Enemy Within: A heart-wrenching medical mystery (British Military Thriller Series Book 3)

by Nathan Burrows

  Connection to server lost

  Lizzie swore under her breath as she tried a couple of times to reconnect to the call. When nothing happened, she felt tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. She used her phone to tap out a quick message to Adams to tell him she missed him too and, when that also failed, Lizzie started crying in earnest.

  A few moments later, there was a soft tap at her door. Lizzie sniffed and used a tissue to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. It would be Divya, Lizzie thought as she got to her feet to answer the door. But to Lizzie’s surprise, it wasn’t her friend. It was Charlotte. She was dressed in her pyjamas.

  “Is everything okay, Lizzie?” Charlotte asked, her face full of sympathy. “Only I was going to the bathroom to clean my teeth before bed and, er, and I heard you crying.”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you,” Lizzie replied, trying not to break down again.

  “You don’t look fine, if I may say.” The sympathy on Charlotte’s face was too much for Lizzie, and her face crumpled again. “Come here,” Charlotte said, pulling Lizzie into a hug.

  The two women stood for a few moments, Charlotte’s arms around Lizzie’s heaving shoulders, before they separated. Lizzie dabbed again at her eyes.

  “Sorry,” she said to Charlotte.

  “Don’t be,” Charlotte replied. “It’s hard, sometimes. I get that. Do you smoke?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, come and watch me smoke then. I want to show you something.”

  54

  Waterfield waited until the female electronic voice told him that the line was secure before speaking into the telephone receiver. The top secret handset on his desk didn’t ring often, and when it did, it was usually bad news. It certainly didn’t ring often enough to justify the enormous cost of having the lines installed to his house, but he was the Chief of Defence Staff and had insisted.

  This line is cleared to top secret. I say again, this line is cleared to top secret.

  “CDS?” Waterfield said a few seconds later.

  “Waterfield, you fucking owe me,” a familiar baritone voice boomed down the line.

  “No, Home Secretary, I don’t believe that I do,” Waterfield replied with a smile. “But we now have enough dirt on each other to make our positions equal. Besides, if it ever got out that I was let off with not even a slap on the wrist after being caught over the limit, and that it was the Home Secretary himself who sanctioned it, can you imagine the kerfuffle there would be?” There was a silence on the other end of the line, punctuated only by a soft chime every few seconds that let them both know the line was still secure.

  “Well,” the Home Secretary, a career politician by the name of Arthurton, replied. “I would rather be in an equal position than in your debt, Waterfield.”

  “And that is exactly the position we are both in, so perhaps less histrionics are required?”

  There was a deep laugh on the other end of the line as Arthurton responded to his comment.

  “Histrionics, my arse,” Arthurton said, still chuckling.

  “Anyway, you’ve not called me on this line to talk about my brush with the local constabulary, have you?” Waterfield asked.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Arthurton said, his voice immediately serious. “You’ve heard about the fire in Great Yarmouth?”

  “The one where those people died?”

  “Yes, awful business. Three dead, another three in hospital who probably will pop it at some point, and others with horrendous injuries. Definitely arson as well. The investigators found enough accelerant in the hallway to send a rocket to the moon.” Arthurton chuckled for a few seconds. “Sorry, more histrionics. Anyway, back to the point.”

  Waterfield poured himself a small measure of whisky. Knowing the Home Secretary as he did, the point might well be some time away.

  “Yes, back to the point?” Waterfield said by way of a prompt.

  “Well, MI5 are now involved.”

  “Really?” Waterfield couldn’t think of an obvious reason for the United Kingdom’s security services to get involved in an arson attack. “Why are they interested?”

  “There’s been an awful lot of chatter on the dark web about the fire being a hate crime. Some sort of underground group calling themselves Victorious in Vienna might be behind it.”

  “Surely that’s more SO15 than MI5, though?” Waterfield replied, referring to the police’s counter terrorism command.

