The Psychonaut - Book 1 Page 3
During the resume Merrick caught Carrack looking up from his reading, then nodding affirmatively at Hislop.
After hearing about Garentos prospective expansion to the R &D program from their project director, Gino Perella, Slessinger took control again and concluded by saying, “I hope these proposals we have drafted address your concerns, and meet with your approval.”
“We’ll have our legal department look over the wording,” said Anne Maisery “and, of course we’ll need to consult, but from my point of view this shows considerable movement in the right direction.”
Merrick looked at each personality as they spoke, interpreting the body language and weighing the words carefully. What no one could have known was that he was also smelling the air, letting the chemical-laden currents permeate his olfactory senses. There was a general blanket of corticosteroids—a predictable cocktail of stress hormones given the environment in the room. Each participant had their own unique bouquet serving to distinguish them and, in the process, reveal their motivation.
Hislop placed his hands on the table. “These are indeed welcome developments. And you’ve presented us with an intriguing build up. But I guess we’re all waiting for the punchline.”
“Our offer?” Farrago said. “I crave your forgiveness, it’s the salesman in me.”
That was the first lie. Textbook. It sounded like an admission of crudeness but was in fact a calculated move.
Merrick breathed deeply. Elevation of testosterone, and the adrenaline is almost overpowering.
“Can I be frank Mr Hislop?”
“Be my guest.”
“We cannot meet your evaluation of worth—quite.”
Subtle dilation of pupils but no cortisol. The Italian was enjoying this. Still—nothing that would reveal major subterfuge.
“We can increase our offer to 1.5 billion euros.”
Hislop blew out of the corner of his mouth. “That’s still 100 million short of what we’d be remotely interested in. I don’t think—”
“Please. Hear me out.”
More testosterone from Hislop and increased adrenaline from Farrago.
“As a goodwill gesture, a sweetener if you like, we will boost our investment in the Lanotrizine program and guarantee an annual cash injection of one million euros until the UK MHRA and US FDA approve the drug.”
Carrack could barely conceal a grunt of approval—no need for Merrick to read anything more into that. Carrack was an open book to all present. Yet Merrick was picking up something else —something undefinable but demanding of his attention.
Unspoken between Slessinger and Farrago. A previous agreement. The conclusion of a gambit. Something kept under wraps.
“I have a couple of questions,” Bancroft said.
“Please,” Farrago said, turning his palms upward.
“I’m delighted you have financial confidence in our mission to reduce suffering from Alzheimers,” Bancroft continued, “and recognise that the guarantee represents a small but significant risk on your part. We’re all aware of the succession of setbacks in the Lanotrizine trials. However, my remaining concern is the workforce.”
Bancroft took a measured sip of his coffee. “As well as devoting our energies and money into what we see as humanitarian goals, we are renowned investors in people. Call me old fashioned, but this company was built on the notion that, whether clerks or doctors, directors or secretaries, we support the development of our staff.”
“I agree unequivocally,” Farrago said.
His second lie.
Bancroft put down his cup. “My question is: What guarantee can you give regarding our employees? How do we know that you won’t asset strip the company once the Lanotrizine is marketable?”
“Dr Bancroft.” Slessinger looked at the greying researcher with dead eyes. “I can refer you to our track record. If you turn to our proposal you will see our dealings and mergers for the last ten years.”
Bancroft flicked over the pages. “Yes, I have seen. But these are your major acquisitions. What about the smaller companies? You’ve only listed those with a turnover of 1.5 billion or more. I understand you bought up many concerns in Latin America. What were the policies governing any streamlining of staffing and resources?”
Major expulsion of adrenaline from both Farrago and Slessinger.
Slessinger pulled out another ream of papers and passed them on. “I assumed you wouldn’t be interested in our lower profile deals, but here is a comprehensive list. Full annual statistics are summarised.”
The Harris-Billinger staff perused the new document and a few whispered amongst each other.
“The stability of these subsumed corporations seems kosher. Are you sure it’s a complete list?” Bancroft said.
“Absolutely,” Farrago said. “The monopolies and mergers commissions of each country stipulate that we report all accounts and company statistics for five years after any acquisition.”
There it was again. A sideways glance from Farrago, and Slessinger looking downwards, pretending not to catch his eye. The Warning klaxon crescendoed as Merrick flicked through his printouts from Garento’s portfolio. He found what he was looking for. He’d highlighted the name Empergom in yellow under a heading called Subsidiaries. Why did that name ring colossal bells in his mind?
Perella had changed the subject to Garento’s hands-off management model, but Merrick wasn’t buying it. He switched on his tablet and looked at the internet history from the previous night. Turning to the web archive of El Nacional, a Venezuelan newspaper, he found the article, tucked away in the financial section:
‘Growing giant Empergom feeds on the carcase of another hapless emergent laboratory.’
Merrick scribbled a note and furtively passed it to Hislop. The CEO read it and frowned.
“Mr Slessinger,” Hislop said, interrupting Perella. “Why don’t you tell us about Empergom?”
Cortisol ramping tenfold now. He would have been surprised if the whole table couldn’t detect it.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Slessinger said.
