A chill went through Morgan's spine this morning. For a moment he considered the possibility that the heating in the building was out, but he knew it wasn't. No, this chill came from the headline he had just read.
"Genius Student Cures Black Lung"
His company had been at the forefront of research into Black Lung. They'd spent millions of dollars and worked for years in order to produce a drug that held the condition at bay. It cost so much that almost none of the victims could afford it - and that was without the company's standard 76% markup price.
Yet somehow, out of the blue, a student who, as far as Morgan could see, had never worked with Black Lung before last week (he had copies of the request for samples from Oxford on his desk), had created a cure which cleared the entire infection out in hours - hours, damnit! As if this weren't bad enough, instead of patenting the cure, he'd publicly released it. Anyone could use it, market it, without paying a red cent to its creator.
The Media had painted him as some sort of philanthropist (a synonym for moron in Morgan's vocabulary). Morgan had taken an interest and tried to track the kid down, offer him a job, but apparently he'd left the country the day after he announced his cure. A transfer to the University of Sydney.
Something was up here. Morgan stopped pacing his office and sat down in front of his phone. You didn't get to a position like his without knowing a few people in Sydney...
**********************************************************************
Thomas Hammer wasn't always in the break-and-enter business. He used to be a respectable pivate detective before he was recruited by the CIA. Nowdays, though, it was just 'break into this place, steal these files, assassinate this traitor...' What happened to the good old days where he was all about stopping crime, rather than committing it?
He shone his torch around the office. Masters was certainly an old-world man. You could tell there hadn't ever been a slave in to clean this office. Papers everywhere, dust piled high. Something caught his eye on the desk - a pile of papers in a manilla folder marked 'Niles Hermington III'. Hammer had heard of this guy, some pommy egghead who was involved in that water-poisoning fiasco in the Scottish Kingdom. He'd also been linked with Parker, an agent of the CIA recently retired because she was getting married. The high-ups suspected something was up with her, and had been having her tailed - Hammer had been at one of the briefings, but had been removed from the case because he had worked with Parker before, and they were worried about his integrity.
Lindsay was a real piece of work. She'd never have made it as a gumshoe, but she was the best shot Hammer had ever seen. He'd been attracted to her just for her shooting ability, the one time they'd worked together. She wasn't a bad looker, but not Hammer's type...
What the hell was Masters interested in Hermington for? Hammer quickly turned off his light and ducked low as a cleaner moved past. He quickly and quietly found the files he'd actually come for - Masters was selling some very interesting drugs to the Russians, and the CIA wanted to know more. On a whim, he grabbed and photographed the entire Hermington file - it may not be his case, but he'd do what he could for his country.
As he fled into the night, he could only wonder what on Earth Parker was doing with herself... she'd seemed like such a straight shooter...
To be continued...
