Chose Read online

  ‘Oh.’ Pity, Alastair thought. They looked alright. But they were the harbingers of doom apparently. By now he was eager to leave and catch his plane back home. He asked distractedly, ‘And what do you call these?’

  Calhoun smiled sadly. ‘The Beautiful Ones.’

  1

  Olivia

  London, United Kingdom, May 2016

  * * *

  ‘Ipsa scientia potestas est, igitur sapiens qui prospicit.’

  The Latin motto loops around a gold crest, gleaming against the cream paper, like an incantation, melodious and jarringly alien: ‘Knowledge is power, therefore the wise look ahead.’ Surrounded by cryptic symbols, a pyramid is embossed in the centre of the sigil. It winks in and out, and seems to radiate as the afternoon light plays with its triangular edges.

  When I received the letter, my interest was piqued. I mean who writes letters anymore? Much less to invite someone to an interview.

  Sitting in reception, palms getting clammy, I wait, discreetly flapping my right hand and willing it to dry before I need to shake anyone’s hand.

  The Mulberry Bayswater handbag waits patiently by my feet, a remnant of a time pre-IVF when I spent my disposable income on things that made me happy instead of needles and hormones. Good job the patina it acquires with age is considered desirable, because it’s old but still pretty, in a reliable, unglamorous way. Hopefully so am I.

  This is definitely not your average law firm. Sunlight pours in through sash windows as pink cherubim and fat-bummed women in various states of undress glare down at me from the seven-metre-high ceiling. The circular reception area smells of wood wax and old money. It’s quite impressive, truth be told.

  ‘Who knows?’ says the little singsong voice inside my head. ‘Everything might turn out OK.’

  A very nice coffee machine and a biscuit selection are beckoning from the rosewood sideboard, so, stuffing the letter in my handbag, I get up to have a look. I’m dressed up in my best stewardess impression: navy suit, frizzy red hair more or less under control and sensible pumps. My heels echo as I walk on the intricately decorated tiles. The posh receptionist looks up and dismisses me as inconsequential.

  I’ve just made myself a tea when an impeccably dressed woman in her sixties approaches me. Her hair is tied in a bun and she’s wearing patent stilettos, a pair of black pleated trousers and a bronze silk blouse with a statement necklace. I know better than to mistake her for a PA. Everything about her speaks of power.

  I can tell she’s sized me up in one glance. With a tightening of her mouth, she extends her hand.

  Struggling to balance the teacup and saucer, handbag and coat, I manage to return the handshake without dropping anything. Good thing I’m on a diet or I’d have had to contend with a spoon as well. Silver lining of not remembering the taste of sugar, I guess. Oh who am I kidding; there is no silver lining when you give up sugar.

  ‘Welcome, Olivia.’

  That’s odd, she sounds like she knows me. I search her face and something chimes in the back of my mind. Do I know her? I’m pretty sure I don’t, so I go with the I-don’t-know-you-from-Eve greeting.

  ‘Hello, nice to meet you.’ Oh gosh, I sound too chirpy.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ She narrows her eyes and seems to hesitate to say something, then thinks better of it. ‘If you’ll follow me.’

  She heads off at a brisk pace. Argh. What do I do with the tea? Obviously, drink it really quickly, scald my palate, then leave the cup and saucer on the sideboard. Drop my trench coat on the floor for good measure, lose my Oyster card. Fumble to pick everything up and quickly trot behind her before she realises I’m a dolt. Although, to be honest, it might be too late for that.

  And breathe. ‘Everything is all right, this is a no-stress interview,’ the annoying singsong voice says in my head. ‘You don’t actually need this job.’ OK, time to look like a credible candidate.

  She opens the door with a pin code and a full handprint. Blimey, I’ve only ever seen a similar set-up once and it was at a very, very nice law firm. A thick cream carpet has replaced the antique mosaic tiles. The hallway is lined with closed doors, each with its own keypad. Bouquets arranged like modern art are positioned on antique consoles at regular intervals. Everything speaks in hushed tones of wealth, confidentiality and professionalism. I can totally do this.

