Fallout (The Nick Sullivan Thrillers Book 1)

by Karla Forbes

  “Thank you for attending this evening,” he said, sitting down and getting straight to the point. “We have a situation on our hands that you both need to be aware of.”

  He looked them both over, checking that he had their full attention. He was not disappointed.

  “As you know, several days ago the wife of James Feltham, the MP for Sussex West, was abducted on her way home to the village of Fernhurst. A short note was left in her car, warning the government that when she was returned they would have less than forty-eight hours to act. We had no idea what this note meant, but as it appeared to allude to a threat of terrorism, news of Mrs Feltham’s abduction was kept out of the press while steps were taken to try and find her. But it seemed that she had disappeared without trace, and all we could do was sit and wait.” He fixed each of the men with a grave expression. “I can now tell you that the waiting is over. Mr Feltham took a call earlier this evening informing him that his wife could be found on Midhurst Common. As a result of this message, several officers were dispatched to the scene, and soon afterwards they radioed in to say that they had found a woman’s body.”

  “Sarah Feltham?” Montrose asked grimly.

  “We’re assuming so,” Becket said. “Until the body has been formally identified it’s not official, but we are working on the premise that this is the case.”

  Montrose raised an eyebrow. “Why the delay with the identification? Is the body unrecognisable?”

  “Not at all,” Becket said, “but at the moment we can’t allow Feltham anywhere near her. It seems that Mrs Feltham was killed with a massive dose of plutonium.”

  A shocked silence followed this announcement. The two men exchanged looks but said nothing. Becket reached into his briefcase, pulled out three sheets of A4-sized paper and handed them around. “These,” he said, “are copies of a second note left at the scene. I’ll read it to you. As you will see, the reason for the abduction of Mrs Feltham has now become clear.”

  He read aloud:

  Sarah Feltham has been killed with plutonium. The purpose of this is to prove to the British Government that we are in possession of 5 kilograms of weapons-grade plutonium, which will be released somewhere in Britain if our demands are not met in full. You have less than 48 hours to verify, to your own satisfaction, the cause of her death and to amass diamonds to the value of £60-million to the following specifications:

  10% of the diamonds to be 3 carats, clarity scale F, colour D

  20% of the diamonds to be 2 carats, clarity scale F, colours F–J

  70% of the diamonds to be 2 carats, minor inclusions at base only, colours F–J

  All diamonds to be round-cut

  The diamonds are to be packed, by category, in cloth bags and placed in a sealed plastic box measuring twelve inches by eight inches by six inches deep. The box will be taken to the pick-up point in the Arrivals hall at Kent International Airport at precisely two o’clock on Friday afternoon. They are to be carried by one man, working alone, who will be holding a placard with the name FELTHAM written on it for identification. He will hand them over to the person who approaches him asking for the luggage bound for Amsterdam. Two hours after safe delivery of the diamonds, a phone call will be made to the editor of The Times newspaper giving details of where the plutonium can be found. If there is any attempt to deviate from these instructions or to track the diamonds in any way, the editor of The Times will instead be sent a sample of plutonium and the exclusive story of how the Government’s intransigence has caused the death of thousands of British civilians.

  Becket slowly lowered the paper and looked grimly around him. “So there you have it. Questions please, gentlemen.”

  The ensuing silence lasted little more than three seconds, then suddenly both men talked together. Becket hushed them with an eyebrow raised in reproach.

  “One at a time gentlemen, please. You first, Brian.”

  “What do we know so far?”

  “Unfortunately, very little,” Becket admitted. “They refer to themselves as ‘we’, so there is, presumably, more than one person involved. And the plutonium… Well, the radiation at least is real.”

  “Do we know that for a fact?” Henderson asked. “Have we had the results of the post-mortem already?”

  “Not yet,” Becket told him. “It’s being rushed through as a priority, but the body was initially scanned with a Geiger counter. Regardless of whether or not plutonium was the actual cause of death, we do know for sure that she has been subjected to radiation in some form or another. John?”

  The Assistant Chief Constable had been half-raising his hand in an attempt to gain Becket’s attention. “Does MI6 know anything about this?” he asked.

  “No,” Becket said. “There’s no indication at the present time that this is an international terrorist threat. Al-Qaeda don’t warn; they just kill. There have been no political demands. This seems to be a straightforward case of extortion, with money being the sole motive. I’ve asked MI5 and the Met to help. I’m expecting someone from MI5 shortly. He’s being briefed on the way down here from London.”

  “Why MI5?” Montrose asked, narrowing his eyes with distaste. “If this is a straightforward case of extortion rather than terrorism, then we don’t need that bunch of cowboys. If MI5 were half as good as they pretend to be, they would have been able to warn us in advance that something was up. We can do this without their help.”

  “Don’t let personal prejudices cloud your judgement,” Becket warned. “I feel the same as you about MI5, but we all know that regardless of all that hyperbole they spout about operating within the same constraints as the rest of us, they more or less do what they like when they like. As we’re up against time here, that could be useful. Brian, you have a question?”

