by Tony Batton
"Does it really make sense to have R&D on-site with your office functions?" said a woman in the middle of the crowd. "No other biotech company operates that way. Why not base yourself on an industrial park?"
Bern smiled. "I've had that same question many times." He nodded to the room. "And the answer is that we're not like other tech companies. We want our best people together, be they in research, finance, legal or marketing. And remember, this is not a full-scale R&D facility; we perform preliminary research and technical simulations, most of it done on computers. It's all about having the brain power and the computing power in one location so they can interface."
"Speaking of working together," said a man nearer the front, "there have been a lot of rumours about technical problems with the building. Is it all going to fall down on us?"
Bern frowned. "Any project of this size encounters problems. We have broken new ground with this building. Despite the challenges, our team of advisers have guided us through the maze and we completed on spec, on budget, and on time." He raised his glass. "And I, for one, will happily be moving in to my office full-time from Monday."
There was applause from most of the room. As it died down a thin man wearing glasses shouted out, "I don't think anyone will argue it's an impressive building. But can you afford it? How about these rumours of systemic financial problems at CERUS, linked with a succession of R&D failures?"
Bern smiled broadly. "Does a company in financial trouble throw a party like this? Now, this evening was meant to be a launch party for the building, not a forum for self-interested journalists to grandstand so let's move on--"
"And how about the rumours of CERUS' more dangerous interests in speculative science? Are you itching to get back into nanotech?"
Tom watched as four large, suited men started quietly making their way through the crowd towards the man who'd called out these questions, but Bern waved them off. He looked directly at the bespectacled figure and, when it came, his reply was liquid velvet. "We are, indeed, a company centred on speculative science. Someone has to stand up high and look into the wind. To see where we need to go next. We wouldn't be where we are now if the last generation hadn't done exactly the same. Now, you may think it's smart to point out failures, and use that as justification for not taking risks. But I see that as a big problem." He paused. "And do you know what's worse?" He looked around the room, as if inviting an answer. "Our politicians are just the same. We need leaders who have the vision to support and enable ground-breaking research."
"At any cost?" asked the man.
"In my experience the cost is usually worth it, in the long run. You can't stand in the way of progress. We should all embrace it. And then we might just change the world." Bern spread his hands wide. The audience obliged with a thunderous round of applause.
"Now, I'd better wrap this up, otherwise nobody is going to get a chance to sample the obscenely expensive catering. Just one last thing before I do." He tapped the lectern and the lights dimmed again. "When ships are launched, we usually smash a bottle of champagne over them. I know this building is not a ship. But, quite frankly, it could be mistaken for a spaceship so..."
Futuristic synthesiser music swelled around the room and from somewhere above a champagne bottle on a white cord was lowered to hang just behind Bern. He grabbed it and raised an eyebrow to the crowd. "Maybe we should have done this outside."
There were some nervous titters.
Bern held the bottle high. "I name this building CERUS Tower." And he let the bottle swing towards the stone wall behind him.
It struck and bounced off. There was a moment of awkward silence.
"That didn't happen in rehearsals," said Bern. The crowd laughed obligingly. He stepped forward, gripped the bottle's neck and swung his arm in a forceful arc. Champagne and glass erupted, and the crowd cheered. A waiter rushed forward and handed Bern a towel. He wiped champagne from his hands, and turned back to the lectern.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, have a wonderful evening." He held up his glistening hand. "The drink really is on me."
Tom watched him leave the stage then turned away to look for the people he'd earmarked to talk to that night. He left his half-finished champagne on the table and started towards one of the senior lawyers who'd interviewed him.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder as he passed and he turned, half-expecting to see the nervous man he had spoken with earlier. Instead it was a slender woman in an elegant black dress, her matching stilettos spiking into the floor. She was cradling a glass in each hand, cognac from the sharp smell in the air. "Enjoying the party?"
"Wouldn't have missed it for the world," he said politely, about to turn away again.
"Isn't it bad luck when the bottle doesn't break?"
He was drawn to her smile, blood-red lips against a pale complexion. "I think that only works for ships. A building is hardly going to sink." He found himself unable to look away. "So, what brings you here tonight? Do you work at CERUS?"
"I suppose you could say I freelance. Disposals and terminations, that sort of thing." She held up the two glasses and grinned. "Toast to new beginnings?"
"To the building?"
"And your new job."
Tom frowned. "How do you know I'm new here?"
The woman smiled, extending a glass to him. "In my line of work, it's imperative to assess people quickly and accurately. And I assess you as needing a drink."
Tom blinked, taking it from her. "If you know I'm new, you know I'm not going to be much use for introductions. And if you wanted a word with the boss, Mr Bern's probably left already. I understand he's got a helipad on the roof."
Her eyebrows raised. "I'm not interested in him. Or anyone else here for that matter. I just want to share a drink with you, Tom."
"How do you know my name?"
She extended one elegantly manicured finger and tapped at his chest. "Your ID." She raised her glass and clinked it against his. "C'mon, Tom. Relax and have a drink with me. It's a party. What's the worst that could happen?"
