NEW JERSEY – 19 NOVEMBER
Takar el Sayden was anxiously spinning his gold rings. He was well settled into this damned routine. The weekly meetings with ‘Mr Ali’. The nightly emptying of the white powder into his vats of sauce. It obviously was harmless or something would have happened by now. But his life was unravelling so fast that he felt out of control. His wife Tasha had insisted they attend marriage counselling. She said he had become more and more withdrawn, wasn’t as relaxed with the girls and was obsessed with the business. He wasn’t communicating with her any more. He hadn’t taken a holiday in eighteen months. She wanted him to see a doctor. He knew that she was right. With tears in her beautiful eyes, Tasha had told him that this year could be their last together. But what could he do? And then, a different type of meeting this morning – maybe this nightmare was coming to an end? Ibrahim Fallah or ‘Mr Ali’, as Takar knew him, had turned up at his office, as usual, at 9.20 a.m.
‘Good morning,’ Mr Ali said quietly, ‘I have this week’s powder here in my case.’
Takar el Sayden nodded.
‘Takar, you have done very well. My superiors are pleased. You will be glad to hear that our relationship may be coming to a close a little earlier than expected.’
Takar’s eyebrows arched and his heart leaped. Maybe this is good news?
‘My superiors have decided to end their experiment soon. For the moment, you must continue to put the powder in the sauce. But you must go tomorrow to see the advertising people at Dynamic Communications.’
Takar remained silent.
‘My superiors want to finish this experiment . . . with a bang, you might say. An extra five million dollars has been credited to your account at the Bank of America.’ He handed over a slim envelope.
‘This contains, on one page, your instructions to Dynamic Communications to step up advertising and promotions of BurgerFantastic for one more month. You can spend the five million. For the last few weeks, there will be a special promotion – the ninety-nine cent BurgerFantastic.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Takar. ‘We might as well give them away!’
‘It is a last push, to reinforce your new market share. You are to advise all staff that they will each be required to work overtime for at least two weeks. You should hire extra temporary help.’
Takar shrugged in resignation. ‘Whatever.’
‘You also need to step up your security precautions from now on. Make extra certain that the vats are cleaned very thoroughly, every day, straight after the night-time production. Also, when you have finished with the plastic bags, you should take them off the premises and dump them.’
‘Okay,’ said Takar. ‘But we’re gonna be overrun trying to keep supply going at that price.’
Fallah stood up and said calmly, ‘Just sort it. And then, very soon, it will all be over.’
*
Ten minutes later, Ibrahim Fallah was smiling to himself as he drove east towards Manhattan from Newark.
‘Turn right onto McCarthy Highway,’ instructed the voice on the GPS unit mounted on his dash. He was taking the opportunity to divert into a beaten-up housing project close to the airport, to drop a few boxes of SuperVerve out of the bottom of his van. There we go. There was a gang of teenagers hanging out beside a liquor store. He drove fifty yards past, pulled into the kerb, checked his mirrors and grinned, as he heard the box drop gently onto the street.
There was a fresh momentum to his orders from Afghanistan. Apart from the new instructions to Takar el Sayden, he had been told to maximise drops of SuperVerve in the target areas. He had taken two weeks’ leave from the library and now, every day, he collected a vanload of tablets from the warehouse at JFK. He then spent his days and nights driving around New York, dropping off his cargo. He was also keeping an eye on Detective Wyse whenever he had a chance. Yes, he thought as he drove, something big’s going to happen very soon. I must be careful. No mistakes.
*
At the offices of Dynamic Communications in Manhattan, Victor Dezner could hardly contain his excitement. Pop – the cork exploded from the top of a bottle of Bollinger and ricocheted off the boardroom ceiling. All the company’s forty staff had crowded in and everyone cheered loudly.
‘Guys, this is what makes it worthwhile. Working with such a talented and dedicated team.’ Victor kept filling glasses as Katie Keller took over.
‘So, the great news is, we have two of the three nominations for Campaign of the Year and a nomination for Agency of the Year, in the New York Advertising Awards. And it’s all down to your hard work. Guys, we are all over this city.’
‘Cheers,’ said a beaming Anna Milani, as she raised her glass.
‘To SuperVerve,’ said Katie.
‘To BurgerFantastic,’ said Anna.
‘Absolutely,’ said Victor.
*
FIFTH PRECINCT STATION
‘John. Dan Strzempka.’
‘Hey, Dan. You get a chance to look at those tablets for me?’
‘Sure thing. They’re pure grade cephalosporin antibiotic all right. And the packaging looks genuine. But funny thing is . . .’
‘Yeah?’
‘Must have been some problem in the factory. The dosage is wrong.’
‘Whatcha mean?’
‘The packaging says 500 mg tablets, but the strength is twice that.’ Dan paused. ‘Plus, some of ’em are, like, placebos.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah. Literally starch and water. No active ingredient. Musta been a faulty batch. It’s genuine cephalosporin all right, but if anyone took them they’d be getting very erratic doses.’
‘Oh.’ John was lost for words.
‘I’ll email you the report. You want me to do anything else, John?’
‘No, thanks, Dan. I’ll look into it.’
‘All right, man. Take it easy.’
*
‘Shhh, Asif, keep your voice down.’ Karen Patel glared across the living room at her husband and pointed at the ceiling. A rare row had broken out between them and she didn’t want Lauren or Ryan, who were asleep upstairs, to hear it. It was unusual for Asif to get home midweek, but a software problem he’d been sorting out in Chicago had been resolved ahead of schedule. Their original plan for a quiet, romantic night in together had gone unexpectedly off the rails, after they got the kids to bed and uncorked a bottle of wine. They’d turned the TV off and Celine Dion’s heart was going on and on in the background.
