The Shadow Protocol (10 page)

James appeared relieved, if not entirely secure. Her audience, meanwhile, seemed intrigued. Even the most number-crunching
capitalist could still appreciate a human interest story.

Bianca composed herself, trying to assemble what was essentially a huge ad lib. The last time she had done anything similar was an attempt at a performance piece while at university; she hoped this would be better received. She had tied back her long frizzy dark hair, but a strand had managed to work loose and drop down annoyingly over one eye, so she flicked it away before beginning.

“All long-term debilitating diseases have tragic costs,” she said, “both in the purely financial sense of treatment and care, and personally for the sufferers and their family. But Alzheimer’s is especially cruel, because not only is it currently incurable, but it destroys what makes people unique—what makes them
them
. If our personalities are defined by our experiences, by our memories, then Alzheimer’s literally kills who you are, one thought at a time. It’s painful for the sufferers when there’s still enough of them left to realize how much of their … 
soul
, for want of a better word, has been eaten away. And it’s agonizing for their families, because they see someone they love being destroyed a little bit more each day, and there’s absolutely nothing they can do to stop it. I know how that feels, because I’ve watched it happen. Twice.”

She paused to draw breath and lick her drying lips. James was still on tenterhooks, not sure if she was helping or hindering. The investors, however, all watched with interest. Reassured, she continued.

“I’ve never talked about this much, because it’s still painful, even after the time that’s passed,” she confessed. “But when I was fifteen, my grandmother died after suffering from Alzheimer’s for several years. Seeing her reduced to a … a helpless shadow of herself was horrible, and what made it worse was that my mother was a nurse—she spent every day helping people, but there was nothing she could do to help her own mother. That was what started me on a medical career path—I wanted to do something
more
to help people like my grandmother.

“And then,” she went on, “five years later, when I was at university, my grandfather—on my father’s side—also died from Alzheimer’s. And it was just as painful to watch as it had been before.” Her throat suddenly felt raspy; she swallowed. “And again I felt … helpless. There was nothing I could do about it. After his funeral I decided that there
should
be something I could do. There had to be a way to help people who were dying from this horrible disease. So I made up my mind: I was going to find one. And now, ten years later, my greatest hope in the world is that … that Thymirase might be it.”

She blinked, startled to realize that she had begun to tear up. Reliving the past had been more affecting, more painful than she had expected. She was about to say something else when she was interrupted by another surprise. The investors were applauding her. Not in a Hollywood way, jumping to their feet with tears in their own eyes, but still out of more than mere politeness.

Cheeks flushing with sudden embarrassment, she offered stumbling thanks before sitting back down. “Well, thank you, Bianca,” said James with an approving—and relieved—nod. He turned to the investors, “I think that shows the kind of drive and determination that everybody working on Thymirase shares. Luminica Bioscience isn’t just about money—what we do is also from a personal desire to make the world better.”

Bianca wanted to tell him to stop the hard sell before he spoiled things, but fortunately it was now clear that the presentation was concluded. Hands were shaken, pleasantries exchanged; then those not directly involved in the business side of the deal decamped to let the money start talking. As Bianca headed for the exit, James quickly whispered: “Good story. I think it helped.”

“I meant everything I said,” she whispered back, mildly affronted. But he had already moved on. She huffed, then left the room.

She was looking forward to taking off her awful shoes, letting her hair down, and discussing the presentation
with her friends, but instead she found two people—a raven-haired woman in a sharply cut trouser suit and a fair-haired man in his midthirties—waiting for her in the hallway. “Dr. Childs?” said the former.

“Yes?”

She held up an identity card. The name beneath her photo was Emma Sergeant, but Bianca’s eyes snapped to the turquoise logo in the card’s corner: the lion and unicorn of the royal coat of arms, symbol of the British government, with
SECRET INTELLIGENCE SERVICE
written beside it.
MI6
was appended in a thinner gray typeface. “May we have a word, please? In private.”

