Payback (13 page)

The
big man froze and turned his head slowly to stare at Banto. To him the native was little different to any of the other animals on which the lab technicians experimented. ‘Wha...?’

‘
What is your name?’ Banto repeated. He was still squatting on the floor in his usual corner.

The
Carib’s hand now went to rest on the big, sheathed knife on his belt. ‘You! Quiet, man!’ he spat, insulted at being conversed with by something he considered no more than a kind of ape.

Banto
now stood up slowly. ‘My name is Banto. What is your name?’

Becoming
angry, the Carib stepped towards Banto and hit him hard across the face, his heavy gold ring splitting his lip, which had barely healed from Bolitho’s blows.

Banto
had long since been trained to control physical pain. Only major broken bones could affect him as a warrior. Not even wiping away the gushing blood, he repeated, ‘I am Banto.’

The
Carib sneered and made to lift his arm to hit him again. But Banto sprang forward in anticipation, clamping his own immensely strong left hand over the man’s right and simultaneously taking the knife with his other. There was an eighty-pound difference between the two men, but Banto broke his wrist as if it were a matchstick. The pain and shock immobilised the Carib, and before a scream of pain could leave his mouth, Banto had buried the serrated blade in his throat. He watched clinically, with deep professional interest, as the Carib slumped, mouthing and hissing noiseless screams that died in the severed windpipe. It had all been executed exactly as Bolitho despatched Chancey, and Banto was pleased with the outcome of his own experiment. Throat-slashing was an interesting technique. In the forest, it mattered little whether victims screamed or not. It was never quiet, with the constant calls and screeches of monkeys, wild pigs, birds and the rest. But in this indoor world there was, as now, much silence. More silence than noise. So warriors needed these special techniques, he reasoned. There were
some
small things to learn from the outsiders.

As
the Carib writhed, bleeding to death on the floor, Banto calmly ate the rice and chicken, and drank the water. Then he went to the door and looked down the dimly lit corridor of the laboratory annexe. There was nobody else around, and the main door led straight out to the fields that surrounded the small, now deserted industrial estate on the edge of San Ignacio. Stooping to wipe the knife clean on the Carib’s denims, Banto inspected the gaping wound. The man was close to death.

‘
Payback,’ he said to him, not without a little respect. ‘Payback.’

Then
he got up and headed towards the door. The cool night air, and the familiar world of the dense rain forest called out to him from just a long walk away.

*

Maddie, as ever, made Lydia feel big and inelegant. Poise and deportment seemed to come to her naturally, and her dress sense was unerring. Today she wore a Burberry with matching scarf, and a rust-coloured soft tweed suit with brown leather boots and Hermes shoulder bag. It was an outfit you might see any I-wanna-be-Western Japanese woman wearing on her tourist bus. But on Maddie, it looked just right. That
style
anglais
again, on a stylish American.

She
had deliberately left her fur at home—something of a concession, for her. But not enough, predictably, for the ever-spiky Lydia.

‘
Cute boots, Maddie,’ Lydia said, greeting her at the agency reception. ‘I wonder if your handbag ever knew them.’

Maddie
frowned. ‘Do you absolutely
have
to?’ she asked in despair.

‘
I suppose not,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry. Bit on edge, I suppose.’ Lydia noticed that the drop-dead gorgeous receptionists were fixing Maddie with cold eyes. This at least pleased her, knowing how the two harpies hated having anyone more beautiful than themselves around. First pulling Tom in front of them, and now lunching with Maddie: her star would be rising. Cynical as she was, she was not completely immune from feeling good about that. ‘If George Clooney calls me
again
, tell him I’ve gone to lunch,’ she called to the desk, before turning back to Maddie. ‘Come on. Let’s eat. And I’ll stop being a veggie PIA. Promise.’

No
great meat-eater herself, Maddie happily ordered a pasta with pesto sauce, while Lydia went for a tureen of lentil soup with thick, crusty bread.

‘
Well. I know you don’t want my views on animal testing. Or media inflation, I shouldn’t think. And you definitely don’t need the name of my hairdresser...’ Lydia volunteered, to fill what she suspected would be the first of many long silences.

‘
Can’t we meet just for no reason? Can’t we just talk?’ Maddie recognised that the distance between them still yawned too widely.