  Finally we arrive in front of the right door and my guide goes straight in without knocking. I was right then, not a PA.

  There are three people already in the room, I expected fewer. The grey-haired woman joins them and points me to a seat opposite them. Brilliant. Now I feel like a contestant on Britain’s Got Talent.

  ‘Welcome, thank you for coming today,’ says a kind-looking man in his late forties. His slightly haphazard haircut can’t hide that his ears are sticking out. ‘My name’s Andrew Catterwall. I believe you’ve met my colleague Theodora McArthur, who accompanied you here.’

  Another man speaks up with a pronounced American accent. ‘I’m Agent Nigel Critchlow.’ He’s in his late fifties, with an underbite and grey hair in a crew cut. His calculating eyes follow me behind thick, black, fifties-style glasses. ‘And this is Aileen Foley.’ He points to a slender woman in her early thirties who smiles.

  ‘Thank you for inviting me. May I ask how you heard about me?’

  ‘We’ve been following your career, Olivia, and felt you’d be a good match for our organisation,’ Andrew answers.

  I was expecting him to say that someone I work with recommended me. But what did he say? They’ve been following my career?

  ‘I see.’ I try not to sound too surprised. ‘May I ask what sort of law firm you are?’

  Now it’s their turn to look slightly taken aback. Critchlow laughs, not a nice sound. I get the sense he’s one of those people who laughs instead of saying something aggressive. His teeth are protruding and crooked. Is it possible to dislike someone within five minutes of meeting them? Well, it just happened, so I guess it is.

  ‘There seems to be a misunderstanding, Miss Sagewright; we’re not a law firm at all.’

  Now that I think about it, my research yielded a surprisingly low amount of information. With such secrecy levels, I assumed they were a very exclusive firm, who valued their clients’ privacy and worked through word-of-mouth. Who else would invite me for an interview? I have been working in law firms for the last fifteen years. Crikey, this is all very intriguing.

  ‘Before we disclose any more, let’s proceed with the interview. If we conclude that we’d like you to come for a second round, we’ll ask you to sign a non-disclosure agreement and will inform you on a need-to-know basis from that point on.’

  Need to… who do they think they are, MI5? Oh my God, maybe that’s who they are. OK, earth to Olivia: focus. If I want to know more, I need to ace this interview.

  Andrew Catterwall runs a hand through his hair, tousling it, and starts asking me the usual questions: achievements, relevant experience, strengths and weaknesses, etc.

  As far as interviews go, I think this one goes well. I didn’t have to force my round self into a square hole; I didn’t have to pretend to be interested in the job – I really am interested.

  I’ve taken my Friday afternoon off for the interview and now I burst out of there, exhilarated. Not another boring job!000 Amazing, I can’t wait to know more.

  Tonight we should celebrate. I stop on my way home to pick up a few ingredients and a bottle of bubbly. Maybe tonight’s the night. We haven’t made love in so long.

  ‘Hello?’ I call as I push the front door open, my hands full of grocery bags, keys, handbag, umbrella, the works.

  No answer. The rattle of machine guns echoes through the dark house, followed by high-pitched swearing.

  ‘Kill him, kill him! Oh no, he’s behind you! Too late – I’m dead.’

  ‘Hello, Bear, I’m home!’ I lug my load to the kitchen counter, turning on the lights as I go. As I unpack the spinach, the leeks and chicken, Martin doesn’t
even glance over at me from the sofa. Apparently, he can’t stop playing; there’s no ‘pause’ button for online games.

  I sigh and start cooking, banging pots and pans about perhaps slightly louder than necessary. When the pie comes out of the oven, the little passive-aggressive dance begins, like every evening.

  ‘Martin, it’s ready.’ I look longingly at his beautiful profile, hoping he’ll turn his head. He still doesn’t.

  ‘I’m not done.’

  ‘It’s ready now,’ I say, careful to lace a smile through my words.

  ‘I can’t, I have to finish this game.’

