William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

“I’ll be there in spirit, Ingram.” He paused, and re-set his face as if he had serious news to impart. “I wanted you to know that I just heard, unofficially, secretly — an hour ago — that we’ll get our PDA licence. Zembla-4 is going to be approved.”

Ingram inhaled, needing more oxygen. He felt his hand tremble and put his glass down.

“To say that’s ‘good news’ sounds mean-spirited. That means the MHRA won’t be far behind.” His mind was going fast. “But how do you know? It’s unofficial, you say?”

“Yes. Let’s say word has reached us. Our people have managed to learn enough about the reports, their content and recommendation. The advisory committee stage will be very positive, also. We heard it on the grapevine, as the song has it.” Rilke smiled. “Don’t look so worried, Ingram. We’re not selling heroin. We’re not smuggling weapons-grade uranium to rogue states that sponsor terrorism. Zembla-4 will save millions of lives over its licence period. It’s a boon, a blessing to mankind.”

“Of course.” Ingram tried to make his features relax. “Obviously I can’t even hint at this at the press conference.”

“No, not even a tiny word. Just the business of the day. But I’ll make sure you know our final buy-out price in plenty of time. It’ll be very generous. Some analysts may even say more than generous. But not so generous as to prompt curious questions.”

“I see,” Ingram said, not seeing, wondering where this was leading.

“And then we get the PDA approval.” Rilke spread his hands as if to say: look how easy it all is.

“The ex-shareholders might feel a little irritated.”

“They’ll be happy enough. We’ll make a good offer. They’ll have some Rilke stock to comfort them.”

“But when they hear about the Zembla-4 licence they’ll suspect we knew.”

“But how could we know? The Food and Drug Administration guards its deliberations under utmost secrecy. Nothing is certain. The PDA refuses one out of four applications.”

“Yessss…Where will we manufacture Zembla-4?”

“Leave that to me. It won’t be your company any more, Ingram. The days of these complicated, tricky decisions will be over. In fact you’ll probably want to retire and enjoy your money.”

“I will?” Ingram queried — and then quickly made it a statement. “I will. You’re quite right.” He drank some more of his warm wine. ‘Rilke Pharma bags Calenture-Deutz’, the headline would run somewhere in the financial pages, Ingram thought. Not a headline, no big deal until the Zembla-4 news is announced. Then more plaudits for Alfredo Rilke’s uncanny acumen — somehow cherry-picking a twenty-year licensed blockbuster drug for a few hundred million. A billion dollar revenue stream guaranteed for two decades. What would that do for Rilke Pharma stock? Not that Ingram cared, he would be enjoying his modest share of Zembla-4 royalties. True, he thought, if I were an institutional holder of shares in Calenture-Deutz, happy to accept Rilke Pharma’s generous offer, I might be somewhat aggrieved to know that I wasn’t going to participate in that revenue stream or see its benefits. I might even start asking uncomfortable questions. Why sell a company when its new drug is up for approval? He looked back at Alfredo, who was at the window contemplating the traffic on the M4.

“My argument to the shareholders would be—”

“That you cannot guarantee a licence for Zembla-4. Not all applications succeed — only a few dozen drugs a year get a licence. Rilke Pharma’s excellent offer is too good to pass up. Take your profit now rather than risk having an unlicensed drug on your shelf with all the costs of its development unreturned. Shrewd business sense.” Rilke wandered over and put his big hand on Ingram’s shoulder. “No one will query your decision, Ingram, believe me. You are just being a prudent CEO. Everyone will make a nice profit. Your more astute shareholders will have taken Rilke stock rather than cash — these people won’t want to ask many searching questions. And, of course, no one knows about our little arrangement.” Rilke smiled. “Which is one of the reasons I meet you in these charming hotels.”

“True. Yes…” Ingram encouraged his excitement to bubble up again and sipped his wine — no, it was too disgusting. He put it down. In fact he was feeling a little nauseous. He’d open something decent when he returned home, celebrate properly. Then an unpleasant thought arrived, rather spoiling the party.

“We never found that Kindred fellow,” he said. “Pity about that.”

“It doesn’t really matter any more,” Rilke said with a reassuring smile. “Now we have the licence in the bag, Kindred’s moment has gone.”

“That’s very reassuring,” Ingram said. “Actually, is there any brandy in that fridge? — I’m feeling a little off-colour.”

THE FRAMED POSTER WAS for an exhibition of Paul Klee paintings—‘ANDACHT ZUM KLEINEN’ was its title — held in Basle in 1982 and there was a reproduction of a Klee watercolour, a pointed-roofed house in a moonlit landscape of stylised pine trees with a fat white moon in the sky. At the bottom of the watercolour was Paul Klee’s signature and the painting’s title written in his scratchy copperplate handwriting: ‘ Etwas Licht in dieser Dunkelheif .’

Rita looked at Primo, who was studying it carefully.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“It’s lovely, thank you,” he said and kissed her.

“A flat-warming present,” she said. “This flat needs more warmth.” She handed him another package.

“You shouldn’t do this,” he said, tearing the paper off to reveal a small hammer in a box and a picture hook.

“No excuses,” she said.

They chose a wall in the sitting room and he hammered in the picture hook and hung the poster.

“The place is transformed,” he said, stepping back to admire the poster. “What does ‘ Andacht zum Kleinen ’ mean?”

“I looked it up. I think it means ‘Devotion to small things’.”

Primo considered this for a second or two. “Very apt,” he said. “Let’s have a drink to celebrate.”

They had stopped for a pizza on the way back from Battersea and had bought a bottle of wine to bring home. They sat with their glasses on the leather sofa, watching the ten o’clock news on television, Rita leaning up against him.

“We’ve got to change this sofa,” she said. “It’s like a gangster’s sofa. What made you buy it?”

“It was going cheap and I was in a hurry,” he said. “We’ll change it, don’t worry.”

Rita wondered if he was picking up the subtext to this discussion.

“How was Dad?” she asked. “I thought it was best to leave the two of you alone.”

“I put a proposition to him — I need his help with something. He said he’d give it serious thought.”

“What proposition?”

“Something to do with the hospital. About a new drug. In fact I gave him a present. I’ve bought him a share in a company, a drug company.”

“You’re trying to turn him into a capitalist, aren’t you?”

“He seemed quite pleased.”

“As long as it’s legal,” she said, turning to kiss his neck. “Let’s get naked, shall we?”

IT CAME UP ON the screen: INPHARMATION. COM, black and red, the PHARMA letters pulsing an orangey-crimson. Adam registered, logged in — his nom de plume was ‘chelseabridge’—and he went to the thread for Zembla-4- He read a few of the posts, mosdy pleas from asthma sufferers who had seen the advertorials and were wondering when and if the drug would be available. And then he made his own post, typing in the names of the dead children and the hospitals where they died, adding that they were all participating in Zembla-4 clinical trials when they had suddenly died and then left it at that. He was following Aaron Lalandusse’s instructions precisely: make your first post, then add others every two or three days. Watch it build.