by Andrew Tudor
“I’m sorry,” he said to them. “There’s nothing more we can do. She’s gone. We’ll leave you with her for a few minutes then I’ll send in someone to talk to you about making arrangements.”
Alone with the inert body of their child they mutely held on to each other. The steady hum of the ventilator and monitors that had for days accompanied their vigil was now gone, its absence feeling to Hart like a reproach. How could he have let this happen? His whole adult life spent protecting the state and yet he could not manage to protect his own daughter from something which, ultimately, should be laid at the door of that very state. In less desolate circumstances he might have appreciated the irony, but instead he simply felt his grief and guilt turning to anger.
“They won’t get away with it,” he muttered, more to himself than to Jill who by now was standing over Rosemary, holding the child’s hand and weeping silently.
“What?” she said. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” he replied, joining her beside the bed. “Just something I have to do.”
Somewhere an alarm was bleeping. Not very loudly but definitely bleeping, and persistently so. Irene Johnson stood in her hallway peering hopefully at the Home Control app on her CommsTab. Everything was working satisfactorily, it told her, no malfunctions anywhere. So why this warning signal? Shaking her head at the unreliability of computerised household systems, she resigned herself to searching out the source of the sound. No doubt it was a glitch, but far too irritating to ignore. It seemed to be emanating from her study and, sure enough, when she opened the door the bleep became louder. Perhaps it was coming from her ancient computer – Irene had never become entirely accustomed to doing everything on a CommsTab and remained attached to her old technology – but no, that wasn’t the source. The noise was coming from inside her desk and, opening a drawer, she saw the flashing red light on the long-forgotten paging device that Jonathan Hart had given her several months earlier. This was the first time it had shown any sign of life.
Irene looked at the unremarkable piece of plastic for a moment then picked it up. The flashing light was clearly an invitation to depress the small button on which it was located and, somewhat warily, she did so. The tiny screen illuminated with the briefest of messages: ‘same bench 2pm today’. Irene was nonplussed. Why would Hart want to see her now, so long after that carefully arranged encounter with the reporter, Julie Fenwick? She hadn’t heard from either of them since then, though she had of course seen the reporter’s name strewn across innumerable internet news items about the source of the flu. What could have happened to cause Hart to make contact, and by this roundabout route?
Well, she thought, there’s only one way to find out, so a little before 2pm she was strolling across Tooting Common as she generally did anyway on a weekend afternoon. The bench where she and Hart had conversed previously was unoccupied – the Common was hardly busy on a cold winter’s day – and pulling her coat more closely around her, Irene sat down and prepared to wait. She would give him twenty minutes, she decided. If he hadn’t shown up by then she would simply continue her walk. In the event Irene only had to wait half that time before she saw Hart approaching from the same direction that she had arrived. On reaching the bench he nodded a greeting and sat down.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said. “I wanted to check that you weren’t being followed. I didn’t really think that you would be. The intelligence agencies are getting far too short-staffed to pursue anything but the most serious cases, but I like to make sure.”
“I’m pleased to know that I’m no longer a serious case,” Irene replied with a frown, adding, “whatever that might be in present circumstances.”
This effort at sarcasm produced a weak smile from Hart. “Yes,” he said, “the agencies are not always very good judges about what counts as serious.”
Irene gave him a sceptical look. “Including yours?” she asked.
“Yes. In its time, I’m afraid so. But not any more. I’m a great deal clearer about priorities now than I was when we last met.”
Irene turned to him again, this time more attentively. He was obviously serious in this unexpected claim and, Irene realised now that she looked at him properly, he appeared haggard and anxious.
“What’s brought about that change?”
“Oh, events. Things have happened,” he said with a shrug, then, as if eager to change the subject, he stood up. “Let’s walk,” he proposed. “It’s getting cold sitting still.”
Hart remained silent as they wandered towards Tooting Common Lake until, becoming impatient, Irene asked: “So, what is it that you wanted to see me about?”
“I’m afraid that I’ve done something which will likely have repercussions for you, so I wanted to warn you.”
Irene halted and turned towards him to protest, but before she could say anything he raised his hand to stop her.
“I know, I know. You think that I should at least have consulted you first. Well, perhaps I should have. I’m sorry. I felt that I had pressing reasons to go ahead.”
He looked apologetic, dejected even, but then his expression hardened into something resembling the ruthless Jonathan Hart with whom she was familiar. “I assure you that it was necessary,” he said. “Anyway, it’s done now so we should move things on from there.”
With that they resumed walking and Hart continued his explanation.
“I’ve given a great deal more information to Julie Fenwick. She doesn’t know that it’s come from me. I’ve provided it electronically in a way that she will find entirely untraceable. But, given your previous contact with her she will almost certainly assume that it has come through you. And given what it is, I think she’ll try to contact you.”
Irene frowned. “But she doesn’t know who I am. We simply met in that cinema and I gave her certain information. In her reports she gives no details. She even described me as her Deep Throat.”