  ‘How long will it take, Bear?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could be five minutes or thirty.’

  ‘Please come eat.’ I say, hating the pleading note in my voice.

  ‘I’m not hungry anyway, I had a protein shake before you arrived and I’m going to the gym after this.’

  Martin has decided that he’s not ‘a system-person’, meaning that he’s a free spirit. Last month, I encouraged him to quit his job. It just broke my heart to see him so miserable. Forced to keep business hours and dress in clothes that he hates. It’s his fourth resignation in the last six months, but I’m sure he’ll find something that he enjoys doing. Soon.

  I can’t very well blame him for playing Call of Duty with his brother, I mean what else is he going to do with his days? He doesn’t really read. Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on him. He did make a huge sacrifice by leaving Malta to come live with me in London. He hates it so much here. It was to be expected that he’d have trouble fitting in, what with all the hard-nosed and ambitious people in this city. This just isn’t his forte. I ought to be more supportive.

  I start to tell him about my interview but his eyes are on the door and he’s zipping up his jacket. I don’t do a very good job of explaining. Anyway, a few minutes later, he’s off.

  Biting my lower lip, I walk back to the kitchen, put a slice of pie on a plate and arrange the salad so it looks pretty. Nigel Slater would be proud, it’s perfect.

  ‘Sure, Martin, go to the gym,’ I say to no one in particular as I sit at the dining table and light a candle. I’ll save the prosecco for later. I shouldn’t drink and there’s no point in celebrating alone, I guess. I rub my left ovary and wince.

  Only a month left to wait until the egg collection.

  Dishes washed, I turn off the lights and shadows stalk me up the stairs to the dark, cold bedroom. My cat weaves herself around my ankles, as I inject the hormones, whispering a prayer for good measure.

  I’m so close to my dream that I could touch it. I’m visualising my baby on a beach, his blond curls shining in the sun as I run my fingers through his hair. My son’s delighted laughter skims and bounces above the waves like music.

  I’m stubbornly imagining that Martin will be a good father, even though he farts and burps on purpose to annoy me, doesn’t have a penny to his name and only wears sports vests, while I love opera, books and afternoon cream teas served in silver teapots at old-fashioned hotels. Yes, he’ll be great. Our child, Max, will be beautiful and as soon as he’s born, Martin will change his mind about having children, as all men do.

  2

  DeAnn

  Baltimore, Maryland, USA, May 2016

  * * *

  The machine emits a pulsating high-pitched noise. My toes are cold and I feel out of place. How did this happen again? That’s right, I’m being spontaneous, I scoff.

  Normally, by the second round of an interview process I’d know everything about the hospital interviewing me. I’d know their mission statement, I’d have read their annual report cover to cover and I’d have networked my way into some insider knowledge.

  ‘Alright, that’s it, perfect. Now please hold still.’

  The nurse positions a white plastic helmet over my head and fixes it, so it holds me down. Cozy.

  But the usual interview prep is yielding next to nothing; I looked up the four people who interviewed me last month in New York and either those were pseudonyms or they’ve erased nearly all traces of their existence online. Theodora McArthur used to be a Professor of Physics at MIT. Nigel Critchlow seems to crop up on military websites, but even when I search for cached versions, I can’t locate his name anywhere. Andrew Catterwall worked in venture capital financing for London banks, but about twenty years ago he dropped out of the market and his profile shows nothing since then. Aileen Foley graduated from MIT at age fifteen with a double degree in computer science and engineering, and after that… disappeared as well.

  ‘This is a functional MRI.’ The nurse bends over me, as I lie trapped in the contraption’s grip. ‘We’re going to take approximately fifty transverse-cut photographs of your brain while we monitor you. This will tell us how you think and where this activity takes place.’

  She places a pump in my left hand and tells me to press it if I want to stop. In my right hand, she inserts a yellow pad with four buttons and positions my fingers on them.

  ‘Press this when applicable, but don’t move your head, DeAnn.’

