Lethal Profit (11 page)

Later that evening, Eva returned to her hotel, none the wiser about the identity of Bioavancement S.a.r.l., or what the company's business was. She had easily located the building after just a half an hour's walk, only to find it as impenetrable as Fort Knox. There was a small, rectangular metal plate marking the spot as belonging to Bioavancement S.a.r.l. but the building appeared to be empty as no lights showed at any of the windows, and not a single person had gone near the building for at least an hour. Eva had taken up a position in a café across the street, determined to watch the comings and goings, but no one had come and no one had gone. The office was not located on a particularly busy street but nevertheless there were people going in and out of the apartment block on one side of the Bioavancement S.a.r.l. office, and the florist's shop on the other. After she had consumed three strong coffees, she had decided to go over and try to get into the building herself on some pretext or other, but the reception bell had gone unanswered and the door – when she tried it – was locked. At this point, Eva had become frustrated and she had turned back towards the hotel. That was when she had spotted Leon.

At first she wasn't sure that it was definitely him, but there was something about the well-built man in the dark baseball cap that reminded her of that moment she had seen Leon for the first time silhouetted against the light from the door in his flat. Over the past few days Eva had done her best to forget about the violence of that incident. Whilst she couldn't dismiss Leon from her mind and had felt almost constantly on edge, she had been so caught up in the documents in the sports bag that she had managed successfully to sideline the shooting. Rather than dwell on the startling events of that night she had chosen to push it to one side and look instead for positive steps forward. Deep down, she knew that if she thought about it too much she would most probably lose her nerve with this whole situation. Right now, what had happened that night – someone getting shot – had seemed almost like a dream. In fact, if it wasn't for the enormous bruise on her leg where he had clipped her with the car then she might even have been able to write it off as just that. But here he was again. On foot this time, but very definitely there.

As Eva made her way back to the hotel she spotted him twice, once in the curved surface of a parking mirror and then again in the reflection of the glass doors as she entered her hotel. She considered stopping and speaking to him. That he felt the need to shadow her incognito when he could just call her was faintly ridiculous, but the fact that he was still doing it made her think twice.

There
had
been someone outside Leon's block of flats who had attacked her. Had Leon set that up? Had that been a genuine attack? She still didn't know. But for some reason she found Leon's shadowing comforting rather than threatening and so – despite her better judgement – she just let him do it.

‘We must get that fucking phone.'

‘Wiraj we have no idea where it is.' Nijam was almost pleading with his brother as they sat once again in their shabby hotel room, the bare electric light bulb flickering weakly overhead.

‘We are not psychic, I don't understand how you expect us to find it, Wiraj.'

‘
I don't care!
', came the roared reply.

There was silence for several seconds and each man in the room found something on his hands, or a spot on the floor, to occupy him. None of them dared to look at Wiraj. The incident with the estate kids had been a disaster and Wiraj was ashamed that he had so quickly lost control and reacted with violence. They were supposed to leave no trace and yet they had two more deaths on their hands now, as well as witnesses. Whilst he seriously doubted that those kids ever went near the police, they could still identify Wiraj and his crew to other interested parties who might want to seek some kind of retribution for the deaths in the community. Suddenly, Wiraj's own mobile phone buzzed to life with the only number it contained, ‘Joseph Smith'. He jumped violently and then ended the call. He could not speak to Smith now. He needed time to think. As he put the phone back on the table he saw the look on his brother's face as he noticed the name of the caller whose call had been so rudely ended. Nijam was afraid. That enormous killer of a man was afraid. They were in too deep now.

‘Kill her.'

‘Who?'

‘The British woman. I have had enough. We cannot waste any further time. Kill her and search her room for the phone, or for any other trace of those messages.'

‘Wiraj is there no… '

‘Nijam,' Wiraj spoke wearily. The flat tone of his voice surprised his brother. ‘We have no other choice. If you want to live, we have no other choice.'

