The eye of the lion

NETGEN was a solid fortress guarded by grey concrete walls, crowned with rolls of electric barbed wire.

There were garrets and towers with heavily armed guards and terrifying Doberman dogs which, attesting to their rigid training, were watching the visitors pass through the large access gate without moving an inch from their place next to the guards.

The whole place was monitored by numerous robotic cameras whose cold eyes swept the sparse garden and the access ways to the complex, as well as all the roofs and garages, twenty-four hours a day.

The place was situated in the county of Essex, to the north of London, two hours away by car. It was reached by a country lane which was habitually crossed by herds of sheep led by their farmers.

The countryside was, as Randall had told me, very beautiful, but at that time of year it looked grey and somber. It reminded me a little of the gloomy woods that Allan Poe describes in “The Fall of the House of Usher.”

My mood was also grey that morning as we made our way to NETGEN. I felt uncomfortable with my Colombian coffee magnate disguise, and I didn’t like having to memorize so much data about my new personality at such short notice. As I was touching up my thick grey eyebrows, Randall, who was driving, looked at me in the rear-view mirror and smiled.

“You look like Anthony Quinn”.

I didn’t reply, as just then a large stone sign came into view, with the NETGEN logo carved into it in shining steel. We had arrived.

The vehicle check and examination of our documents lasted ten minutes. Electronic bracelets containing our data were put on us, which would allow us to be located at any moment inside the plant; and we were shown where to park.

When we got out of the car, the electronic eyes of the cameras followed us to the reception hall, where we waited for a few minutes. In the hall, a huge bronze globe dominated the entrance. Over it, encircling it like a ring, was coiled a snake in the shape of the double helix of DNA.

Large color photos of beautiful fruits and vegetables adorned one end of the lobby. At the other end, photos of beautiful animals, bulls, pigs and horses, all looking very healthy, drew admiring gazes from a trio of Japanese people who were also waiting in the reception hall.

The sensual voice of the receptionist drew me out of my observations.

“Mr. Castañeda, Dr. Waiss will see you now.”

She pointed gracefully to an elevator door which was opening at the end of the reception hall. I rose and walked towards it as Randall watched me get up and took a newspaper from a table next to his chair.

I entered the elevator through shining golden doors, which closed automatically. There were no buttons or any kind of control, just a tiny camera in the ceiling. Everything was controlled from a distance. I felt like a rat in a labyrinth, observed by insensitive scientists, not knowing where I was going. I was deep in these thoughts when a pleasant musical note sounded and the doors opened gently, soundlessly. A man was smiling at me from outside the elevator. It was Waiss.

Waiss’ office decor was sober and modern. Almost minimalist. On the large glass desk opposite a wide window was only a modern computer and a telephone. Nearby, on a wall, next

to some diplomas and certificates, was the framed front-page of the “Times” which had made him world-famous. It was when, in an unprecedented display of technical prowess, he and his partner, the late Gunther Gratz, had astounded the world by producing, in record time, a complete map of the human genome, by using the calculation power of millions of computers all over the world connected via the Internet.

That’s where the name of his now powerful company had originated. NETGEN. A network of genetics. But that had been a decade ago. Now Waiss’ genetic engineering company was a monster. A monster with many opposers and powerful enemies.

Waiss brought me out of my thoughts by getting straight to the point, although amicably.

“Right, Mr. Castañeda. What can we do for you? I found your email exceedingly intriguing. I understand you’re in the coffee business.”

“That’s right, Mr. Waiss,” I said, trying to make my Latino accent sound as convincing as it had in my test-runs with Randall the previous day.

“And first of all I want to thank you for taking the time to meet with me personally.”

Waiss smiled, evidently gratified.

“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Castañeda...”

“Please, call me Richard.”

“Thank you, Richard,” he smiled. “As I was saying, I find your business very interesting. It’s an area that we have not yet branched out in, and which seems to me to be full of possibilities. I believe you have come at a very opportune time.”

“Excellent!” I said with my broadest smile, and I opened my briefcase to get out the color photographs that Randall had prepared for me that morning.

They were photos of coffee plantations and beautiful shining Colombian coffee beans. I put them in front of Waiss, who perused them attentively.

“Our coffee is among the world’s best, Doctor,” I explained. “But production costs have greatly increased and we have found ourselves obligated to raise our prices as well. Our sales are decreasing and we are very concerned. I heard about what you did for the Mexican corn and we believe it would be worth trying it with our coffee.”

Waiss looked at me in silence for a few moments and finally, rising to his feet, gestured towards the elevator.

“Come with me, Richard.”

The plant’s machinery was enormous and relied on state-of-the-art technology. We walked along corridors lined

with cubicles in which numerous technicians were working in sterile environments, surrounded by sophisticated electronic equipment. Waiss was talking enthusiastically, describing the activities we were seeing, and explaining - with words too technical for me - the processes which were carried out in each department. We stopped at an area where there was a kind of greenhouse. Behind the glass I could see a special kind of corn being harvested by some men who, rather than dressed as farmers, seemed more like surgeons ready to perform an operation. Waiss looked at me and began in a confidential tone,

“I suppose you know a little about the work we do with plants, don’t you Richard?”

