Requiem (22 page)

‘Well, it doesn’t make much difference whose it is, does it? This sort of thing does none of us any good. What I want to know is why the hell the federation didn’t get quoted? They must have been contacted, surely.’ The UK Agrochemical Federation was the trade organization of the pesticide manufacturers. One of its main functions was to counter the screechings of the Green lobby, though in Schenker’s opinion it was largely ineffectual; it never moved without a committee decision and he, more than anyone, knew that committees nipped most effective action in the bud.

‘They say they didn’t have time to reply,’ Cramm explained.

‘How long do they need? A week? A year? Good God, this sort of thing can be answered in two minutes flat.’ He shook his head irritably. ‘Make sure the newspapers get a suitable complaint about unbalanced reporting. Make sure the federation gets
some
sort of statement in. We can’t have this sort of thing splashed all over the papers and not put the record straight. Containment, Cramm.
Containment
.’ He glanced anxiously at the time – he had to prepare for an important board meeting later in the morning – and reached across his desk for the next problem, which came in the form of a heavy document from the UK division. But Cramm hadn’t quite finished.

‘Catch was behind this,’ he said, slipping the cuttings into a file.

‘Mmm?’ Schenker said vaguely, already absorbed by his reading. ‘So?’

‘They must have their claws into Nick Mackenzie. They’ll try to milk him for funds.’

Tearing himself away, Schenker looked up. ‘So?’

‘This is a man with millions. He could – ’

‘Millions?’ Schenker echoed with distaste. ‘No wonder the country’s in recession.’ He waved a dismissive hand. He wasn’t interested, not this morning, not when Research were manoeuvring for extra finance, which, if he wasn’t very careful indeed, would be taken from his own marketing development budget. Research, under McNeill, had an independence from the executive which was intended to ensure that it retained a certain detachment and impartiality, but which only succeeded in splitting the power base and reducing effective decision making. McNeill was the thorn in Schenker’s flesh, the one irritant that was impossible to shift.

‘Deal with it,’ he said vaguely.

Cramm seemed about to speak, but thought better of it.

Schenker returned to the notes which accompanied the fat document. The document, drawn up by Morton-Kreiger’s UK Agrochemicals Division, dealt with the implications of a proposed new Food and Environment Protection Act. The changes brought by the last Act, in 1985, had been harsh but not, on the whole, unreasonable. But these new proposals went much further; in fact, they went so far as to be absurd. If enacted, it would become compulsory for certain foods to carry what amounted to a health warning. The mind boggled: what were these warnings going to say? ‘These potatoes have been sprayed with X, Y and Z’? They might as well say: ‘These potatoes will endanger your health.’ Or ‘These potatoes contain dangerous chemicals.’ Lunatic.

According to the Green lobby, this labelling was needed to discourage growing methods that resulted in the buildup of pesticide residues. But it was these very growing methods that had been encouraged by the Ministry of Agriculture for decades, and which were still practised by vast numbers of growers. Were they seriously going to put all those growers out of business? More to the point, where was the scientific proof to back the contention that pesticides were dangerous? There was absolutely no firm evidence that residues were in the slightest bit harmful.

As usual, it was alarmism based on the scantiest of research. A typical Green stratagem.

But if the idea for food labelling was a nuisance, the other legislative proposals were deeply worrying, for the simple reason they had a much better chance of getting through. The amount of food sampling was to be increased – that is, more products lifted off the supermarket shelves, tested for residues and the growers held responsible – and the maximum permissible levels of pesticide residues were to be put in line with those of other countries. This, Schenker feared, would put a real squeeze on the UK market. Until now, the UK market had been much freer of petty restrictions than other countries in the developed world. There were something like thirty-eight pesticides still in use in the UK which had been banned or restricted elsewhere, and that included 2,4,5-T of Agent Orange fame, aldrin, dieldrin and lindane.

Of course the British market was only a fifth the size of the US market, but that wasn’t the point. One compromise, a single concession, and before you knew it, customers would be paying through the nose for rotting, unattractive produce.

‘How are we getting on with this?’ he asked Cramm. The question wasn’t intended to elicit information about the glossy presentation document sent to the parliamentary committee by the Federation, nor the slim fact-file sent to every member of parliament, nor the seminar and lavish lunch already held for scientific journalists, nor the generous grants and personal softeners handed out to leading scientists: all this (initiated and overseen by Schenker) was just basic groundwork. What Schenker wanted to know was how they were getting on where it really mattered: with the government and, in particular, the Minister of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, a tough-minded wet called Cranbourne.