Lydia
looked at her closely. For the first time in quite a while in fact. And on that close inspection, Maddie’s face had become surprisingly lined beneath the immaculate make-up. And her eyes seemed smaller somehow, no longer those of a young woman. Even her hair was beginning to look manufactured rather than natural. Only another woman would notice, but for Lydia it made Maddie suddenly more human. ‘How’s the Manor coming on? Still a lot to do?’ It was a peace offering, gratefully received.

‘
Oh, you know—it’s like painting the Forth Bridge. I’ll never really finish it the way I want. But we’ve got it back in good shape, haven’t we?’ The Manor had been her responsibility to get right: finding reliable builders, designers, landscapers, antique dealers and the rest. Even with an open cheque book, all this was still stressful. It had been the one thing she could call her own, and Lydia’s opinion of what she had done to her family home mattered to her.

‘
The place looks great. Absolutely great. Just as it should. All the fabrics and furniture you’ve brought together look as though they really belong. Like they’ve always been there.’

Maddie
leaned back, relieved. ‘I do love the place, you know,’ she said, smiling a thank you to Lydia. ‘I mean love, too. I talk to it all the time I’m there. And tell it to look after itself when we leave for town.’

‘
Perhaps you’re really talking to the spirits of all the others who lived there before us.’

‘
I’ve thought that myself,’ Maddie replied, blushing slightly in embarrassment. ‘And you. How are you? Still seeing that nice French boy?’

Lydia
snorted. ‘Maddie! That was
ages
ago! I haven’t heard from him for nearly three years.’

Maddie
looked deeply embarrassed. ‘Sorry...But you don’t bring people down any more. And we never really get to talk. So...is there anyone else special these days?’

Now
it was Lydia’s turn to blush. Ladling more soup into her bowl, she avoided Maddie’s eyes. ‘Maybe.’ She was dithering over whether to tell her about Tom.

‘
Maybe?’

‘
Well, yes. I think so. But it’s
really
early days.’

‘
I thought I detected a certain something about you. We girls can always tell. Anyone I know?’

This
was it. Crunch time. Should she tell her—and risk it getting back to her father that she was sleeping with his closest business associate?

No
way, she quickly decided. It was far too soon. This thing might not survive the week. Might not even survive dinner that evening...‘I will tell you. Promise. I just need to be a little surer. You know how it is.’

‘
I’ll hold you to that, young lady. I hope it all works out for you. Really I do.’ Leaning over, Maddie pressed Lydia’s hand.

Unlike
Maddie, Lydia was not a toucher, and freed herself as soon as she could without seeming rude. This was all getting far too personal and intimate for her liking, and she badly needed to change the subject. ‘And how’s Dad? Still racing around?’

Maddie
’s face clouded, remembering the unpleasant reason she was really there. ‘He’s in Belize again.’

‘
What does he do down there? It seems to be his latest toy.’

‘
It’s one of his biotech labs. All secret squirrel stuff. Ask Tom next time you see him. He’s the only one likely to know what’s suddenly going on there. I certainly don’t.’

Lydia
’s face also clouded. It was of course true. Not only her father, but he—Tom—was enmeshed in all the genetic work. No doubt entailing yet more animal testing. Strangely, stupidly, the obvious link had only just really hit her. ‘I do so wish Dad would do something else,’ she complained. ‘I mean, his computer company days were dicey enough, but all this genetic engineering stuff...I know he’s done terrifically well to discharge himself so quickly and pay everyone off, but why this? Vile medical research.’

Maddie
gently shook her head. ‘You’re quite a cocktail of contradictions, you know. What started you out—on all your causes? I mean, we both come from privileged backgrounds. I conform. Become predictably preppy. You get passionate about animal rights and the rest. Yet still work in the world of advertising...’

It
was something that had exercised Lydia’s own mind often enough, and she had yet to find an answer that she could articulate. ‘I like contradictions,’ she replied. ‘Life isn’t simple, and neither are we. But when you think about it, I suppose it was strong-willed, ruthless people who built my family’s fortunes. And yours. Father and me are at least true Bartons in that respect. Atavistic. But where he’s hungry, I’m angry. Angry at suffering. Needless suffering. You want a glam fur coat, leather boots and a tasty lobster? OK. So minks get skinned alive, calves never get old, and a living creature gets thrown screaming into boiling water. I’m sorry, but you have to learn to play consequences in life. You sure as hell wouldn’t live like you do if you had to do, or even witness your own killing.’

‘
And advertising. Doesn’t that promote conspicuous consumption? Fuelling all your “needless suffering”?’ Maddie responded tartly.

