Instinct (2010) Page 2

  She sent Karen to the admin office to fill in the next day’s requisition order and started to write up the afternoon’s findings on polistes metricus DNA. That would take about an hour, giving her a chance to edit some new submissions for the European Journal of Entomology afterwards.

  Like many people who have lost a spouse, Laura had taken on more work to occupy the hollow left behind. Michael had been gone for over two years now, but she had got into the habit of keeping his absence from her life at bay. As she put in the hours to look through EJE papers and make further headway into her own experiments, she rarely paused to look at the space she was trying to fill. Being there for her son Andrew was her priority; other than that there was little in her life to stop the insects taking it over.

  Her vocation had started with a childhood interest sparked by an uncle who took her to London Zoo in the school holidays. It had then been nurtured in a well-taught module in her biology A-level. After a gap year searching southern Madagascar for the giant comet moth she had chosen to pursue the subject in a full-blown degree, during which she had come under the tutelage of Dr David Heath. Seven years with him had allowed her to see the contributions her continued study could make. It was as if he opened one door to a million others, each more fascinating than the last. The quality and quantity of time she spent in his company meant that their relationship surpassed that of teacher and pupil. It had never become physical, but he was never far from her thoughts.

  When she acquired her doctorate, it was a foregone conclusion that she would take the subject on as her occupation. As a former pupil of Heath, further opportunities arose with something approaching inevitability, and she soon found herself in the company of the pre-eminent doctors and professors in the field. This, and the number of hours she put in, ensured that she progressed with remarkable speed.

  She had just managed to immerse herself in a proposal for a composite genetic map for Dolichovespula when Karen appeared at her office door.

  ‘Ummmmmm … Dr Trent?’

  Laura stopped reading and looked up over the top of her spectacles.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a man here to see you.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘Just a … man.’

  ‘He didn’t say who he was or what he wanted?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Really? A man just turned up, asked to see me and didn’t say why?’

  Karen shrugged. Laura rolled her eyes, closed her file and followed her assistant to the corridor.

  As she and Karen approached the reception area, Laura could see only one person waiting on the orange plastic chairs. The first thing she noticed was his shirt, which was a little too big for him, as if he were aware of the slightness of his build and wanted to disguise it. Above the collar was a hard face, grey with pencil lines that seemed to describe past difficulties and framed by lank hair that had needed a trim for at least six weeks. Despite this unimpressive appearance, the man had an air of unpleasant confidence that raised Laura’s antennae. She was also intrigued by the deep, steel briefcase that sat between his legs.

  ‘Thank you, Karen. I think I can manage from here,’ Laura said as she continued to study the face, trying to eke out any aspect of it that seemed familiar. At her level, the entomological community was small and tight-knit, so if he was aware of her work in that capacity …

  The man looked up, suddenly catching her eye. She tried to pretend she hadn’t been staring at him but realized it was futile. She had better see what he wanted.

  Watching her approach, he got to his feet, an effortful smile stretching his features.

  ‘Dr Trent?’ he asked, offering his hand.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Laura. His weak grip and American accent concerned her.

  ‘Steven Bishop. It’s an honour to meet you.’

  ‘Er … Thank you.’

  ‘You must be wondering who I am.’

  ‘Yes … I’m sorry, have we met?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  Bishop waited until two lab assistants had walked past and out of earshot before he continued.

  ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’

  Laura was surprised at the man’s need for secrecy. The BEA was hardly MI5, but if this man thought privacy was so important, she was happy to oblige.

  ‘How about my office?’

  Bishop smiled, picked up his briefcase and followed her. Looking around at the blistered paintwork and ancient computers, he allowed the pity to show on his face.

  Laura sat at her desk and gestured to the chair opposite. The walls of her tiny office used to be white but were now closer to chewing-gum grey, with a small patch of brown damp creeping its way out of one of the ceiling corners. Bishop squeezed into the chair and crossed his legs as best he could in the space available.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Trent. I know your time is valuable, so let me get straight to the point. What I am about to tell you is highly confidential, so I hope I can rely on your discretion.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Laura.

  What on earth was this all about?

  ‘I run a NATO facility that researches and produces genetically modified insects. I can’t say much more than that, but the reason I’m here is that we have just lost our resident entomologist, and we need to replace him as quickly as possible. Due to your background and the advances you have made in the field, we believe you are the ideal candidate, Dr Trent.’

  Laura smiled. ‘Well, that’s very flattering, Mr Bishop, but there must be dozens of other people just as qualified to fill your post.’

  ‘There are indeed dozens of other people with your qualifications, Dr Trent, but none of them is quite as brilliant as you. Your application of the human genome isolation to arthropods was nothing short of genius, and your paper on interspecies trait analysis was a quantum leap forward for the discipline.’

  Laura was surprised into a moment of silence.

  ‘You’ve obviously done your homework. In which case, you should know that I am at a critical stage in my current research. My subjects will require close analysis over the coming weeks. Leaving them for a substantial period of time would be out of the question.’

