“Back already?” Jimmy joked, as she walked back into the foyer a few moments later.
“I’ve got a flat tyre, Jimmy,” Eleanor said, putting a disappointed expression on her face.
“Have you got a spare?”
“I have, but I don’t know how to change it.” She stopped short of fluttering her eyelashes at the man. “I don’t suppose you’d be able to do it for me, would you?”
“But then there’d be no-one to watch the cameras,” he replied. “There’s got to be someone watching them all the time, and I’m the only security guard in the building at the moment.” Jimmy’s colleague’s continued absence was working in Eleanor’s favour.
“I could watch them?” Eleanor said. “I know how to work them. You showed me yesterday, remember?” She reached up and twirled a strand of her hair through her fingers, regretting for a few seconds having it cut so short.
“I’m really not supposed to,” he replied, but she knew he was wavering.
“Who’s still in the building, though?” Eleanor had deliberately waited and left work a bit late, saying that she just had some filing to finish up when Sue had left, and asked her if she was leaving soon.
“Um, only Doctors Lobjoie and Toshiko,” Jimmy said. “They’re in Laboratory B.” Eleanor knew they were in Laboratory B as Charlotte had booked it out earlier on the booking system.
“Please, Jimmy,” Eleanor pleaded. “It’ll only take you a moment, and I really need to get home. I’ll make it up to you.” Perhaps she was going to have to go for a drink with the man, after all?
“Okay, come on then. But not a word to anyone.”
He got to his feet and opened the door to his cubicle, gesturing for her to come in.
“Oh, thank you so much,” Eleanor said. She gave him the keys to her car. “It’s the mini. The one with the flat tyre, obviously.”
“Is there a locking wheel nut?”
“Um, I’m not sure. I think so? There’s a thingy in the glove compartment that looks like a nut.”
“That’ll be it,” Jimmy said, flashing her a smile. “I won’t be long.”
As Jimmy walked out of the doors to the institute, Eleanor sat in his seat and stared at the bank of screens. She used the mouse to bring up the camera inside Laboratory B and leaned forward, eager to see what the two doctors were doing.
On the screen, the two women were wearing full body suits with what looked like inflatable helmets. They both had small backpacks with cylinders and hoses running from the cylinders to the back of their helmets. Eleanor was reminded of a science fiction film she had watched a few nights earlier with Liam. The scientists wouldn’t have looked out of place on Mars.
Eleanor could tell which of them was Charlotte by her height. Although she’d never talked to the other woman, Eleanor knew she was one of the head researchers. What had Jimmy just called her, she thought. Doctor Toshiko? Whatever she was called, Eleanor watched as she checked Charlotte’s suit over and then stood as hers was checked. Then Charlotte nodded, although it was more of a bow than a nod, and walked over to a button on the wall. A second later, a red light appeared on the wall.
Doctor Toshiko crossed the room, walking awkwardly in the cumbersome suit, and stood in front of a large cabinet built into the wall. There were windows in the front of the cabinet, but Eleanor realised it wasn’t possible for her to see what was inside on the screen. It wasn’t until the doctor opened the cabinet and pulled out a tray that Eleanor could see what was inside. It was mice. Lots and lots of mice.
Eleanor gasped as she watched Doctor Toshiko shake the tray with the mice inside. It looked as if half of them were dead. So they were doing some sort of animal research, even though it was supposed to be a plant laboratory? What was in the other cabinets? Monkeys, perhaps?
The two women on the screen were having a discussion about something. Doctor Toshiko got another tray out with more mice in it, but they all seemed to be dead. Eleanor saw no signs of movement in the tray at all. The third and final tray, to Eleanor’s relief, had live mice in it.
Eleanor looked around the inside of Jimmy’s cubicle. She tried the drawers, hoping to find something in them. She wasn’t sure what, but it was irrelevant anyway, as all the drawers were locked. There were two options, perhaps three. One was to get hold of the footage she was watching on the screen, but there was no obvious way to do that. All Jimmy had in his cubicle were screens. Eleanor couldn’t see any computer equipment like hard drives where the actual footage was kept.
A second option, and this was looking more likely, would be to smuggle in a camera of some sort and record the footage on the screen. But this would mean that she had to get back into the cubicle. Jimmy might be thick, but he wasn’t stupid, and Eleanor wasn’t sure how she could pull that off. The third and best option would be to get into the lab itself, but she couldn’t see how she was going to do that either.
“All done for you.” Eleanor jumped at the sound of Jimmy’s voice. She could see how Doctor Lobjoie had crept up on them earlier. The cubicle was pretty soundproof.
“How did you get through the doors?” Eleanor asked him. “I thought I would have to buzz you in?”
