♦
“How does that look to you?”
“Ideal.”
It was a small memo pad of the sort that classier hotels place by the phone or on writing desks: one hundred leaves, a stiff cardboard back, and printed across the top of each page in blue-black ink, upper case, was the name ‘INGRAM FRYZER’.
“You’d have been better off ordering at least a dozen,” the girl in PrintPak said to Adam. “We’d have given you a discount. Seems very expensive for such a little pad.”
“It’s a present,” Adam said, handing over a twenty-pound note. “I may be back for more.”
He was leaving the shop when his mobile rang.
“Hello?”
“Primo Belem?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Aaron Lalandusse here. I got your intriguing message.”
“Can we meet?”
“Do you really have all that material?”
“Yes, I do.”
Lalandusse suggested a pub in Covent Garden, not far from his magazine’s offices in Holborn and Adam said he’d be there. It was beginning to come together. He called Rita and asked her if they could meet at the Bellerophon.
“My dad will be there.”
“I know. I need to have a word with him.”
50
“DO YOU WANT A bite to eat? A drink?” Alfredo Rilke looked in his hotel room’s mini-bar. “I can offer you chips — or ‘crisps’, as you call them — some chocolate, a nougat biscuit.”
“Is there any white wine in there?” Ingram asked, suddenly feeling the need for some alcohol. Rilke had taken a floor of the Zenith Travel Inn near Heathrow airport and had summoned Ingram there, necessitating an inconvenient journey out in the rush hour at the end of the day. What was wrong, Ingram thought, with Claridge’s or the Dorchester, for heaven’s sake?
Rilke unscrewed the top from the wine bottle and poured out a glass for him. Ingram could tell as he accepted it that it wasn’t nearly cold enough. What was the point of being the fourteenth richest man in the world, or whatever he was, and choosing to live in this style?
“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass, “very good to see you, Alfredo.”
“I’m basing myself here for the next few days.”
“Excellent. You can come to our press conference.”
“I’ll be there in spirit, Ingram.” He paused, and re-set his face as if he had serious news to impart. “I wanted you to know that I just heard, unofficially, secretly — an hour ago — that we’ll get our PDA licence. Zembla-4 is going to be approved.”
Ingram inhaled, needing more oxygen. He felt his hand tremble and put his glass down.
“To say that’s ‘good news’ sounds mean-spirited. That means the MHRA won’t be far behind.” His mind was going fast. “But how do you know? It’s unofficial, you say?”
“Yes. Let’s say word has reached us. Our people have managed to learn enough about the reports, their content and recommendation. The advisory committee stage will be very positive, also. We heard it on the grapevine, as the song has it.” Rilke smiled. “Don’t look so worried, Ingram. We’re not selling heroin. We’re not smuggling weapons-grade uranium to rogue states that sponsor terrorism. Zembla-4 will save millions of lives over its licence period. It’s a boon, a blessing to mankind.”
“Of course.” Ingram tried to make his features relax. “Obviously I can’t even hint at this at the press conference.”
“No, not even a tiny word. Just the business of the day. But I’ll make sure you know our final buy-out price in plenty of time. It’ll be very generous. Some analysts may even say more than generous. But not so generous as to prompt curious questions.”
“I see,” Ingram said, not seeing, wondering where this was leading.
“And then we get the PDA approval.” Rilke spread his hands as if to say: look how easy it all is.
“The ex-shareholders might feel a little irritated.”
“They’ll be happy enough. We’ll make a good offer. They’ll have some Rilke stock to comfort them.”
“But when they hear about the Zembla-4 licence they’ll suspect we knew.”
“But how could we know? The Food and Drug Administration guards its deliberations under utmost secrecy. Nothing is certain. The PDA refuses one out of four applications.”
“Yessss…Where will we manufacture Zembla-4?”
“Leave that to me. It won’t be your company any more, Ingram. The days of these complicated, tricky decisions will be over. In fact you’ll probably want to retire and enjoy your money.”
“I will?” Ingram queried — and then quickly made it a statement. “I will. You’re quite right.” He drank some more of his warm wine. ‘Rilke Pharma bags Calenture-Deutz’, the headline would run somewhere in the financial pages, Ingram thought. Not a headline, no big deal until the Zembla-4 news is announced. Then more plaudits for Alfredo Rilke’s uncanny acumen — somehow cherry-picking a twenty-year licensed blockbuster drug for a few hundred million. A billion dollar revenue stream guaranteed for two decades. What would that do for Rilke Pharma stock? Not that Ingram cared, he would be enjoying his modest share of Zembla-4 royalties. True, he thought, if I were an institutional holder of shares in Calenture-Deutz, happy to accept Rilke Pharma’s generous offer, I might be somewhat aggrieved to know that I wasn’t going to participate in that revenue stream or see its benefits. I might even start asking uncomfortable questions. Why sell a company when its new drug is up for approval? He looked back at Alfredo, who was at the window contemplating the traffic on the M4.
“My argument to the shareholders would be—”
“That you cannot guarantee a licence for Zembla-4. Not all applications succeed — only a few dozen drugs a year get a licence. Rilke Pharma’s excellent offer is too good to pass up. Take your profit now rather than risk having an unlicensed drug on your shelf with all the costs of its development unreturned. Shrewd business sense.” Rilke wandered over and put his big hand on Ingram’s shoulder. “No one will query your decision, Ingram, believe me. You are just being a prudent CEO. Everyone will make a nice profit. Your more astute shareholders will have taken Rilke stock rather than cash — these people won’t want to ask many searching questions. And, of course, no one knows about our little arrangement.” Rilke smiled. “Which is one of the reasons I meet you in these charming hotels.”
“True. Yes…” Ingram encouraged his excitement to bubble up again and sipped his wine — no, it was too disgusting. He put it down. In fact he was feeling a little nauseous. He’d open something decent when he returned home, celebrate properly. Then an unpleasant thought arrived, rather spoiling the party.
“We never found that Kindred fellow,” he said. “Pity about that.”
“It doesn’t really matter any more,” Rilke said with a reassuring smile. “Now we have the licence in the bag, Kindred’s moment has gone.”
“That’s very reassuring,” Ingram said. “Actually, is there any brandy in that fridge? — I’m feeling a little off-colour.”
51
THE FRAMED POSTER WAS for an exhibition of Paul Klee paintings—‘ANDACHT ZUM KLEINEN’ was its title — held in Basle in 1982 and there was a reproduction of a Klee watercolour, a pointed-roofed house in a moonlit landscape of stylised pine trees with a fat white moon in the sky. At the bottom of the watercolour was Paul Klee’s signature and the painting’s title written in his scratchy copperplate handwriting: ‘Etwas Licht in dieser Dunkelheif.’
Rita looked at Primo, who was studying it carefully.