Authors: Graham Lancaster
Now
confident, feeling he really knew how Banto’s mind worked, seeing
his
hacked-off vine water stems, his discarded figs, the tear marks of fistfuls of berries, he knew he was close. Very close. Maybe within half a kilometre. Slipping off his rucksack, he climbed a tall, straight ebony tree to gain a vantage point, and to try and figure out exactly where the man was, before his own unavoidable noise of approach warned him. He could not hope to climb even near the fifty metres into the top canopy, but getting into the forest’s secondary ceiling would, he hoped, be enough to help pin-point the native.
Having
barely got a third the way up, he smiled and relaxed. He had easily scented the alien smell of Banto’s long-extinguished camp fire and the mouth-watering aroma from hours earlier. The roasted gibnut acted exactly like a McDonald’s neon. But his deeper question of why here? why stop at this specific bit of the wilderness? had also been answered. The magnet that had drawn the alien native unerringly towards it was now towering magnificently above Bolitho, a few hundred metres away. The huge, brooding ceiba tree. A living fossil that had first taken root on that spot when, back in Britain, Edward I was still fighting Robert Bruce. Its unearthly presence must have long been a powerful spiritual beacon to anyone in its range, drawing man to it with the same awe their brothers, in different countries and in different times, were drawn to Everest, the Grand Canyon, Niagara and later the elemental man-made monuments like St Peter’s and the awesome Apollo space rockets.
Bolitho
did not have a religious bone in his body, but he had seen much in his action-crammed life. He had witnessed in wars too many inexplicable and extraordinary things not to recognise another now, dwarfing all around it. It had created a cathedral in the forest, a holy place which infused even him with reverence—and a little dread for what he was about to do in its presence.
*
It had been gone one o’clock when Tom finally pleaded exhaustion to escape James Barton and Elkins. And exhausted he was. On arrival at the ranch in the helicopter, they had been shown to their cabanas and, with barely time for a shower, rushed on to dinner with Barton at the main ranch-house. Penny had not been invited, Barton not wanting Elkins catching him off guard with any questions before he made his rehearsed presentation the next day. The good doctor was, Barton had long since decided, highly intelligent—but stupid in business terms. A phenomenon he had observed amongst not a few of the ‘geniuses’ he had employed, and made money from, over the years.
At
last Tom got to Lydia’s hotel after a worrying half-hour walk in the black night. Taking one of the ranch 4WDs had not been an option if he was to avoid awkward questions. Luckily there was still someone on the desk who rang Lydia’s room for him. Having been told to go straight up, he ran excited at seeing her again, and—his exhaustion now forgotten—at the prospect of some unexpected steamy sex.
All
thought of that evaporated, however, when he saw her. White-faced, yet a little flushed, she was clearly unwell. ‘What on earth’s wrong? You look dreadful,’ he said straight out, not thinking.
‘
Thanks a million. That’s just what a girl wants to hear.’
‘
Sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out that way. I’m just worried about you. What is it—travelling sickness? Can I get you anything?’
She
looked at him more warmly. It was true. He did look worried. Worried rather than horrified to see her like this. ‘I’m fighting off a migraine. I’ll be a lot better in the morning. You’ll see.’
He
came over to her and kissed her gently on the forehead. Kindly. ‘It
is
the morning.’
Hugging
him for a while, she broke away and examined his face. ‘You look pretty bushed yourself.’
‘
Just what a boy wants to hear...’ he teased, smiling.
They
sat on the bed, arms around each other, and talked about nothing much for ten minutes, before she finally steered the subject round to her trip. ‘Tom, I’m here because I’m really worried about Dad. He’s doing terrible things. I have to find out more, and get him help.’
‘
What do you mean? The animal testing? You’ve known about that for a long time.’ He looked at her, then something suddenly crossed his mind for the first time. ‘You’ve heard about the fire, I suppose. At the lab in Stow?’
‘
Yeah, yeah. It’s been in all the papers.’ Her eyes avoided him and without realising she was doing it, she let go of his arm.
His
trained eye read the body language. ‘I don’t suppose you had anything to do with it?’
Standing
up suddenly and holding her arms across her stomach, she walked out to the balcony. ‘Oh sure. I bought an incendiary from “Bombs ’R Us”. Planted it, and went home to paint my nails,’ she called back derisively.
Oh
no, he thought. She
was
involved. Her every movement and tone screamed it. ‘So. If it’s not animal testing, what’s James doing that’s frightening you?’
She
came back in, feeling cold, and closed the balcony door behind her. ‘This is going to sound crazy if I just blurt it out. But Maddie and I had lunch the other day, and she told me that she came across some papers Dad was keeping in the safe. She decided to go through them. And found this one document that seems to make out...’ Her voice trailed as she took a copy of the hateful thing from her bag, and handed it to him.
He
skim-read it and looked back at her. But his eyes showed no shock. No surprise. No disgust. He had been confronted with evidence of human experiments, and was showing no sign of anything...‘Tom!’ she shrieked. ‘You
know
. You
know
about it! My God no! You’re a part of all this...’ Completely wrong-footed, she ran to a wall, facing away from him, afraid. The man she had asked to help her was as guilty as her father!
Tom
rushed over to hold her, but she shook him off. Tom’s head was racing. Mitchell could not have made any clearer the absolute importance of watertight security. Any leak would put in danger the life of the agent getting information out of Oeiras. The whole complex and vitally important operation could be ruined.
‘
Listen to me,’ he said firmly, turning her round. ‘It’s not what you think. Trust me. Trust me until I’ve had a chance to make a call. Get some rest and I’ll come back over here and see you after lunch. Can we do that? Is that OK with you?’ Mitchell had given him a London number of someone who could trace him in minutes, wherever he was.
