it was hard to imagine her doing anything that didn’t involve books, Bunsen burners, and bottles of chemicals. Her dark hair was cut short, with bangs that cut diagonally across her forehead, the last strands touching her left eye. She wore circular, gold-framed spectacles that looked cheap and didn’t flatter her. It was obvious that she didn’t care about her appearance. She had no makeup and no jewelry. She made no effort to be polite.

“We have not had a visit from a school before,” she continued. “We will be showing you our laboratories, some of our cultivation centers, and finally, there will be a lecture on GM technology by one of our experts. Any photography or recording is forbidden. When you leave this bus, every one of you will be searched. This was agreed with your school when you were invited. All mobile telephones are to be left behind. You will follow me now, please.”

“What a charming woman,” Tom muttered.

“Yeah. I’m really glad we came,” James agreed.

The supervisor had climbed off. The two teachers and the rest of the Brookland crowd followed her into the square building that had been designed exactly like a security area in an airport. There were uniformed men standing behind silver tables, X-rays for hand luggage, and metal detectors that everyone would have to pass through. Alex was one of the first to be searched. He watched as his backpack, with the pencil case inside, disappeared into one of the machines. At the same time, he was briskly patted down by a tight-lipped guard. The postcard that Smithers had sent him was in his inside pocket, and the guard pulled it out, glanced at the picture of the Eiffel Tower, then handed it back to him. His backpack appeared on the other side of the machine, but before he could reach it, another security man picked it up.

“Is this yours?”

“Yes.” Alex nodded. All around him, his friends were being processed.

It was as if the guard sensed that something was wrong. He examined Alex, then opened the backpack and looked inside.

“It’s just my schoolwork,” Alex said.

The guard ignored him. He rifled through the books, then took out the pencil case and opened that too. For a moment Alex was certain that every alarm in the place was about to go off. The guard took out the rubber eraser and turned it over between his fingers. But then, as if he had suddenly lost interest, he shoved everything back into the bag and handed it over.

“Next!”

Alex joined the others at the far end of the security hall. He noticed that Mr. Gilbert was looking fairly disgruntled, and he understood why. They were only on a school outing. They were being treated as though they might all be terrorists.

Beckett didn’t seem to care. “We will now proceed into the complex,” she announced. “Please stay together. Before we log in, does anyone need to use the toilet?” There was silence. “Good. Then come this way. . . .” She led them to a final barrier, and Alex noticed they were counted electronically as they passed through.

But at last they were inside Greenfields. Beckett gathered them in a group, standing in the open air with the great dome behind them. Now that he was closer to the glass, Alex could see that there was an entire ecosystem contained on the other side. Exotic-looking trees sprouted in all directions like green fireworks photographed just as they went off. There were strange plants and bushes fighting for space, some of them carrying ugly, brilliant-colored berries or fruit. It had to be hot inside. A thick layer of steam hung in the air and Alex noticed beads of moisture trickling down the panes. To his surprise, there was a movement and a man appeared briefly, covered from head to toe in a white protective suit. He was inside the dome, carrying a piece of measuring equipment. He stood briefly by the window. Then he was gone.

“You are going to be with us for two hours,” Beckett began. She didn’t sound pleased. Indeed, she was making it clear that this entire visit was an irritation. “We will start by looking at some of the laboratories where you will see some of our techniques, including genetic transformation, cloning, and the particle delivery system—we call it the gene gun—that fires new DNA into plants. The gene gun was developed by our director, Leonard Straik. You will visit some of the greenhouses and storage facilities where we cultivate and store fruits and vegetables, some of which have never before existed on this planet. After that, you will be taken to our lecture theater.” She pointed at the white building that Alex had noticed from the brow of the hill. “There will be a discussion about the need for GM technology and the ways that it can help the future of the planet. And finally”—she smiled so briefly that it seemed to be no more than a nervous twitch—“you are invited to our canteen for a cup of our own Greenfields Bio Center Blend coffee, which has been genetically modified to deliver a more satisfying flavor.