  “Do try to keep up, Waterfield,” Arthurton said with a hint of disdain. “MI5 took over the intelligence elements of homeland threats years ago. The police still have the executive lead, of course, and when it’s time to bash in some doors, they do the bashing. But MI5 can get into places the police can’t.”

  “Thank you for the refresher, Home Secretary,” Waterfield said, annoyed. He vaguely remembered reading a memo about the subject a few years ago, but he read a lot of memos, and what the United Kingdom security services did wasn’t really in his arc of fire.

  “So, as well as this Vienna group, there’re the usual nut jobs claiming responsibility for the fire—at least ten so far which is keeping the police pretty busy—but there’s also a video of the fire that looks pretty genuine.”

  “This is all on the dark web, right?”

  “Well, it’s not on You-Tube,” Arthurton replied. “Yes, Waterfield. It’s on the dark web.”

  “MI5 have got access?”

  “Technically, it’s the number crunchers in the donut,” Arthurton said. Waterfield had been at the opening of the Government Communications Headquarters in 2004. It had been a memorable evening which had ended up in a Travel Lodge with a pretty little blonde staffer whose name Waterfield had long forgotten. He remembered her being far too naïve to realise that sleeping with senior military people wasn’t the best way to climb the ladder, but she was slightly less naïve when she crept out of his bed in the morning. “But yes, they’ve got access to elements of it. Not much. There’re a lot of layers, but they’re slowly getting through them.”

  Waterfield sipped his whisky. Was it Joanne? Juliet? He was sure her name began with a J.

  “Right, interesting,” he said, casting his mind back to the woman crying and pleading with him not to smack her so hard. Jane, perhaps?

  “So, we’re fairly sure that the video is taken by the person who set the fire. He was definitely there, and there don’t appear to be any other people in the clip. It was posted by a person going by the name of Charles Sixte.”

  “That name sounds familiar,” Waterfield said with a frown.

  “Did you do history at school?”

  “Up to O-level, yes. Why?”

  “Charles Sixte was also known as Charles V of Lorraine back in the seventeenth century,” Arthurton started chuckling. “He was part of the Hapsburg monarchy who played a key role in the Turkish war that reasserted the monarchy’s power. I must say, I’m rather enjoying this.”

  “Enjoying what?” Waterfield asked, taking another sip of his drink. Arthurton, for all his qualities, could be a complete bore at times.

  “I appear to be giving the Chief of Defence Staff a lesson in military history.”

  “Very good, Arthurton. You mentioned a while ago that there might be a point to all this? Perhaps you’d like to get to it?”

  “The point is the video, general. As I said, it was posted on one of the forums we can see, and shared widely,” Arthurton said.

  “I still don’t see what that’s got to with me?” Waterfield drained the last few drops of his whisky and contemplated another one. What Arthurton said next resulted in a generous measure being poured.

  “We’ve traced its origin.”

  “Which is where?” Waterfield asked.

  “You’ve heard of a place called RAF Honington, I take it?”

  55

  Charlotte took a deep pull on her cigarette and blew the smoke out into the night sky before extinguishing it in a metal can filled with earth just for that purpose. She and Liz
zie were standing on the flat roof of the White House, having climbed up an external metal staircase that ran from the garden up to the balustrade at the top. The staircase was, Charlotte had explained, added to the house which had been built before air-conditioning.

  “What do you think?” Charlotte asked Lizzie, nodding at the view below them. Kissy Town stretched in front of them, illuminated by the moon and the occasional lights in buildings in the town. “It’s even more spectacular in the daytime.”

  “It’s a fantastic view,” Lizzie replied. When Charlotte had told her where they were going, Lizzie had grabbed a thin robe to put on over her pyjamas. As Charlotte watched, Lizzie tightened the belt around her midriff. “I’d love to come up here in the daytime.”

  “Are you cold?” Charlotte asked Lizzie.