‘This must surely be a gang execution, sir.' Gagnere looked almost triumphant as they stood above the bodies of two teenage boys, both known to Legrand, one of whom had been savagely stabbed.

Legrand stared down at the carnage on the tarmac, the abandoned bags of solvents, the glassy eyes of the dead child at his feet. He briefly wondered what the point of a life was that was so wasted like this. He felt Gagnere staring at him and looked up.

‘I'm still not convinced. There's no consistency here – one stabbed and the other, what, suffocated like the English man? Beaten to death?'

Gagnere frowned. ‘But these kids are gang kids. You know that sir, we've dealt with them before.'

‘I know. Does that mean they cannot be victims themselves?'

Gagnere was silent, reprimanded. Around the two men, the Parisian police force was moving silently, setting up spotlights, donning forensic suits, preparing to work through the night in an area that most of them would not have wanted to be in during daylight hours.

‘It just doesn't feel right, Gagnere. This is not the way these gangs normally carry out their executions. There is no mutilating mark, there is no motivation. These estates have been quiet for two months now. Why should a killing like this suddenly happen?'

‘I don't know sir.'

‘Have we managed to corral any witnesses?'

Gagnere shook his head.

‘No, of course we haven't,' said Legrand wearily. ‘No-one around here sees anything.'

J
OHN
M
ANSFIELD
WAS
NOT
A
MAN
who liked to be kept waiting. He particularly did not like to be kept waiting when he had gone out of his way to attend a meeting that was taking place in the dead of night – a fact that would create intense suspicion if it made it into the papers – and that could effectively end his entire political career if his presence there was made public. He looked around the mahogany-lined room at the other participants also waiting for the Bioavancement S.a.r.l. CEO to arrive. Thankfully, these were members of some of the most media-shy organisations in the world, or he would never have agreed to be physically present for the meeting, no matter how important the CEO thought it was. Around the room everyone was waiting, constantly checking Rolex or Cartier time-pieces, watching as the solid gold hands made their inevitable progress towards the hour after the meeting was supposed to have started. Finally, a small door at the back of the room opened and the CEO emerged, padding across the dark fields of the Persian Tabriz rug-lined floor to a red, stuffed leather chair. He gazed around the now silent room, coolly taking in every feature of the nine faces gathered around the table. Between them they represented three of the biggest and richest pharmaceutical conglomerates on the planet. And their lawyers.

‘Gentlemen, thank you for coming.'

When he spoke it was with the cut-glass confidence of the highest echelons of British education. There were nods from around the table and John Mansfield nervously downed the remainder of his creamy coffee from the delicate bone-china Worcester cup.

‘Today is something of a momentous day for us,' the CEO announced, his smooth tone and open gestures intended to set at ease those around the table who might be having any last minute doubts.

‘Thanks to the excellent groundwork of our board member,' he gestured at Mansfield, who nodded at the assembled heads that immediately turned his way, ‘we have our approval.'

There was a wave of recognition around the room.

‘As of this moment, the Medicines and Healthcare Products Regulatory Agency has certified us free and clear to go ahead with the manufacture and sale of PX 3.' The CEO paused for several seconds to let the implications sink in and the financial rewards be calculated.

‘We have already begun building the algae pools in locations around the UK and the first set-ups are complete. In just a few days the plants themselves will follow from our storage facility in Africa.'

‘When will it be ready for sale?'

‘As you know, thanks to the genetically modified design of the algae, they bloom on contact with oxygen. The bloom will yield algae in triple quantities in around a fifth of the time it would normally take to grow. Once the ponds are established, we can trigger the bloom, harvest the plants and begin the manufacturing process.'

‘How long from harvest to delivery?'

‘Roughly two months.'

There were nods around the table.

‘We are almost ready to sell the people of the UK their youth back. Your investment is about to pay off, gentlemen.'

