Bad Intentions Read online

  Inside, the publicist's success was clear. To the left of the office, a desk was stacked high with newspapers and videotapes, evidence of the coverage the Ator vaccine had generated in the twenty-four hours since its announcement. At one end of the table, Dr Peter Scott was sitting with his head bowed, a slight frown on his forehead as he examined the clippings. Next to him sat Wheeler, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, his chewed fingernails tapping the edge of the table.

  Tara was sitting across from both of them. Jack's eyes fell upon her first, running along the slender curves of her body; it was the first time he had seen her without a lab coat cloaking her, and he was quietly impressed. She smiled a half-smile, a communication that while on the surface friendly was also unknowable and unreadable.

  'How are you?' he asked, attempting a smile.

  'So you two know each other?' interrupted Wheeler.

  'I was involved in hiring Tara,' explained Jack.

  'Borrodin gets around,' said the PR man. 'The eyes and ears of the Chairman. A powerful young man, or so I am told.'

  'I'm very well, thank you,' said Tara, looking up at Jack, and ignoring Wheeler.

  'Such modesty,' exclaimed Wheeler. 'The inventor of one of the most miraculous discoveries of the modem age, you should be on top of the world, simply on top of the world, my dear.'

  'Are you involved in this one, Jack?' asked Scott.

  Jack looked across at the scientist. There was a tone of suspicion in the man's voice, and an air of wariness in his eyes. Scott had a reputation for treating the Chairman's goferswith a degree of ill-disguised contempt, and Jack had learnt to handle him carefully. 'Sir Kurt asked me to come along,' he replied. 'This is clearly a very delicate time for the company.'

  'The bid?' said Scott.

  'Everything we do over the next few weeks will be very carefully scrutinised,' replied Jack.

  Scott sighed. 'Do you think we will win?'

  'Depends purely on the share price,' answered Jack authoritatively. 'It is a paper offer. If our prospects look good, better than Ocher's anyway, then shareholders will be glad to swap our shares for theirs.' Jack turned to Wheeler: 'That's why we are here, isn't it.'

  'Absolutely, old boy.' The PR man picked up a pile of the papers and spread them across the desk. 'This is great,' he said. 'This is very good. There is plenty in here about the Ator vaccine. All of it positive.'

  'There is nothing unusual about that,' said Scott. 'I've yet to see a medical breakthrough that got a bad press.'

  'True,' said Wheeler. 'But we have to make sure it continues. Our first priority is to keep the news on Ator flowing right through the bid. We need to keep it in people's minds. That way our share price will keep climbing.'

  'There is not much left to say,' interrupted Tara. 'We have the basis of a vaccine, yes. But it still has to go into development. The chances are that it will not survive. There may be side-effects. This vaccine may never even reach the market.'

  Jack turned to Scott: 'What's your opinion?' he asked.

  'You know the statistics as well as I do,' Scott replied. 'Only one in ten discoveries make it through all the stages of testing. Failure is the norm.'

  Tara had a stern look in her eye. 'This strikes me as a very cynical exercise.'

  Jack and Wheeler turned to meet her gaze. 'How so?' asked Jack.

  'I am starting to understand why Sir Kurt was so keen to hire me,' she continued. 'There was always a reasonable chance that one of the compounds I had been investigating for leprosy would show laboratory effectiveness against Ator. Not certain but likely. The company knew that, and the Chairman must have known for some time he was planning to launch this bid for Ocher. Jack, how long does the bid last for?'

  'Under Takeover Panel rules we have thirty days.'

  Tara nodded. 'Kizog brings me in and gets a compound. It releases the details, and lifts its stock price, and launches the bid. There is no way we will know in the next thirty days whether this compound works or not. But by then of course, it doesn't matter. Kizog will have won.'

  Jack listened with growing admiration. The Chairman, he knew, could be devious and cunning, but this was a strategy of such elegant manipulation, it was hard to be anything other than impressed. It was a wonderful ploy. And Tara had seen straight through it, as though it were made of glass. Jack studied her for a second. She looked somehow different from when they met the other day. More sure of herself. Less edgy. There was an anger in her eyes. An anger that rippled through her body, tensing her muscles. He could sense trouble. The Chairman wanted her to be portrayed as the inventor of this wonder cure. And there would be repercussions if she did not play along.

