He was far too meticulous.
He followed Bill to his workstation and wrote the name on his fake driving licence into the signing-in log. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out an exquisite-looking box.
‘Can I offer you a piece oftorrone, Bill?’ he said, opening the lid. ‘It’s made from honey and sugar and egg whites and I import it from Italy.’ He paused then added, ‘It’s sweet enough to stop your heart.’
Bill took a small piece and nodded his thanks. He put it on top of his James Lee Burke novel. A light dusting of icing sugar settled beside it.
‘I’ll enjoy that, sir. I’ll have it after my cigarette break.’
‘Thanks for your help, Bill.’
‘Do you know where you’re going, sir?’
‘Any desktop will do,’ he said. ‘Everything’s in the cloud.’
‘OK, sir. I’ll see you soon.’
No you won’t, Beck thought. The atropine in thetorronewill soon be in your bloodstream. By the time I’m ready to leave you’ll be dead.
He threw a wave over his shoulder and made his way into the guts of the facility. He’d never been there before but knew the server room would be on the ground floor and near the centre. A room with no windows and a high ceiling. It wouldn’t be hard to find. Chapin-Hag Industries was a small fish in a large pond with a business model of selling minor breakthroughs to major pharmaceutical companies. One or two a decade made it viable.
According to the papers Beck had read, they had stumbled uponthe AS9 protein breakthrough by accident. It was clear they hadn’t understood its significance.
But he had.
Chapin-Hag Industries thought they had published an interesting fact about an uninteresting protein. But what they didn’t know, what theycouldn’thave known, was that the AS9 protein was the key to unlocking the molecular biology of acquired Breeg–Bart syndrome. It wasn’t the silver bullet he’d spent his professional life searching for, but it was the blueprint to building one.
Beck planned to download their research and write a paper on its potential applications. He would publish it under his own name. Although he could never re-enter his previous world, he would still be lauded for the breakthrough. And he didn’t consider it stealing. If someone didn’t understand the value of something, it was the duty of people who did to take it from them.
He found the server room and sat in front of a monitor. He jiggled the mouse and the screen flickered into life. Instead of the login screen he had expected to see – and had a plan for – it opened directly on a desktop. They hadn’t eventriedto protect their research. He found the correct folder, inserted a memory stick into a USB port and dragged the folder across to begin the download. The progress bar indicated it would take less than a minute. He drummed his fingers on the keyboard and idly wondered if Bill was dead yet.
A small ‘ting’ told him the folder had been safely downloaded. He highlighted the file on his memory stick, right clicked and selected open. He wanted a quick look at what was now his.
He frowned.
The folder didn’t make sense. Instead of an index of files and subfolders, neatly organised into projects and listed chronologically, there was just a single Word document. Maybe it was the summary of the research. He must have missed the main folder somehow. He opened the Word document and read it.
It didn’t take long.
Look Behind You
‘What the heck?’ Beck said.
The server room door opened. Light from the corridor spilled in like stage lamps. Bill was backlit in the doorframe. He leaned against it.
‘I’m not finished yet!’ Beck snapped.
Bill said nothing.
‘I’m sorry, Bill,’ he continued, ‘but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. What I’m doing is confidential and you can’t be in here.’
But Bill made no attempt to move. He just carried on leaning against the doorframe, calmly watching him through those jam-jar glasses. Something was wrong. A feeling of dread crept over Beck, like someone had scraped an icicle down his spine.
‘Bill, if you want to keep your job, you’re going about it entirely …’
His sentence crumpled to nothing as Bill took off his peaked cap and removed his glasses.
‘My name’s Washington Poe, Frederick,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘I think we may have spoken on the phone.’