  ‘I understand. You have obligations and responsibilities; I would expect nothing less. With someone of your standing there are bound to be obstacles in persuading you to take on other work, but if you’ll permit me, there are certain factors that might make my proposal more attractive. Without being vulgar, the first is financial: we can offer you ten times your current salary, plus benefits.’ Despite herself, a light appeared behind Laura’s eyes.

  ‘Second, our facilities. Dr Trent, your equipment and computers look as if they could do with some … modernization. Ours are state of the art. Beyond state of the art, in fact. We have the benefit of technological advances that have not yet been made available to anyone else. Whatever you think you are capable of here, you’ll make far greater progress far more quickly at MEROS.’

  ‘MEROS?’

  ‘It stands for Military Entomological Research Operations. We’re a scientific defence facility based in Venezuela.’

  Laura laughed. ‘Venezuela? I’m sorry, Mr Bishop, but that’s out of the question. Aside from the work I have to finish here, I couldn’t possibly uproot my son to go and work in South America.’

  ‘Of course. I suppose the possibility that you might join us on a permanent basis was our most optimistic target. However, we still feel that any assistance you could give us, even on a consultancy basis, would be invaluable. We could make it worth your while, even if it were just the occasional short visit.’

  Laura leaned back in her chair. ‘I don’t know, Mr Bishop. The position does sound intriguing, but I’m not sure my part-time involvement would really suit either of us.’

  Bishop nodded. ‘I know that what I’m suggesting here is quite an undertaking, but if I may, there is o
ne more thing which I hope can persuade you at least to come over and take a look at our set-up.’ Carefully, he placed his briefcase on his lap, rotated the numbers of the combination lock and eased open the lid. Then he slowly brought out a large specimen jar and handed it to Laura as if it were an unexploded bomb.

  At first she didn’t see the significance. The contents looked like a thick twig, slightly distorted by the surrounding formaldehyde. She looked up at Bishop’s encouraging expression and thought she must be missing something, something that deserved another look. She peered closer. The top of whatever it was looked familiar, but it couldn’t be what she thought it was. That would be impossible, but …

  What else could it be?

  ‘Is this real?’

  ‘Absolutely. I assume I don’t have to tell you what it is.’

  ‘No, the junction of the coax and trochanter is quite distinctive. But it can’t be a wasp’s leg. The insect would have to be the size of … a rat.’

  Bishop gave the moment a little room before answering. ‘Dr Trent, we are backed by quite substantial funding and expertise. Are you sure I can’t interest you in a visit to our facility?’

  Laura turned the jar around, examining the leg from every angle. The tibia was so clear she could make out the hairs that covered it like thorns on a rose stem. She was momentarily lost in imagining its owner.

  ‘How big is the body?

  ‘Big enough that I couldn’t hope to bring it into this country without creating an international incident. A leg wouldn’t be quite so provocative. So can I take that as a yes, you’ll at least pay us a visit?’

  Laura placed the jar on her desk. ‘Well, I suppose with enough notice I can leave my experiments in good hands and arrange for Andrew’s grandmother to look after him for a few days. Perhaps I could clear things for the end of next month.’

  Bishop’s ingratiating smile flattened.

  ‘I was hoping you’d join us sooner than that. The sudden departure of our head entomologist has left us in a very difficult position. Is there no way you could come sooner? I’m actually thinking of the next few days.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I couldn’t possibly find anyone to look after Andrew at that short notice.’

  ‘Dr Trent’ – Bishop’s tone hardened – ‘we’d be able to arrange for Andrew to be taken care of. We’d make sure you were adequately compensated. We could even make a donation to the budget of this facility. This is very important to us, and speed is of the essence. I’d really rather not leave without some sort of commitment from you.’

  Bishop’s change of attitude left Laura feeling as if the temperature in the room had plummeted.

  ‘I … understand, Mr Bishop, but I just can’t do it. There’s too much to organize, and I don’t think I’d be able to manage it all in time.’ She stood up and handed the leg back.

  Bishop stood, too. ‘Please think about it carefully, Dr Trent.’

  ‘I will. Of course I will. Now, I’m very sorry, but there are a couple of things I have to finish up before I leave for the day. If you’ll excuse me.’ She offered her hand.

  Bishop shook it, fixing Laura with a look that left her in no doubt as to the extent of his disappointment.

  ‘Thank you for your time.’

  Laura watched him hurry back down the corridor, a mobile phone pressed to his ear.

  2

  In a sweaty clearing eighty miles east of Venezuela’s Yapacana National Park, a matt-black C-27J Spartan cargo airplane squatted like an enormous moth. The surrounding area consisted of thick jungle, too dense to be populated by people but a fine home for some of the more obscure animals of the South American peninsula.

  Where the west side of the clearing became trees there was a white building the size of a cottage which looked inadequate for the enormous aircraft it served. It was manned by a soft-bellied twenty-two-year-old African American called Taj, who spent most of his waking day at a white desk just behind the outermost of four security doors.

