“The Dutch chemist wanted a new product.” Rowland glanced toward her. “Commercially, the man is sharp. So he knew precisely what he was looking for. Something that was, if possible, more addictive than Ecstasy, something that gave a rush, and then immense energy, like speed, and above all a product that provided an even stronger sexual thrill than Ecstasy had produced—and without its sexual downside.”

“It had a sexual downside?”

“Of course. In some instances, it aroused but it made erection difficult for the male. All hard drugs have an adverse effect sexually, either short- or long-term—and needless to say, the Dutch chemist was well aware of that. He was also aware that if he could formulate a product that boosted sexual performance, it was likely to make him a rich man. A very rich man.”

“And he succeeded?” Gini asked.

“Yes. He succeeded—or so he claims. He was helped by the fact that he found an investor, someone prepared to back his experiments. Considering the size of the Dutch operation, that investor was generous. He provided two hundred and fifty thousand Swiss francs of funding, straight out of a numbered account in Zurich. It was handed over to the American partner in the Amsterdam Hilton, in April last year. Six months later, the Dutch chemist had perfected his product, and he was ready to start marketing it. I think you must know what he called it.”

“White Dove?”

“White Dove. Indeed.”

There was a brief silence. Gini looked at Rowland curiously. “You’re very well informed,” she began. “Who’s been feeding you this information?”

“I have a contact in the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency. The Dutch chemist and his American partner have been under surveillance for almost a year. Amsterdam is a major conduit in the trafficking routes for heroin and cocaine. It’s not unusual for the DEA to have operatives in place there.”

“No.” Gini looked at him uncertainly, noting his sudden reserve. “But it might be a little unusual for them to feed so much information to a British journalist.”

“I told you—I worked in Washington for several years.” He was now curt. “I have contacts there that go back a long way.” He paused. “I’ll come back to the question of the funding, and the identity of the investor, in a moment, if I may. Meanwhile, here’s what happened last autumn. The chemist had his new product—for which his hopes were high. The next move was to start feeding it out to clients—and that was the American’s task. He began in the usual way: friends in the rock music business were supplied. He passed some out to contacts in gay clubs. He gave some to photographers and models he knew. Word spread fast. Musicians discovered they could record all day, all night, and all the next day as well. Models discovered it killed their appetites stone dead. The word was, with White Doves you felt confident, happy, and inspired. You didn’t require sleep. Or food. The appetite for sex, needless to say, was not impaired.”