  Try to reason with her, thought Jack. 'It is important that this take-over succeeds, otherwise we might not have the resources to make the vaccine on the scale it is needed, if it proves successful,' he began, stressing the words as he spoke. 'And there is no reason to think it will not succeed. Even if it doesn't, the company has invested a lot of credibility into coming up with a vaccine. Huge resources will be thrown into finding one that does work. Surely that is useful.'

  There was no expression on Tara's face. None that he could read, anyway. 'It is not something that I would want to be involved in,' she replied stonily.

  Wheeler leant across the conference table, patting her wrist with his chubby hand. She drew away quickly. 'All we want is to make sure that you get the proper public recognition for your role in the discovery. You have done important work. Historic work. You deserve the praise.'

  'It doesn't interest me,' answered Tara. 'The science interests me.'

  Wheeler looked puzzled. He has trouble understanding someone who does not want publicity, figured Jack. Reclusiveness was alien to him. Try to reason with her, Jack reminded himself. Find her wavelength. 'If nothing else, the information we have released will spur our competitors into devoting more resources into finding their own vaccine,' said Jack.

  Tara looked up at Scott, a quizzical expression in her eyes asking silently for his opinion. 'I think you should consider it,' he said. 'The commercial world is new to you. But Jack has a point.'

  She nodded: 'I suppose I'm in too deep to turn back now.'

  The four of them stood up to leave. Scott and Tara headed off towards the laboratory buildings. Wheeler started tapping Jack for gossip on the likely board reshuffle if the bid was successful, but Jack did not feel in the mood for office politics. He wanted to speak to Tara. He sped through the corridor and stopped by the lift, relieved that she was still there, and alone. He turned to face her and attempted eye contact, but she turned away. 'I'm not such a bad person,' he said.

  'Prove it,' she answered.

  'I'd like to,' he replied. 'But how?' Tara shrugged. 'Think of something.'

  'The deaths of the other scientists,' said Jack. 'Are you worried about that? That someone might come after you. Surely you don't think that.'

  'I don't know what to think,' she answered sharply. 'I just know I didn't really discover that vaccine. It doesn't feel right.'

  The flickering of her eyelashes betrayed her nervousness, and for a moment Jack felt instinctively protective. 'Security can be organised. Let me talk to the Chairman about it.'

  Tara met his eyes, suspicion starting to drift across her face. 'Bodyguards?' she asked.

  'Yes, if you like,' said Jack, wondering if he was being melodramatic.

  Tara shook her head. 'No guards.'

  'Why not?'

  For a moment Tara seemed lost in her own thoughts, and she hesitated, her eyes scrutinising Jack, before replying. 'Because I am worried that it starts here.'

  'The take-over ploy?' Jack asked.

  'No,' she replied stonily. 'It goes much deeper than that.'

  SEVEN

  She was sitting in a dim light, with her legs crossed, and with one black stiletto hanging off the end of her foot. The other was lying abandoned on the floor, a yard or so away from her chair, and she was leaning back, relaxed and composed, as t
hough she owned the place.

  Dani Fuller looked up at him, a slow smile playing across her lips. 'Surprised.'

  Jack was too shocked to say anything. It was his flat and he certainly hadn't let her in. Nor had he given her a key. On turning the lock to his apartment, he had been aware of the light inside. But it was only one or two bulbs. Perhaps he had left them on in the morning.

  The sight of her sitting there, cool and in command, as though her presence was the most natural occurrence imaginable, drained him of a response. Jack could feel a fluttering in the pit of his stomach. Fear.

  Play it cool, he told himself. 'Would you like a drink?' he asked.

  Fuller stood up, straightening out her short black skirt. 'Whatever you have.'

