Adams pushed open the door to the small external courtyard in the centre of the department and fished in his pocket for his mobile.
Just about to finish, he typed into the screen with his thumbs. What’re you cooking?
It took a few moments for the reply to buzz in his hand.
Domino’s or Papa John’s the message read. You decide.
Adams grinned at Lizzie’s response. With any luck, there would be enough time while they were waiting for the pizza to be delivered for what Lizzie called ‘personal time’.
He couldn’t wait to get back to his flat.
3
Eleanor Vickers had three ambitions in life. Since she was a child, she had wanted to be a journalist. She wanted to be married, preferably by thirty, and have children as soon after the ceremony as she could, but no earlier than nine months, give or take a few days either way. Finally, she wanted to win one of the British Journalism Awards.
Her first ambition was already in the bag, even though she was only twenty-three. Eleanor was the junior business correspondent at the Eastern Daily News, based in the centre of Norwich. She wasn’t too keen on the junior element of her title, but she was working on that and had been since arriving at the local newspaper a year ago. Her second ambition wasn’t looking likely soon, but of the three, it was the one she was least concerned about.
Winning one of the British Journalism Awards was an ambition recently added, after she had attended the awards ceremony in the company of one of the senior journalists who had been nominated for the technology journalism award. Eleanor remembered the smug look on the face of the forty something winner—who wasn’t her colleague—and since that moment she knew she wanted one of the black marble trophies for herself. Even her colleague’s clumsy attempt to go home with another notch on his bedpost, a notch which Eleanor certainly would not provide, hadn’t spoilt the evening for her.
Eleanor was crouched over her laptop, the remains of a microwaved beef cannelloni and a half empty bottle of Pinot Grigio next to it. Even though it was only half eight in the evening, she was already in her pyjamas and had tied her long brown hair up in a loose ponytail. On the laptop’s screen was a brightly coloured website with artificially coloured images of cells swirling on a loop. The site belonged to the Ascalon Institute which, according to the Helvetica text in a white box in the centre, was committed to tackling global challenges through life science research. Eleanor, for her part, wasn’t so sure.
Her brother, Liam, had been going out with an administration assistant who worked at the institute. He’d brought her round to Eleanor’s flat for a meal a few days ago. Over the course of a pre-made dinner from Marks and Spencer’s, the packaging of which Eleanor had fastidiously hidden, Fiona had gradually opened up about where she worked. That Eleanor had ensured the woman’s wine glass was never less than half empty had no doubt helped.
“There’s something wrong with the place,” Fiona had started with. A few glasses of wine later, that had changed to “there’s something awfully wrong.” Fiona’s problem, and subsequently Eleanor’s, was that she didn’t know what.
Eleanor clicked on a link on the website to learn about the Ascalon Institute, or at least what visitors were told. Her eyes scanned across the text, some phrases recognisable, some not. Eleanor knew, in a manner of speaking, what genomes and DNA sequencing were. But she’d never heard of a microbiome or how modulating it through diet could help anyone. Her nose wrinkled when she read about how these microbiomes were extracted from human faeces.
“Ew,” she said under her breath as she reached for her wineglass. “That’s gross.” As she slugged the lukewarm liquid and re-filled the glass, Eleanor thought back to the end of the evening. Liam had been in the bathroom and, the minute he had closed the door to the lounge behind him, Fiona had grabbed Eleanor’s hand in hers and looked at her in desperation.
“Please, Eleanor,” Fiona had said, the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “Liam doesn’t know how bad it is. There’s something awful happening in that bloody place. There’s some sort of laboratory there that hardly anyone’s allowed in. It’s like, top, top secret.”
“Do you know what’s in there?” Eleanor had replied.
“No, but it doesn’t need to be as secretive as it is. Not for a biology company that’s supposed to be doing stuff like making potatoes tastier. I don’t know, maybe they’re doing illegal things to animals in there? Or, like, making designer drugs or something.” Fiona’s voice was slurring, but she wasn’t so far gone that she couldn’t glance at the lounge door every few seconds, alert for Liam’s reappearance.
“Can you find out any more?” Eleanor had replied. “Like evidence, or something?” She didn’t want to say anything, but if she was going to be an investigative journalist, she needed more than what Fiona currently had.
“I don’t know,” Fiona said hurriedly as the noise of the toilet being flushed came through the lounge door. “I’ll see if I can get anything.”
Eleanor clicked onto a page about targeted sequencing, scrolled past a wall of text about custom amplicon designs, and then onto the careers page. The Ascalon Institute wasn’t currently hiring anyone.
She sighed and looked at the remnants of the wine. There was no point putting that back in the fridge, so she took a large sip from her glass and topped it up again. For the next thirty minutes, she did what her journalism lecturer at university had instilled into all her classes…research, research, research.
Whatever achievements the Ascalon Institute had made in life science research, they had hidden them well. Eleanor wasn’t able to find out much about the company at all. The more she looked, the less she found. Eleanor frowned, wondering why this would be the case. Surely any company that was looking for business would promote itself?