“I mean, why did you not reveal your major shareholding in a predatory asset-stripper?”
“Why, Mr Hislop. Are you accusing us of underhand practice?” Farrago said, scowling.
“I’m not necessarily accusing you of anything. I’m looking for transparency.”
~~~
The remaining two minutes of the meeting had played out predictably. Claims of unethical practice were ineffectively parried by bluster and wounded pride on the part of the Garento executive. The office door suffered as Farrago barged through it, followed by his shoal of barracudas. As the final one left, speaking rapidly into his mobile, a collective sigh of relief settled on Hislop and his crew, all save Carrack, who looked to Merrick like a fox licking shit off a wire brush.
As the board members gathered up their files and frustrations, Hislop pulled Merrick to one side. “That was a good performance you put in there , Merrick. Of course, it’s back to the drawing board as regards the next move for our company. But, if it hadn’t been for you, we might have been sleepwalking into a nightmare.”
Merrick extended his fingers and flipped over the palms. “No sleight of hand. Just good research and a bit of instinct.”
“Uncanny, absolutely uncanny. It’s almost like you had a sixth sense.”
“Or a third eye,” Maisery said, causing both men to turn to her.
“You mean you aren’t familiar with Dharmic spiritual traditions?” she said, shouldering her handbag.
“I can’t say I’ve studied a lot of eastern mysticism,” Merrick said.
She placed her hand on his head as he drank in her pheramone-laden breath. “The gate that leads to higher consciousness. I think we could make further use of Merrick’s gift, don’t you Richard?”
“Well, now that the subject’s been brought up,” Hislop said, “what would you say to us putting you on a retainer?”
“Not necessarily anything. We’d pay you your standard consultation fee just to remain at our disposal.”
Hislop smiled, but Merrick detected a barely hidden appendix to the offer. “I take it you wouldn’t want me at anyone else’s disposal?”
Hislop exhaled. “Put it this way, we’d rather ensure that you were on our side of the conference table than our competitor’s. How often do you get the chance to earn money by doing nothing?”
Merrick paused only for a second. “Thanks, but no thanks. Money for nothing is attractive to some, but I need to keep my options open. I believe in vocation, and I wouldn’t want my skills mouldering away for any length of time.”
“Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying.” Hislop extended his hand. “No hard feelings, I hope. But if you change your mind, you know how to get in touch.”
Merrick shook hands with both Hislop and Maisery then took his leave. In the foyer, he stopped to check his mobile. There was one text message.
Well done for heading Garento off at the pass! You can see why we’re interested in you. Meet me at Paraganet House tomorrow morning, nine o’ clock, and I’ll explain what I have in mind.
There followed some GPS co-ordinates.
Merrick’s pulse quickened. This was getting eerie. He had half a mind to drive down to wherever it was straight away and give the bastard a piece of his mind. Then his rational mind stepped in. On an impulse he looked up the number of Mike, his ex-Met office friend, and rang the number. It cut straight to voice mail.
“Hi Mike,” he said. “It’s Merrick. There’s something I want to run past you. Give me a call when you get a ‘mo.”
He pocketed the mobile and walked towards the door. He needed some air.
~~~
Chapter 5
Don’t talk to strangers
The vibe of London intoxicated Merrick as he emerged from the Preston building. God, how he loved this city. It struck him that this was less a metropolis and more an organism. Over eight million people, each performing their role in life and contributing to the good of the whole. He viewed himself as a unique part of the city’s morphology, the equivalent of the pineal gland. A seemingly insignificant part of the brain, yet through its secretions it yielded a profound effect on the body.
Of course there were rogue elements too. Subversive individuals and organisations working antagonistically, like rats amongst the sewers and back-streets. But that was part of its attraction. Even these contributed to the character that was London. Truly a city poised on the apron of the world’s stage.
He didn’t have any pressing engagements for the rest of the day, so he caught the bus and alighted at Covent Garden. A walk home via St. James’ Park would give him time to think.
Looking up for a second he caught sight of a woman, black braids down her back, perusing a clothing stall on the opposite side of the road. He pictured the ideal face to accompany such a shock of hair. He often carried out such mind experiments as an exercise for his imagination but, once the subject turned round, he was usually disappointed. Blonde, perfectly straightened hair would often conceal a fake-tanned harridan. Pete called them Golden Deceivers. Curvaceous latino figures morphed into street hags.
The girl looked over her shoulder before taking a jacket off a rack and slipping it into her large tapestry shoulder bag. The stall holder, distracted by a customer noticed nothing. Her face etched itself like flash photography in his mind. Beautiful? Sure. Definitely worth a second look. Most people fixate upon the yes, but the girl’s face was a work of art, only to be appreciated in its entirety. He side-stepped a mother with a pushchair and crossed the street, following after the girl. The bustling throng of shoppers impeded him, but he kept sight of the raven tresses, bobbing up and down in front of him. He gradually made ground—but not without elbowing a few pedestrians and stepping on someone’s toe.