Bianca almost laughed. “Is this a joke?” Why would MI6 possibly want to talk to her?

“It’s no joke,” said the man. He had an American accent. “It’s very important. We need to speak to you about Dr. Roger Albion.”

“Roger? I haven’t seen him for, I don’t know, three or four yea—” She stopped as a horrible fear struck her. “Is he all right? Has something happened to him?”

Her colleagues were still looking on curiously. “Can we talk in private, please,” said Sergeant, more as a command than a request.

“Er, okay.” Bianca gave a helpless shrug as she moved with the two visitors out of earshot. “What’s going on? What’s happened to Roger?”

“You do know him, then?” said the man.

“Yes, he was my professor when I was doing my doctorate. And my friend, too. Is he okay?”

“I’m afraid he’s in the hospital.”

“What happened to him?”

He lowered his voice. “He was shot.”

“Shot!” Bianca cried. “Oh my God!”

“He’s in a stable condition, but he’s had to undergo surgery, and is very weak. He’s asked to see you.”

“How did he get shot?” Bianca demanded, before coming up with another, more immediate question: “Who
are
you?”

The man took out his own ID card. “My name’s Tony Carpenter. I work for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“The CIA?” Now she was completely lost. “What’s Roger got to do with the CIA?”

“He was helping us with an operation. The reason we asked our British partners”—he nodded at Sergeant—“to find you is that Roger thinks you can help us too.”

“How? What kind of operation?”

“I can’t discuss that here, I’m afraid. But it’s a matter of national security. We have a jet waiting; we can talk about it on the flight.”

“On the flight? Wait a minute,” said Bianca, now feeling as if the ground had opened up under her feet and sent her tumbling down the rabbit hole. “I can’t just jet off to the States at the drop of a hat. I’m in the middle of something; I need to be here to answer questions for our investors …”

“We’ll take care of everything with Mr. Harding,” said Sergeant impatiently.

“And,” added Tony, “I’m very confident that the venture group is going to buy in to Luminica to secure the Thymirase research and patents, even without you here. Just a feeling.”

“How do you know about … oh. Right. CIA. MI6.” She gave the pair a disapproving frown. “I’m pretty sure there are laws against that.”

Sergeant looked to be struggling not to roll her eyes. “Dr. Childs, we can’t force you to go, but we—that is, Her Majesty’s Government—think it’s very important that you do. As Mr. Carpenter said, it’s a national security issue. Lives could depend on it.”

“I don’t understand how, though,” Bianca protested. “Roger’s in pharmaceutical research; he’s a neurochemist, like me. He helps develop medicines. How does that affect national security?”

“The best person to explain that is Roger himself,” said Tony. “He specifically asked to see you, and said you’re the only person capable of duplicating his work.”

“Me?” That came as a surprise; he was a friend, yes, but she’d had no idea he rated her so highly.

And what
was
his work? What could he be working on that was so important to the CIA and MI6? She had to admit, she was now curious …

“How long will this take?” she asked. “I mean, after I’ve seen Roger—you just mentioned duplicating his work. Do you want me to carry on with it?”

“Right now?” said Tony. “I can’t give you an answer. It depends what Roger has to say. But we can have you back in England tomorrow, if that’s what you want.”

She looked back toward the function room. “It’s just … the timing …”

“As I said, we’ll talk to Mr. Harding,” Sergeant told her. “I’m sure he’ll be understanding.” She sounded vaguely threatening.

“Okay, so if I say yes, what happens?”

“We’ll stop by your home so you can pick up your passport and clothes, your toothbrush, anything else you need,” said Tony. “Then we’ll drive to the airport and the plane will take us to DC.”

“Just like that? No queuing, no having my shoes scanned for bombs and my nail clippers confiscated?”

“It’s a US government jet, and it’s been sent here specifically to fly you to the States.”