Her thoughts of a British Journalism Award, at least off the back of an investigative exposé into the secret laboratory of the Ascalon Institute, receded as she realised how little there was in the public domain on the company. But Fiona had seemed so desperate, so sure there was something nefarious going on there, that Eleanor’s interest had been well and truly piqued. She needed Fiona to come up with something that she could take to her editor. Until that point, this was nothing more than a side project.
When she got into the office in the morning, there were a few other databases that the Eastern Daily News had access to. There might be some more information there. But until Eleanor found something tangible, either through Fiona or elsewhere, her side project was going nowhere.
Eleanor was just about to close down the laptop, finish her wine, and go to bed when the computer chimed with an incoming e-mail. She switched windows and brought up her personal Gmail account.
“Your ears must be burning,” Eleanor mumbled as a slow smile spread across her face. It was an e-mail from Fiona with no subject, no body, and only some attachments. Lots of attachments, both photographs and files. When she opened up the first photograph attached to the e-mail, Eleanor’s smile faltered. “Oh,” she said aloud. “Well, that makes no sense at all.”
4
Titch tapped on the icon to open Zoom on his MacBook. He had the meeting code and password ready on a post-it note on his desk, and just wanted to check that everything was set up okay before his call in a few moments’ time.
He had spent the previous few moments rearranging the background to his MacBook’s webcam. Everything that he had put up would have to come straight back down again afterwards, but he was happy with what was displayed. Titch giggled as he imagined the block Senior Non-Commissioned Officer seeing the display during one of his room inspections.
Titch’s room was one of many in the single living accommodation at RAF Honington. It was known colloquially as SLAM, an abbreviation for rapidly constructed accommodation on military bases across the United Kingdom. Titch didn’t know what the M stood for and didn’t really care. He was just happy to have his own room, and his own privacy, instead of sharing a dormitory like b
ack in basic training.
The room was rectangular, except for a small en-suite shower and toilet that took out one corner, and a large cupboard that took out another. It was in that cupboard that Titch kept what he had currently displayed on the walls, securely stowed in a locked metal container that, according to the advert, was fireproof, bombproof, and had an unpickable lock. The container was one of the few personal things that he kept in his room. The furniture was military issue. A single bed with a blue duvet and matching pillow. An armchair, also blue, that was impossible to get comfortable in, and the chair he was sitting on now that belonged to the desk that his laptop was on. Even most of the clothes in the cupboards were military issue. Titch had little time for personal possessions and never had.
He looked at his watch to check the time. It was five minutes before eleven in the evening, so he entered the details for the Zoom call. In the military, if you weren’t five minutes early, you were late. Titch was never late. To his surprise, the other caller was already on the call.
“Hello?” Titch said after ensuring he had un-muted his microphone.
“Hello.” The male voice that replied was deep, almost baritone. “You’re early.”
“Yes,” Titch replied. “I usually am.” He tried to keep his voice level and not give away his nerves at finally speaking to a man he’d previously only heard about.
“Very good. You may call me George, and I am here with Charlotte.”
“Good evening, George. Good evening, Charlotte.” There was no reply for a few seconds, and Titch rechecked his mute setting.
“If you are admitted, what is the name you will go by?”
“Charles,” Titch replied. He’d known from the chat on the forums that this would be the first question, and he’d put a lot of thought into it.
“Charles what?” the male voice asked.
“Charles Léopold Nicolas Sixte,” Titch replied, putting as much confidence into his voice as he could muster.
“Very good,” George said after a brief pause. “Charlotte and I both approve.” For a few seconds, Titch thought that was it. He was approved for entry. But then he realised they just approved of his choice of name.
“That is the name we will call you from now on.” Titch could hear the rustling of papers. “We saw what you did in Norwich, Charles.”
“It was as I was instructed.”
“Indeed, it was. Why did you choose her?”
“Two reasons,” Titch replied. “She was a whore, and she wasn’t white.”
“She survived the attack.”
“I wasn’t instructed to kill her.”
There was another pause on the other end of the line, this one longer. When the next question came, it was a woman’s voice. Charlotte.
“Charles,” Charlotte said. Her voice was what he would describe as plummy. Posh. Like she’d been to a decent school. Not a dump of a comprehensive like Titch’s had been. “How did that make you feel?”
“Excited, I guess.”
“Aroused?”
“Not really, excited that I’d achieved something good.”
“And what do you think you’ve achieved by your attack?” This time, it was George. “What effect do you think it’s had?”
“It’s a message to all of them.”
“All of whom?”
“The whores.”
“What message?” George’s voice was low. Titch had never been to see a psychiatrist, but this was just how he imagined one would sound.
“That they’re not safe,” Titch answered, carefully choosing his words. He sensed that this was the most important part of the interview so far. “That if they stand around on street corners like the scum that they are, they can expect to get hurt.”
“Have you ever been with a prostitute?” George asked, and Titch thought he could detect a smile in the man’s voice. He paused before answering, remembering all the advice on the forums. Tell the truth, they had all said. They’ll know if you’re lying.
“Yes,” Titch replied, not wanting to but having to. “Yes, I have.”
