Bad Intentions Read online

  Dr Scott's office was the third room along the corridor that twisted through the executive suites. Tara's eyes fell first on the nameplate on the open door: 'Head of Research', it said, and then on the man. It was the first time she had seen him. He was about forty-five, with thinning brown hair combed over his head, and wearing a single-breasted brown suit. There was distinctly a shift downmarket from the appearance of the surroundings to the appearance of the man, a fact which Tara found somehow reassuring. Dr Scott shook her hand with both of his, and motioned to her to sit down. 'It was good of you to come so far to see me,' he began.

  'I am not used to such corporate extravagance,' replied Tara, reflecting on the first-class air ticket that had flown her across the Atlantic, the five-star hotel room, and the chauffeur-driven car that had delivered her to the office.

  'I can imagine,' Dr Scott answered, flashing what he hoped was his most welcoming smile. 'There is never much money around in the public sector.'

  'True,' Tara replied. She paused before continuing: 'Tell me why you want me to work here?'

  Dr Scott glanced down at the dossier lying open on his desk. A summary of her life was sketched in the barest detail. Born in 1964, in Vietnam, the daughter of an American serviceman and a Vietnamese woman. Left Vietnam at the age of seven for the United States. Studied biochemistry at Harvard. Very bright. And already an expert on leprosy. He glanced back up at her, admiring the silkiness of her long black hair and the soft delicacy of her Eurasian features. His eyes moved slowly, searching for a way forward, but her expression was calm and relaxed. Hire her, the Chairman had instructed. It's important.

  'Most of the major companies keep close tabs on the young biochemical researchers,' he said. 'Your track record is very impressive. As good as any I've ever seen in a person your age.'

  Tara shrugged, settling back in the plush, brown leather armchair, fixing a long, cool stare on the middle-aged man trying to woo her into his fold. Let him talk, she decided. See how far he is prepared to go. 'Perhaps my work is impressive because I care about what I am doing,' she said flatly. 'I am working on a disease I think is important.'

  Dr Scott observed her cautiously, a smile fixed on his face, but with a sigh close to his heart. He too had been around this track many times, trying to coax brilliant young researchers out of the cloistered groves of academe and into the harder corridors of a commercial laboratory. He knew they enjoyed it; that sense of power, that flattery, that acknowledgement that they were somehow special, who could resist? But he himself found it a tiresome and trying experience.

  'I hear what you are saying,' Dr Scott began. 'Of course your commitment to fresh and original science comes first. That is true for all of us. But I think you are wrong in believing that there is so strong a contradiction. At other companies perhaps. But here at Kizog we are as committed as you are to providing affordable healthcare to people all around the world. Naturally we would make it worth your while. A starting salary of say £80,000 would be no problem. That is considerably more than double what you make at the National Institutes. Then of course we could provide you with free accommodation and a car paid for by the company. And a bonus scheme ...'

  The words trailed away. Dr Scott spoke in even, measured tones, balancing his words, but he had been through this charade enough times to know that the money and the car made little impact, particularly on the women. They were not so easily seduced.

  Tara shook her head softly, her hair swaying around her shoulders. 'If you have seen some of my papers, then you will know that my main work is on leprosy, and I can't imagine that is something Kizog would want to fund.'

  Dr Scott held his hands up. 'I won't waste your time. And you are of course right as well. Leprosy isn't a disease we would normally research here, since even if we discovered an effective drug it would hardly be profitable. Those are the blunt realities of this industry.' He paused, leaning forward slightly on his desk, and fixing a quizzical look on Tara. 'Does Ator interest you?' he said. 'Given your work on leprosy it must do.'

  'Ator?' questioned Tara. She was well aware of the virus. But she had not expected it to be raised so quickly in the conversation. Or indeed at all.

