Paul carefully locked the door of the laboratory. He waited for the bleep that confirmed the arming of the alarm system. When it finally sounded he picked up his briefcase and released the keys. The large bunch of keys snapped back to his belt on a retracting metal wire. He didn't like to lose things. Especially the research on a cure for cancer to which those keys would give access. He sighed. It was nearly all over. The final clinical trials were to begin tomorrow. He thought of the reason why he had done all this. It was not to get a Nobel Prize, or be a hero. His reasons seemed purely selfish. His wife had only a few months to live. He did not want her to die.

The night security officer squirmed furiously on the floor. Three black-clad men stood around him. White kicked the bound and gagged form repeatedly, until it stopped moving. A crumpled newspaper on which blood now pooled revealed a picture of Paul Anderson, famous scientist, hand outstretched. Failing to block the photographer’s view. Blazed across the page was the headline "CURE FOR CANCER?"

Black worked the grip of his cudgel nervously. Meanwhile Smith scrubbed out a glowing dog-end with a harsh twist of his heavy, black leather boot.

As he walked Paul glanced out of the side windows of the long corridor. The swaying trees cast waving shadows in the glare from the security lights. He glanced at his watch. 2.15 am. The guard should be out there, checking the side gate. Paul never failed to notice, the man was regular as clockwork. He glanced behind him, just in case. The corridor yielded nothing, less as the automatic circuit cut out the fluorescent lights by the lab door. He reached into his jacket to where the illegal automatic pistol nestled snugly in its holster, next to his heart. He had taken the anonymous warnings very seriously indeed. The next strip of lights was also out. He paused in an island of light, oceans of darkness in front and behind. He walked on.

The echoes of an even, rhythmic tread sounded their quarry's approach. Smith gave the "wait" signal to the others. Black stopped his nervous wringing. White pulled a large, black drawstring bag from inside his black denim jacket.

They moved into position in the pooled shadows at the back of the lobby. Smith pointed at White, then pointed to the small alcove on the opposite side of the corridor. White complied and moved over to conceal himself in the patch of darkness behind a display panel.

Paul turned the corner, and paced into darkness. He stopped again, wondering why the passive infrared sensor had not detected his presence and switched on the next row of lights. The existence of a possible cure for cancer was like finding the Holy Grail. Thousands of people could be saved, and spared the pain and suffering the disease caused. Paul knew certain people who were not just interested in the remedial value of the cure. They saw this as an opportunity for great reward. They could feed their already bloated egos’ by basking in the heroism and glory that would result. More sinisterly though, Paul believed they would secretly revel in the power the cure would give them over other peoples’ lives. Paul was not interested in the glory; he simply wanted people to live…