“How was that?” It was Charlotte. Her tone was light, but Titch could hear the steel in her voice.
“How d’you mean?” he replied, unsure what to say.
“Did she enjoy it? Did you make her come?”
“Um, er, I don’t know. I don’t think so. I wasn’t trying to, if that’s what you mean?”
“Did you enjoy it, then? Paying her for her body?” Charlotte’s voice had hardened, and Titch wasn’t sure what she wanted him to say. He paused before deciding to follow the advice from the forum again.
“I enjoyed having sex with it, but the whole thing wasn’t a pleasant experience. It was just scratching an itch.”
“What wasn’t pleasant about it?”
“She had the power.”
“Explain.”
“She had what I wanted, and I had to pay her to get what I should have been given.”
“You could have taken it without paying?”
Titch thought for a few seconds before replying.
“I could have done, but that’s not me.”
The silence following his last statement was excruciating. He could hear nothing on the other end of the line, but the microphone wasn’t muted, so Titch wasn’t sure what was going on.
“Turn on your camera and take off your top.”
Titch did as Charlotte had instructed. He wasn’t in the slightest bit shy about getting undressed in front of these two faceless people. From what he had read, this was coming to an end. Titch knew he was in good shape, physically. What he lacked in height he tried to make up for in physique.
“Turn around.”
He allowed himself a smile as he turned around and showed his back to the camera. It was on his broad shoulders that the artwork he was most proud of lived.
“We have made a decision,” George’s voice came back on. “You may turn your camera off.”
Titch could feel his heart speed up a few beats as he waited for their response, not bothering to put his T-shirt back on.
“You have passed the first tests with flying colours, but there is one more test. This one is much easier. We will send you a swab in the post, with some instructions. Do the swab and return it. If the results are okay, then you’re a member of the Victorious in Vienna.” Titch punched his fist silently in the air. He was in. He had passed.
“What is the test for?” Titch asked, hoping that he was allowed to ask George this.
“It’s a DNA test,” George replied. “It’ll tell us if you’re as white as you say you are.”
5
Lizzie blinked a couple of times and squinted at the television on the wall of Adams’s bedroom. According to the BBC news channel, which had taken over from the music programme that was on when they went to bed the previous evening, it was just before six in the morning. She glanced to the opposite side of the bed where Adams was still fast asleep with one arm under the covers, the other resting on top, and got out of the bed as quietly as she could so that she wouldn’t wake him up. Shivering, she padded her way across the carpeted bedroom.
A few moments later, having used the bathroom, she wrapped herself in Adams’s dressing gown and made her way back into the bedroom. She’d thought for a few moments about making coffee, but Adams wasn’t a morning person at the best of times, so she let him sleep. At the side of the bed, she slipped herself out of the dressing gown and back into bed.
“Do you know what I don’t understand?” Adams mumbled, his eyes still closed.
“What might that be, Adams,” Lizzie replied, pleased he was awake.
“How when we’ve spent all night having sex, you still feel the need to cover up in my dressing gown in case I see you naked.”
Lizzie smiled as she inched her way over to where Adams was lying and was rewarded with his arm around her.
“I don’t call two-and-a-half times going at it all night, Adams,” Lizzie replied. “If I remember corre
ctly, including foreplay, that’s only about five minutes.” In response, he jabbed her under her ribs to make her jump. She turned to look at him, still smiling, but he had his eyes closed. Underneath the duvet, she could feel his fingers tracing her ribs.
“You’ve got thin, Lizzie Jarman,” he said as he ran his fingers over her skin.
“Are you saying I used to be fat?” she replied with a giggle.
“And what do you mean, two-and-a-half times?” Adams’s hand inched upwards, and Lizzie’s giggles subsided when it reached the bottom of her breast. “The pizza came a bit quicker than we thought it would, didn’t it?”
“It wasn’t just the pizza,” Lizzie mumbled under her breath, but loud enough to make sure he heard her.
“Very funny,” Adams replied, moving his hand again to cup her breast. She gasped, ever so slightly, when he ran his thumb across her nipple. “Who’s the twat on the telly?”
With a groan, Lizzie half-sat up in bed, dislodging Adams’s hand as she did so. She looked at the television to see a man in an Army uniform staring at the camera, about to speak. Lizzie fumbled around for the remote control to turn the volume up.
“What I can say is this,” the man on the television said as he stared earnestly into the lens of the camera. “There is no place in today’s Armed Forces for this type of behaviour.” He looked to be in his early fifties, and was wearing a beige coloured military tunic with a matching tie and red cloth things on the lapels. What wasn’t obvious from the angle of the camera were the rank slides on his epaulettes. On the left side of his chest were a row of ribbons, but from what Lizzie could see, they were mostly chocolate ones that were awarded for just being in the military. Not actually doing anything meaningful. Lizzie had half heard him being introduced by the presenter, but not caught his name.
“General someone or other,” she said.
“Melchet?” Adams replied.
Enemy Within: A heart-wrenching medical mystery (British Military Thriller Series Book 3) Page 2