Mansfield could almost hear the collective exhalation of relief around the room. To many of these industry heavyweights, their connection with Bioavancement S.a.r.l. may have created a sense of unease, in spite of the fact that it was always a somewhat rocky road that pharmaceutical companies trod when it came to launching new supplements. The PX 3 was by no means the first supplement to claim to preserve, or engineer, youthfulness in those who took it, but because it was made from a genetically engineered plant, there was an extra hurdle of distrust to overcome. Nevertheless, they had invested heavily in its development, predominantly because, with the right marketing, it had enormous mass market appeal, and the potential to generate billions in profit.

Few of those around this table had believed at the beginning that the company could ever obtain approval for the product without palms being greased somewhere along the line but somehow, although the CEO had never mentioned any inside connections, he had still managed to convince each one of them that their investment would yield results that were worth the risk to their businesses and their reputations. No doubt the enormous profits had been a fairly substantial carrot; and the fact that Bioavancement S.a.r.l. held all the patents on the ground-breaking genetically engineered plant was probably a pretty big stick. Mansfield had always had the impression that many of those present felt rather swept away by the force of the CEO's charm and, afterwards, had perhaps regretted both the capital outlay and the association with the company. Now, however, they were about to receive the ultimate reward for the investor in risky ventures: an enormously high return.

Mansfield watched as the CEO closed the meeting and then made his way around the room, oiling the wheels of his investments, congratulating, flattering and exciting all those in the room. He really was quite a piece of work. When he came to Mansfield, his smile was bright.

‘Minister. Congratulations. I really can't tell you how happy I am that you have been of such great assistance.'

‘As am I.'

‘Is anyone aware of your involvement with us?'

‘No, ' the MP replied confidently. ‘And I would like to keep it that way.'

He laughed nervously and the CEO smiled.

‘Of course,' he said, locking Mansfield's hands in his own cold grip. ‘Well, I hope we make it worth your while at the very least.' He released Mansfield's hand, bade him goodbye and walked away.

Eva was jolted out of her sleep by the sound of a new email arriving on her laptop. She sat up stiffly and checked the time on the small travel clock by her head. It was 9pm; she had been asleep for several hours. Rubbing her eyes and stretching her limbs, she tried to get the blood flowing into her sleepy body. She felt terrible. She hated sleeping during the day, it always made her feel grumpy and irritable. She realised she must have fallen asleep searching for information on Bioavancement S.a.r.l.; another wasted hour spent fruitlessly tapping in different combinations of words into search engines. She didn't understand why there was no information at all on the company. It was almost as if it didn't exist. She reached into her bag for her phone and checked for new messages, but there was nothing, not even from Leon. Unwilling to drag her heavy limbs off the comfortable bed just yet, Eva turned her attention to her computer. Her email inbox told her a new Facebook message had arrived. Quickly she navigated to the website, glancing over a news feed full of gurgling babies, tropical beaches and drunken revellers and opened her messages folder. It was Sophie. At first, the message she was reading made no sense to Eva. It seemed almost as if it had been written in code.

‘It is never safe. You must understand. Soon.'

As she read it again Eva tried to put it in context. Sophie could well have written this in a rush from a location in which she didn't feel safe and where she wasn't confident that she wasn't being overlooked. That would explain the short sentences and the urgency of the message: ‘It is never safe.' However, whilst the fact that she had replied at all was positive, as was the fact that she seemed to want to meet, it wasn't the kind of response Eva had hoped for. Sophie hadn't named a time or place, or even a method of communication so, once again, Eva could do nothing but wait.

She flipped her laptop shut in frustration, leaned back against the bed and ran a hand through her long hair. For some reason her skin was tingling with adrenaline. Sophie's message had made her nervous. Every step Eva took seemed to fall short of getting her any closer to what was really going on. And yet here she was, ‘never safe,' as Sophie had phrased it. She stood up and pushed her laptop aside, paused at the edge of the bed, then stalked around the room for several minutes. Finally she drew the curtains shut, threw off her T-shirt and headed for the shower.