“True, but she’s not stupid and she’s very resourceful. I’m sure that she long ago figured out who you are. She has seen you, remember, even in a dimly lit cinema, and she would know that you had to be placed somewhere in government science circles to have the kind of information that you gave her. It wouldn’t be difficult to find photographs of you online. What’s more, she’s thoroughly resourced now, mostly from international organisations. She has ‘researchers’ who are, in effect, private security. I’ll bet that she knows exactly where you live.”
Irene took a deep breath and followed it with an irritated exhalation. “You’d better tell me what you’ve told her then.”
Once more Hart stopped walking, turning to face her. “Pretty well everything. The history of the Zeno project. The fact that the flu is a Zeno variation. Who was responsible. Who was in charge.” He was mentally counting them off. “And some stuff that you don’t know about, like the specifics of the cover-up, how high the decision-making went, and so on. Everything I had access to really.”
Irene’s expression must have told him how horrified she was because he hastily looked away across the park to where a couple of children and their parents were playing chasing games with a dog. When at last he turned back, she saw to her astonishment that there were tears in his eyes.
“I really had to do it,” he said.
“But I thought we’d agreed that it would be too risky to release the Zeno information, too likely to provoke unrest and panic. And probably even more so now with the flu taking so many lives.”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s precisely the point. I’ve concluded that it’s time for drastic measures. We’ve been servants of a deeply irresponsible government, and the people, its victims, need to know what has been done without their knowledge. Perhaps then things will change.”
“But at what cost?” Irene asked.
“A high cost probably, yes. But at the moment a high cost is being paid anyway and almost entirely
by ordinary people. This way, at least those who have been really responsible may get held to account, pay a price that they are not paying at the moment. That’s all I want.”
Irene thought for a minute. “You’re sure that she’ll use the information and that the news sites will carry it?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t they?” he replied. “But I think she’s likely to check it out with you first. You gave her reliable information before. She trusts you, in as much as she trusts anybody. That’s why I’ve come to warn you. Of course you could deny it, which might stall her for a while. But in the end she’ll use it anyway. The material I’ve given her is too convincing for her to ignore. It is, after all, a huge story.”
“What if I told her that it came from you?”
Hart half smiled at the suggestion. “She would certainly use that. Just think of the headlines. ‘DSD Director Reveals Conspiracy’ and such like. I could deny it, of course. But I’d be out of a job inside twenty-four hours, and probably worse. It’s up to you really. I’m hoping that you won’t so that we can maintain our alliance.”
“Alliance?” Irene spat out the word. “It’s not been much of that so far. More like you using me as a convenient front.”
“OK, I admit that. I’m sorry. But as I said before, things have changed. I regret not openly siding with you earlier but now I think differently. When it all becomes public, working together we could still be in a position to influence whatever policy decisions get made. It won’t make up for the fact that you were ignored before, but we might just be able to do some good.”
Irene shook her head. “I think it’s too late for that. They’re not likely to listen to me now even if they do regret not doing so back at the beginning.”
“Maybe.” Hart shrugged. “But assuming that you don’t give me away, they’ll be more inclined to listen to me. And remember, there will be big changes in government circles. People will be sacrificed. There’ll be a vacuum to fill and I should be in a position to influence decisions about who is brought in to deal with the crisis.”
Irene stared out across the park, not really taking anything in, wondering how far she could trust Hart and whether releasing full information about Zeno would prove to be a positive step in the longer run.
“I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “And if Julie Fenwick does show up, I’ll let you know what I’ve done. How can I contact you?”
He rummaged in an inside pocket of his coat and produced what looked like an old-fashioned mobile phone. “This will find me. It’s preprogrammed. Just press the Call button. If I can answer, I will. If not, I’ll call back when I can. Don’t give any details or names when we do speak. Just say whether she’s been in touch and whether you involved me.”
They stood in silence for a minute or two, watching the children throwing a ball back and forth while the increasingly frantic dog ran between them. Were it not for the surgical masks that the children were wearing, it could be an ordinary weekend scene in the park. Didn’t these people have a right to know the truth, Irene thought, however terrible it might be? Even if knowing would make things that much worse, raising anxiety levels and, quite possibly, causing public unrest? But then, it was hardly her decision now. Hart had rather pre-empted her there. Whatever she said to Julie Fenwick, even if she denied all of it, the story would surely get published. And how could she deny it? As Hart said, Curbishley and all the others whose hubris and sheer stupidity had led to this disaster should be made to answer for what they had done.
She turned to Hart. “I think I’ll go home now. I’ll let you know if Julie gets in touch.” And then, almost in spite of herself she added: “Take care. You’re not looking well.”
Hart nodded. “No, I’m not, am I? Still, that’s how it is. You take care too.”
Irene raised a hand in farewell then set off by the route that she had come. After a minute or so she looked back and saw that Hart was still standing there, watching the children at play.