‘Can’t get near Cranbourne,’ Cramm said. ‘Keep getting frozen off by his staff.’

‘Why?’ Schenker asked simply. ‘
Why?
’

Cramm shrugged. ‘The official line is that they’ve got all the facts they need. But the problem is still Cranbourne himself. He seems determined to stick to his guns.’

‘What’s wrong with the man?’ Schenker exclaimed. ‘He seems to have got a serious blind spot. Why else would he shut us out? He’s meant to be a senior minister, for God’s sake. He’s meant to have an open mind.’ Schenker chewed his upper lip, a habit of which he was unaware, but which Cramm and the rest of his staff recognized as a sign of deep irritation.

Schenker’s back was hurting. He got up from his chair and, stretching hard, went to the window. A thin drizzle was falling from a leaden sky, so that the grey of the river was indistinguishable from that of the sky. Schenker noticed the weather only in so far as it caused the traffic to clog up and slow his progress to meetings, or when, as now, it obscured his view of the City and the Stock Exchange, where even at this moment the market analysts would be reading indicators of Morton-Kreiger’s soon-to-be-published half-year results.

‘Still one of the PM’s blue-eyed boys, Cranbourne, is he?’ Schenker asked. ‘Hasn’t blotted his copy book?’

‘No. Keeps his head down and his nose clean. Toes the line. Always has.’

‘And no reshuffle before the next election?’

‘Very unlikely. Though there are plenty of rumours of a snap election.’

‘The spring. If they go early, they’ll go in the spring. But assuming the worst scenario, Cranbourne could be sitting in that chair for another eighteen months. And he might just do it, you know. Push the Bill through.’ Schenker turned to Cramm. ‘No whispers about him? No rumblings of dissatisfaction?’

Cramm shook his head.

Schenker frowned. ‘What – nothing?’

A look of understanding came over Cramm’s quick face. ‘I’ll find out.’

Schenker sat down. ‘You do just that. With a bit of luck, Driscoll will get Agriculture next time round and we’ll be on to a better wicket. But in the meantime we’ve got to find a strategy for Cranbourne.’

‘Containment,’ offered Cramm, not without a faint smile.

The mention of Driscoll reminded Schenker of something. He buzzed his secretary. ‘Contact Mrs Driscoll, would you, Elaine? See if she’d like a car on the morning of the opera. She might want to go to her hairdresser or something. And the flowers, Elaine, the ones for the next morning? Roses.’

He hadn’t lost his certainty that Susan Driscoll would like roses. All real women liked roses. Real women dressed in feminine style, had tidy hair, pink lipstick and were a support to their husbands. Modern women, with their distorted values and almost masculine aggression, were unattractive, often alarmingly so. Fortunately career women were thin on the ground in the agrochemical industry.

Schenker surveyed his memo pad, and saw there was nothing more to discuss with Cramm. ‘That’s it then, is it?’

‘Not quite.’ Cramm rearranged the files on his lap. ‘A small problem in Chicago. A report from one of our scientists.’

Schenker spread his fingers over the desk in two wide arcs.

‘That’s Research’s problem, isn’t it?’ he said testily.

‘Strictly speaking. But I thought you’d better see a copy of the report immediately, before it came to you through the normal channels. This scientist, Dublensky – if I’ve pronounced it right – he’s gathered some data on the workers at the Aurora plant and – ’

‘Is that his job? To get data on the Aurora plant?’ Schenker snapped.

‘Well – no, I wouldn’t have thought so.’

‘What
is
his job then?’

‘He’s a toxicologist.’

‘In charge of?’

‘Er – ’ Cramm glanced at some notes. ‘Well, monitoring toxicology trials, I believe.’

‘Then what the hell’s he doing writing a report about the Aurora plant?’ The Aurora Chemical Company of Aurora, Illinois, was a wholly-owned subsidiary of MKI – Morton-Kreiger International of Chicago. It manufactured three of the company’s best-selling US products, but as far as day-to-day management went, it was a separate entity.

‘Aurora’s got a chief executive, hasn’t it?’ Schenker said crisply. ‘And a chief chemist?’