  Wandering towards the kitchen, Jack cast anxious glances around the apartment. No signs of damage. The lock did not appear to be broken. The windows weren't smashed. And though his mind was racing through the options, he could find no evidence of how she might have made her way into the flat. He made a pot of coffee, and poured out two cups, bringing them through to the sitting-room.

  'Aren't you wondering what I am doing here?' she said.

  'Tell me?' he asked warily.

  Fuller turned away from him and sat down. 'Our investigations are making progress,' she said. 'We have made contact. Don't ask me how. For now information is best handled purely on a need-to-know basis.'

  'And how much do I need to know?'

  'Only this. We need your help.'

  Fuller crossed her legs, revealing the outline of her thighs. They were, to Jack's eye, strong and muscular, not slim, but appealing all the same. 'These people have already learnt a little bit about you,' she said. 'The suggestion has been made that you have heavy debts. The result of some ill-judged investments in currency options. They believe that you are desperate for money.'

  'Desperate enough for what?' asked Jack. 'To get involved in counterfeiting?'

  'We need a way in, Jack,' said Fuller lightly. 'We know something about these people and their methods. But we have nothing in the way of concrete evidence. Nothing that will stand up in court. And nothing that will allow us to start making any arrests.'

  'And you want me to provide the evidence?'

  'All we need is somebody to have dealings with them who can be relied upon to give evidence.'

  'Bait,' snapped Jack.

  Fuller shrugged. She finished her coffee and stood up, standing close to Jack. 'Entrapment is the normal term,' she replied coldly. 'Can we count on you?'

  Jack could feel the butterflies again, flapping inside him, creating a tensing of the muscles, and fuddling his mind. He was uncertain. The notion of dealing with criminals made him fearful; his nerves were jangling, loosening at the edges, unbalancing his judgement. He looked into her eyes. She was staring straight into him, but there was little he could read there. No guidance.

  'It would be dangerous,' he said eventually. She turned away, saying nothing, avoiding his glare. 'I would need guarantees,' Jack persisted.

  She turned to face him once more. 'Are you afraid?'

  Was this a challenge, wondered Jack. 'I need protection.'

  She smiled. 'But of course. You'll be wired. We'll follow you. Phone calls will be taped. Meetings will be videoed. We're collecting evidence, Jack.'

  Tara removed the vial carefully from the rack. She marvelled at the still clarity of the liquid; here under the dim neon light, beside the cold, steel, reinforced wall, beneath the hushed whirr of the air-filter, it had a special kind of innocence and purity. Progress, she thought.

  She placed the vial on the workbench in front of her, and uncorked it. The vile stench of the liquid wafted up to her nostrils, forcing her to recoil slightly. She pulled down the protective mask over her face, and tightened the bindings on her thick gloves. A mistake, she knew, to allow herself to be exposed for even a second. Her stomach felt slightly queasy. And her head was aching. Exhaustion, she thought. She was becoming careless.

  Tara glanced down at the notebooks spread out in front of her. There was still much to be done. The vaccine was good, that much had been established, but it was still far from perfect. It could lodge minute particles of the disease in every cell, creating an irresistible barrier to infection, but the mechanism by which the virus was prevented from replicating itself still had to be perfected. Otherwise they risked creating as much molecular havoc as they were preventing.

  Her task, she knew, was urgent. Every day the virus was still spreading, capturing another victim every eight minutes, according to the most recent World Health Organisation data Tara had seen. That was down from one every twelve minutes six months ago; the virus was becoming smarter, more cunning, leaping from carrier to carrier with greater agility and stealth. Tara tried to tell herself that every minute counted. Every eight minutes she delayed meant another person lost.

  And yet, the truth was also important. The truth about this awful disease and where it came from. A truth, she suspected, that was as deep and mysterious as the molecule that carried the virus. And possibly as deadly.

  She was, Tara realised, achingly tired. The lids of her eyes were heavy with work, and the numbers and symbols in her notepad and on the computer were swimming past her in a meaningless blur. Her appetite for further discovery was escaping from within her.

