Requiem (23 page)

During Dublensky’s college days at Columbia and his post-doc years at Syracuse, he’d looked forward to the snow; the eastern winters had a comforting enveloping quality that appealed to what he liked to think of as the mystical side of his nature, a side which Anne, his wife, constantly encouraged as an antidote to the absurdities of corporate life.

But the Chicago winters were different. Here the winds howled unchecked off the lake, the cold had a vicious edge, and the prairie landscape, open and urbanized, was bleak under its wrap of snow. He did not love the winters here. Come to that, he didn’t much love Chicago, though he tried not to let that interfere with his enjoyment of life, which was considerable.

Shortly before five he began to tidy his desk. He did not usually leave on time, preferring to finish whatever he was doing at his own pace, but his son Tad’s eighth birthday was coming up the next week and he wanted to get down to the sports store and look at a few things.

‘What’s this? Not staying late today?’

He recognized the strident voice of Don Reedy, his immediate superior.

Dublensky peered myopically at him. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ Reedy said, coming into the office. ‘There must be a reason for this. Don’t tell me – you’re going on vacation!’

‘That would be a little rash,’ he smiled, searching his desk for his spare spectacles which he had seen only a moment ago. MKI operated a clean-desk policy, though no one would have believed it to look at Dublensky’s desk.

‘People have been known to benefit, you know. From vacations.’

Reedy perched on the edge of an adjacent desk watching Dublensky pack his briefcase. He was a large avuncular man, overweight by a good thirty pounds, with a benign smile which belied the very considerable committee skills that provided a welcome buffer between the senior management and the scientific staff. Reedy was tough but straight; Dublensky got on well with him.

Dublensky found his spectacles on the chair behind him. ‘Well … I have to go now. Unless you …?’

His internal phone rang. In what was intended to be a practised move, Dublensky twisted the receiver up to his shoulder, but it slipped and he had to grab at it before it crashed to the desk. Anne, his wife, always said he was the clumsiest man she had ever met, a charge he gently refuted but which he had to admit had a grain of truth.

‘Dublensky,’ he said breathlessly.

‘So glad to have caught you, Mr Dublensky,’ the female voice said, and Dublensky felt a stab of surprise. Though he’d heard the clipped east-coast voice only a couple of times before, he recognized it immediately. It was Gertholm’s secretary. Gertholm, president-in-chief of Morton-Kreiger International (US).

‘Mr Gertholm was wondering if it would be convenient for you to see him in half an hour, at five thirty?’

It was convenient. It could hardly be otherwise. Ringing off, Dublensky sat slowly down at his desk, abandoning his briefcase to the floor. So. This was it. He shouldn’t be surprised, of course. He’d stuck his neck out, and here was the guillotine, dropping fast. He supposed it was the report to London that had finally done it. The MKI management were not the kind of people to overlook a misdemeanour of that magnitude.

Well, there were worse things than being out of work, though the thought of Christmas without a pay cheque created an unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach.

‘You okay?’ Reedy asked.

‘I’ve been summoned to Gertholm. It must be the axe. Has to be.’

‘What? John, are you sure? No …
No!
You’re mistaken. I would have known. Really. They would have told me.’

Dublensky wanted to believe him, but he wasn’t sure what to believe just now. ‘I don’t think I quite share your optimism,’ he said unhappily. ‘Why else would Gertholm want to see me?’

‘Listen, John … There could be other reasons, you know. Besides, why would he want to fire you?’

Dublensky looked at him in surprise. ‘Hell, Don, we both know why. The Aurora business. Overstepping the mark. Exceeding my responsibilities.’

Reedy pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘But that was a … well, a brave report, John. A fine thing. I always said so. It can’t be held against you.’

‘It can’t? Remember the Greek messenger?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Killed for bringing the news.’

Reedy leaned forward and patted his arm awkwardly. ‘Listen, you’re wrong. I’m quite sure you’re wrong. Wait and see.’

Dublensky shook his head. Reedy was just trying to soften the blow. ‘I’d like to be alone, Don, if you don’t mind.’

Reedy shook his head firmly. ‘I’ll stay. Otherwise you’re going to talk yourself into believing your own worst fears.’