I nodded.

“Yes, I know that you genetically modify them so that they reproduce faster and more abundantly,” I said, trying to sound certain. To my relief, Waiss nodded.

“That’s right. And I suppose you’ve also heard everything that’s being said about genetically modified crops.”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s all just a load of trash. All the fools who condemn our work are just a band of ignorant brutes who know nothing about science. They say that the products aren’t safe, taste bad, cause cancer, and that they’re a crime against

nature, and even against God!” Waiss shook his head energetically. “Idiots!”

He looked at me and then, smiling, continued in a lower tone.

“It is true that sometimes the products have little flavor or a strange aftertaste, but who cares about a little bad flavor when people all over the planet are starving by the millions, because of the low yield of their crops?”

“And what about collateral effects?” I dared to ask. “A lot is being said about...”

“Trash!” Waiss interrupted. “No-one has ever been able to scientifically prove that effects such as cancer are a result of eating genetically improved products!”

“And what about the potatoes in the United States?”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on, Mr. Castañeda. When the government saw what a huge deal that potato business was going to be, they wanted to impose absurd conditions on us, to control us. When we refused to play their game, they made the media and several scientists announce that our products were bad for the health. They boycotted us. And that’s why I had to close the plant in the United States and move it to England, which has proved to be much more reasonable and open to scientific advances... That almost bankrupted us!

“So the effects that the EU talked about were a lie?” I asked innocently.

Waiss smiled and made a wide gesture that encompassed the plant.

“Would we have the trust of our important clients, if those tales were true?” he replied with obvious pride. “They have made this factory possible. The most advanced in the world.”

We started to walk back towards Waiss’ office, and he continued explaining to me the benefits of genetically modifying my - fictitious - company’s coffee in order to obtain a much more abundant harvest in half the time it would usually take the plants to grow.

“There’s just one thing that could give you certain problems,” said Waiss, stopping for a minute in the corridor. “And that’s because of the ignorant public’s prejudices towards our techniques,” he explained. “If your distributors were to find out that your new batches of coffee had been genetically modified...”

At that point he looked at me, measuring my reaction to his words.

“They would obligate you to write an explanation on your packets, and that would have an adverse effect on your sales.”

I smiled at him with an air of complicity.

“Well... they wouldn’t have to know, would they?”

Waiss smiled and patted me on the shoulder.

“Richard, you and I are going to get along just fine!”

“Indeed, Dr. Waiss. Of course, we just need to discuss the monetary side of the business,” I responded.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry!” said Waiss as we resumed walking along the corridor towards his office.

“I assure you that you’ll get your investment back with interest before you know it, and your profits will rise like the foam on a well-made cappuchino.”

I smiled, playing my role, and as Waiss patted me on the back again I could almost see the dollar signs in his eyes like in the ‘Rich Uncle’ comics.

That was when I saw it.

At the end of a side corridor, defended by a guard, was a heavy metal door with a sign on it: “Restricted Area, Authorized personnel only beyond this point”.

There was an electronic scanner next to the door. I stopped to look for a second and Waiss noticed my curious expression. But he didn’t falter.

“It’s an area set aside for the investigation of advanced genetics,” he explained.

“And what’s in there?” I asked innocently.

“Very technical things which would doubtlessly bore you, Richard. We keep them isolated because of dust and bacteria, but believe me, there’s nothing worth seeing.”

We started to walk away, but I made a mental note of the place.

That night, after Jessica had removed all my make-up, the whole team met in Randall’s study. Everyone was looking at me, impatient to hear what I had to tell them about the day’s findings. Finally I broke the silence.

“It’s going to be almost impossible to obtain more information.”

Everyone was gazing at me gravely. That was the first time they had heard me utter the words “almost impossible”.

“The only way I could win his trust would be to continue the farce and hand over the money he’s asking for along with the coffee samples, try to keep going there as much as possible, delay things. I’ve already talked to the Colonel, but...”

“What did he say?” asked Mark anxiously, the youngest member of the team, the security systems expert.

“He said that getting hold of the five hundred thousand dollars could take him a week, maybe two...”

A sigh of disappointment echoed around the room. In one or two weeks a thousand important things could happen, events

that we would miss. The thread of the investigation would be broken. Morale would collapse. It was terrible news for all of us.

Just then the study telephone rang.

Randall got up to answer it. We were all silent. We knew the only person who could call at that time and we almost held our breath. Randall’s words confirmed our suspicions.

“Yes sir.”

Randall turned and looked at me.

“Yes, he’s right here.” He was quiet, listening. Then after a pause he nodded.

“Yes. Of course. I understand.”

I could feel the tension growing in the atmosphere. I didn’t take my eyes off Randall. I saw him grow pale and remain silent for a moment. Then, slowly, he hung up.

All eyes were on him. He fixed his blue eyes on me.

“We will have the money and the coffee samples the day after tomorrow.”

The exclamations of relief were immediate. But before we could ask Randall anything, he continued.

“There’s something else...” he said.

We all fell silent, looking at him.

“Fouchet died in France. They broke his neck.”