  “Not really,” Lizzie replied with a smile.

  “I love it up here,” Charlotte said. “It’s very peaceful.” She nodded at the large air conditioning unit in the centre of the roof. “When that thing’s not going, anyway.” Lizzie laughed, and Charlotte was pleased to see her relaxing.

  “Tell me about this man of yours, then?” Charlotte asked her.

  “His name’s Adams, and he’s in the military like me. We’ve known each other for ages but not long got together.”

  “He didn’t fancy coming with you?” Charlotte saw Lizzie pause before replying.

  “We never discussed it, to be honest.”

  “But you’re happy with him?”

  “Very.”

  “He satisfies you?” Charlotte asked.

  “In what way?”

  “Oh, you know.” She gave Lizzie a sideways glance. “Does he take care of your needs?”

  “Do you mean sexually?”

  “Of course that’s what I mean, Lizzie. How else?” Charlotte caught the slight hesitation before Lizzie replied and knew she was about to lie.

  “Very much so,” Lizzie said, turning to look back out over the water. Charlotte decided to press the point. She had a suspicion about this young woman that might be quite fun to explore.

  “I mean,” Charlotte continued, lowering her voice a notch, “you cannot beat an orgasm with a partner, can you? One that makes your jaw ache from grinding your teeth so hard. So much more intense than something self-administered.” She saw Lizzie taking a deep breath, and Charlotte knew she had hit the right point. “The French call it la petite mort, you know. The little death.”

  “I am actually getting a bit chilly now,” Lizzie replied, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. “I might head inside.”

  Charlotte pulled another cigarette from her pack.

  “Just stay with me while I have this,” she said as she lit it. She looked across at Lizzie, who thought for a moment before nodding her head.

  “Okay,” Lizzie said. “But can we talk about something else?”

  “It’s hard, leaving a partner behind,” Charlotte replied, not wanting to change the subject too much. She was enjoying Lizzie’s unease a lot. “I do understand.”

  “But you’ve got Claire,” Lizzie replied.

  Charlotte’s head snapped round at Lizzie’s words, and she glared at the woman. “What’s she said to you?” Charlotte said, trying to keep her voice even.

  “She’s not said anything,” Lizzie replied. She turned to look at Charlotte and her expression changed to one of surprise. “I’m sorry. I meant nothing by that. It’s none of my business.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “It just caught me off guard.” She laughed. “I thought we were being so discreet.”

  “You are,” Lizzie replied, “but her room is right next to mine and the slightest noise wakes me up. I can hear her door opening and closing.” Charlotte could see Lizzie smiling at her in the moonlight. “And yours.”

  “Oops,” Charlotte said, forcing herself to smile back.

  “I’ve not said anything to anyone,” Lizzie replied. She was still smiling. “Like I said, it’s none of my business.”

  The two women stood next to each other for a few moments. Lizzie seemed content to just lean on the balustrade and look out over the water. There was a line of light leading across the sea underneath the moon like a path, and Charlotte studied Lizzie’s profile while she was staring at it. Finally, Charlotte decided to ask Lizzie what she wanted to know.

  “Have you ever been with a woman, Lizzie?”

  It was Lizzie’s turn to shoot her head around.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I asked if you’d ever been with a woman?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Lizzie was frowning at her. “And I don’t really think it’s any of your business, anyway.”

  “But you’ve thought about it?” Again, a split second of hesitation before another lie.

  “No.”

  “They say we all move along a spectrum, don’t they,” Charlotte replied. “From gay to straight, depending on the circumstances. The situation. The company.” She took a puff on her cigarette and angled her head away from Lizzie so the smoke didn’t get in her face. Without Lizzie seeming to notice, Charlotte had moved slightly closer to her. “I mean, just imagine being with someone who knew exactly how your body worked. What it needed. Someone who knew just how to deliver you to that state of bliss. That release.” Another puff of smoke. “Someone like me.”

