The Delta Chain

by Ian Edward

  CHAPTER TEN

  A man with a commanding presence. Kate recalled that description from the various articles about him. She’d read many of those before arriving at Northern Rocks. She always researched the people and companies to which she was assigned.

  William Westmeyer strode into the boardroom and took to the podium. His personal assistant, Jackson Donnelly, introduced him to the group. Kate had snuck into the room just seconds before, slinking into one of the second row seats. Donnelly had flashed her an icy stare. She’d been too late to be part of the introductions to the potential investors.

  There were fourteen of the visitors – nine men and five women – all senior executives, representing four different companies in the financial, pharmaceutical and medical technology fields.

  ‘Thank you for joining us here today,’ Westmeyer addressed the group, ‘and I trust that each and every one of you – visitors and selected staff alike – will enjoy and benefit from the day we have planned. After my introductory address here this morning, we’ll embark on a tour of the Institute, show you our facilities, our work, our plans, then we’ll lunch outside. We’ve set up a marquee on our beautiful grounds and I see that God has blessed us with weather to die for.’ There were murmurs of agreement from the group.

  ‘And then, I will personally be putting the hard word on you for money. And lots of it.’ Westmeyer paused here as a wave of laughter swept the room. ‘The root of all evil. Or, in our case, a nectar for helping us achieve a stronger, healthier world.’

  He’s good, Kate thought. He could have been a politician or an actor. Over the years he’d attracted the support to build a facility with a strong international reputation.

  Westmeyer looked over his audience like a proud and all-conquering hawk, an appearance suggested by his prominent and bushy eyebrows, aquiline nose and steel grey hair that was like a living stamp of authority. As always on these occasions he was immaculately groomed, this time in a navy blue Pierre Cardin three piece suit.

  ‘I want to begin by speaking to you about genetic engineering,’ he said in a suddenly more reserved tone, stripped of his opening theatrics – this was the dedicated, articulate scientist now – ‘something that’s become more and more a part of our daily lives, but about which there are still many misconceptions. Genetic engineering, or recombinant DNA. What is it? How real are the benefits we’re all saying it can bring…’ once again a pause for effect as his deep blue eyes roved across the staff and the fourteen visitors, ‘…very real. But first, let’s backtrack a little. We’re all well schooled these days that recombinant DNA is the use of bio techniques to manipulate DNA to alter hereditary traits, and beyond that to the cloning and growth of animal, plant and human cells.

  ‘While there are breakthroughs in the cloning of mice and sheep we are not talking about the cloning of human beings, nothing like that – the world of science can’t create another one of me, God forbid…’ another wave of laughter, more spirited this time, Westmeyer had succeeded in putting his audience totally at ease, ‘…but it is already providing amazing results in the creation of enhanced new crops and foods, new drugs and new surgical techniques. All with far reaching benefits.’

  The lights dimmed and the LCD on the wall came to life. Pictures of the Institute filled the screen.

  ‘Let me tell you about my Institute. We are a research facility only. We do not manufacture products here. We do not patent inventions nor treat patients – but our research and development creates major advancements in all those areas.

  ‘We carry out specific projects on behalf of our clients – whether they be pharmaceutical companies, hospitals, universities, or Government departments.

  ‘Our research is primarily in the field of biotechnology. I’m not going to go into a lot of mumbo jumbo about gene splicing, folks. We all know DNA provides the unique genetic code for every living thing.

  ‘We’re talking about isolating a portion of the genetic material from one organism and combining it with a portion of the DNA molecule from other organisms to grow new cells. If you’re one of those with concerns to its end use, let me allay any fears. There are regulations in place to prevent the creation of new viruses, for instance, and as you would be aware the U.N inspects countries to ensure biological weapons are not being developed. In addition, the international scientific community and various Governments have outlawed any potential development in cloning human beings.’

  ‘So’, said a sudden, strong voice from the audience, ‘genetic scientists aren’t the modern day answer to Dr. Frankenstein?’ The speaker was a tall, thin man, intense looking, with carrot coloured hair and blue eyes.

