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voting.’
    Tally could see by Steven’s expression that he meant it, and they’d been down this road before. ‘Well, I won’t give you a lecture on what people have suffered in the past so that we can have the right to vote,’ she said. ‘I know you have your reasons.’
    ‘Correct. I detest the lot of them.’
    Tally gave a little smile. ‘I won’t even argue that there must be some good ones. I will simply drop the subject and move on.’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘What do you think about the company’s plan?’
    Steven thought for a moment. ‘They want to do the opposite from the big guys. They want to change the emphasis from research to production. Less risk equals more happy shareholders. The contract will have to go to tender but they sounded like they really want it; they were talking about coming up with a very competitive bid, cutting every last cent to win it.’
    Tally paused while Steven refilled her glass. ‘Where does the head of security fit into all this?’ she asked.
    ‘We’re not going to be the only company hoping to land the contract. Knowing what the other guys are bidding could be a huge advantage. It’ll be my job to ensure that our figure stays a secret.’
    Tally nodded. ‘And if your company lands the contract and the emphasis shifts away from research … where would that leave you?’
    Steven smiled as he filled his own glass. ‘I suppose I could be out of a job if the research element of the company disappears completely, but maybe they’ll find something else for me to do, cleaning the lavatories or something.’
    ‘Pathetic, Dunbar.’
    ‘It was, wasn’t it? I’ll have to work on my self-pity. What do you say to another bottle?’
    ‘ Grazie mille, signore .’

FOUR
     
     

Lark Pharmaceuticals, Canterbury, Kent
     
    Dr Mark Mosely parked his dark green Jaguar in his designated parking spot, and pulled his collar up against a biting east wind as he crossed to the glass front doors, which slid open on instructions from the infrared detector above them.
    ‘Morning, serfs,’ he said as he made his way past the potted palms of Reception to the lifts.
    The two receptionists smiled dutifully at the daily joke and chanted their ‘Good morning, sir’ like primary school children.
    Mosely was in a good mood. The announcement about the vaccines agreement was good news for everyone in the industry and heralded a new era in operating conditions for companies like his. It should do much to reduce the mountain of regulations that had built up over the last ten years.
    The clock showed nine thirty; it was time to carry out his weekly inspection of the manufacturing floors.
    The line managers would be waiting for him on Level 3 as usual to conduct him round their domains. After that he would have his weekly meeting with the quality controllers and then lunch in the canteen with the workers to listen to any minor grievances they might have … just as he’d done for the past two decades. In the afternoon he would inspect the loading bays and talk to the transport manager about delivery schedules. There was also the ongoing discussion about additional fleet vehicles to deal with. He knew the transport manager favoured Mercedes vans but he himself would prefer vehicles that were at least assembled in the UK.
    The main event of the day was to be a meeting with representatives from Oxfam and three other major charities at three p.m. to discuss the quantities and distribution of vaccine supplies for Third World countries, and to appraise the latest reports from the World Health Organisation, especially projections for future needs.
    Lark Pharmaceuticals was a private, non-profit-making concern set up by a charitable trust some twenty years before. It made a profit from one half of its business – the manufacture of diagnostic kits, antiseptic creams and antihistamine compounds – and this was used to fund the other half, which manufactured vaccines for Third World countries at rock-bottom