Dublensky didn’t want to argue – in most respects he was a mild man – but on this occasion he was going to have to insist. Dublensky got up and stood by the open door. ‘Thanks, Don, but really …’

Reedy gave a long slow shake of his head and said, with a half laugh of disbelief: ‘If that’s what you want …’

Dublensky closed the door behind Reedy and sat down again. His first instinct was to call Anne – he always discussed everything with her – but he realized that she’d be on her way from work to collect Tad. Lifting his spectacles, he rubbed a hand viciously over his eyes. He suddenly felt very alone. He tried to imagine himself in conversation with Anne, tried to hear her arguments. What would she recommend? They’d long since decided that it was essential for him to expose the facts about the Aurora workers. How could he have acted otherwise? The situation was impossible to ignore. One of the workers on the Silveron production line had been paid off, permanently sick, two more were on indefinite sick leave. There was the medical evidence of Burt, the local physician who had originally contacted Dublensky with his suspicions, evidence which, though clinical and in a sense circumstantial, was impressive. And then there were the testimonials of the victims themselves, which made the most alarming reading of all.

Anne always used to say he wasn’t tough or worldly enough for corporate life, and in some senses that may have been true, but Dublensky hadn’t been so naive as to think his initial report would be well received. No one wanted bad news, far less a successful company like MKI. Up till now Dublensky had thought himself prepared for the consequences of his actions. Yet he’d never quite believed it would come to this. However you looked at it, however limited corporate vision was inclined to be, something was seriously wrong when a guy got fired for doing what was right.

He had less than twenty minutes before starting for Gertholm’s eyrie in the main tower. He realized this might be the last time he sat at his desk, the last time he handled the projects which had become so familiar to him. He opened his briefcase and removed the work he had been planning to take home for the evening. For a while he stared at the empty case, miserable with indecision. Then, quickly, before he changed his mind, he stood up and lifted a thick pile of papers off one of the shelves. Here was the file that he had built up on the Aurora affair: the testimonials, the physician’s notes, Dublensky’s original report and copies of his memos and letters to the MKI management.

He fingered the papers thoughtfully. He should make a copy – he must make a copy – but it would be crazy to do it here. Quite apart from the time factor, such a thing might well be noticed, particularly if he’d just been fired. No, far better to take the documents out of the building and copy them in a late-night office supply store.

Alert to the sounds from the corridor, his heart kicking against his ribs, he placed the dossier in his briefcase and closed it. Then he sat down again.

Yet the decision-making wasn’t over. The health of Aurora workers wasn’t the only disturbing thing he’d come across; quite by chance he’d discovered another matter which also concerned Silveron. Until now he’d left this new difficulty on the back burner, progressing it slowly, almost reluctantly and, it had to be said, secretively. He had planned on doing a great deal more research on the matter, on assembling more facts, before putting his head on the block again; he was grimly aware that, if the state of the Aurora workers’ health was unwelcome news for MKI, then this new information would be total anathema.

He opened a lower drawer and slid out a file. Though slimmer than the Aurora file, this bundle of papers weighed more heavily in his hands. For one thing the data was company property. Its removal from the MKI premises for the sort of purposes he had in mind would be a serious offence; the company could undoubtedly bring charges. And if he did manage to get the data out and copy it, what then? Hand it to the EPA? He tried to think through the consequences of such an action, but they were too enormous, too cataclysmic to settle easily in his mind.

The immediate decision was both impossible and disturbing. He postponed it by gazing out of the window. The snow was thicker now, swirling past the glass in whorls and eddies, the flakes illuminated by the hundreds of brilliantly lit windows of the Morton-Kreiger building.

Five minutes to go. Impatient at his own indecision, Dublensky moved with sudden speed, opening the briefcase, placing the second file on top of the Aurora dossier and shutting the lid with a snap.

It was done. He was committed. Curiously, he didn’t feel as terrified as he’d thought he would. If anything, his heart had lifted, buoyed by the certainty that he had done the right thing.

He stood the briefcase at the side of his desk, ready to retrieve immediately after the interview. Then, like the Greek messenger, he went to receive his punishment.

