Interface: A Techno Thriller (3 page)

"I thought CERUS was, in your words, all about speculative science."

"There still has to be money in it."

A slow smile spread across Bradley's face and he produced another file from the briefcase. "I may have a customer. One not so... constrained... by the regulators."

Bern opened the file. "Viktor Leskov?"

"He's from Kazakhstan, although now operates out of Moscow. Made his money exploiting mineral rights."

Bern started to turn the pages of densely printed text.
 

"He has money. And we have a product that he wants." Bradley paused. "Or we could have a product he wants, if we decide to take a chance."

Bern closed the file. "You're telling me the best way to deal with our solvency issues is combining an illegal project from twenty-five years ago with an illegal project from this year?"

"I'm not telling you anything. I'm just doing what you hired me to do: present you with options."

"And if I decide to proceed?"

"Mr Leskov would be delighted to meet with you."

FOUR

THE ALARM CLOCK GOING OFF sounded like a police siren in Tom's aching head. He reached out a hand and smacked at it, taking three attempts before he stopped the piercing noise. Blinking to clear his vision, he sat up in bed and immediately regretted the manoeuvre. The room lurched as waves of pain stabbed though his head and nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

Quickly Tom lay back down, breathing in short gasps. He looked around his room, seeing his suit hanging on a hook behind the door. His phone, watch and wallet lay on the bedside table. The curtains were drawn. Everything looked as it should.

But he didn't remember getting here.
 

He'd been at the party, talking to the woman in the black dress. What was her name? He grasped for it and came up with nothing. Just how much had he drunk? Groaning, he made a second attempt to sit up. He reached across to grab his phone, but his hand jerked clumsily and it clattered to the floor.

From the other side of the door there were footsteps and a voice called out, "You there?"

Tom tried to reply, but his mouth felt impossibly dry. All he managed was a grunt.

"Are you all right?" The door was shoved open and Tom saw Jo glaring at him with a mixture of concern and annoyance.

"Just feeling a little worse for wear," he mumbled hoarsely.
 

Jo frowned. "What time did you get in?"

"Don't remember."

"Serves you right after standing me up."

Tom blinked. "It's only 7am. Look, maybe next week would be better."

She snorted, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. "Always another time, right? For now, though, some of us have to get to the office."

"Why do you have to go to work? Is something wrong?"

"I think that question should really be directed at you. Want an aspirin?"

Tom took a slow breath. "Don't worry. I'll get something if I need it."

Jo gave a shrug. "Well you'd better get moving if you don't want to be late on your first day. Anyway, I have a train to catch. Bye!"
 

She was gone before he could reply. The thump of the front door closing jarred Tom's head. He groaned again.

On the floor his phone vibrated. Taking a deep breath, he reached down and grabbed it. His eyes widened. He had twenty-five messages. Most of them from Jo.

Where are you?

Coming home tonight?

Guess I'll see you in the morning. Don't forget, breakfast @7!

Hey, Tom, it's 8. Are you OK? Call me.

Tom, hope you're OK. I'm really sorry but I'm going to have to leave in half an hour, with you or without you.

Hey, Tom. Got here safe and sound. Really hope you're OK. Call me.

Tom, do I need to start calling hospitals?
 

He stared at the screen. Was this a joke? He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, trying to think more clearly. Just how much had he drunk? He'd never felt this bad in his life. Was it something he'd eaten?
 

Muttering, he stumbled into the kitchen and put on the kettle. With his other hand, he jabbed the television remote, searching for the morning news. He was just opening a packet of dark roasted Colombian when the sound came on. He promptly forgot the coffee as he stared at the screen.

He changed to two other news channels then checked the TV Guide.

Glancing around, he saw Jo's newspaper folded on the kitchen table. Shaking, he picked it up.
 

Today was Monday.
 

Today was Monday but he couldn't remember a single thing about the weekend.

Not one single thing.

