Brian Freemantle - Dead End

‘Yes?’ questioned Parnell.

‘I think we’re straying outside the proper channels of communication, as I believe we did when we last spoke.’

‘It’s a simple question,’ persisted Parnell, careless of the irritation. ‘Have you got it all back or haven’t you?’ He didn’t need to be told, Parnell decided.

‘Let’s remain within the proper channels of communication,’ refused Saby, outright.

‘You’re…’ started Parnell, too loudly, but stopped.

‘What were you about to say?’ demanded the Frenchman.

‘We’re in the wrong channel of communication,’ said Parnell. Certainly you are, you evasive bastard, he thought, only slightly venting his feelings by slamming down the telephone. He slammed the office door, too, startling everyone in the laboratory on his way out.

Parnell was prepared for another waiting-room sit-in, but Dwight Newton didn’t keep him waiting, frowning up at the obvious anger when Parnell thrust into his office.

‘It got out, didn’t it?’ challenged Parnell, immediately. ‘Some of that French shit got distributed and hasn’t all been got back? How much? Where? What’s being done?’ Parnell ended with his hands on Newton’s desk, leaning over towards the man, who visibly pulled back in his chair.

‘Sit down,’ said Newton, weakly. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

‘I don’t want to sit down! I want the answers to the questions!’ Why had he left it? There’d always been the nagging doubt, but he hadn’t responded to it, as he should have done. Which virtually made him as guilty as everyone else.

‘Please sit down,’ repeated Newton. He felt beaten, exhausted, too tired to use his authority or fight any more.

Parnell did sit but stayed forward in his chair, demandingly. ‘What are the answers, Dwight. Saby’s just told me you know it all.’

The research vice president shook his head. ‘Not everything. People are still working on it, to get it all back. It’ll get done.’

‘Where?’ demanded Parnell.

‘Africa. Just Africa.’

‘Just Africa!’ echoed Parnell, incredulous. ‘Africa’s an entire fucking continent! Which countries in Africa, for Christ’s sake?’

‘I don’t know, not precisely. New York does, I think. I guess it’ll be East Africa. That’s where the French have their colonial links, isn’t it?’

Parnell forced the control, determined against overlooking anything in his fury. ‘How much?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘How much, Dwight?’

‘I told you I’m not sure. Maybe a few thousand doses.’

‘A few thousand doses of each? Or a few thousand in total?’

‘I’m not sure,’ parroted Newton. ‘I’ve told you, it’s being gotten back.’

‘It’s been weeks now! There’s no way of knowing how much has been used – what’s been started!’

He knew how to escape, Newton abruptly decided. All very simple, very easy. Why had it taken him so long? Too long. Still time. He’d just get out. Quit. Grant couldn’t force him to stay. No one could. Premature retirement, like Harry Johnson from the police force. Be simple enough to get a physician’s note if he needed one. Couldn’t imagine that he would. Maybe something official involving his pension or severance or stock-option valuation. His lawyer could handle all that. His lawyer and his doctor – that was their job. Newton actually felt a physical relief at the jumbled thoughts, unaware that he was slightly smiling.

‘What the hell’s so funny?’ demanded Parnell.

‘I’m sorry… nothing… I wasn’t smiling.’

‘You’re not making sense!’ protested Parnell.

‘I don’t know it all. New York’s handling it. But I know it’s under control.’

‘How the hell can it be under control when there are thousands of doses unaccounted for!’

‘I told you, they’re being gotten back.’

‘There’s got to be a public warning!’ insisted Parnell. ‘Everything’s got to be named and warnings issued, to prescribing doctors and pharmacies. Public notices.’

Newton felt quite calm now, as if he were discussing something in which he was quite uninvolved. ‘You’re probably right. But I don’t have that authority. Only New York could initiate a programme like that.’

‘Then New York’s got to do it,’ insisted Parnell.

‘I’ll speak to them,’ said Newton.

‘Do I have your word on that, Dwight? We’re talking urgency here!’

‘I know. You’ve got my word. I promise I’ll speak to New York. If they can’t assure me everything’s been recovered, I’ll talk about public warnings.’

‘Maybe we should both speak to New York?’

‘I’ll suggest that, too,’ undertook Newton.

‘Don’t suggest it!’ pleaded Parnell. ‘Make it happen!’

‘Or what?’ picked up Newton. In a week – just days – he’d be away from all this.

‘Or someone’s got to,’ said Parnell.

‘ Yes?’

‘ Are you alone? Able to talk?’

‘ Yes. What is it?’

‘ They want to see me again. ’

‘ So?’

‘ It’s something about forensics. ’

‘ So?’

’I don’t know what they’ve got, Mr Grant.’ The tone was wheedling, subservient.

‘ What could they have?’

‘ Nothing, I don’t think. ’

‘ We’ve talked everything through. ’

‘ I don’t want anything to come out wrong… for Dubette, I mean. ’

‘ I don’t want that either, Harry. That’s why we’re talking like we are talking now. Why you have this number, so we can protect Dubette at all times. You got anything more to tell me?’

‘ I want to know you’re with me. ’

‘ When have I ever not been?’

‘ I just want to know. ’

‘ You know. What about Clarkson?’

‘ He’s OK ’

‘ He’s top of the tree. ’

‘ I guess. ’

‘ When are you seeing the FBI again?’

‘ Coupla days. Three. ’

‘ Let me know. ’

‘ It’ll be the flight number… something about the fucking flight number. ’

‘ Remember. ’

‘ Yes. ’

‘ It happened. What’s the problem?’

‘ OK.’

‘ Let me know, OK?’

‘ OK.

‘Edward C. Grant, the president of Dubette Inc. himself!’ said Benton, turning off the wire-tap replay.

‘I haven’t been up to New York in quite a while,’ said Dingley.

‘Time we went again,’ said Benton.

D wight Newton had risked doubling the dose of the strongest tranquillizers Dubette made, welcoming the light-headed feeling of unreality and sure he could hold on for what he had to do. He was tempted to take a third but didn’t, knowing he couldn’t afford a mistake. It had been sensible as well to talk first about what he intended, with both his personal physician and his lawyer, although he was disappointed at the blood-pressure reading his doctor had insisted upon taking, despite it supporting the reason for his quitting Dubette. But because Dubette manufactured it, he knew the prescribed calcium antagonist would keep it under control. The word stayed in Newton’s uneven mind. That was what he was going to do, just minutes from now: free himself of Dubette’s control. Not Dubette’s, Newton corrected himself immediately: the tentacle-encircling control of Edward C. Grant. He smiled emptily at people he didn’t know entering the corporate building, and again in the elevator, and when Grant’s personal assistant suggested it was going to be a nice day, Newton replied that he was sure it was going to be a very nice day indeed, pleased at the quickness of his reply.

Grant was at his favourite vantage point, at the penthouse window, when Newton entered, and he stayed looking out over the Manhattan skyline for several moments, even though he knew Newton was in the room. When he finally turned, there was a faint although satisfied smile on his face, and Newton thought, the supercilious son of a bitch thinks he’s king of all he surveys.