The interview was brief – a bare five minutes. It passed for Dublensky in a haze of astonishment. MKI in all its might, embodied by the thin expressionless face of Gertholm, was pleased with him. His initiative and persistence were commendable. He was to be promoted. Chief chemist at the Allentown Chemical Works in Virginia and a raise of fifteen thousand dollars a year. With immediate effect. Removal expenses, hotel bills, relocation payment.

He was so astounded that the interview was almost over before the still small voice of caution made itself heard. What would happen to the Aurora dossier, he asked. Would it be acted upon?

This question was met with immediate reassurances. Although it would be impossible to postpone the launch, the company was going to commission an independent rerun of one of the basic toxicology trials. It was also going to keep a close check on health and safety procedures at the Aurora plant.

Dublensky returned to the south tower in a state of exaltation and stupefaction. He entered his office to find that Reedy had returned and was sitting in his chair. On hearing the door, the senior chemist swung sharply round and got hastily to his feet.

It was a moment before Dublensky, numb with disbelief, was capable of communicating his news.

‘I knew it,’ Reedy said with a congratulatory smile. ‘I knew they’d never let someone of your calibre go.’

After a while Dublensky, settling into a pleasant state of shock, allowed Reedy to help him on with his jacket and walk him down the corridor. He was hardly aware of setting off on the drive home to Evanston. The road conditions were treacherous, the visibility poor, but he registered little until he passed the sports store and remembered his son’s birthday. He turned back and bought Tad a Prince tennis racquet. Then, because this was a day for celebration, he added a set of Adidas tennis shoes, socks, shorts and shirt.

He arrived home jubilant. His exhilaration lasted twenty minutes, the time it took to tell Anne and Tad the full story, and for Tad to ask questions about Allentown, Virginia.

‘They’re buying your silence,’ Anne said quietly.

Dublensky, taking some wine from the ice box, pulled an aggrieved face. ‘Why d’you say that? I told you – they’ve followed up my report.’

‘That’s what they’re telling you. But how do you know they’ll progress it? You won’t be around to find out, will you? You’ll be tucked away in Virginia.’

Dublensky felt a flutter of resentment at the swiftness with which she had managed to put a dampener on things. At the same time he had great respect for his wife’s judgement. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he considered the possibility. ‘You’re saying that all this is just a way of getting me to keep my mouth shut? But there’s no reason to say that. They haven’t asked me to drop the Aurora report. They haven’t suggested a deal. I mean … you’d have to have an abysmal opinion of people to believe something like that.’

‘Not of people. Of large corporations dedicated to profit.’

It was typical of Anne to be categorical. In fact, if Dublensky didn’t love and respect her so much, he’d say she had a tendency to oversimplify things. ‘You’re seeing villains round every corner, sweetheart. I mean, they wouldn’t go to all this trouble in the hope of keeping me quiet.’

‘Wouldn’t they? I’d have thought it was exactly the kind of thing they would do.’

Dublensky pulled the cork on the wine and poured two glasses. Already the celebration had gone a little flat. Now that the seeds of uncertainty were sown, doubts were beginning to creep in on him, each one weightier than the last. ‘But I’ll soon hear if nothing gets done,’ he said in an attempt to reassure himself as much as Anne. ‘I’ll keep in touch with the sick production workers, with some of the other Aurora people.
And
with that doctor, Burt … One way or another, I’ll know what’s going on.’

Anne took her glass but did not drink. ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt they’ll introduce some puny new safety measures at the Aurora plant and go ahead with trials of some description. But what does that prove? The trials will probably be meaningless.’

‘Meaningless?’ Now she had provoked him in so far as it was ever possible to provoke Dublensky. ‘A trial is a trial. You can’t alter results.’

Anne didn’t reply but gave him a dry look. Dublensky was on the point of arguing until he remembered the slim file he’d put in his briefcase. The contents effectively challenged his own argument, and, throwing back a great gulp of wine, he sank despondently onto a kitchen chair.

Anne sat down next to him. ‘How about keeping a copy of all the documentation?’ she suggested earnestly. ‘And using it if nothing gets done?’