  Three male and two female soldiers were carrying large boxes of equipment back and forth between the plane and the building. The scene was not unusual here, they loaded up the aircraft once or twice a month, but there was a feeling amongst the team that made today’s preparations very different: the incident two days earlier had got to them all, and now every break gave rise to heated conversations which caused any downtime to last much longer than usual.

  The process was further lengthened by the absence of Carter and Webster. They missed Carter’s 200 lbs of muscle; he would shift those crates as if they were eggboxes. They were also without the smoothing effect of Major Webster’s unquestioned leadership. In his absence, the command fell to Captain Van Arenn, and he was still simmering about what had happened.

  ‘Yo, Cap, you want to get this shit loaded or what? I’m wheels up in two hours twelve minutes, and it don’t look like you’ll even be halfway done by then.’ Gary Madison, a mercenary pilot who was unaware of the two deaths, was growing impatient. He did not know that pressing Captain Van Arenn in this way was unlikely to get the loading done any faster.

  ‘Madison, talk to me like that again and I’ll wipe your nose across your face,’ said Van Arenn evenly. ‘The job will get done. In the meantime we, meaning the proper soldiers, have shit to discuss, so step back and shut the fuck up.’

  Madison knew that, whatever happened, they needed him to pilot the Spartan. ‘Proper soldiers? You mean a bunch of shitcake wash-ups who couldn’t hack it in the real army? Load my fucking plane, dickwad.’

  The soldiers turned with menace to face Madison, but this was Van Arenn’s call, so the next move was his. He smiled to himself before walking towards a surprisingly calm Madison.

  ‘Hey, Van Arenn, you know I’ve got to fly this thing, so best keep your dumb grunt paws off me.’ They all knew, deaths or no deaths, that nothing stopped the mission. Once it was in motion it followed its schedule to the minute or bad things fell from on high.

  Van Arenn thought for a moment.

  ‘When did you say we were flying? Two hours?’

  Madison nodded, fear rippling his face.

  ‘That’ll give you just enough time to recover from this.’ He dropped his right hand to Madison’s khaki shorts, grabbed hold of whatever he could and twisted until Madison screamed, choked and felt every blood vessel in his face bulging through his skin. When Van Arenn loosened his grip, Madison slid down the side of the loading ramp and collapsed on the ground holding his sore, sore balls. The other soldiers laughed in appreciation while Sadie Garrett walked up to high-five her friend and spit on Madison.

  ‘OK, everybody.’ Van Arenn raised his voice. ‘Fucktard here is right: we do got to load this machine. Let’s get it done quick and meet up in the barracks if anyone else needs to talk things through.’

  3

  After an hour lost in pheromone biosynthesis, Laura checked her watch and saw that it was time to pick Andrew up from school. She would take him home, cook his tea and wait for her mother-in-law, Carol, to come to look after him for the evening. Every second Thursday was Laura’s night to play bridge with three old schoolfriends, but they rarely went anywhere near a pack of cards, preferring instead to drink martinis and discuss unsuitable men to set each other up with.

  She swapped her white lab coat for her beige mac and headed towards the car park. Reaching the doorway, she finally noticed the rain, which had been growing heavier as the afternoon continued. By now it was coming down hard enough to persuade Laura to cover her head with a couple of pieces of junk mail and half-run across the car park to her seven-year-old Ford Mondeo. Inside, she switched on the heater to drive out the solid cold. She sat for a moment, a long exhale marking the short time when nobody was depending on her to be responsible, then she started the engine and pulled out into the high street.

  The heavier the rain, the heavier the traffic, so the ten-minute j
ourney to Andrew’s school took fifteen and was accompanied by the whining mechanics of her windscreen wipers dragging across the glass. Many of the parents had already been and gone and she was able to park right by the front gates. From there she could see the wide brick shelter that served as assembly point for fire drills and wet-weather outdoor-play area. It was also where children waited for their parents if it was raining or windy.

  Laura squinted through the raindrops on the car window and saw that the shelter was empty. She gave a small sigh. Andrew knew this was bridge night, and that it meant that she liked to get home as early as possible. That way she didn’t have to apply make-up and straighten her hair in front of her mother-in-law. There was something about doing that which felt disrespectful and Laura was keen to avoid the guilty mood it put her in before she left her son and went to get tipsy.

  After five minutes waiting in the car, Laura looked at her watch for the ninth time and decided to go and look for Andrew.

  As a former pupil of the school, it always took her a minute to adjust to the sights and smells that were so evocative of her daily life thirty years ago. Low coat hooks, enthusiastically colourful paintings and the stale odour of mass catering combined in a wave of nostalgia that made her forget for a moment why she was there. Turning a corner, she found herself standing by the open door of her old form room and couldn’t help pausing to look inside as a thousand memories seeped through her. The distraction made it all the more surprising when a hand landed gently on her shoulder.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Trent. What’s Andrew forgotten this time?’ It was Miss Halliday, Andrew’s form teacher.

  ‘Oh … er, hello …’ Laura could never remember the teachers’ names. ‘Nothing as far as I’m aware, but he wasn’t by the gates when I came to pick him up so I assumed he was inside somewhere.’