  If William Westmeyer was at all startled by the interruption he didn’t show it. He barely batted an eyelid as he responded. ‘Not at all. But I’m glad you raised the issue because I’d like to give an example of how recombinant DNA benefits us. To wit, one of the earlier by-products of gene splicing was the manufacture of the now widely used human insulin.’

  Westmeyer turned so that he was partially facing the LCD. The screen showed an illustrated example of a DNA strand. It was a lengthy double spiral, as though a rope ladder had been twisted round and round itself. ‘The familiar image of the DNA molecule, enlarged many, many millions of times,’ Westmeyer said.

  Kate knew Westmeyer was enjoying himself immensely. This was his turf and he was strutting his stuff like one who loved the spotlight and knew how to play to it.

  ‘The bio-technician’s first act,’ he continued, ‘is to isolate the gene code for human insulin. Through the use of highly specialised procedures, using enzymes, we can cut this particular gene sequence away from its surrounding DNA. Then it’s combined with an isolated bacteria gene.

  ‘Why bacteria? Because they are the fastest reproducing cells. They carry plasmids, small loops of self- duplicating DNA. These combined genes are then injected back into the bacteria, multiplying at a lightning rate to recreate the human insulin. Which, in turn, is then used in the treatment of diabetes.’ Westmeyer paused for effect. ‘Okay, end of the science lesson.’ There was a ripple of laughter. ‘Ah, I see you’re relieved.’ More laughter.

  Westmeyer directed his focus on the carrot-topped man. ‘It’s Mr. Carstairs, isn’t it?’

  The man cleared his throat, as if suddenly embarrassed. ‘That’s right. Please call me John.’

  Westmeyer gave a relaxed smile. ‘John, that’s an early, relatively straightforward example of genetically engineered substances with life enhancing uses. There are many thousands more being developed in the fight against cancer, AIDS, and a host of other diseases. That is what our work here is for. That is what the field of genetic research is committed to achieving.’

  His gaze took in the whole group. ‘In this business, operating costs are a big consideration, hence my decision to move from the U.S and set up here in Queensland. Our current investors have more than tripled their outlay in just the last three years, and that’s why we’re now offering a restricted number of Australian investors the chance to play a part in our contribution to medical science.’

  It was a superb performance. It intrigued Kate that this wasn’t just spin. It was fact. The Westmeyer Institute was highly rated by scientific bodies. There were huge profits in biogenetic engineering. What didn’t make sense was that Rhonda Lagan, an honest and trusted A.B.C.S. employee, would deliberately plant a custom made virus into the computer network, which was what Kate now suspected. And that someone had obtained Rhonda’s password and deleted her diary.

  Kate squirmed in her seat. She was anxious for the moment the back-up files reached her laptop. She wanted to start reading through those entries.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Located west of Sydney CBD, in Parramatta, New South Wales, the National Automated Fingerprint Identification system (NAFIS) provides its service to police departments across all states. NAFIS receives, searches and stores prints for identification. It was the Searching Unit that received all incomin
g prints, such as the ones for the Northern Rocks drowning victim, which it checked against its 1.8 million records for a match.

  By the time Adam returned to the station, Senior Constable Ken Morgan had received the results and placed the computer printout on Adam’s desk.

  ‘No match,’ Adam said, picking up the NAFIS summary and glancing through it. NAFIS had been the first national computerised fingerprint system in the world and was regularly updated. And it was fast.

  ‘We can expect word back on dental records by early afternoon,’ Morgan advised, ‘and Markham’s already had replies from the hospitals and blood banks. No matches on the blood or DNA, and none of the women listed as having blood transfusions in the past twelve months are missing.’

  ‘Interpol?’

  ‘The details have been sent,’ Morgan said, ‘and our identikit is just about ready to follow.’

  With Morgan in tow, Adam walked to the identikit display area. All Northern Rocks police had received training on the system but at the moment it was one of John Harrison’s designated duties. Created especially for the Federal and State police, the system’s database had every possible shape, size and colour in facial features and hairstyles.