‘I’m concerned about Lauren,’ Karen had said. ‘This damn cold she has seems to be going on for ever. And her throat is sore too.’
‘You worried about the musical?’ asked Asif.
‘You bet I am.’ Their daughter was taking the lead role in the school production of Frozen. Lauren not only looked the part, but her singing voice was stunning for her age. Her heart was already set on being an actress or a singer.
Asif topped up their glasses. ‘Maybe you should take her to the doctor?’
‘Yeah, I know. It seems to be just a cold, but maybe they can give her something.’
‘Mmm.’ Asif sipped his Chardonnay. ‘Maybe it’s just me, but has she put on a bit of weight recently?’
Karen nodded. ‘You know, I think you’re right. Maybe she’s eating too much junk, what with the stress of the rehearsals?’
‘Yeah, maybe, but Ryan’s got heavy too. I think they’re eating too many of those damn BurgerFantastics. Jeez, how many times a week are they having them? Three? Four?’
‘Huh. I’d like to see you try and tell them they can’t go. All their friends eat there too.’
‘Well, maybe they should be getting more fish and chicken and vegetables and stuff.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, Mr SuperChef. You’re not stuck here all week, running around in circles and trying to fit in meals. You cook for them.’ Karen crossed her arms and glowered at her husband.
‘Hey, relax, honey, it’s an observation, not a criticism.’
‘Well, it sounds like a criticism to me.’
There was a long, tense silence. Asif broke it.
‘Okay, honey, how about I promise to cook the main meal, here, on either Saturdays, or Sundays? I’ll go out in the mornings and get some fresh ingredients.’
‘Yeah, okay then, that sounds good,’ Karen said, a tear in her eye. She wasn’t used to any conflict between them.
‘And in the morning,’ Asif added, ‘we tell the kids, no more BurgerFantastic for a month.’
‘It’s a deal. I’ll try and get them back on some healthier stuff. And I’ll take her round to the surgery after school,’ said Karen, blowing her nose in a tissue. The conflict in the air had eased, but any plans for romance that night had followed Celine Dion onto an iceberg.
*
The next day, Dr Peter Phillips recognised the name on the schedule on his screen. 4.15 p.m. Lauren Patel.
‘Hi Karen, hi Lauren, how are you?’ he beamed, standing up to shake their hands. ‘According to my kids, you’re gonna knock ’em dead in Frozen, Lauren. Next stop Broadway, I’d say.’ He bent down, lowered his voice and whispered, ‘Just don’t forget your old friends when you’re accepting your first Oscar, eh?’
Lauren smiled. She liked Dr Phillips.
‘So, how can I help you, guys?’ he asked.
‘Well, Peter, you know it’s Frozen that’s getting us real worried. Lauren’s got this cold, a runny nose, headaches – and now her throat’s a little sore.’
‘Oh dear. Let’s see if we can sort that.’ Dr Phillips smiled, noting Lauren’s watery eyes and reddish nose.
‘Okay, Lauren, let’s have a look.’ He checked her temperature with an electronic thermometer placed in her ear. ‘Ninety-eight, that’s normal. Alrighty, open wide.’ He looked carefully into her mouth and throat. ‘Say Aaaah.’
‘Aaaah.’
‘Hmmm.’ Not much going on there. No inflammation. No redness. No spots. He felt her glands. They seemed fine. ‘That sore?’
‘Nope.’ She shook her head.
Peter Phillips looked into Lauren’s ears through his otoscope and then checked her blood pressure. 110 over 70. All normal. Then he listened to her lungs through his stethoscope. Clear as a bell.
He sat down again and looked at mother and daughter.
‘There’s no sign of any infection at all. How long have you been feeling poorly?’
‘Just a few days,’ said Lauren.
‘I think you’ve just got a bad cold, honey. If you can keep yourself warm and drink plenty of liquids, I think it’ll blow over in a couple of days. You can take an aspirin if the headache’s bothering you.’
Karen was disappointed. ‘But, Peter, the musical’s so close. What if she’s just at the start of something and it gets worse? We won’t have time to fix it. She could miss the whole thing.’ Peter Phillips saw the anxiety in her face. ‘Isn’t there something you can give her, just to be sure?’
He decided to keep her happy. ‘Sure, sure. It could be that there’s a little strep throat coming on from all that singing. I can give you an antibiotic, just to make sure we keep on top of things.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ said Karen, relieved that this visit would be worthwhile.
‘Take two of these tablets, three times a day,’ said Peter Phillips, writing out a prescription. ‘Remember, it’s an antibiotic, so don’t stop taking them, just cos you feel better. Make sure you take all the tablets.’
‘Thanks so much, Peter, you’re a pal.’ Mother and daughter smiled as Karen took the prescription. ‘Say hi to Sandra – I’ll probably see her tomorrow at the school.’
‘Sure thing,’ said the doctor, returning the smile. ‘See you on Broadway, princess.’
*
Anna Milani and Tsan Yohoto were sipping coffees after lunch in the Park Hyatt.
‘We are so delighted with the success of the SuperVerve campaign in New York – not least thanks to your work, Anna – that we’re going to accelerate the expenditure in this last phase.’
‘Fantastic, Tsan, that’s great news. It’s been such an exciting campaign to work on.’
‘And how is your Detective Wyse keeping? Still treating you well, I hope?’
‘Oh, John’s great, thanks. Not seeing enough of him, it’s been so busy.’
Yohoto nodded and smiled, and Anna went on.
‘Funny, he told me the other day that he’s come across a couple of big boxes of SuperVerve. He thought at first they’d been stolen. Maybe there’s a black market in them? Or even counterfeit? Anyway, he got them checked and some of the dosages are wrong. I said I’d tell you in case there was a faulty batch?’
Tsan Yohoto kept his coffee cup to his mouth, hoping it would disguise the blood rushing from his face.