  “Why diamonds?” Henderson asked, throwing up his hands with confusion. “They’ll be taking a bloody big risk when they try to collect them, whatever trick they’re going to come up with. If it was me, I’d have the money transferred to a Swiss bank account and then onto some other country where we don’t have an extradition agreement. It would happen at the touch of a button, without the need for a physical presence in this country.”

  “I can’t answer that,” the chief constable admitted. He stood up from the table and began to pace the room, his chin in his hand. “I can only assume it’s because they can’t do that without us eventually finding out who they are, even if we can’t touch them.”

  “Does that matter?” Montrose asked. “If I was living it up with my share of sixty million quid, I wouldn’t care who knew.”

  Becket came to a standstill and stared thoughtfully into the middle distance.

  “Perhaps they don’t want to live half way across the world for the rest of their lives, always looking over their shoulder in case the extradition laws change. I suspect that they’d rather take a chance with the diamonds, and if they get away with it, stay anonymous.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose,” Montrose admitted, “but how do they hope to get them out of the country? Catch the next flight out of Kent International with the diamonds in their hand luggage? I’d like to see them pull that one off.”

  Becket shrugged. “Unfortunately they haven’t shared that vital bit of information with us. Obviously they are not going to hang around once they’ve got the diamonds, and the location suggests that somehow they plan to fly, but we can’t rule anything out. We’re going to have to play it by ear.”

  “What about those diamonds?” Henderson asked. “Can the government get its hands on sixty million quid’s worth in time?”

  Becket indicated the Assistant Chief Constable. “Diamonds are more John’s area of expertise than mine. What do you say, John?”

  Montrose considered the question. “It shouldn’t be a problem. Diamonds are like cars; one good one can be worth more than fifty ordinary models. The Millennium Dome Diamond alone was worth more than two hundred and fifty million pounds. It makes this little haul seem modest by comparison.” He refe
rred to his list. “The first category of diamonds – the three carats, clarity F, colour D – are the rarest, and therefore the most valuable.”

  “Explain please, in English, for the benefit of the rest of us,” Becket prompted.

  “The carat is the measure of weight (not size, as most people think), and the greater the carat the more valuable the diamond. Because large diamonds are so rare, a diamond weighing two carats will be worth considerably more than twice the value of a one carat. Nearly all diamonds have inclusions, natural flaws, so a diamond that is flawless will be very valuable indeed. F is the measure for a diamond free of inclusions. Diamonds are also graded on colour, from D (which is colourless) to Z. A truly colourless stone, D, is valued for its purity and is very rare and expensive.”

  “I don’t understand,” Henderson interrupted. “If that’s the case, why don’t they just go for the best diamonds they can get? Why compromise?” He stabbed at the paper in front of him. “It says here that they will accept 70% diamonds of lesser quality.”

  Montrose shrugged. “If you took a large amount of money out of the bank with the intention of living off it for a while, would you want it all in high-denomination notes? You wouldn’t be very popular paying for a newspaper with a fifty-pound note. It’s the same with diamonds. The most valuable might not be the easiest to sell when you want some fast, ready money.”

  Becket stopped pacing and sat down again. “Which all means,” he said “that at least one of this gang knows something about the diamond trade, and they’re going to make damn sure we don’t cheat them. You’ll see from their timetable that they’ve allowed two hours from receipt of the goods to advising us of the location of the bombs. That, presumably, is how long they will need to get out of the country and check the diamonds over.”

  Montrose began to speak, but was interrupted by a brief tap on the door. It opened in response to Becket’s terse “Come in,” and everyone looked up as a young constable stuck his head nervously across the threshold. “A Mr Anson to see you, sir,” he muttered, looking around him with evident curiosity.

  Becket rose to his feet once more as the constable’s companion entered. “Ah, Mr Anson, thanks for coming so quickly.” He turned to the constable who seemed to be in no hurry to leave.

  “Anything else?” he prompted.

  The young policeman handed over a thin document. “I was asked to give you this, sir.”

  Becket took the papers, waved the constable away and turned back to the group. “Let me introduce Mark Anson from MI5. He’s here to help us bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion. Please take a seat, Mr Anson, and tell me what you know so far.”

  In spite of their obvious mistrust, the small group regarded him with interest. He was a mediocre-looking man in his late forties, slim, with mouse-coloured hair, and the only distinguishable item in his otherwise forgettable wardrobe was an expensive short leather jacket. He was the sort of person who if seen by a hundred people would be remembered by none.

  His manner, on the other hand, was brisk and to the point.

  “Probably as much as you do,” he said, in response to the question. “Are we still waiting for the result of the post mortem?”

  Becket remembered the document in his hand. “Hopefully this is it. A moment please.” He quickly scanned it as the group waited expectantly. After a few minutes, he read aloud, briefly summarising the relevant details for the benefit of his audience.

  “The primary cause of death was asphyxiation. Sarah Feltham died as a result of her hyoid bone being crushed.”