Avoiding
looking at him, she said softly but firmly, ‘Go. Just leave me. Please.’
‘
I’ll make that call. We’ll talk tomorrow. It’s not what you think. OK?’
But
she just stared at him with sad, wet eyes.
*
The next morning David Elkins sat through Penny’s presentation, and had begun asking searching, informed questions as they now toured the lab facility.
‘
You’re not testing on apes?’ He had been surprised to see none in the lab. The DNA of chimpanzees, he knew, differed from humans’ by only one per cent.
Ever
quick to turn a disaster, like Banto’s freeing of the chimps, into an advantage, Barton shook his head gravely. ‘No, no. We really don’t like to test on primates where we can avoid it. They
are
an endangered species after all. Have you ever visited the Primate Research Centre in Holland? Heartbreaking,’ he said, with an utterly convincing look of concern on his face. ‘And, of course, we work to the letter and spirit of the British Government’s 1986 Animals Act, wherever we operate in the world. And that gives special added protection to primates.’
‘
Very laudable,’ Elkins replied, with a hint of sarcasm. He was not that easily fooled. ‘So. To summarise—excuse me, Dr Penny—in language even a Fund Manager might understand...What you’re doing here is copying the genes from the cell lines you’ve patented of the PNG tribes. You’ve cracked the DNA codes and are transcripting some for use in vaccines, and others for gene therapy—treating and preventing diseases from cancers and viral killers—like hepatitis B and HIV/AIDS. Is that about it? Is that what you’re claiming?’
Tom
could see that Elkins was sceptical. But that, after all, was his job. ‘Just because others have promised and disappointed before, doesn’t mean that we will,’ he said, catching an angry look in Barton’s eye. He knew how much the man hated the power people like Elkins wielded.
‘
And exactly how have
you
succeeded in protein engineering identical cell lines, when so many others have failed, Dr Penny?’
‘
Temple Bio-Labs. Not me. This is a real team effort. We use X-ray crystallography, like everyone else. But with a modification. One which we must for now keep to ourselves. But call our crystallography four-dimensional, not the usual three-dimensional. That’s as near to a clue as Sir James would want me to let slip,’ Penny replied, shooting a worried look at Barton.
Elkins
knew flannel when he heard it, and shook his head. ‘So, to be absolutely clear about this. You’re not using human cells for commercial development.’ He had read, of course, about the PNG government’s allegations against Barton.
‘
Of course not. Using human cells for anything other than research is illegal,’ Barton answered. A little too quickly, Tom thought.
‘
And you’ve not gone the trendy new
de
novo
route—designing new proteins on your drawing board?’
‘
No. All that’s still fledgling science. And some way from commercial application,’ Penny replied. ‘To repeat. We’re simply applying our own modification to well-proven protein-engineering procedures. And through this, making the changes we need to create
different
proteins from the original DNA sequences we got from the tribes. Cell lines with remarkable immunity to many killer diseases, and the ability to avoid developing the full-blown symptoms of others, like AIDS, even where they
do
carry the virus.’
‘
And finally, what about time to market?’
Barton
took over now, relieved to have left the technical side behind. ‘As you’ll know, there are very different routes for gene therapy than for drugs. We first have to identify and clone our target genes from the DNA. Then select our vector, the virus, to carry it into the cells of our host organism prior to creating a transgenic animal to test its effectiveness as a treatment. This is the stage we’re at with some cancers and hep B. Herpes is a few months behind this. But for HIV, we’re in the early stages of human testing—for Phase One. This is crunch time. And the preliminary results are extremely encouraging. I’m confident we have a real success. Dr Penny shared with you the first trial results. We now have to check the treatment is not only effective, but safe—and what, if any, side effects it might throw up. You’ll be familiar with the three phases of clinical trials, each with larger numbers.’
‘
I know it’s a long process. If all goes to plan you’re looking at, what, six years at best to any commercial launch? And before shareholders get sight of a dividend. What chance of success do you think you have?’
‘
The average chance of a commercial launch after Phase Three is about sixty per cent. For us, I’d put it higher. Eighty-five per cent,’ Barton replied. ‘With patent protection to 2030, and a very strong royalty stream potential. Like most biotech stocks, we’ll be a bumpy ride for your investors. Long years of losses and cash calls, more than compensated by a rocketing share price every time we announce some news. And, most importantly of course, backed by really phenomenal potential future earnings. No portfolio is complete without an exciting biotech stock. And we’re the most exciting of them all. I’ve done all this before, in the equally helter-skelter software market of the eighties. And the dot com boom. I made investors and myself a lot of money—before my one well-publicised crash. The Americans don’t care about previous failures. It’s just we Brits who never forget. But nobody need doubt my ability to ride out
this
sector. Temple Bio-Laboratories is a winner, David. I’m a winner. Tell them to buy and you’ll be a hero. Promise.’
Tom
was watching Elkins carefully throughout this last, ill-judged piece of old-fashioned hard sell. It had obviously back-fired, revealing only Barton’s desperation to raise the £15 million he said he needed. The analyst was still far from convinced. But—he knew—if Barton’s attempt to play it by the book had failed, then the man would blackmail and bully until he got the result he needed. How the hell had he ever got mixed up with the monster? he asked himself yet again. And why had he not seen this criminal side to him much earlier?
It
was high time he made that call to Mitchell to warn him that Lydia was about to confront her father over Oeiras and the human experiments. But should he also warn Mitchell that she might have bombed one of her father’s labs? For her own sake? Perhaps the Security Service people could make some kind of deal for her, some US-style plea bargain in return for helping Mitchell out. It might be worth a shot.