From the Jemaa el Fnaa square in Marrakesh it is possible to glimpse the distant, snow-capped Atlas Mountains. But on this particular late afternoon none of the many thousands of people packing the square were interested in the view. Instead, they were focused intently on one man, an Imam, who was addressing them from a temporary platform behind which towered the red sandstone minaret of the Koutoubia Mosque. They roared approval as, in no uncertain terms, he condemned ‘the Infidel’ for bringing down this pestilential disease upon them all. He called on the faithful to carry out jihad against those responsible and to strive for a return to the world of the Great Caliphate. His audience were stirred. They called for more. And in response the preacher wound them into something close to frenzy.
Scattered around the periphery of the square were armed police in twos and threes, clearly helpless in the face of the vast crowd. They looked at each other and at the scene before them, then without any apparent signal they slipped away into the narrow streets and alleys of the city, abandoning the square to the monstrous creation that was coming into being. At that moment, perfectly on cue, the lights illuminating the minaret sprang to life, its shape towering over the Imam and his devotees, while the repeated cries of “Allahu Akbar” rolled across the city and rose into the darkening sky.
4
Julie Fenwick became increasingly excited as she worked her way through the collection of files that had arrived unbidden from the digital ether. The internet news world was full of conspiracies, invented facts and downright lunacy, but this was surely the real thing. The details of the tale told by the leaked documents fitted neatly into what she already knew, and if they were genuine – Julie was trying hard to maintain a sceptical view on that – this would be even bigger than her previous Porton Down story. Of course, there was always a risk that she was being misled. There were powerful people who would be only too pleased to see her destroyed by reporting a controversial story that could then be proved false. It would undermine her credibility with the less gullible sections of her audience and, perhaps more important, damage her relationship with the organisations that now protected her and funded her work. She had to be careful.
Even so, she could barely resist cheering out loud when she arrived at a set of minutes, marked Top Secret, that recorded a decision not to release any information about Zeno, a decision that had ultimately been taken at prime ministerial level. No public statements were to be made, not even about the flu let alone about the apparently more serious threat posed by the genetic modifications. As Julie juggled back and forth among the files it became clear that there was a whole sequence of precisely documented actions here, revealing a cover-up on a monumental scale. This was a story that would shake the foundations of the English government, matching any of the famous leaks of the past – the Panama Papers, Wikileaks, the Trump Tapes, the Denizovich Documents. It all made sense, fitting in with some odd rumours that she had picked up over the past few months but had never been able to confirm. But where had the material come from? None of her tracing software could identify a source, and given that her technology was provided by some extremely well-equipped organisations this meant that, for all practical purposes, it was untraceable.
She needed at least some degree of corroboration if she was to take the risk of publishing the story. Maybe Deep Throat could provide that. In fact, maybe Deep Throat was actually the source. The message inviting her to that meeting in the cinema had also been mysteriously untraceable. Julie smiled to herself at the fact that she continued to think of Irene Johnson as ‘Deep Throat’ although she had long since identified her. Julie’s attachment to All the President’s Men remained strong, especially so now that she was even better known to modern audiences than Bernstein and Woodward were in their time. But this new story, this one would be quite extraordinary, which made it all the more important that she tried to confirm it with Irene.
She located a contact on her CommsTab and touched the v
-call icon. A man’s face appeared on the screen.
“Dennis, hello. We need to make a visit this evening. Can you pick me up at around six?”
“Yes, no problem. Where are we going?”
“South London, Streatham Hill area. There’s someone I have to see and I’ll need you to ensure that we’re not followed and, if you can, confirm that the person we visit isn’t being watched.”
Dennis frowned. “You’re not giving me very long to do that,” he said.
“I know,” Julie replied, favouring him with her most appealing smile. “But you’ve checked her out before – Irene Johnson. Anyway, have a look, and if you don’t think it’s possible let me know and we’ll delay it. OK?”
“Yes, I guess so. I’ll spend all day on it and call you around five o’clock to tell you what I think. Better get started. Bye.”
The screen blanked and Julie gave herself a metaphorical pat on the back for persuading Dennis to be a little less wary than usual. He was her chief minder, a function that he carried out exceptionally well, but by her somewhat impulsive standards he erred too much on the side of caution. That was hardly surprising. Although he treated her as his boss, in fact, of course, she wasn’t. He was employed by the shadowy group of organisations who retained her journalistic services, and it was to them that he was actually answerable. No doubt he would be consulting his real employers at this very minute, informing them of her latest escapade. Julie wasn’t overly concerned about that. They were aware that Irene was one of her sources and would certainly have no objections to her making contact.
Sure enough, when Dennis called back late in the afternoon it was to confirm that the visit was on. He was as certain as he could be in the time available that there was no surveillance in place, and so a little after 6pm Julie found herself crossing London in an electric City Car. The fact that the car was brand new and top of the range fed her new-found sense of her own importance which, when added to the excitement of setting off in pursuit of a big story, made her feel unusually pleased with herself. It was such a relief not to have to resort to public transport as most people were obliged to do, and gratifying to be driven. Well, not exactly driven – the car drove itself – but Dennis was in the driver’s seat which allowed her to mentally transform him into her chauffeur. Nor would the car pass muster as a limousine. It was tiny, as required for the relatively few private vehicles that were permitted to drive in central London, but it still gave her a kick to see pedestrians enviously eyeing it and her.