  Lizzie took a step back from Charlotte, grabbing at the balustrade to steady herself as she did so.

  “Charlotte, listen. I think you’ve got me wrong there. That’s not my sort of thing. I’m heading in now.”

  “Lizzie, Lizzie,” Charlotte replied. “I’m not saying we should act on our urges now, but—”

  “They might be your urges, Charlotte, but they’re not mine.” She took another step back. “I’m going inside.”

  “Lizzie, wait,” Charlotte said, injecting a note of authority into her voice. “I’m heading back to England tomorrow, but I’ll be back in a few days. Just think about it. Imagine it.”

  Lizzie, who was now halfway back across the roof, stopped by the large air-conditioning unit and turned to look at Charlotte.

  “I have, and I’m good,” Lizzie said before turning and heading for the top of the stairs. She was almost running.

  “Just think about it,” Charlotte called out as Lizzie disappeared down the staircase. She flicked her cigarette into the can and stared out over the water, a broad smile on her face. This was how it usually started, and Charlotte knew exactly how it usually ended.

  The seed had been sown.

  56

  “You have impressed me, young man.” Titch’s chest swelled with pride at George’s words, and even though he knew George couldn’t see him, a broad grin spread across his face.

  “Thank you, George,” Titch replied. “I wanted to make a statement.”

  “You certainly did that,” George said. “We are slowly getting the word out about the fire, but we have to be careful. There are eyes and ears everywhere. Do you think it can be traced to us?”

  Titch had to refrain from pumping his fist in the air. George had just said us. Not him, but us.

  “George, the mission was very well planned and executed. I am confident that there is no way it can be traced to us.” Titch emphasised the last word.

  “Our network is slowly putting the right words in the right places to ensure that the world knows that had those people not come to our country, not invaded us by stealth, then they would still be alive and well today.” Titch heard George take a breath. “There have already been copycat incidents. One in Bradford, and another in Luton. None have been quite so dramatic as yours but, as I predicted, things have begun.”

  “I drove through Luton the other day,” Titch said.

  “What did you think?”

  “It was disgusting. They were everywhere.”

  “Indeed. A most uncomfortable place for true Anglo-Saxons to live.”

  “Can I ask you a question, George?” Titch said. “It’s related to the DNA thing.�
��

  “Of course you can.”

  “Can a person still be Anglo-Saxon even if their heritage is from abroad?” Titch waited for a few moments before George replied.

  “So, imagine you have two individuals. One of whom whose family is a second or third generation economic migrant to a country, and one of whose family goes back much further.”

  “Okay, I’ve got that.”

  “If the one whose family goes back further is still living in the chains of their original culture and not embraced the culture of the country they are in, but the other one has fully assimilated, which is the purer from an ideological perspective? Is that what you are asking?”

  Titch had to think for a moment to make sure he understood what George was asking him. He wanted to ask if the statement could be repeated, but he didn’t want to look stupid.

  “Yes, I think so,” he replied hesitantly.

  “Well, from a purist’s perspective, genealogy is everything. But from a realist’s perspective, it comes down to assimilation and cultural purity, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” Titch replied, nodding his head, even though he still wasn’t sure about George’s response. If he was asking Titch to agree with him, then agree he would.

  “I know what you are asking me, Titch. You are asking if you can still be a pure Anglo-Saxon even if you have a foreign parent?”

  “Yes, George,” Titch replied. “That is exactly what I’m asking you.” He was relieved, sensing that perhaps he had passed the test. Titch heard a faint buzzing on the other end of the Zoom call.

  “I just need to take this. I will call you back.”

  The screen went dark as the call ended. Titch sat back in his chair and looked at his much-loved flags he had put up on the walls to prepare for the discussion. He didn’t want to be having to take them down all the time. He wanted to live somewhere he could leave them up on the walls. Somewhere he could properly be himself, and not have to hide behind a mask of lies.