  'Absolutely,' said Dr Scott. 'Now that is a disease where we may have some common ground. How many deaths does the UN say it has caused in Africa and Asia? Two hundred thousand. Now that it is spreading into the West there is no question that the industrialised nations would pay for a cure and for an inoculation programme to stamp the disease out. So it would make money and be beneficial to mankind and you wouldn't have to worry about compromising your integrity.'

  'But I am not an expert in Ator,' answered Tara. 'It is so new that few people are.'

  'But you are an expert in leprosy.'

  Tara could feel the buds of curiosity growing within her. What does he know about what happened? she wondered. And is that why I have been asked here? 'Go on.'

  'Like leprosy, Ator is a disease of the central nervous system. It has rather different effects, naturally. And the body starts to decay much more quickly. But our research indicates that the two diseases are chemically very similar. At the molecular level there could be very little difference.'

  'You believe that Ator is a form of leprosy?' asked Tara, the surprise evident in the tone of her voice.

  'A mutation perhaps,' answered Dr Scott. 'The point is we have studied your work on leprosy, and we believe that if we combine that with our knowledge of the chemistry of the Ator virus we could be very close to a vaccine.'

  'A vaccine for Ator?' questioned Tara.

  Dr Scott leant back and smiled. He could detect the interest in her voice. 'It would be one of the great pharmacological breakthroughs of the twentieth century,' he said, searching for the words to drive the hook deeper. 'I'm terribly excited by it. But it does require your coming to work here. You know how these companies work. Unless you are on the staff we can't share our research with you. Kizog is willing to put hundreds of millions behind this project, but obviously the information has to be protected and the patent position can't be compromised.'

  This was far from what she had expected, and for the moment Tara was lost for a response.

  Dr Scott leant forward again, his hands inching across the desk. 'Stay for a few days and look at some of our research? I am sure it will fascinate you,' he said. 'We need you, Miss Ling.'

  TWO

  Dani Fuller seemed stranded somewhere in those empty years between twenty-five and thirty-five, a decade women go through where their ages are hard to pin down. She was sitting in the back of the bar, a whisky in front of her, so far hardly touched. There were a couple of cigarette butts in the ashtray already. Her long blonde hair was tied up behind her head, revealing her drawn, thin face and sharp features, and her shoulders were tensed. Her eyes were scanning the room, moving inquisitorially over each person that passed by. Jack guessed at once that she was the one – she was wearing the black suit he had been told to look out for – and nodded in her direction.

  He stopped at her table, leaning over to introduce himself. No wedding ring, he noted. He ordered a bottle of Beck's from the waiter, and turned back towards her. There was a pause, lingering and slow, while both surveyed each other, casting their eyes over the person opposite. Mentally, Fuller began noting the details of the man who stood before her: five feet eleven inches, black hair, swept back over his head, mid-eighties style, no more than medium build, but with solid blue eyes that expressed a sense of calm and reserve. A good and probably decent man, but hardly a fighter, she decided.

  'It's good of you to meet me here this evening,' she said.

  Her accent was English, but indeterminate; Jack could not locate the region or place she might have come from. There was a strength to her voice that he found surprising, however; a sense of steel underpinning her tone. It contrasted sharply with her appearance. Everything on the surface seemed archly feminine; the neat suit, with the shoulder pads and short skirt, the stiletto shoes, the
jewellery, and the harshly drawn make-up. Yet everything inside, judging from her eyes and voice, was tough enough to be verging on the brutal. A very hard woman, Jack decided. And not someone to take any chances with. Not unless you had to.

  He told her that the meeting was no problem, his pleasure entirely, and so on. But he knew he was lying. He was meeting her because he had to. It was an order.

  He had just completed his first day back in head office. The place had a familiar feeling to it, a warmth and security that made him feel as if he had returned home. Which in a way he had. There were people ·he knew in the corridors. People who stopped and said hallo, and asked him how he had been whilst he was away, and who filled him in on the gossip he had missed. It was superficial chatter, meaningless and trivial, but, all the same, it was the kind of contact he had missed. And he was glad to have returned.

