Brian Freemantle - Dead End

‘That’s what we’re getting,’ promised Benn.

Parnell wasn’t at all sure that was what they were getting – or would get. He still needed to be convinced, even, that Dwight Newton had done everything he should to contain the situation. Fleetingly doubting it was something he should do as head of department – but very much aware of his undertaking to distance everyone else in his unit from any further involvement – Parnell personally transferred all the exploding HPRT cultures to Russell Benn’s section – to which Benn had still not returned – pedantically insisting that he got, while he waited, an individually itemized receipt from Benn’s impatiently sighing secretary for every sample. He missed Barry Jackson’s returned call while he waited, but reached the lawyer at his second attempt, glad of the further delay because it had given him time to think and decide upon something else, something he initially dismissed as paranoid, until forcing himself to confront Rebecca Lang’s murder, and his insisting upon driving home the previous night with Beverley, and the fear of blazing headlights in his rear-view mirror. Jackson said the following morning, before eleven, was good for him, and Benton promised they’d be expecting him at the FBI’s Washington field office any time after nine.

When he went back to Jackson to confirm the FBI encounter, Parnell said: ‘There’s something else I think I need to do, before tomorrow. You free at lunchtime?’

‘I don’t often eat lunch.’

‘I wasn’t inviting you to lunch anyway.’

Russell Benn said: ‘Parnell’s got us by the balls. And he knows it.’

‘You think I need to be told that?’ said Newton, impatiently. The conversational carousel had gone around and around since Parnell left, always arriving back at the point at which it began.

‘You’ve got to call Saby.’

‘I don’t need to be told that, either!’ retorted Newton.

‘Why hasn’t he come back to you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s been despatched, hasn’t it? Some of the stuffs already gone into distribution.’

‘We’ve got to give him time!’

‘Are New York giving you time?’

‘I’ve got another couple of hours.’

‘We’re going to stay together on this, aren’t we, Dwight? You and I? I mean…’

‘I know what you mean,’ cut off Newton. ‘Of course we’re together on this. What else can we be?’ He fervently wished he knew – that there was some escape he could make, abandoning the other man.

‘I don’t like my balls being in a vice,’ said Benn.

‘I’m in there with you.’

‘You think you can trust the son of a bitch?’

‘How the fuck do I know – does anyone know?’ erupted Newton. ‘He came to me – didn’t blow any whistles to any authorities.’

‘As far as you know,’ cautioned Benn. ‘That reassure you? It sure as hell doesn’t reassure me.’

‘Just making a point,’ said Newton, wearily. He didn’t think he’d slept at all the previous night and he was having problems now concentrating upon every point being made to him.

‘What did Grant say?’

‘He didn’t believe it was like Parnell said, that it was a spur of the moment decision to analyse the samples, just because they were there.’

‘What are you going to tell the board?’

‘What the hell can I tell them? We screwed up. Parnell might – just might – have saved us. Saved the company.’

‘ We screwed up,’ echoed Benn, although with emphasis.

‘I’m not going to dump on you, Russ. How can I?’ repeated Newton.

‘You really sure we’re all right? I got commitments, Dwight. More commitments than I know what to do with – know how to handle.’

‘We’re going to be all right.’

‘Providing Parnell stays all right. You should call Paris.’

‘Let’s give Saby another couple of hours.’

‘Another couple of hours, that’s all,’ conceded Benn. ‘I think whatever Parnell does – or might do – depends on whether or not France has started distributing.’

Barry Jackson went line by line through Parnell’s sworn affidavit and still didn’t speak after several moments. Finally he said: ‘Sometimes lawyer-client confidentiality is a burden.’

‘One we’re both having to bear,’ said Parnell.

‘You did the right thing, swearing this statement,’ reassured Jackson. ‘You think Dubette killed Rebecca?’

‘I think someone in Dubette knows who did. And why.’

‘You going to tell the FBI that tomorrow?’

‘Without an iota of proof?’ challenged Parnell, in return.

‘You going to tell them this?’ asked the lawyer, fluttering the affidavit.

‘Does what was almost allowed to happen in France constitute a crime in this country?’

Jackson gave an empty laugh. ‘You’re making a point I should have made!’

‘You think I should tell them?’

‘I think we first need to know what’s happened in France. One way, it could be as serious as negligent homicide. The other way, it’s a responsible double-check by a responsible international pharmaceutical company that prevented a catastrophe.’

‘What personal protection is that?’ asked Parnell, nodding to the statement on the table between them.

‘None whatsoever if Dubette’s into murder and they know you’ve sworn it.’

‘You know what a maze is?’ demanded Parnell, rhetorically. ‘A lot of dead ends with only one way out.’

‘I know what a maze is,’ said Jackson. ‘I do my best not to get into any.’

‘I wish I could get out of this one,’ said Parnell. He hadn’t told the lawyer about the two occasions with Beverley, and decided now against doing so: neither were important – dangerous – and last night he’d decided there wouldn’t be a third.

By the time he got back to McLean, Parnell calculated it was just after six in the evening in Paris and hoped he was not too late, annoyed for not saving the travelling time by making the intended call from his more conveniently close apartment. He risked a further few minutes confirming with Kathy Richardson that there’d been no contact from the vice president, although Russell Benn had called to thank him for the cultures, and wondered where he was and seemed surprised when she’d said she didn’t know.

Parnell got the Paris number from the Dubette directory and dialled it himself, his no-longer-always-open door securely closed against intrusion. There was an uncertain moment before a woman answered from Henri Saby’s office, and a further worrying, echoing gap after he’d identified himself, before a man’s voice came on the line.

The English scarcely accented, Saby said at once: ‘It seems we have a lot to thank you for.’

Parnell hadn’t realized how tensed he’d been at the fear of calling too late in the day, until he felt it easing away. His excuse for making the call carefully prepared, Parnell said: ‘There’s still some we need to look at. I thought I’d just run through the list I’ve been given.’

‘I’ve already done that with Dwight.’

‘It was a double-check that picked up the problem.’ Parnell hadn’t expected the advantage of the Frenchman knowing his name or how the danger had been isolated.

‘Sure,’ accepted Saby. He reverted to French and verbally ticked off with a curt ‘oui’ each of the outstanding items Parnell recited from Russell Benn’s list.

‘That’s all there is, nothing more?’ asked Parnell. He’d let the conversation run to gain the other man’s confidence.

‘That’s everything,’ confirmed Saby.

‘And all the production has been stopped?’

‘When was the last time you talked with Dwight?’

‘Not since this morning,’ replied Parnell, honestly. ‘He hadn’t spoken to you then.’