‘
Like I said, I’m complicated. I guess I need some aggressive outlet, like any good Barton, and advertising is certainly that,’ Lydia replied, shrugging, readily acknowledging the inadequacy of her response. ‘Maybe I should take up squash instead.’

Maddie
smiled weakly. Despite entering briefly into the repartee, Lydia’s contradictions were not greatly exercising her. Her mind was elsewhere, preparing what she had come to say, and not knowing how to begin.

Lydia
noticed, and realised that there was, after all, a reason for Maddie’s call that morning. ‘What is it, Maddie? There’s something you want to tell me, isn’t there? Is it Dad? Is he ill?’

‘
Ill...How do you define ill?’ Her eyes blazed briefly with anger. Checking that nobody was close enough to hear, she leaned forward, drawing Lydia towards her. ‘Yes. I think he is very ill. Not heart, cancer—nothing physical. But ill in the head!’

‘
What are you talking about?’ Lydia snapped. Despite everything, he was her father. Only she had free rein to criticise him.

‘
I glanced through some papers on his desk last night. I wasn’t snooping, but...’ She held her hands up. ‘Anyway. And then at some in the safe.’ Stooping to pick up her bag, she took out a folded manila envelope, flattened it out neatly and pushed it across the table. ‘I found this.’

Lydia
took it from her reluctantly. Whatever it was, she knew she was not going to like it. ‘What’s in there?’ she asked, suddenly afraid.

‘
Proof. Proof of something I suppose deep down I’ve known for years. Perhaps known all along about him, but didn’t want to confront. Read it and call me tonight.’ Getting up, she pulled on her top coat. ‘I’m leaving him, Lydia. I wanted you to be the first to know. Read the thing, and you’ll understand. I don’t know what’s made him this way. Perhaps you’ll make some sense of it, and forgive him. But I’m sorry. I can’t. I won’t.’

Chapter Seven

‘So. You’ve got the picture? I’m a hard-nosed, arrogant stockbroker’s analyst, specialising in ethical pharmaceuticals and biotech stocks. You’ve flown me out from London all the way to this dung hole to show me the really pioneering work you’re doing here. OK? Off you go. Convince me.’ Barton puffed on his cigar, ruined by the damp air despite his travel humidor. They were in the main ranch-house, the dinner plates from their indifferent meal of plantanos fritos and ceviche still in front of them.

Dr
Noel Penny pushed the crockery away to make space, unable to work or think in an untidy environment. ‘And how much can I assume he knows about biotechnology? A lot, or a little?’

‘
These people know more than you expect. But less than they think. A bluffer’s knowledge. They’re good at asking smart questions, but can’t understand the answers—and probably don’t even attempt to. Mostly all they go away with is an impression of how you handle yourself. They need to defend their recommendations if things screw up later. But deep down, never forget, they
want
to believe. They need to find winners to back.’

Little
the wiser for all that, Penny decided to rehearse his analyst’s presentation on the assumption the man would in fact really understand as little as Barton himself. All these business people could cope with were headlines in
Newsweek
. The attention spans of an amoeba. ‘I’ll stand,’ he said nervously. ‘I present better when I stand.’

‘
Fine,’ Barton pushed his own chair back. ‘And start by telling him about yourself. Your qualifications. What you’ve done before. I’ll already have given him the basic company spiel on me, and why I started Temple Bio.’

‘
Right. Well. Welcome, Mr, Mr...?’

‘
Elkins. His name is David Elkins.’

‘
Elkins. Yes. Then, welcome, Mr Elkins. Here to Temple Bio-Belize Laboratories. A plant we opened less than two years ago, with the support of a grant from the EU’s European Development Fund.’ He paused. Barton was smiling to himself at the delicious irony of all the EU money Tom had been able to get for him. ‘Is it OK to say that? Is anything wrong?’

‘
No. Far from it. Carry on,’ Barton said, pouring himself another cognac.

‘
So. My name is Noel Penny. I have a PhD in biotechnology from the University of Massachusetts for work on genetic engineering, and spent the years after working in a research capacity at various institutions in the USA and Britain. Sir James heard of my work in seeking cures for terminal diseases through biotechnology—I had by-passed the usual learned journals and published some early findings on the Internet, to try and find a sponsor to fund my research. He approached me two years ago to work with him...’