  Nobody talked for very long. Nor, apart from a few jokes about his tan, did they ask him much about himself. No one seemed to have any idea what he was doing, and Jack didn't have much idea himself. Special assistant to the Chairman. Sir Kurt had been right. It was a good title. It sounded grand. But it certainly wasn't very specific.

  He had his own office, and a secretary he shared with a number of other people. It was on the third floor, which suggested a middle-ranking position in the corporate hierarchy, and there were two other people there who were also special assistants; one to the finance director, and one to the chief executive. Jack wasn't too sure what they did either, and didn't like to ask. The first day seemed a bit early to own up to the fact that you were entirely clueless about what your job might be. And, anyway, something would probably turn up.

  A sheaf of papers had come down to his office from the Chairman. Attached was a note. 'Study the available information on counterfeiting,' it said. 'Do your own research. Meet this lady. And keep me informed.' At the bottom, there was no signature, but a simple, spidery K scrawled across the page. Jack made one call, and arranged the meeting for this evening. Dani Fuller, according to the papers, was an investigator with the Medicines Control Agency, who had been seconded to work alongside the World Pharmaceuticals Forum on counterfeiting. She was the key person in the investigation. The co-ordinator. And she wanted to meet Sir Kurt's assistant.

  The briefing papers had been prepared by the Forum. A warning written across the top made it clear that only board-level executives should see the material. An advisory note suggested that it should not be passed on to non'"executives. Clearly, nobody at Kizog was taking that warning too seriously. Not the Chairman anyway.

  In the last two years, the document stated, counterfeit medicines had started turning up in First World countries. It cited examples of counterfeit Zantac being prescribed in the UK and Germany; of Prozac in the US and France; and of Capoten in the US and Germany. 'These fakes have been discovered purely by accident, but they appear to be of a very high quality. Both the packaging and the chemical composition of the compounds suggest they have been made with the aim of producing exact replicas of the real thing. This is a situation the industry clearly cannot tolerate. We believe it is imperative that the industry acts now. After discussions with the relevant government bodies both in the US and Europe, it is proposed that the industry works alongside the detection agencies to combat the counterfeiters. Both the US Federal Government and the European Commission have agreed to co-operate. In light of the importance of the pharmaceutical industry to both the European and American economies, they have also agreed to keep the existence of the counterfeiters secret for as long as possible.'

  'How much do you know about counterfeiting?' asked Fuller.

  Jack shrugged. 'Not much. I have seen the briefing material supplied by the Forum.'

  She took another sip on her whisky, casting a long, inquisitive look at Jack. 'Tell me your feelings about this.'

  'Concerned,' answered Jack, aware that he was spinning what he believed to be the company line. 'There is a serious threat here. A threat to people's lives, but also to the profitability of the company. So you have our full commitment to whatever action is necessary. The Chairman has assured the Forum of that, and I can assure you personally.'

  Fuller was still looking right through him while he spoke, the same lingering stare fixed on his face and lips. Jack sensed that she believed him even less than he believed himself. 'But your own feelings?' she asked.

  'Nervous,' Jack answered. 'This is a dangerous situation that needs to be handled with great care both by me and by the company. But I'm confident also. I am sure the resources are there to cope.'

  Fuller sat back in her chair, a smile playing on her face. She crossed her legs. 'Do you know much about how counterfeiting works?' she asked.

  'Nothing beyond the obvious,' Jack replied.

  'Let me brief you,' said Fuller, her voice suddenly acquiring a tone of authority. 'Point one. Making drugs usually isn't much harder than making candies. The counterfeiters obviously have manufacturing facilities. They may be in the Far East, perhaps in Africa and the Middle East as well. Possibly in the former Soviet Union, we're looking into that. Somewhere where they can put down a small plant without attracting too much attention to themselves. Their next problem is getting hold of the formulae. There are two ways of doing that. One is to get the patent application. That will give you the details of the chemicals used in the drug. Once you have that all you need is a good biochemist to reverse engineer the thing. Another option is to tap into the knowledge within the company. Within Kizog for example there must be dozens of people who know exactly how to manufacture the company's drugs. Find one of those who is susceptible to bribery, pay him or her off, and you walk away with the formula. But cracking the right formula and then setting up the manufacturing facilities is only the beginning. The difficult part is getting the drugs into the system.'