  Most commonly it was used when taking down a description of a suspect: Harrison would digitally combine the chosen facial parts into one composite picture. Today it was being used for a different purpose – Harrison had scanned his own photo of the drowning victim and was using the system’s extended retouching facility to “touch up and repair” the damage to the corpse’s features.

  The image showed what this girl looked like before the ocean had taken its toll. Fair hair, blue eyes, full cheeks, a tiny nose and prominent chin. Adam had the immediate impression that this young woman would have had an infectious smile.

  ‘Attractive, eh,’ Harrison commented, pushing a wisp of brown hair back from his eyes. There was just a trace of stubble under his chin. Despite the fact that he conformed to police appearance and dress regulations, Harrison somehow managed to project a bohemian air. This amused Adam, most probably because he knew it irritated the station chief. ‘If it looks like she might not be I.D’d for a while, then we should give her a name, eh?’

  Adam and Morgan mumbled agreement.

  ‘Then I’ll take suggestions ‘til Friday,’ Harrison said, ‘at which point we pick the most suitable.’

  ‘Let’s get this image to the media and to Interpol ASAP,’ Adam said.

  ‘Consider it done.’

  The Australian police had been the first in the world to establish an Internet web site that carried pictures, firstly, of wanted criminals, and in recent years of missing persons as well. Whoever this girl was, Adam thought, someone, somewhere is missing her.

  Back in his office, Adam motioned for Ken Morgan to pull up a chair. ‘Ken, I want you to get in touch with the Department of Meteorology. I want all their data on the tides and ocean currents for twenty-four hours prior to this girl’s discovery. I’m looking for direction, speed, water depth, wind movement, anything and everything they record for the entire lower Queensland and northern New South Wales coastlines.’

  Morgan wrote in his notebook. ‘You think you can trace back to where the body entered the water?’

  ‘There’s always a chance. The body was washed in by strong currents. It follows that, around twenty four hours earlier, the entry point must’ve been somewhere out to sea, further north.’

  ‘Which means she could’ve been on a boat.’

  ‘Definitely worth pursuing.’

  ‘If she went overboard there’d have been an alert.’

  ‘Not if it wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘I believe we have a juicy little mystery on our hands,’ said a voice from the doorway. Both men looked up as Arthur Kirby strode in. ‘I take my first holiday since arriving here and an unidentified floater turns up. Bloody inconsiderate.’

  ‘Welcome back, Arthur,’ Adam said. Kirby had been station chief for over five years and had taken his share of leave, but he had a strange sense of humour. Statements made as a joke were delivered, not lightly, but with a serious edge. And he rarely laughed.

  Kirby was a large man, with great, beefy slabs for his arms and legs and a demeanour that was at times, for Adam, deliberately confrontational. ‘Any answers on this, Adam?’

  Adam didn’t bother to point out that the body had only been discovered the night before. He calmly put Kirby in the picture.

  ‘A drowning is one thing,’ Kirby said, ‘but an unidentified corpse could be linked with that Mermaid case, and that’s a whole different ballgame. The town’s fiftieth is on the horizon and this is a headache none of us need.’

  Adam frowned. ‘What made you link this with the Mermaid? This floater of ours was only found last night.’

  ‘Because I’ve just had the mayor on the phone saying exactly that,’ Kirby said. ‘Apparently his office had a call this morning from some pushy bitch over on the Express. Wanted to know whether the mayor thought this mysterious body would put a dampener on the upcoming festivities, to which she was told “no”. Then she wanted the mayor’s thoughts on the similarity to this so- called “Mermaid” case in Morrissey. She was told “no comment”. But of course she’ll print her inflammatory questions and our “no comment” without regard to the impact.’

  ‘Why would the Express want to do a big number on this?’ Ken Morgan wondered aloud.

  ‘Damn silly bitch is trying to make it a bigger story than it is,’ Kirby said, ‘and her attitude, I’ll bet, is that the public have a right to know or some such bullshit.’