‘
Don’t refer to the Internet stuff. I don’t want him knowing you’re anti-establishment, in case he picks up on all the controversy about you testing on yourself. Or your problems with the Federal Drugs Agency. They quite like nutty professor types, but not mavericks.’

Penny
looked and felt hacked off with this. First he asks him to tell the man all about himself, then makes him leave out the parts of which he was the most proud. ‘If you think so...’

‘
I do think so. And also, this stuff about spending years working at various research establishments...it doesn’t sound impressive. Didn’t you have some time at Cornell and Oxford?’

‘
Not really. Just a few weeks at each.’

‘
So what? Say you spent it all at Cornell. He might check you out at Oxford, but not Cornell. OK?’

‘
Cornell. I spent most of my research time then at Cornell. All right?’ Penny ran his hands through his hair, fighting to keep the annoyance from his voice. ‘So, Mr Elkins. As an expert on the sector, you know what an exciting world it is. Biotechnology. This is what is now at the very leading edge of scientific and medical discovery. We are to this new millennium what NASA and Moon travel were to the sixties.

‘
The theory, though not the application, is simple. Biological information can be passed from one cell to another as a chemical code, stored in large molecules—like proteins. Over a century ago, the great pioneer Miescher described the repetition of chemical units in proteins as a kind of language. “Just as the words and concepts of all languages can find expression in the letters of the alphabet”, he wrote to an uncle. Half a century later Oswald Avery created a kind of Berlitz guide to understanding and speaking that language. He discovered that it was DNA—deoxyribonucleic acid—and not protein that stored and carried the information. He had discovered the very blueprint of life itself.’

‘
Good. Good!’ Barton called out, encouragingly, beaming.

‘
Fine. Well, we now know that genes, which hand on physical characteristics, are part segments of DNA. And this has enabled us at Temple Bio-Labs to develop still further the new technique of xenotransplantation, using transgenic pigs, genetically engineered with human genes at our plant in Gloucestershire. This is going to be big business. The potential market for human organ transplants is put at £4 billion a year, with a serious shortage of suitable human organs to go round. World demand is currently in excess of 400,000 donor organs a year, with an ever growing black market. From the limited publicity our work has received, we already have a subscribers’ list of almost a hundred very wealthy individuals. All offering us open cheques to be first in line to get their very own spare-part “self-pigs”, genetically tailored to meet any future need they may have for replacement organs.’

‘
That’s OK. But no need for too much detail. He knows about Stow. I’ve already taken him around the plant,’ cut in Barton. ‘Also, other labs are making big claims for xenotransplantation. And anyway, he’ll know that the government’s Ethics Group keeps slowing us all down. So stress what we’re doing there is not only transplantation. What interested him more is how close we are to a commercially viable cell-free blood substitute. All right on that? But get on now with the real news. Our work on new genetically engineered vaccines.’

‘
OK. OK. So, Mr Elkins. The
real
news in the sector is breaking right here. In sleepy Belize. My own main field of research is in what’s called transcription. That is the key linkage needed when attempting to copy a gene. It’s kind of like replicating DNA itself, copying information on, in the form of the genetic code. It’s technically possible now to interfere with the transcription process to help create remarkably effective cures. Actinomycin D, the anti-cancer drug is one example. The antibiotic Rifampicin, for treating tuberculosis, is another. Or—and this is what interests me—you can try and recreate a gene that you think would be helpful to fight a variety of illnesses. Cancers. AIDS. Hepatitis.

‘
This can either be done by copying certain original genes already found in nature. Or, as some pioneers are attempting, by using protein engineering. This is where they change DNA sequences to manufacture a completely new man-made protein. Here at Temple Bio-Labs, however, we own copyright on a series of
natural
proteins and cell lines, which give immunity to virtually all the remaining killer diseases of the age. Using techniques being developed here, we fully expect to be able to cure almost all the serious viral diseases known to man. And to offer the option of preventative vaccines. These would be not mere inhibitors, but actual cures. Making it quite simply the biggest applied medical breakthrough for centuries...’ Penny now held his arms out to show that he had all but finished his carefully scripted presentation, something he had written and committed to memory earlier that day.

Barton
permitted himself a broad grin, and clapped loudly. ‘Bravo! Excellent. Spot on.’

‘
Not too technical?’

‘
No. Not a bit. Even
I
understood it,’ he said, pouring Penny a drink. ‘Let’s now guess the questions Elkins might ask us. What do you think?’