The girl stepped into an ethnic craft shop and revealed her profile. He registered the nose and noted it was classically Eastern—which would have been unbecoming on anyone else. But on her it looked majestic, like an Indian princess’. He followed her inside the shop and ducked under some Chinese mobiles and exotic dream-catchers. When she looked round, he reached for a book so as not to catch her eye. As soon as he dared, he looked up. She was trying on a Celtic silver necklace.
Her tilted head lingered, pensive. The jaunty step betrayed a carefree confidence. She looked in a mirror and smiled.
Here is a girl at home in her own skin.
She undid the clasp of the necklace and let it slip down her blouse out of sight. Despite the open necked garment she barely revealed any cleavage. The brazen act of theft aroused him more than the prospect of what lay below the silken material.
His senses came into play immediately, a quicksilver trickle of perception splashing his consciousness. She steals, not out of need but because she can. She knows she’s good at this.
A camera overhead pointed away from where she stood, covering a nook hidden from the shop assistant’s view. The place she had chosen was in plain sight of the cash desk. She had made her move as the assistant tended to a bearded man buying a set of pan pipes. Her audacity ensured her success.
“Thanks,” she called, walking briskly out of the shop.
Merrick was caught off guard but followed her out, remaining several steps behind. It was when she stopped to gaze at a mannequin, clothed in designer splendour in the next boutique window, that he stepped up beside her.
“You know, your skills could be netting you a larger profit if you employed them on Oxford Street.”
She turned to face him, surprise dilating her pupils.
“Do I know you?” she said, recovering. The accent was Middle-Eastern. Egyptian at a guess.
“Merrick. Merrick Whyte.” He held out his hand and she shook it cautiously. The fingers were slender and flawlessly manicured with cherry red nail varnish. Her smile revealed pearl white teeth, with one crooked incisor.
She refused braces as a teenager. Comfortable in her perfect imperfection.
“And what would you know of my skills?” she finally said with a slight lisp
“You’re good. You’re very good,” he said. “I’d applaud, but I’m ethically bound to tell you that you’re crossing a line.”
She turned her head away, looking down the street. “What’re you, a store detective or a religious nut?”
“You’ll notice I haven’t asked you to turn out the contents of your bag, or indeed your blouse. So that rules out the former. As for religion, I do a bit of yoga and meditation. Does that count?”
“Pretty nutty. It could get you arrested in some countries. But I heard that freedom of religion is still upheld in the capital.
A wide grin broke out on his face.
“Do you like coffee?” he said. “I know a place down the street, and if you let me buy, I promise I won’t arrest you.”
She’s interested, but is she going to take up the offer of a complete stranger?
“Okay, Columbo,” she said.
Bingo.
“Lead on. I’m Lotus by the way.”
“Lotus? Now there’s a name. You can tell me all about it at Charlie’s.”
The coffee bar was called the Funky Civet. A cartoon kopi luwak adorned the sandwich board outside the shop. The animal leaned against a brick wall, a steaming espresso held in one paw.
“This is a bit off the beaten track,” she said. “Favourite haunt of yours?”
“I know the proprietor,” he said. “Sources his own coffee beans personally from Sumatra and Java. I’ve never been one for your multinational mass-produced gloop.”
“A dyed in the wool coffee-snob. I’m humbled. Is it true that they obtain the beans from the animal’s shit?”
“It is. But farming methods vary. Some producers keep the civets
in battery cages and force-feed them with coffee beans. Charlie only uses ethical suppliers.”
“So, a coffee snob with a conscience?”
Charlie greeted Merrick as they stepped through the door and took them to a table next to the window.
Lotus demurred. “Do you mind if we sit somewhere else? I kind of feel exposed seated behind glass.”
“Whatever you wish madame,” said Charlie, exaggerating the bonhomie.
Merrick ordered two luaks and winked at Lotus.
“I’m curious,” he said, looking at her. “Is Lotus a stage name or what?”
“No,” she said, straightening her skirt. “My father was American and my mother an artist. They met on one of his frequent foreign trips as a wine-buyer. He loved classic automobiles while she had multi-cultural pretensions. I have to admit though, I’ve grown quite fond of seeing people’s reactions when I tell them I’m named after a car rather than an exotic flower.”
“Ha. A man after my own heart. I won’t make the usual innuendos about engine parts.”
“Oh, I’m disappointed. I was hoping you could add to the compendium I’m building up.”
Charlie returned with the coffees and Merrick used the opportunity to observe her more closely. Her hair was naturally jet black and shone with an air-brushed model’s brightness.
Were those hair extensions? Maybe she likes to be someone she isn’t—just sometimes.
Her perfume mixed with a natural musk to produce an intoxicating bouquet. He savoured it for a few precious seconds before taking his cup.
She blew on the expensive brew with thin, rose-petal lips and looked up, meeting his gaze. “So, as they say; enough about me, what about you?”
He leaned forward. “Tell me what you want to know,” he said, clasping his hands together in front of him.
“What I want to know, Merrick Whyte, is...” She licked her top lip as she paused. “What is your darkest sexual fantasy?”
A surprised expression drew itself on Merrick’s face. “Mmm, now let me think,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “I guess my fantasy is … just to have sex.”