This question of the hair afforded him great flexibility. With his long hair grown out and tied back, he could and did now and then wander through the corridors of his own company in Geneva as a "mail-room boy." And when hunting he could use the long hair to advantage, decking himself out in torn dungarees and neon shirts to roam alleyways and drug dens unnoticed until he chose to strike.
When Gregory met with human employees and reporters, he was skillfully painted with modern cosmetic compounds that disguised his preternatural skin even further, and he never lingered in the company of any human very long. Almost all of his business he conducted by phone or email, some by Skype when it was absolutely necessary, and much by long and often witty "Letters from the Desk of Gregory," which he circulated amongst his employees from the top to the bottom of the giant company of which he was the de facto owner and chairman of the board. The glossy publicity photos of him which the company distributed to news services were all taken by his beloved Blood Spouse, Chrysanthe.
Fareed understood that this company was a repository for and a generator of immense wealth, and he also knew that Gregory would soon retire from it altogether, Gregory had once explained this, sinking his fortune into some other enterprise that assured him similar security and opportunity. What that was, Fareed could not guess. "The times will tell me," Gregory had said. Gregory had at least ten more years to play out this mortal role, and he meant to make the best of them. It was all so easy for him that he couldn't quite grasp why it surprised or interested anyone else.
What interested Fareed about Collingsworth Pharmaceuticals was that it was a medical enterprise, a conglomerate of research laboratories, and a pioneer in perfecting antiviral drugs. And thanks to Gregory, Fareed had computer access to virtually everything about the company; and Fareed also had access now, through Gregory, to every bit of equipment or drug that Fareed himself might want for his own secret and special work. Gregory had given Fareed total cooperation in setting up his Paris laboratory, and Gregory understood that Fareed was a vampire doctor, wholeheartedly, who lived and breathed now to care for the blood drinkers of this world, and to them and them alone Fareed had transferred the devotion he had once felt for his mortal patients.
Fareed wanted to learn from Collingsworth Pharmaceuticals. He wanted to profit from this unfettered access to its research projects and its experimental drugs. He hoped to expand his own special research under the cloak of Collingsworth Pharmaceuticals. He wanted to exploit to the maximum the complete latitude given him by Gregory for such plans. Gregory had enlarged the Paris Collingsworth compound, specifically for Fareed, and he would shift any project to Paris from its original location on the say-so of Fareed.
But Gregory claimed again and again to know little or nothing of the many projects that now fascinated Fareed.
Fareed got it. Gregory himself had never been a scientist. Gregory was an immortal with a vague fascination for "money, investment, the complex realm of wealth and economic power in the modern world." Yet there was no doubt that his genius had shaped the success of this enterprise. Specialists in myriad research fields appealed to him for policy decisions that were unfailingly efficient, and creative and smart.
Again, this wasn't what interested Fareed, except tangentially. He wanted to survive amongst the Undead. So of course he took note that the great wise survivors of the millennia--Sevraine, Gregory, Marius, Teskhamen--never struggled as to questions of wealth. To them the vagabond pickpocket maverick vampires of the world were rabble too stupid to arouse pity. And though they took pains now, the elders, to teach the young ones coming to Court how to negotiate the human world with some efficiency, their patience was short.
The present world afforded rich prey for blood and wealth in the international drug dealers and the sex slavers that congregated in just about every major city east or west; and even the youngest fledgling could feed on this mortal underclass with some success. Even the youngest fledgling could befuddle, outsmart, and easily dispatch the more organized of mortal criminals, and pocket the stacks of cash lying around in gangster hideaways and drug depots, and if he or she could not, well, best to keep that secret from the elders of the tribe as well as from one's own companions, as far as immortals like Gregory were concerned.
"It's not the cloning that interests me here," said Fareed, "though it's an immensely interesting subject."
"Irresistible to many," Gregory answered. "I'm sure."
"It's this doctor. Something's wrong here, or perhaps I should say something's strange."
"I'm listening." Gregory sat back looking at the four long streams of cards. "Why are they just red or black?" he asked under his breath.
"First off, she's not who she claims to be at all."
"How can that be?" Gregory asked. He gathered up the cards and shuffled them, as expertly as a dealer in a gambling casino.
Fareed explained.
"She's created an identity and a record for herself using, as far as I can tell, the records of four deceased researchers in genetics. I've pretty much tracked all of this to its roots. She came to work for you ten years ago. And I understand, she never met you and you never laid eyes on her. And she's been publishing brilliant papers and reports ever since. All to do with genetics and genetic engineering, medicines genetically perfected for the individual user, that sort of thing. The cloning has gone on under the radar. I've cracked into her secret records. But she's too clever for matters to be transparent. She writes in German and English mostly, and I'm sensing the use of a highly sophisticated personal code."
"And all this strikes you as dangerous, as a justification for us to intervene? Or do you want to bring her over? Make her one of your own staff?"
"Well, that's how it started," said Fareed. "I thought just maybe she'd be a brilliant addition. But now I'm quite obsessed with something else."
"And that is?"
"Why did she create this fake identity? She's obviously brilliant. So why would she do that? I can't find a single shred of evidence as to who she was or might have been before she created this persona for Collingsworth Pharmaceuticals. It's as if she came into existence ten years ago."
Gregory was listening now intently. "Well, how could you find any evidence, I mean, if she doesn't want you to?"
"I've run facial recognition software, I've run records of missing persons, of doctors worldwide of the same physical description, living or dead. I find nothing. Yet she's a superbly talented researcher and research writer. I want to meet her."
Fareed enlarged the most recent available photograph of the woman until it filled the screen.
"Well, nothing's stopping you," said Gregory. "I suppose I could arrange it if you like. You're blessed, my friend. You look human. You're an entirely credible Anglo-Indian doctor. You're striking but not threatening. I'm sure you could sit down with her over coffee in Geneva and talk to her. What would be the risk in that?"
Fareed didn't answer. A strange frisson had come over him. He was staring into her face, looking into her eyes.
Gregory rose from the table and approached the desk. He stood behind Fareed and looked at the monitor.
"Lovely woman," he said. "Perhaps she'd like to spend eternity with us."
"That's all you see?" Fareed asked. He glanced up at Gregory. "You see nothing else?"
"What is there to see?"