“Please do not at any time separate from the group. This is the very first occasion that we have opened our doors for a school visit, and some of the guards are a little nervous. I would be very sorry if any of you delightful young people were asked to leave. Also, do not touch anything. You will be standing close to many chemicals and plant specimens. Any of them could be dangerous. Are there any questions?”

“What’s in there?” someone asked.

Beckett turned around and looked at the central greenhouse. For a moment her eyes seemed to flash behind the circular lenses. “We call that the Poison Dome,” she explained. “For many years, Greenfields has been researching natural poisons . . . which is to say toxins such as ricin and botulin, which occur in nature and have the ability to kill human beings. Inside the Poison Dome, we grow some of the deadliest plants on the planet, including water hemlock, deadly nightshade, elephant’s ear, death cap mushrooms, and castor beans. The manzanilla tree has attractive fruit that you may choose to swallow. If you do so, it will kill you instantly. There is also a white resin dripping out of it that will blister your skin or blind you. The leaves of the ongaonga from New Zealand only need to touch you to produce hideous burns. It might interest you to know that a common nettle that you may find growing in your garden—
Urtica dioica
—injects you with five neurotransmitters when it stings you. The nettles inside the Poison Dome have been genetically modified so that they will sting you with five hundred neurotransmitters. I would like to imagine the pain of such a death, but in truth, I do not have enough imagination.”

She took out a tissue and touched it briefly against her lips.

“We are particularly interested in the way poisons interact,” she continued. “So you will also find animal life in there, including specimens of the blue dart frog, which releases lethal toxins from its skin, the banana spider, the taipan snake, and the marbled cone snail. A single drop of its slime can kill an elephant.” She paused and looked around the group. “If any of you would like to visit the Poison Dome, please let me know. Your visit will probably last about fifteen seconds before you die horribly.”

Nobody spoke. Miss Barry, the music teacher, had gone very pale.

“Very well. Let us head over to the first laboratory. I will ask your teacher to take a roll call when we enter and again when we leave.”

Tom Harris glanced at Alex, looking more doubtful by the minute. Alex shrugged. He was remembering what Blunt had told him about Philip Masters, how the whistle-blower had died. His body had been unrecognizable when it was found, and now Alex had a good idea what might have happened to him. Well, here was certainly one area of the Bio Center he’d be careful to avoid.

They went into one of the taller buildings with a steel chimney rising above them and smoke trickling into the sky. Beckett let them in using an electronic swipe card that she carried around her neck, and they passed into a clean, uncluttered passageway, where Mr. Gilbert took their names. As they set off once again, Alex made sure he was lingering near the back. They passed a restroom. Quickly he nudged Tom, who nodded back, and without hesitating Alex suddenly ducked sideways, throwing his weight against the door and plunging inside.

Suddenly he was alone, standing in a white-tiled room with two sinks and two mirrors in front of him. He waited until he could no longer hear the voices or the footsteps of his friends. Nobody had seen him leave. It was time to get started.

He took out the postcard with the view of Paris and went over to the sink. He ran a paper towel under the tap, then wiped it over the picture. The Eiffel Tower and its surroundings dissolved and disappeared. Underneath, there was an intricately drawn map of the Greenfields Bio Center, showing all the buildings and passageways, with two tiny lights already blinking. One was red. One was green. They told him where he was and where he had to get to.

He listened for a moment, and when he was sure that there was no one nearby, he slipped out into the corridor again, holding the postcard in front of him. According to the flashing display, the chief science officer—Leonard Straik—could be found in the building next door to this one, but the two of them were connected by a walkway, so Alex wouldn’t have to go back outside. All in all, he didn’t think he was in too much danger . . . at least not yet. He was wearing a school uniform, part of an invited group. If anyone did run into him, it would be easy enough to claim that he had simply lagged behind and become lost. And anyway, what was there to worry about? The research center might look sinister and it might have poison at its heart, but nobody had suggested it was breaking any laws. He was here simply because one man, Straik, might be a security risk. His job was an easy one. And half an hour from now, it would all be over.