  ‘I’ll take a firm line with the Express,’ Adam told Kirby, ‘I’ll impress on Eddie Cochrane that it would be irresponsible to make more of this than it really is.’

  ‘It’s just a drowning,’ Morgan commented, puzzled.

  ‘It’s whatever some stuck-up reporter wants to make of it,’ said Arthur Kirby with disgust. ‘Adam, the mayor wants to see us in his office at one’o’clock. And you’ll need to have some answers.’

  Adam resisted the temptation to “bite.” ‘One’o’clock it is,’ he said.

  The day continued just as William Westmeyer hoped. Warm, relaxing, stimulating.

  He surveyed his guests. They were just as he wanted them to be after the morning session – unwinding, with their interest well and truly piqued. Most importantly, he knew he’d convinced them that scientific research was not something abstract, confined to uni departments – it was every bit as dynamic as the worlds of finance and technology. It was commercially viable and profit motivated. With potential investors, that was the bottom line.

  Westmeyer placed a wing of chicken and an assortment of salads on his plate as he moved along the serving table. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Dr. Stephen Hunter gesturing to him. Hunter was seated with two of the guests. Of all his scientists, Hunter was the one that reminded Westmeyer of his own early years. Hunter’s eyes were mysterious and seductive pools, with the promise of hidden depths. Like Westmeyer, he was one of the few scientists equally at home in business gatherings as he was when he was in his lab.

  Westmeyer joined the table and Hunter introduced him to Bill Hadley and Meredith Seals, board directors with the Inter-Continental Banking Group. ‘Dr. Hunter was just imparting some fascinating information to us,’ said Meredith Seals, a slender, conservatively attired woman, ‘about advances in cancer research.’

  ‘I lost a brother to the big C,’ said Bill Hadley, a down-to-earth type whose world weariness seemed at odds with his bright eyes and sharp features, ‘I think it’s bloody marvellous what you people do in your white coats.’

  ‘You’re talking about Toronto?’ Westmeyer asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hadley, ‘experiments on mice with cancer, apparently.’

  ‘Scientists over there had success with those experiments,’ Stephen Hunter confirmed, ‘and then took the next big leap, conducting gene transplants on human breast cancer patients. There is a
human gene that stimulates our response to our immune cells. That gene was transplanted into the cancerous tumour cells.’

  ‘Incredible.’ Meredith Seals showed uncharacteristic excitement. ‘And those patients showed increased immunity to the cancer?’

  ‘There’s still a long way to go,’ Westmeyer pointed out, ‘but yes, there was a registered increase.’

  ‘Sky’s the limit with this kind of research.’ Hunter took a sip from his wine. ‘And one of my projects is developing a similar line of research in cell transplantation, but with blood cells.’

  ‘Dr. Hunter is known internationally for his work with blood,’ Westmeyer informed them.

  ‘I commend you for it,’ said Bill Hadley. ‘I’m afraid I have to admit to going weak at the mere sight of it.’

  ‘As do I,’ Hunter joked.

  Hadley turned to Meredith, chuckling. ‘Can you believe these guys? They sit down to lunch and talk genes and blood cells.’ He was clearly enjoying himself.

  ‘Not normally,’ Hunter gestured toward Westmeyer. ‘When this one’s around, the talk usually turns to the horses.’

  ‘You’re a betting man?’ asked Hadley.

  ‘Nothing relaxes me more, Bill.’

  ‘I hadn’t pegged you as a gambler.’

  ‘Oh I don’t consider it gambling. It’s a science. I study the form, read up on the trainers and the riders, and I make educated guesses.’

  ‘A man after my own heart.’ Hadley warmed more and more to his hosts as the lunch progressed. He hadn’t imagined he would so enjoy the company of a bunch of scientists. He noticed that even Meredith was relaxing and knocking back the wine.

  Hadley didn’t imagine for a moment he was in the hands of a master manipulator. Westmeyer’s investigators supplied intensive background on every one of the guests. He’d never been to a racetrack in his life but he knew Bill Hadley lived there on weekends. Westmeyer noted that, as usual, Hunter was enjoying this game as much as he loved the lab.