THREE
EARLY MORNING SUN CREPT OVER Monaco. On the deck of the Excelcium, one of the many yachts anchored in the harbour, William Bern sat sipping orange juice as he watched a small motor boat approaching.
Soon there was the sound of footsteps on the internal staircase, then the familiar figure of Neil Bradley walked onto the deck. As always, he wore a suit that looked more expensive than he ought to be able to afford. Bern's eyes were drawn to the briefcase in his right hand. "Couldn't this have waited?"
Bradley placed the briefcase on the table. "I wish it could. I'm not the bearer of good news."
"Few people have been recently. What's happened now?"
"Gregory Stone called me yesterday to withdraw from the deal. He's got wind of the rumours. Doesn't think you'll be around to deliver in six months' time."
"He wishes." Bern shook his head. "Still his timing could be better. What does this mean for our numbers?"
"If we can hold off the liquidators for more than three or four months, I'll be stunned. And the moment that happens, we lose the Tower."
"I'd sooner blow it up." Bern eased back in his seat and adjusted his sunglasses, which were considerably more expensive than Bradley's suit. "We'll go to the banks. Or a suitably intelligent investor." He stabbed his forefinger on the surface of the table. "People believe in me."
Bradley took a deep breath. "You brought me on board to establish partnerships, find new sources of finance. But you have to understand: you've failed too many times. And all those run-ins with the government? People remember."
"How could they even know? Every project was classified."
"Rumours get out. And now people don't believe in you, William."
Bern snorted. "So you weren't up to the job I hired you for."
"I do have one idea, but I'm not sure if you're going to like it."
"Don't be coy, Neil."
Bradley reached into the briefcase and withdrew a grey car
d file. He slid it slowly across the table. "An old project you might remember."
Bern flipped it open, then stifled a laugh. "Where did you find this?"
"I've been trawling the archives."
"Deep diving would be more apt. I thought all these records had been destroyed."
"It seems the team were not as rigorous as they led the regulator to believe."
Bern ran his finger over the name. PROJECT TANTALUS.
"I understand the name was a joke about success always being out of reach?"
"I recall it was an accurate descriptor."
"Perhaps not any more," Bradley said. "I've had someone review the file. There are synergies with other research CERUS has done: research that might give you the missing piece to make this work."
"After what happened last time you think I want to touch that again?"
"I thought CERUS was, in your words, all about speculative science."
"There still has to be money in it."
A slow smile spread across Bradley's face and he produced another file from the briefcase. "I may have a customer. One not so... constrained... by the regulators."
Bern opened the file. "Viktor Leskov?"
"He's from Kazakhstan, although now operates out of Moscow. Made his money exploiting mineral rights."
Bern started to turn the pages of densely printed text.
"He has money. And we have a product that he wants." Bradley paused. "Or we could have a product he wants, if we decide to take a chance."
Bern closed the file. "You're telling me the best way to deal with our solvency issues is combining an illegal project from twenty-five years ago with an illegal project from this year?"
"I'm not telling you anything. I'm just doing what you hired me to do: present you with options."
"And if I decide to proceed?"
"Mr Leskov would be delighted to meet with you."
FOUR
THE ALARM CLOCK GOING OFF sounded like a police siren in Tom's aching head. He reached out a hand and smacked at it, taking three attempts before he stopped the piercing noise. Blinking to clear his vision, he sat up in bed and immediately regretted the manoeuvre. The room lurched as waves of pain stabbed though his head and nausea threatened to overwhelm him.
Quickly Tom lay back down, breathing in short gasps. He looked around his room, seeing his suit hanging on a hook behind the door. His phone, watch and wallet lay on the bedside table. The curtains were drawn. Everything looked as it should.
But he didn't remember getting here.
He'd been at the party, talking to the woman in the black dress. What was her name? He grasped for it and came up with nothing. Just how much had he drunk? Groaning, he made a second attempt to sit up. He reached across to grab his phone, but his hand jerked clumsily and it clattered to the floor.
From the other side of the door there were footsteps and a voice called out, "You there?"
Tom tried to reply, but his mouth felt impossibly dry. All he managed was a grunt.
"Are you all right?" The door was shoved open and Tom saw Jo glaring at him with a mixture of concern and annoyance.
"Just feeling a little worse for wear," he mumbled hoarsely.
Jo frowned. "What time did you get in?"
"Don't remember."
"Serves you right after standing me up."
Tom blinked. "It's only 7am. Look, maybe next week would be better."
She snorted, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. "Always another time, right? For now, though, some of us have to get to the office."
"Why do you have to go to work? Is something wrong?"
"I think that question should really be directed at you. Want an aspirin?"
Tom took a slow breath. "Don't worry. I'll get something if I need it."
Jo gave a shrug. "Well you'd better get moving if you don't want to be late on your first day. Anyway, I have a train to catch. Bye!"
She was gone before he could reply. The thump of the front door closing jarred Tom's head. He groaned again.
On the floor his phone vibrated. Taking a deep breath, he reached down and grabbed it. His eyes widened. He had twenty-five messages. Most of them from Jo.
Where are you?
