‘Reggie’s one of our scientists,’ Brock explained. ‘He used to be a sort of “Q” for MI6, didn’t you, Reggie, brewing untraceable poisons and so on.’
Reggie screwed up his nose with distaste. ‘ Please, Brock. You know I hate to dwell in the past.’ He cast an imperious gaze across the restaurant. ‘Why have I never been here before? It seems rather jolly. They can’t be coppers, surely?’
‘They’re lawyers, Reggie.’
‘Oh, well, that answers both questions.’ He turned to Kathy. ‘When you’ve been divorced as often as I have, you tend to avoid the haunts of lawyers.’
‘I heard there was a new Mrs Grice in the offing, Reggie. Is that true?’
‘Pure rumour and speculation. And what about you? You look as if someone’s been giving you a hell of a battering.’ He peered at the traces of bruises on Brock’s face, then looked with interest at Kathy.
Brock picked up the menu and said, ‘I can recommend the veal.’
Reggie inclined his head to Kathy. ‘Brock is so secretive, Kathy. I wonder if you and I could get together and swap information on the old goat.’
‘I should warn you,’ Brock murmured, ‘that she’s currently on suspension for beating up a member of the public with her Asp.’
Reggie looked entranced. ‘You hit someone with a snake? How perfectly splendid. Doesn’t that make her a sort of Cleopatra to your Mark Anthony, I wonder, Brock?’
It gradually transpired that Reggie Grice was no longer a practising scientist, but rather, in the manner of poacher turned gamekeeper, chaired various Home Office committees concerned with the regulation of scientific and medical research.
‘And you want to know more about Richard Haygill and CAB-Tech?’ he said, consulting the menu. ‘I’ve been following the case with great interest, of course. It was one of his boys who bumped off the mad philosopher Springer, wasn’t it?’
‘I suppose, to get to the heart of it, Reggie, we’ve been wondering what possible threat Springer could be to someone like Haygill and his operation. From what I’ve been able to gather, Haygill seems to have a great deal of credibility. I’m not sure that the same can be said for Springer.’
‘Oh, we’re all vulnerable, Brock. I came across Springer once, at a conference on ethics and science, ages ago, and although they dubbed him Mad Max behind his back, he struck me as very shrewd. Of course he could have gone gaga since then. He was one of those people who instinctively take a contrary point of view, just to see what will come of it. We need people like that, of course. My God, we could do with a few in my neck of the woods! And you’d think that scientists would particularly welcome them, since scientists are supposed to constantly question everything. But in practice it doesn’t necessarily work like that. We got quite ratty with Springer at the conference, as I recall. He unsettled us, made us feel vulnerable.’
Reggie turned his attention to the wine-list. ‘I should warn you, Brock,’ he said, ‘that I have absolutely no appointments this afternoon, and presumably Kathy doesn’t either if she’s on suspension. Which means that we can get stuck into the reds, while you nurse your mineral water.’
‘Be my guest, Reggie.’
‘Thank you, we shall. Have your researchers dug up an article in Nature of last May about UCLE and CAB-Tech?’ He reached for a slim document case on the floor beside him and selected a photocopied sheet which he handed to Brock. The page was headed ‘NEWS’ and contained several short articles on current events. The one circled in yellow marker was titled, ‘UNIVERSITY DENIES RIFT WITH BIOTECH RESEARCH CENTRE’.
Brock read the article while Reggie consulted with Kathy on her tastes in wine. UCLE President Roderick Young has issued a press statement denying rumours that the university’s Centre of Advanced Biotechnology might move to another institution, possibly overseas. The university has recently been embroiled in a race discrimination case involving staff of the Centre, which receives much of its funding from Middle East sources. Describing CAB-Tech as the flagship of UCLE’s research effort, Young said that earlier problems had been exaggerated, and that both parties were committed to the partnership.
Kathy suggested a wine on the list, but Reggie turned it down on the grounds that it was far too modest for Cleopatra’s taste. He stabbed a finger at the article. ‘A bit like me issuing a press statement denying rumours that my wife was leaving me, eh?’
‘So there have been domestic problems at CAB-Tech,’ Brock nodded. ‘We heard about some of them.’
‘Bound to happen. You put a high-flying operation with bags of money like CAB-Tech inside a cash-strapped university and it’s bound to attract hostility and jealousy. Haygill’s position in particular would be sensitive. Who is he really answerable to, and who is his real paymaster? The university or his overseas backers? There have been several cases recently of universities suing academics with strong external consultancy funding for a share of their outside earnings. You could imagine the mischief someone like Springer could create in that sort of atmosphere, if he wanted to.’
He indicated to Brock his selection from the wine list. Brock suppressed a wince and called over the waiter.
‘So Haygill could be vulnerable to Springer on the home front,’ Reggie went on, snapping a bread stick. ‘But more interestingly, he could be equally vulnerable on the foreign and scientific fronts too.’
‘How come?’
‘There’s no doubt Haygill’s science is top-drawer stuff in a highly visible and competitive area, but it’s a tricky field, gene therapy. Bucketfuls of cash have been poured into it, but so far results have been sparse, and in at least one case-the Jesse Gelsinger case in the States last year-fatal. The American authorities have examined several hundred gene-therapy protocols involving thousands of patients, but so far we’ve been very cautious about approving experimental programmes involving humans in this country.’
‘Your committees would have to clear what Haygill does, would they?’
‘What he does in the UK, yes, which is mainly laboratory work on genes and gene vectors. He’s said to have gathered an extraordinary amount of material for his analysis, genetic material from over a million women from around the Middle East.’
‘What?’ Kathy looked up, startled. ‘In that building of his, a million women?’
‘A few cells from each, yes…’ Reggie’s attention wandered to the menu. ‘The veal, you reckon, Brock? What about the pollo?’
‘I’ve always found it quite edible, Reggie.’
‘Yes… but you don’t really care much about food, do you? Not really…’ He mused over the alternatives, then ordered the chicken liver crostini, Brock some grilled pigeon. Kathy didn’t feel hungry, and ordered a small risotto and green salad.
‘Anyway,’ Reggie went on, reaching for another breadstick, ‘we have to approve what he does here, but we don’t monitor whatever experiments or applications of his basic research he or one of CAB-Tech’s commercial affiliates may do overseas, right? And that’s where things become sensitive.’
‘What sort of things might he be doing?’ Kathy asked, still thinking of the million women’s cells inside that ziggurat, and wondering if she really wanted to know.
‘Well, let me give you an example. A few years ago the Ashkenazi Jews in the United States became concerned about the incidence of cystic fibrosis, a genetic disease, among their people. So they decided to screen their schoolchildren’s blood. Each child was given an anonymous code number, and when they reached marriageable age and a match was considered with another young Jew, the two code numbers were examined, and if both were found to be carriers for the disease the Committee for the Prevention of Jewish Genetic Diseases advised against the marriage.