FIVE

KATE TURNER PULLED IN FRONT of two slower-moving members of staff and wedged her VW Beetle into the last space in the Business Week News car park. Clutching her laptop and a very large café latte she strode into the building, waving her identity card at the security guard and slipping into the lift just as the doors slid shut. Three floors and sixty seconds later, she was sliding her chair up to her desk, docking her laptop, and simultaneously finishing a final touch of lip gloss. For a moment, it looked like she had arrived unnoticed.

"Afternoon," said a voice from behind her.

She forced herself to breath evenly. "It's only 9:15, Geraldine."

"I've been at my desk since 7am."

Kate turned and saw the frowning figure of the editor-in-chief, standing in the doorway of her office. Her arms were folded: never a good sign.
 

"Don't you have a column to deliver?"

"It's nearly done," Kate lied smoothly. "Ten minutes."

Geraldine sucked in her lower lip and stared at Kate for several seconds, then she jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "My office."

The tiny room was filled with stacks of lever-arch folders. Kate squeezed between them and sidled to a chair. "Run out of shelf space?"
 

"Company reports." Geraldine sat heavily in her chair, which creaked in protest. "I like to cast an eye over what they're saying about themselves, though it's what they don't say that's more interesting. Occasionally it yields something that gleams." She paused. "Or stinks. Either's good."

"Aren't these things available online?"

"I prefer the paper." Geraldine steepled her fingers. "You started so promisingly here, Kate. Made a name for yourself with that pharmaceuticals exposé. But lately you're just coasting. The column's been pretty much paint by numbers for the last twelve months. A good journalist makes the story." She pointed to the folders. "And it doesn't always just fall in your lap."

Kate leaned forward. "You know where I was on Friday night."

Geraldine drummed her fingers on the desk. "Are you going to tell me you met Bern? Did he agree to an interview?"

Kate sighed. "He was surrounded by PR people and minders. I couldn't get anywhere near him. And then he left early. Don't suppose you've come across a clue about CERUS' supposed financial issues in all of this," she said, gesturing at the files.

Geraldine rolled her eyes. "You want to do a piece on their difficulties? That's the worst kept secret in business."

"Yet nobody's run it as a story."

"Because nobody has anything concrete. And CERUS' lawyers would shred them."

"Ah, but they don't have what I have: an inside source. Someone with a long history at CERUS and an axe to grind. I think he overheard me being nosy and realised I was a journalist. Didn't talk much at the time, just asked for my card. Did a whole Covert Ops thing about not being seen together and walked off. Thought maybe he was drunk or about to put security on me, but he called the next morning. Said he'd checked me out." Kate flicked her hair from one shoulder to another. "He liked that I have a science background."

"I thought you dropped out of your chemistry degree?"

Kate shrugged. "I usually leave that out of my public bio."

A faint smile appeared on Geraldine's face.
 

"I am going to meet with him. This afternoon."

"Then why are we discussing this now?" Geraldine threw her head back. "It's money, isn't it? A disgruntled employee wants to spill the beans and he wants something in return."

"He hasn't said yet, but you're interested, or we wouldn't still be talking." Kate paused. "I think the story isn't that they're in trouble. It's
why
."

Geraldine closed her eyes for several moments. Finally she opened them. "OK, meet with him. I'll give it my endorsement for now."

"You won't regret this."

"I hear that line five times a week. Make damn sure you're right."

SIX

TOM SAT AT THE KITCHEN table, staring into a cup of black coffee, trying to clear his head. The coffee didn't smell right and there were too many tiny swirling eddies on the inky surface. Brownian motion, they called it: random movements caused by the collision of tiny particles that you couldn't even see. Did coffee always look like this or was it time to descale the kettle?

Tom sighed. Had he come home Friday night having drunk so much he'd given himself alcohol poisoning and slept until Monday? Had he had one of those alcohol-induced blackouts his friends had laughed about at university? And hadn't Jo checked on him? His door hadn't been locked so how could she have missed him lying comatose in bed? So when had he come home? After Jo had left on Saturday morning but presumably before she got back on Sunday night. Where had he been in between?
 