“Huh. Well, I guess I’ve got to go, then. It’d be an awful waste of jet fuel if I didn’t.”

“The US taxpayers appreciate it,” Tony said, with a light edge of sarcasm.

“I was more concerned about the polar bears, but …” She was still of two minds, but foremost in both was the thought of her former teacher and mentor. Whatever had happened to him was clearly serious, and he had specifically requested to see her. Without Albion’s tutelage she wouldn’t be where she was today. She owed him a lot; certainly enough to visit him in hospital. That the American government thought the meeting important enough
to put a private jet at her disposal added an almost irresistible layer of intrigue.

“Okay, I’ll go,” she said. “But please let me tell James myself. I can’t just disappear without a word.”

“All right,” said Sergeant, with evident reluctance. “We’ll both go and talk to him now.”

Tony took out a phone. “I’ll get the ball rolling while you do that.”

Bianca and Sergeant returned to the function room, leaving him to make his call. Just as Bianca reached to open the door, Sergeant put a hand on her arm. “There’s one thing, Dr. Childs. SIS is doing this as a favor to our American friends—professional courtesy, so to speak. But …” She glanced back as if to check that the CIA man wasn’t eavesdropping. “They’re being very tight-lipped about what your friend Dr. Albion was actually working on. Counterterrorism, they say, which is why it’s a national security issue—but they won’t say in what area. And if they won’t give us the full story, it affects
our
ability to fight terrorism.”

Bianca knew there was something else coming. “So, you want …”

“We just want you to keep your eyes and ears open while you’re over there. Discreetly, of course.”

“Of course,” Bianca said cuttingly as she knocked on the door, wondering what she was about to let herself in for.

WASHINGTON, DC, UNITED STATES

“Bianca!” said Albion. He tried to sit up, but grimaced at a stab of pain. “Great to see you again. Glad you could make it.”

“I could hardly say no,” she said, leaning down gingerly to embrace him. Despite his size, he seemed worryingly small and weak in the hospital bed. Tony, who had brought her to the room, stood back and waited.

“You’re looking well. And you’ve done something to your hair, I think?”

“I tried a new tint. Kind of a—”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean colored. I meant
combed
.”

“You cheeky old sod!” she said, but with a smile.

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. But no, you look great. So, how are you? You were going to join Jimmy Harding’s start-up. How’s that working out?”

“Pretty well,” she said, not wanting to jinx anything. She still hadn’t heard any news from James about the deal, good or bad. “Yes, I’ve been there over two years. We’ve had some promising results.”

“I’m not surprised, knowing you. So, you’re here. Tony, would you mind if I talked to Bianca in private? Don’t worry, I won’t give away any state secrets.”

Tony nodded. “Dr. Childs, I’ll be outside when you’re done. Talk to you later, Roger.”

Albion waited until he had left the room before speaking
again. “Decent guy, just … a bit of a straight arrow,” he opined. “Worryingly few vices. Anyway, take a seat.” He pushed a button to elevate the head of the bed as Bianca pulled up a chair. “I imagine you’re ever so slightly curious about what’s going on.”

“Nooo, I hadn’t given it the slightest thought the whole time the CIA was flying me to Washington on a private jet.”

Albion chuckled. “It’s amazing how much money the US government is willing to throw around to get something they want. I’d be up in arms at the waste of taxpayer dollars”—he dropped his voice, mock-conspiratorially—“if I didn’t have an extremely good accountant making sure I pay as few of them as possible.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve joined the one percent, Roger!”

“There’s always going to be a top one percent; it’s simple math. Better to be in it than not.” He cocked his head, seeing her look of disapproval. “Oh sorry. I forgot you’re a commie.”

“Hardly. But right now, you Americans think that anyone to the left of Margaret Thatcher is a communist,” she retorted, prodding his arm. “People over here start screaming ‘Socialism!’ about policies that even the most right-wing government in Europe would consider a bit extreme. I don’t know if it’s funny or scary.”