  Leaving the vial exposed, she left the small, air-locked laboratory, pausing within the steel doors as the air around her was sanitised. Slowly she walked through the corridor. She glanced at her watch. It was a quarter past nine; late for a commercial laboratory, and only a handful of people were still working. Very different from the National Institutes, she thought to herself. There, nine was still early. There would be plenty of people, particularly the younger scientists, hoping that at this late hour they might find it easier to get time on the equipment, time that they could use to try out their latest ideas. There would be a sense of excitement about the place, a buzz, even in the silence, a spirit of comradeship. Here there was only the unrelenting grind of the targets. And the slow ticking of the clocks on the wall.

  The coffee bar at the end of the laboratories was almost empty. There were half a dozen of the workmen from the basement where they kept the animals; the rats, dogs and monkeys on which the products were tested. They were playing cards. This was the start of the night shift; feeding the animals, administering their drugs, watching to see if any of them died, although the video cameras and cage sensors would capture most of that. The men themselves had little to do. A few tables along a couple of scientists were drinking some coffee and talking. About what she didn't know; she did not recognise them. And through her mask, they could hardly be expected to recognise her.

  The old coloured lady – Doreen she was called – sat behind the counter, her white-haired head bowed over a book. Tara asked for a coffee and a doughnut, without realising that her voice could hardly be heard through her mask. The old lady looked up at her quizzically. Tara slipped off the helmet, tucking it beneath her elbow, and repeated her order.

  'You shouldn't work too hard.'

  Tara smiled. She didn't particularly feel like talking, but she was acutely aware of how dismissive Orientals usually were towards blacks, even worse than whites, and she didn't want to compound the curtness of her race. 'But there is so much work to be done,' said Tara quietly.

  'It will wait. Go out and enjoy yourself. Find a man.'

  Tara and Doreen had spoken before, and had already established the fact that she was single; a fact of which Doreen heartily disapproved. 'Men are harder to crack than molecules,' she replied.

  'Ain't that the truth.' Doreen laughed. 'And they cause more trouble, too.'

  Tara smiled. 'I have enough trouble with the molecules, for now.'

  'I saw the story about you in the paper.'

  The paper, yes, thought Tara. It had appeared yesterday. She had featured in a panel in a long piece about Ator in the Sunday Times. It had described how she had played the key role
in the identification of the potential vaccine, and gave a short summary of her life story. She had not met the writer, at her insistence. Wheeler had briefed him. And there were no photographs. She had insisted on that as well. 'How did I come across?'

  'Too serious.'

  Tara mixed some milk into the large Styrofoam cup of coffee.

  'Do you know Jack Borrodin?' she asked. It was a senseless question. She knew full well that Doreen was a mine of information on everyone in the building.

  'Nice-looking boy.'

  'Should I trust him?' asked Tara suddenly.

  'I hardly know him. Been away for a couple of years. Haven't seen him around very much.'

  'Your instinct?'

  'Honey, I don't trust any man,' she laughed. 'But he don't seem any worse than the rest. Better even.'

  Tara smiled, took her coffee, and her doughnut, and went to sit by herself. She placed the mask on the table in front of her. The workmen glanced leeringly in her direction, saw the suit, and hurriedly looked away again. Everyone in the laboratory knew it meant she had been working with a lethal virus, and she found it a great deterrent to conversation. A useful tool when you wanted to be alone. Which Tara often did.

  The coffee refreshed her, the kick of the caffeine alerting her mind, and the sugar of the doughnut seeped into her bloodstream, renewing her energy. Her curiosity was returning, yet, at the same time, wandering. Drifting away from the work she had left in the laboratory, and into new and unexplored directions. Questions occurred to her that had slumbered in the back of her mind, and, by now, were ready to get up and start walking around. Questions such as how much did these people know? And why had their investigations into the Ator vaccine been so advanced even before she arrived?

  Swilling back her coffee, Tara ran her eyes around the room, and slipped the mask back over her face. She walked back along the corridor of the laboratory, but as she passed her own lab she merely glanced up at the red light over the airlocked door, a light that signalled no entry, and kept on walking. Her mind had disposed of the immediate problem. It was grappling with the underlying story. Researching. Making connections.