‘I think there’s a lot to talk about,’ said Grant. ‘I won’t have things sprung on me like this.’
Newton nodded towards the untouched envelope. ‘I’m not springing anything on anyone. I’m sick. Severe hypertension’s the most obvious. It’s all set out in there, in a supporting letter from my doctor.’
‘Hypertension is easily treated,’ dismissed Grant.
‘It isn’t my only problem.’ Or yours, he thought. He’d expected more immediate anger from the man and was glad it hadn’t come. All he wanted now was to get out, back to Washington. He’d take another tranquillizer on the plane.
‘I got the impression that things weren’t right,’ said Grant.
Newton was confused by the remark, not understanding it. ‘Then you can’t be surprised.’
‘Barbara didn’t think it was this bad.’
The response silenced Newton. His last formal assessment with Barbara Spacey had been months ago, just before the last seminar. And until now he hadn’t known Grant received personal copies. ‘My recollection is that she had little to remark upon from our previous session.’ He was sure that’s what she’d written.
‘Easily aroused irritability. A tendency to believe himself manipulated,’ quoted Grant.
‘I don’t recollect that in my copy of her assessment,’ protested Newton, his control faltering.
‘It was in my account,’ stated Grant, simply.
‘You have…?’ started Newton, running out of words in his astonishment at the apparent disclosure that those seemingly pointless, repetitive encounters with the tent-attired psychologist were Grant’s way literally to get inside selected people’s minds. ‘So, you’re not surprised,’ he managed.
‘You’re my vice president supervising everything that’s ongoing in Dubette research and development,’ said Grant. ‘Is it likely that I am going to agree to your leaving, taking with you everything that you know?’
‘You don’t have to remind me of the confidentiality agreement. I had it all re-explained to me by my lawyer, yesterday. I’m not looking for another job, with another pharmaceutical company. I’m getting out of the business. Quitting, like I told you.’
‘You’ve discussed it with your lawyer?’ Grant’s voice rose for the first time, although only slightly.
‘And my doctor.’
‘I don’t want you to go, Dwight. Won’t allow you to go. I want you to have a full medical at the centre at McLean, talk to Barbara again maybe, and we’ll get whatever seems to be the problem out of the way.’
‘I’m going,’ insisted Newton, sure his voice didn’t betray the nervousness an encounter with the other man always engendered. ‘I’ve just told you I’ve talked with a lawyer. His advice is that you can’t legally hold me.’
Grant frowned. ‘I think my lawyers might disagree.’
‘Do you want to put that to the test, in court?’ Newton’s voice still gave no hint of his inward, hollowing turmoil. It was difficult to believe he was confronting Grant like this.
‘I wasn’t threatening, Dwight. Why don’t you tell me what you want?’
The Edward C. Grant approach to any difficulty, thought Newton: beat it into submission or buy it. ‘I told you what I want. I want – intend – to leave.’
‘The board have got to agree the surrender period of stock options,’ said Grant. ‘If we agree their immediate valuation, you’d lose a lot of money.’
‘That is a threat,’ recognized Newton. ‘And you know what? I don’t give a damn. I’m gone. And you know something else? There’s nothing you can do about it…’ He hesitated. ‘This worm’s turned.’ And the moment he said it, he wished he hadn’t. But it didn’t matter. Only getting away from Grant mattered. And he was going to do it. Going to escape.
Grant sniggered. ‘You sure as hell are upset, aren’t you? I don’t ever remember calling you a worm. But if that’s what you think of yourself as…’ He shrugged, intentionally not continuing.
‘Not as upset as you might be,’ said Newton, desperate to recover. ‘Parnell knows we haven’t got all the French stuff back. He wants a public warning…’
‘ What!’ exclaimed Grant, the carefully controlled anger exploding at last.
‘He wanted to come with me. Make the demand in person.’
‘Who told him?’
He’d done it, thought Newton, triumphantly: he’d knocked Edward C. Fucking Grant off his self-satisfied, unassailable perch. ‘He talked to Paris. Saby. Saby refused to say either way. Told him to talk to me. Or you.’
‘And you confirmed it!’
‘I told him it was being gotten back. I don’t intend causing Dubette any more harm than it’s already suffered.’
‘How about I refuse your resignation and fire you, instead? No pension, no stock-option recovery?’
‘How about I sue you for wrongful dismissal, get everything discussed in open court? Or would that make driving dangerous for me before we got there?’ Brilliant! That was absolutely brilliant, and Newton knew, despite the lightheadedness, that he’d stopped the other man dead in his tracks.
Grant’s face didn’t redden. The reverse. It whitened, almost unnaturally, making him appear ghoulish. ‘I told you…’
‘I know what you told me,’ refused Newton, astonished at his own bravery and further emboldened by it. ‘Just as I know there’s no proof, no way even of tracing the money it must have cost, which was misspent anyway because it’s cost you double in lost stock value. But Dubette – you personally – couldn’t withstand the accusation, could you? Just as another fatal car accident – any fatal accident – would be too much of a coincidence. Don’t worry. I’m not going to make any accusations, any more than you are going to fire me. You’re going to accept my resignation, on grounds of ill health. And you know what I think I’d like, in addition? I’d like a reference to it, at the stockholders’ meeting. Some official regret, at my departure. And an acknowledgement, appreciation for everything I’ve done. After all, I have done a lot, haven’t I?’
‘You’re right,’ said Grant, hoarse-voiced. ‘The worm has turned, hasn’t it?’
More than knocked him off his perch, Newton thought, euphorically. He’d done something he’d never believed possible, and emerged superior in a confrontation with Edward C. Grant. ‘What you’re looking at now is its ass.’
‘I’ll tie you up in so many legal restrictions and restraints, you’ll think you’re a Christmas turkey!’
‘You force me, I’ll contest them in court,’ Newton threatened back. He had to get out soon. He didn’t think he could hold on much longer.
‘Get out!’
‘Don’t forget Parnell wants an answer. Or what a problem he can be.’
‘Get out!’
‘I’ll tell him to speak to you direct, shall I? And don’t forget my official acknowledgement at the stockholders’ meeting.’
Grant sat unspeaking, spectre-like, behind his overpowering desk.
Newton rose but didn’t immediately turn. ‘This has almost made up for all the hell I’ve gone through working for you, Ed. Almost. But not enough. I don’t think there’d ever be enough.’
‘Get out!’ yelled Grant, yet again.
Newton thought there was a falter in the hoarseness of the other man’s voice, but wasn’t sure. Perhaps he was hoping too much. He had, after all, achieved more than he’d ever imagined possible. There was a water cooler in the vestibule and Newton knew he couldn’t wait until he got on the plane. Hurrying to it, he gulped the third tranquillizer, grateful there was a cab immediately outside on Wall Street, because his eyes suddenly began to fog and his vision to ebb and flow.
Richard Parnell had been surprised – and encouraged – to learn from another attempt to talk to the man that Newton was in New York less than forty-eight hours after their confrontation. But within three hours of his arriving at McLean that morning, there was a deflection from his most immediate concern, with the smiling presence of Ted Lapidus at the now open office door.
‘We haven’t stopped killing mice, but we’re slowing it down,’ announced the Greek. ‘I’m trying not to get excited.’
Parnell was greeted in the main laboratory by the rest of the dedicated research team, all smiling as well.