Coming home tonight?
Guess I'll see you in the morning. Don't forget, breakfast @7!
Hey, Tom, it's 8. Are you OK? Call me.
Tom, hope you're OK. I'm really sorry but I'm going to have to leave in half an hour, with you or without you.
Hey, Tom. Got here safe and sound. Really hope you're OK. Call me.
Tom, do I need to start calling hospitals?
He stared at the screen. Was this a joke? He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, trying to think more clearly. Just how much had he drunk? He'd never felt this bad in his life. Was it something he'd eaten?
Muttering, he stumbled into the kitchen and put on the kettle. With his other hand, he jabbed the television remote, searching for the morning news. He was just opening a packet of dark roasted Colombian when the sound came on. He promptly forgot the coffee as he stared at the screen.
He changed to two other news channels then checked the TV Guide.
Glancing around, he saw Jo's newspaper folded on the kitchen table. Shaking, he picked it up.
Today was Monday.
Today was Monday but he couldn't remember a single thing about the weekend.
Not one single thing.
FIVE
KATE TURNER PULLED IN FRONT of two slower-moving members of staff and wedged her VW Beetle into the last space in the Business Week News car park. Clutching her laptop and a very large café latte she strode into the building, waving her identity card at the security guard and slipping into the lift just as the doors slid shut. Three floors and sixty seconds later, she was sliding her chair up to her desk, docking her laptop, and simultaneously finishing a final touch of lip gloss. For a moment, it looked like she had arrived unnoticed.
"Afternoon," said a voice from behind her.
She forced herself to breath evenly. "It's only 9:15, Geraldine."
"I've been at my desk since 7am."
Kate turned and saw the frowning figure of the editor-in-chief, standing in the doorway of her office. Her arms were folded: never a good sign.
"Don't you have a column to deliver?"
"It's nearly done," Kate lied smoothly. "Ten minutes."
Geraldine sucked in her lower lip and stared at Kate for several seconds, then she jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "My office."
The tiny room was filled with stacks of lever-arch folders. Kate squeezed between them and sidled to a chair. "Run out of shelf space?"
"Company reports." Geraldine sat heavily in her chair, which creaked in protest. "I like to cast an eye over what they're saying about themselves, though it's what they don't say that's more interesting. Occasionally it yields something that gleams." She paused. "Or stinks. Either's good."
"Aren't these things available online?"
"I prefer the paper." Geraldine steepled her fingers. "You started so promisingly here, Kate. Made a name for yourself with that pharmaceuticals exposé. But lately you're just coasting. The column's been pretty much paint by numbers for the last twelve months. A good journalist makes the story." She pointed to the folders. "And it doesn't always just fall in your lap."
Kate leaned forward. "You know where I was on Friday night."
Geraldine drummed her fingers on the desk. "Are you going to tell me you met Bern? Did he agree to an interview?"
Kate sighed. "He was surrounded by PR people and minders. I couldn't get anywhere near him. And then he left early. Don't suppose you've come across a clue about CERUS' supposed financial issues in all of this," she said, gesturing at the files.
Geraldine rolled her eyes. "You want to do a piece on their difficulties? That's the worst kept secret in business."
"Yet nobody's run it as a story."
"Because nobody has anything concr
ete. And CERUS' lawyers would shred them."
"Ah, but they don't have what I have: an inside source. Someone with a long history at CERUS and an axe to grind. I think he overheard me being nosy and realised I was a journalist. Didn't talk much at the time, just asked for my card. Did a whole Covert Ops thing about not being seen together and walked off. Thought maybe he was drunk or about to put security on me, but he called the next morning. Said he'd checked me out." Kate flicked her hair from one shoulder to another. "He liked that I have a science background."
"I thought you dropped out of your chemistry degree?"
Kate shrugged. "I usually leave that out of my public bio."
A faint smile appeared on Geraldine's face.
"I am going to meet with him. This afternoon."
"Then why are we discussing this now?" Geraldine threw her head back. "It's money, isn't it? A disgruntled employee wants to spill the beans and he wants something in return."
"He hasn't said yet, but you're interested, or we wouldn't still be talking." Kate paused. "I think the story isn't that they're in trouble. It's why."
Geraldine closed her eyes for several moments. Finally she opened them. "OK, meet with him. I'll give it my endorsement for now."
"You won't regret this."
"I hear that line five times a week. Make damn sure you're right."
SIX
TOM SAT AT THE KITCHEN table, staring into a cup of black coffee, trying to clear his head. The coffee didn't smell right and there were too many tiny swirling eddies on the inky surface. Brownian motion, they called it: random movements caused by the collision of tiny particles that you couldn't even see. Did coffee always look like this or was it time to descale the kettle?
Tom sighed. Had he come home Friday night having drunk so much he'd given himself alcohol poisoning and slept until Monday? Had he had one of those alcohol-induced blackouts his friends had laughed about at university? And hadn't Jo checked on him? His door hadn't been locked so how could she have missed him lying comatose in bed? So when had he come home? After Jo had left on Saturday morning but presumably before she got back on Sunday night. Where had he been in between?