‘Yes. Why this Dublensky got involved, I don’t know. But he seems to have got hold of this data – ’

‘What data?’

‘Medical reports on some of the workers on the Silveron production line.’

‘Production line? It’s hardly
in
production.’

Cramm looked at his notes. ‘Two lines, all export.’

‘I know, I know.’ He had meant, hardly in production compared to the way it would be in the future. He waved Cramm on.

‘Well, apparently a few of these people have been experiencing medical problems which, according to this Dublensky, should be treated as a serious cause for concern.’

‘What’s his game, huh? I mean, he isn’t medically qualified, is he?’

Cramm shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. I’ll find out …’

‘Of course he’s not medically qualified,’ Schenker leapt in. ‘He’s a scientist, isn’t he? Come on, Cramm – what’s the Aurora management saying about this? Have we got a report?’

Cramm shook his head. ‘Nothing. Apparently, the company medical advisors are saying that the workers’ complaints – and there’re just three people involved, I believe – are nothing to do with Silveron at all. Just normal illnesses.’

‘So in effect there’s no problem at all!’

‘MKI don’t think so, certainly. But I understand they’re authorizing a simple backup test on Silveron, just to be on the safe side. A repeat of one of the basic toxicology trials. The results should be through prior to launch. That should put paid to …’ Cramm paused, choosing his words carefully, ‘… to any possible doubts.’

‘So what the hell’s this Dublensky moaning about, for God’s sake?’

‘He thinks the product launch should be delayed and a completely new set of trials undertaken.’

‘Delayed!’ Schenker protested. ‘New trials! He must be joking. The trials would take years. The man’s crazy. Listen – so long as MKI are happy, I don’t want to hear another word about this.’ He added reproachfully: ‘Frankly I’m amazed it’s got this far.’

Cramm gave it a moment, then said: ‘I think it’d be wise to take a more cautious attitude.’

Sometimes Cramm spoke like that, quietly and insistently, and when he did so Schenker knew that he’d be foolish not to listen.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘The report came direct from this Dublensky. He bypassed the MKI management and somehow got it straight to us here in London. Not that he didn’t try to get himself heard in Chicago. According to him he tried very hard. He says he sent a succession of memos and letters to the MKI board, but got palmed off, then threatened. He doesn’t say how he was threatened. Dismissal perhaps.’

‘So what’s wrong with firing him?’ Schenker asked. ‘I would have thought it was an ideal solution for someone who’s not prepared to follow proper procedures – for a scientist sounding off on matters that don’t concern him.’

‘My point is that this Dublensky must be a highly motivated man,’ Cramm explained. ‘He keeps at it when he’s ignored. Then he jumps over his bosses’ heads and risks his job. He might not appreciate being fired. He might run to the environmentalists.’ Cramm added unnecessarily: ‘Or the EPA.’

Schenker was silent for a moment. He needed to feel his way around this one. People like this Dublensky were almost beyond his understanding. What made a man turn on the company that provided his livelihood? What made him want to cause trouble for everyone? A grievance, lack of promotion? Leftist leanings? Or simply a perverse and mean-spirited nature hidden under that all-embracing guise, idealism? He had a strong urge to send these visionary types to live in a communist state for a while, so they’d catch a heavy and incurable dose of realism.

At the same time he needed no reminding of what would happen to Silveron’s launch if the Environmental Protection Agency got wind of this and filed suit.

‘So what do you think we should do with him?’

Cramm answered straight away, and Schenker realized he’d had it all worked out from the beginning. ‘Perhaps we should think about congratulating him. Then promoting him.’

Schenker considered this for a moment. It went against the grain to keep on a troublesome employee. At the same time Cramm’s idea had certain advantages.

Yet the liturgy wasn’t quite complete. Cramm should have said: congratulate him, promote him, then, most important of all, make him inactive. But then, being Cramm, this was undoubtedly what he had meant.

‘Do it,’ Schenker said and, seeing the time, hunched his shoulders over the desk and began reading to show that the session was over.

John Dublensky watched the first snowflakes of an unseasonally early winter swirl out of the darkness. A few stuck to the glass before melting into inconsequential droplets, defeated by the heating system of Morton-Kreiger International which was programmed to keep the staff in shirt sleeves right through till spring, when they were forced into sweaters by the air conditioning.