That amounted to praise, Newton decided. ‘I thought so.’
‘I had the same done in Paris. That was useful, too.’
‘You’ve seen everything I sent up, about the website proposal?’
Grant nodded, tapping a folder on the left of his desk. ‘You did good there, too, Dwight. I wish others had.’
Newton was quite relaxed, which he rarely was in Grant’s presence, certainly on a one-to-one basis. But he’d calculated the situation from every which way and concluded that he was probably the only person who couldn’t be accused of mistake or misjudgement. It certainly seemed that way from the conversation so far. Guessing the other man’s reference, he said: ‘What’s the take from Paris?’
‘Buck-passing,’ replied Grant, at once. ‘I hauled Saby back, for a personal explanation. And Mendaille, obviously.’
Newton was surprised, properly realizing how seriously the president was treating the misdirected communication. Henri Saby was the chief executive of the French subsidiary. Georges Mendaille was head of research in Paris and the man personally responsible for the mistake. ‘What do they say?’
‘Saby entirely blames Mendaille. Mendaille says it was a simple but understandable mistake, that out of habit he mishit the automatically logged email address, sending it to Washington in the normal way instead of personally to you, which was the specific instruction.’
‘If it was the specific instruction, Mendaille shouldn’t have been hitting keys from habit,’ said Newton. ‘He should have been concentrating.’
‘Exactly!’
Toadying bastard, thought Grant. But hadn’t he made everyone with whom he had to deal a toadying bastard?
‘You firing him?’
Grant shook his head. ‘Dismissed, he’d be resentful, wanting to hit back, a potential whistle-blower. I want him where I can see him, know what he’s doing all the time…’ The man paused. ‘Mendaille’s our hostage, we’re not ever going to be his. That’s the way it always works.’ There was another pause. ‘Which brings us back to your problems.’
Newton shifted uncomfortably at it being described as his problem, recognizing that no blame or culpability for anything would ever be traceable to Edward C. Grant. There’d be no record, not even a diary entry, of this meeting. Newton accepted, too, that despite everything being already set out in the file upon Grant’s desk, it all had to be talked through.
‘Rebecca Lang’s in a relationship with Parnell,’ he began. ‘Sometimes she stays at his place, sometimes – usually weekends – he stays over with her in Bethesda…’
‘We got photographs?’ cut in Grant, who already knew the answer from his direct contact with Harry Johnson, the head of Dubette security. The question was to bind Newton into any future action that might be necessary.
‘Coming and going from both places,’ confirmed Newton. That wasn’t in the file, so perhaps there was after all a purpose in talking it through. ‘She asked Showcross outright what was going on. He told her it was beyond her clearance and nothing to do with her…’
‘But then she rang Paris?’ cut in Grant, again.
‘On a cockamamie excuse about a transmission screw-up that could have been sorted out in a second by email.’
‘We know who she spoke to in Paris? What was said?’
Newton humped his thin shoulders. ‘Just the phone log, recording the outgoing call. It lasted six and a half minutes.’
‘Long time to sort out a simple transmission misprint,’ judged Grant.
‘Too long,’ agreed Newton. ‘You think we should get Saby or Mendaille to find out who she spoke to – what was discussed?’
‘We need to know,’ said Grant. ‘But I don’t want any more curiosity in Paris than might already have been aroused by my bringing Saby and Mendaille back.’
Not my problem or my decision, thought Newton, thankfully. ‘I think we’ve got to assume Rebecca will have told Parnell.’
‘Told him what?’ seized Grant, at once. ‘Is there any way she could have seen anything other than that one misdirected message?’
Newton didn’t answer at once, trying to assess the commitment being forced from him. Then he said: ‘No. No, I’m sure she couldn’t.’
‘And what could she infer from what she did see?’
‘Only that there was an out-of-the-ordinary exchange going on at the highest level between Paris and Washington.’ You were the guy who mentioned France publicly at the seminar, thought Newton.
Grant pulled a sheet of paper from another folder, gazing down at it for several moments before reading aloud: ‘ Welcome your assessment of our detailed security proposal. And it’s signed Mendaille.’ He didn’t speak for several more moments, and Newton remained silent, too. ‘No,’ the bulky, white-haired man abruptly decided. ‘By itself it wouldn’t mean anything.’
‘I think I’ll keep security on to things – ensure that she does as she’s been told. Warn Showcross that I want to be told if she shows any more curiosity.’
‘Do that!’ agreed Grant, who’d already given the order to the security chief. ‘What about Showcross? He likely to become too curious?’
Newton shook his head, positively. ‘Showcross knows where his salary cheque comes from.’
‘Keep the security check on Parnell, too. Let’s watch for any interest there shouldn’t be from him.’ There was another pat on the Washington dossier. ‘I really do think you handled that website business very well, too. What I find unbelievable is that the son of a bitch actually suggested it in the first place.’
‘He’s got a lot of adjustments still to make to living in the commercial world. But I’m knocking him into shape. I’ve set up some other things,’ openly boasted Newton.
‘Keep on the job, Dwight.’
‘I always do.’
‘And I’m always grateful.’ There was a too obvious look at his watch. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you lunch…’ Grant put a hand tight beneath his chin. ‘I’m up to here.’
It would have risked his New York visit becoming too publicly known, acknowledged Newton. ‘I need to get back anyway.’
‘We’ll keep in close touch – the closest,’ insisted the president. ‘I don’t want to lose control of this.’ Control, of everything and every one and every cent, was Edward C. Grant’s watchword.
‘I’m not clear on one thing,’ said Newton, briefly refusing the dismissal. ‘Are we going to go ahead with the French idea?’
Grant gave himself time to compose the reply. ‘Commercially it makes very good sense. But the medical decision has got to be yours, Dwight. If it is medically safe, as the French insist, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t do it. But we can’t, obviously, risk being caught out.’ Which is why you’re being given the total responsibility, thought Grant.
It put his name very firmly – and provably – on the proposal, Newton realized. So he couldn’t relax – the very opposite, in fact. ‘If I decide there’s a chemical danger, we don’t go ahead?’
‘We can’t chance anything unethical. But at the same time we’ve got every right to protect our products, intellectual and otherwise,’ smiled Grant. ‘It would certainly be commercially good for the company. I want you to keep that in mind.’
That was the closest he’d get to a positive order, accepted Newton. ‘We’ll put it through every test.’
‘I know you will. That’s why you are where you are, Dwight. I’d trust you with my life… and those of everyone else whose lives are made better by the drugs and treatments we devise.’
‘Thank you. That’s good to hear.’ It was almost as if they were working from a script now. He wished it wasn’t a script written entirely by the other man.
‘And Dwight,’ added Grant, as Newton was almost at the door to the suite.
‘What?’ frowned Newton, turning back into the room.
‘Not that way. The private elevator. Don’t forget the security.’
Or the culpability, thought Newton.
‘So, you’re finally set up?’