  She’s fiddles with a mirror above my head, angling it so that it’s level with my eyes and allows me to see a screen.

  The table starts to drag me head first into the machine. I’m not great with confined spaces, so I breathe in and close my eyes.

  ‘Alright, DeAnn, how are you doing?’ Her disembodied voice is coming from inside the machine.

  Fucking awesome, what do you think? ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘You’re doing great, DeAnn.’

  I wish she’d stop using my first name. I know what she’s doing, she’s trying to create a connection and make me comfortable, but I’m a doctor so I just find it irritating and condescending.

  I flinch as the machine starts to clank loudly around me.

  ‘We’re now going to project questions on a screen. Choose the answer to the question by pressing the buttons in your right hand. Do you understand, DeAnn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I choose between twenty dollars today or forty dollars in two days. Between going to vote or helping a person who needs an ambulance. Between colors, foods, people. The list goes on and on.

  Then, finally, the clanging stops and the table creaks slowly out of the circular opening.

  I dress and she walks me back to the waiting room where I spend the next hour wondering why I decided to interview for this position as I flip through magazines.

  * * *

  ‘Ms. Carpenter?’ A short, round Middle Eastern man is looking at me. ‘I’m Doctor Farouk, please come with me.’

  He takes off and I follow him to his office.

  ‘So you’re applying for a position with the Programme?’

  Finally, someone who seems to know something.

  ‘Yes, do you interview a lot of candidates?’

  ‘No, it’s quite rare for me to be called upon by the Programme. Baltimore’s slightly out of the beaten path but I used to work with them in London, so they’ve asked me to screen a handful of candidates in the last fifteen years.’

  ‘Do you know what the Programme is? What positions they are interviewing for?’

  ‘I can’t discuss that, unfortunately. Please have a seat.’ He indicates a chair and closes the door. ‘We were really impressed with your career to date.’ He consults his notes. ‘You’re a geneticist at the Johns Hopkins McKusick-Nathans Institute of Genetic Medicine, correct?’

  I could do the interview in my sleep. Where do you see yourself in five years, what would you do in this situation, credentials and referrals, blah blah blah. I’m disappointed actually. After all the initial mystery, this is gearing up to be just another job at a major hospital. Dealing with patients, run of the mill diseases, nothing interesting to sink my teeth into.

  Just as my interest is starting to flag, the doctor says: ‘We’re looking for certain functional connectivity patterns in the candidates. Only the ones who present with the right indicators can be allowed to erm… can be selected. We
conducted a functional MRI and a diffusion tensor imaging scan on several potential candidates for field positions.’

  He turns the computer monitor toward me, displaying two scans side by side. ‘Could you please analyze the differences between these two MRI scans?’

  I spot the issues immediately. The pattern looks just like a rare genetic disease that I have seen a couple of times in fetuses fathered by older men.

  ‘You can clearly see here, the increased activation in the anterior cingulate cortex, the brain network that governs attention, coupled with reduced firing of inhibitory neurons,’ I say. He looks pleased, so I continue, ‘I assume that here on the left is a control test subject’s scan and on the right is an abnormal scan.’ The one on the right is lit up in yellow, oranges and reds in slightly different places.

  Then I notice actual physical differences. The brain on the right is definitely large… and is that? It can’t be. Extra folds. I’ve never seen this before. ‘There seems to be an atrophy in the subject’s trapezius or sternocleidomastoid muscle and that could perhaps have led to expansion of their head size?’ I check his face, unsure.

  He nods, observing me. ‘Could you extrapolate as to what the result of this anatomical change might do to the subject?’

  I narrow my eyes and grab his mouse, zooming in on the area. ‘There.’ I point with the cursor. ‘A clear expansion of the fusiform gyrus.’ Scrambling to recall my med school training, I say, ‘So the subject will probably exhibit better pattern recognition, more intelligence, more connectivity.’ I lean back against the back of my chair. ‘It’s subtle but the pattern is definitely there.’

  His stubby fingers are joined in a steeple under his chin. ‘Does this pattern fit a specific condition?’