He took a sip of the coffee. The bitter taste rasped on his tongue and he felt his head starting to clear. But something about the taste was wrong; there was a faint suggestion of something metallic. A memory flashed into his mind. He had broken his nose once. He remembered waking up after the operation to reset it with an odd taste in his mouth.
 

He banged the coffee cup down and stood up, running his hands over his torso, dreading what he might find. But nothing seemed to hurt. His hands shifted to his lower back and he wrenched off his shirt.
 

No bruises on his wrists, no marks on his arms as if he'd been in a fight or someone had held him down. There was just a faint mark in the crook of his elbow. Was that a spot or a bug bite or a mark from a syringe? He looked closer, but couldn't be sure. Had he injected drugs? Why would he do that when the most he'd ever tried before was one joint at university?

The woman in the black dress. She was the last thing he could recall. Had he gone home with her? He would have to ask around at work, see if anyone saw them leave together.
 

At work.

And it suddenly hit him. It was Monday, not Saturday. Monday. His first day at CERUS Tower.
 

Should he call in sick?
Could
he call in sick and not get fired? What would he even tell them? What if everyone had seen him roaring drunk at the party and knew it was just a hangover? He closed his eyes and considered how he was feeling. He didn't feel ill exactly. Just
off
. He took a gulp of coffee. That was certainly helping.
 

There was no reason to think he'd suffered anything worse than the world's worst hangover. No point turning bad to worse and getting fired before he'd even started his new job.

He shook his head. Time to get to work.

SEVEN

WILLIAM BERN GUIDED HIS ASTON Martin DB9 through the automatic gates of his country estate. Five walled acres of beautiful countryside in leafy Berkshire provided a perfect setting for a classic Edwardian house discovered, acquired, restored and decorated by his wife, Celia. His only contribution had been to pay for it. In his wife's words, he was always too busy trying to change the world. Well, he was about to play to form.

He parked and crunched across the gravel to the front door. Celia stood there, immaculate in a long black dress. "I thought you had meetings today in Monaco," she said, touching the silver chain around her neck. "What's going on?"

Bern pecked her on the cheek. "Let's have a drink and I'll explain."

"A drink?" She raised her eyebrows. "It's ten in the morning? Even for you that's early."

"Trust me: you'll need it."

They took the drinks trolley out to the veranda and sat for a while holding large glasses of cognac, looking out at the carefully manicured lawn and the orchard beyond.

Bern took a sip and cleared his throat. "I'm afraid, my dear, that I haven't been entirely truthful with you. Those rumours running around, the ones I've been furiously denying. CERUS is on the brink. We're way overextended: there's no way to prop things up any longer. We've got three months."

Celia's eyes narrowed. "The whole company? How is that possible?"

"You've heard the expression 'a house of cards'?"

She sighed. "Then we walk away, start over. It's not like either of us ever need work again. We can travel, spend more time on my charities."

Bern shook his head. "It's not just CERUS. We're in just as deep."
 

She put her glass down. "What have you done, William?"

"We've been struggling since the government put a block on nano research. We over-invested, overcommitted to what we were certain was going to be the next big thing." He took a deep breath. "I had to put everything up to guarantee borrowing by the company or CERUS would already have failed."

Celia's lips tightened. "And you didn't tell me? You didn't
ask
me?"

"I didn't want you worrying. I knew I could sort it all out and you would never know." He paused. "I've always managed it before."

She leaned back in her chair, took a slow sip of her drink. Her face was a mask. "You said
almost
inevitable."

"A new member of my team, Bradley, has come up with a possible solution."

Celia shifted in her seat. "Bradley? Have I met him?"

"I don't remember. Anyway, he's not important. But the idea is." He slid two grey folders onto the table.

Celia read them in silence, her lips tight. "I thought this was all behind us. I thought all the papers had been destroyed."