  'And that must be a lot harder, right?' said Jack. 'There are controls on the distribution of pharmaceutical drugs. You can't just wander into a pharmacist's and offer a box load of cut-price medicines. And you can't sell them at street markets either.'

  'Correct,' answered Fuller. 'But because prices are different in each country, there is a trade in shipping medicines from one territory to another. Most drugs pass through many different wholesalers between leaving the manufacturer and arriving at the customer. On average it might be five wholesalers, sometimes many more.'

  'That is the weak link,' said Jack.

  'No question,' replied Fuller. 'They have access to formulae, access to manufacturing, and access to wholesalers at many different levels. Putting this operation together has taken a great deal of money and a great deal of organisational talent. Whoever we're dealing with, they are professionals, and very, very clever at what they do.' Fuller paused for a moment, her eyes widening as she focused more intently on Jack. 'We know a certain amount about the organisation, but all our information comes from the periphery,' she said. 'We have nothing from the heart.'

  'You want an infiltrator?' asked Jack. Already he was starting to feel nervous about the direction the conversation was taking.

  'Absolutely,' replied Fuller. 'We need to find somebody who is willing to go inside the organisation. To be recruited. To find out for us who they are, what they are doing, how they are doing it.'

  Jack nodded, draining his beer glass. He wondered where this was leading him. 'I guess you need somebody from one of the major pharmaceutical companies,' he said. 'If you are right in supposing that they are tapping employees for information, then this organisation will be keen to recruit executives who can provide them with the information they need. That person, if he was working on our side, would be perfectly placed to discover who was really behind this thing.'

  'Are you willing to go that deep?' asked Fuller.

  Jack paused, deliberating over his reply, his mind calculating the consequences of what he was about to say. 'I would need to check with my superiors.'

  'They promised to co-operate.'

  'I know.'

/>   'But you need to be personally committed.' She looked up at Jack once more, piercing him with a penetrating stare. 'This would need to be more than just following orders.'

  His first impression was, Jack decided, probably correct, and unlikely to ever change; solid-to-the-bone boffin. Her long, black hair was neatly parted down the middle, and fell in two straight lines down the sides of her long, thin face. She was wearing steel-rimmed round spectacles, which hid her eyes, and her face was undecorated with make-up of any kind. Her body was wrapped in a shapeless white lab coat, beneath which he could see a pair of black jeans, and a pair of very sensible black shoes. There were no rings on her fingers, but there was a single, gold bracelet dangling from her left arm.

  The phone call from the Chairman had taken him by surprise that morning. No sooner had he arrived at his desk, his mind still full of last night's meeting, and collected a cup of coffee than Sir Kurt was on the line. Jack glanced at his watch. It was still only ten past eight.

  'I have another task for you,' he began. 'I'm sure you can be a most persuasive young man.'

  Jack was unsure how to respond, and kept silent.

  'I was at your age. Got a girlfriend?' he asked abruptly.

  Not a great subject to get into at this time of the morning, thought Jack. And certainly not with the Chairman. 'Not now. In Thailand there was...'

  'No conflict of interest then,' the Chairman cut in. 'Just get to know her.'

  'Who?'

  'Tara Ling. Young scientist. Temperamental. She doesn't like drugs companies. Worried about our ethics. Can't say I blame her myself. But she is important. We need her. She has information. Dr Scott is trying to bring her on board and he is showing her around. But like all the boffins, he is such a charmless old bastard, I wouldn't trust him to pull it off. You're the salesman. Bring her in.'