Penny
did not hesitate. ‘Well, apart from time-to-market stuff, and questions about regulatory obstacles...’

‘
I can field all that.’

‘
Well, there
is
only one real question, of course. Where are we obtaining our supply of human host cells for development?’ He thought guiltily of Banto, caged in like a laboratory baboon.

‘
So give me an answer. Something jargony, but credible-sounding.’

Penny
sipped his cognac. He had already given the subject a lot of thought. ‘The truth is that healthy human cells are extremely difficult to culture, and are never used in commercial applications for genetic engineering. But if he’s made any kind of study of the field he’ll certainly know about HeLa cells.’ He looked at Barton expectantly, probing whether he understood.

Barton
glowered back, however. ‘Remind me about HeLa cells,’ he said, evenly.

‘
HeLa are the initials of a woman. The donor. She died of cervical cancer back in 1951. Culture cells were taken from her cancer, divided up and have been grown time and time again ever since for research use. We have a little of HeLa ourselves in the lab, right here. Along with cells from the lymph cancer of an African child. These have also been cultured and regrown many times to create interferon, a human protein that’s used to treat some cancers, as well as viral illnesses—including herpes and hep. B. What I could do is snow Elkins with some junk about our being able to culture the original cell lines we took from the PNG tribes.’

Barton
smiled fatly again. ‘You certainly snowed me! That’ll do fine.’ Barton had got up, and Penny followed suit, assuming it was a signal for him to go.

‘
Well. I’ll get back to the lab for an hour or two.’ He made for the door. ‘I’ll practise that presentation, and get it much smoother. When are we expecting Elkin?’

‘
Elkins. He’s flying out tomorrow. Tom Bates is travelling with him first class to Miami and then overnighting before coming here. It’s a bribe of course, at our expense. And that overnight is key. I had a detective agency check Elkins out for me months ago. He’s a closet homosexual. Lives a dual life. Not that him being gay matters to me or anyone else much any more. But he’s ‘happily’ married and for whatever reason hasn’t come out – like a lot of older guys.’ Barton gave a wolfish grin. ‘So I’ve got them staying at a gay hotel and arranged for a selection from the local scene to hang out for him in the bar. I want him showing up tomorrow here with a nice, guilty secret. One we can use, only if necessary. But I can’t leave anything to chance right now. Tom knows nothing about any of this, of course. Remember that. He’s my Mr Clean. The acceptable face of Temple Bio. Don’t tell him any more than you tell Elkins. Got that?’

Penny
nodded, as ever feeling sullied by his involvement with the man. He strongly disapproved of so much of all this, and envied Tom’s ring-fenced ignorance of the seamier side of Barton’s business. He well knew that he himself was despised by many people for what he did, who accused him of the usual cliché of ‘playing God’ by manipulating genetics. Having worked through all the arguments, however, he was now happy to defend his case with anyone: that a great deal of suffering in the long term would be avoided by his genuine research there. The greatest good, Utilitarian argument. In his way, he still saw himself as extremely moral.

‘I’ll be getting off then.’

A
maid came in to clear the table, having heard them moving about. She was a very beautiful Creole, in her early twenties. Barton noticed Penny looking at her. ‘What do you do with yourself, down here for months on end?’ he asked, pruriently. ‘Do you have a regular woman? There are some gorgeous Lebanese and Sri Lankans around town.’

Penny
stared at his feet, embarrassed. ‘No,’ he said, making for the door. ‘You forget perhaps that I know rather more than I sometimes wished about medical nasties.’

The
woman glared angrily at him, insulted, but he noticed with satisfaction a shadow of concern in Barton’s eyes.

Suddenly
there was a loud banging at the front door, and the maid ran off to open it. It was Bolitho, who ran in, sweating heavily and looking worried.

‘
What the hell’s happened?’ demanded Barton.

‘
He’s gone. Escaped!’

‘
Who? Pull yourself together man. Who?’

‘
The native, Banto. He’s killed his guard and escaped...’ Barton and Penny looked at each other in disbelief. The unthinkable had happened.

Barton
sat down, his fist to his mouth. ‘Where can he have gone?’

‘
The forest,’ Bolitho said without hesitation. ‘That’s his world out there. The rain forest.’

Looking
up, slowly, Barton bored his cold eyes into him. ‘Get on his trail. Now! And don’t come back without him. Alive. Because if we don’t find him, or if anything happens to him... I’ll have you shot.’

*