  “Not radiation then?” Henderson asked, clearly confused.

  “It seems not,” Becket said, referring once more to the report. “She was, however, suffering from radiation sickness, a result of being fed a diet of soup and pure plutonium over a number of days.”

  Montrose curled his lip in disgust. “They made her eat it!” he said, appalled. “That’s twisted, isn’t it?”

  Anson hunched forward, addressing the group. “Not really,” he said. “Plutonium has to be inhaled, injected or ingested to be dangerous. It was probably the easiest way of administering it, particularly if they didn’t want to raise her suspicions.”

  “It’s true, then,” Henderson said despondently – a mood clearly shared at that moment by everyone around the table. “We really have got a plutonium situation to deal with. Well, that’s great.”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” Becket reminded him.

  “Quite,” Anson agreed. “We already know that between them, these men have a working knowledge of diamonds and plutonium. That’s already useful information that we can work on. It doesn’t matter how careful they think they are, there’s always something we can use.”

  Becket held up the paper in his hand. “Someone hasn’t been as careful as he should have been,” he said grimly. “Several hours prior to her death, Sarah Feltham was raped. DNA has been recovered, and the database is being checked for a match. If the culprit has got a record, we’ll know the identification of one of the men we’re looking for. All we’ll have to do then is find the others before they get a chance to detonate the bomb.”

  “I very much doubt we’re looking for a single bomb,” Anson told the group. “That would suggest a nuclear device, which, thankfully, is still beyond the scope of most ordinary people to build. It’s more likely to be a number of dirty bombs spread around for maximum disruption.”

  Becket looked up in alarm. “A number? How many are we talking about here?”

  Anson leaned back and folded his arms almost casually. “They claim to have five kilograms of the stuff. If that’s true, they’ve got enough to cause a great deal of inconvenience. Imagine the effect of a number of dirty bombs spread around the capital. People are terrified of radiation; the panic would be terrible. Parts of London would become no-go areas for weeks, and the financial implications of that happening would be disastrous for the economy. The country could be tipped into a recession that it would take years to recover from.”

  “But the British government always takes a hard line with terrorism,” Montrose pointed out. “What happens if they refuse to pay up? Perhaps, if it comes to it, these people won’t detonate. After all, how will it help them if thousands of people get cancer and the economy is wrecked?”

  “I doubt whether they’ll care about the economy,” Anson ventured, “And as for whether or not they’re willing to kill, we only need ask James Feltham for his views on that, don’t you agree?”

  The silence that followed this statement was answer enough. The government didn’t do business with blackmailers, but these men had already signalled their willingness to kill. There was only one possible solution: find them in time.

  As if on cue, the clock in Becket’s office chimed the hour. The men looked up, evidently sharing the same thought. Three hours had already passed since Sarah Feltham’s body had been discovered. That left forty-five hours at the most to find the men and stop the plutonium being detonated.

  As Becket reached for his phone with the intention of updating the Home Office, it rang, cutting through the reflective silence and startling everyone present.

  “What is it?” Becket demanded,then sat listening, his expression impassive. When he put the phone down less than a minute later, he had a thin smile of triumph on his face.

  “We have a name,” he announced with satisfaction. “The man who raped Sarah Feltham has been identified as Malcolm Fox, last known living in Croydon.”

  Anson scraped back his chair and rose to his feet. “If it’s OK with you, I’ll get over there straight away. These men sound like a bunch of amateurs, leaving their DNA at the scene. At this rate, we’re going to have them in custody long before the 48-hour deadline has passed.”

  “That won’t help us find the plutonium,” Becket reminded him.

  “If we find the men we’ll find the plutonium,” Anson said with conviction.

  “And if you don’t?” Becket asked neutrally.


  Anson either didn’t hear or chose not to answer. Without another word he strode out of the office, closing the door firmly behind him.

  The group around the table watched his departure in silence, none of them wanting to sound a pessimistic note, but all sharing the same thought: could it really be so easy?

  Chapter Eleven

  It came on quickly: a raging sore throat that made swallowing difficult. It would have been more of a problem if Nick had anything to eat, but as he didn’t, it hardly mattered. He began to feel as though he had spent his entire life following the car in front. Soon after they had left Clacket Lane Services it became obvious that they weren’t returning to the lodge, and the nagging worry about leaving Annelies was doing nothing to raise his spirits. The mood of optimism with which he had set out that morning had long since evaporated, and in its place were hatred, fatigue, and an overwhelming sense of frustration.

  His concentration began to waver and the red lights ahead of him became a blur. When the BMW pulled without warning on to the slip road, it caught him unawares. Without pausing to think, he yanked down hard on the steering wheel, cut sharply across the traffic coming up on his left and swerved across two lanes of motorway, just making the exit in time. The cacophony of angry horns that followed this manoeuvre marked him out more clearly than a bolt of lightning striking his car, and he visibly cringed as he closed in on the BMW. He took comfort from the fact that it was dark, but he couldn’t help wondering how much longer he could break every rule in the Highway Code without being noticed.