Jimmy held up a small plastic card that he had slipped out of his lanyard and grinned.
“Not when you’ve got one of these,” he said. “It’s like a backstage pass for Glastonbury. Access all areas.”
Eleanor stared at the card for a few seconds before smiling back at Jimmy. Perhaps option three might be viable after all?
63
Waterfield looked around the meeting room at the politicians sitting around the table. There were eleven of them from a variety of political parties, and not a single day of military service between them. They were in the Grimond Room of Portcullis House, a parliamentary building built in 2001 overlooking the River Thames and in the shadow of Big Ben. To Waterfield’s annoyance as an army officer, the interior of the building had been designed to look and feel like a ship. Even the conference room they were in had bowed windows and a light oak finishing.
“General Waterfield,” a man dressed in a sombre suit said. This was the Right Honourable Joseph Middleton, the Labour Member of Parliament for Telford. He was also, in Waterfield’s opinion, an absolute tool. “We looked briefly at the Warrior capability sustainment programme in a hearing a few weeks ago. When will Warrior achieve initial operating capability in the British Army?”
Waterfield sighed before replying. Middleton was obsessed with the tracked armoured vehicles, almost certainly because they were supposed to be being built at a large plant in his constituency.
“I cannot look you in the eye and say precisely when Warrior will reach initial operating capability.” Waterfield looked him in the eye, anyway. “We have not yet gone through the main gate business case and are not expecting it to be approved until November. Besides, I—” Waterfield looked up as the door to the Grimond Room opened. An interruption to the House of Commons Defence Committee, even if it was only an evidence gathering session, was unheard of. To Waterfield’s dismay, he saw his personal staff officer walk into the room.
Followed by twelve sets of eyes, the military officer walked around the large table and approached Waterfield. As he walked, he avoided making eye contact with anyone until he reached his destination.
“General Waterfield,” the officer said in a low whisper. “Air Chief Marshal Cope needs to see you. He’s downstairs in The Despatch.”
“Does the Chief of the Air Staff know I’m in a meeting with the Defence Committee?” Waterfield angrily whispered back, imagining Cope sitting in the informal coffee room on the ground floor, admiring the glass domed roof and water pools.
“Yes, sir, he does. There’s a problem.”
“What sort of problem?”
“In the chief’s words, a very fucking big problem.” Waterfield’s staff officer glanced up as if he’d just sworn in church. “I believe he needs to speak to you before an emergency COBRA meeting is called
.”
“Right,” Waterfield replied, waving his hand at the man to dismiss him. As the officer scurried away, Waterfield turned to the Right Honourable William Morgan, who was neither right nor honourable if the tabloid press were to be believed. “Chair, I’m afraid I have a pressing military matter to attend to. Please, would you excuse me?” Without waiting for a response, Waterfield got to his feet and strode to the door.
By the time he reached the coffee shop on the ground floor, Waterfield was furious. They might only be politicians, but it was still embarrassing to be called out of the room like an errant schoolchild being summoned to the head teacher. Just who, Waterfield fumed to himself, did the Chief of the Air Staff think he was?
Waterfield glanced around the coffee shop, which was almost empty save for Air Chief Marshal Cope standing in the corner, deep in conversation on his mobile. When he saw Waterfield striding across the floor toward him, Cope ended his call and slipped his phone in his pocket. Waterfield opened his mouth to give the man a piece of his mind as he approached, but when he saw the look on the man’s face, he closed it again. Cope was seriously rattled about something.
“What’s going on, Cope?” Waterfield said. “Is this about your arsonist?”
“Yes, it is.” Cope wasn’t just rattled. He almost looked scared.
“Have you picked him up?”
“No. We’ll talk in the tunnel. The prime minister is on his way from the palace. He’s ended his weekly update to Her Majesty early.”
“Bloody hell,” Waterfield said as they walked toward the rear of the building where there were two armed police officers. Whatever it was, it had to be bad if the PM had interrupted tea with the Queen.
“Follow us please, gentlemen,” one of the police officers said. He led them to an almost hidden door and opened it using an old-fashioned key. “Bottom of the stairs and turn left. One of my colleagues will be at the door on the other end. I’ll let her know you’re on your way.”
Waterfield descended the metal staircase, looking about him as he did so. He’d heard a lot about the secret tunnels that connected parts of London’s most influential buildings, but never used any of them. The tunnel was about eight feet high and curved, with bright LED lights set into the roof. Originally built during World War II for communications cables that would be safe from German bombs, they had since been expanded and modernised to provide several routes beneath the feet of the Londoners and tourists above their heads, all of whom were unaware of the network below them. The cabling was long gone, and now the tunnel stretched ahead of them, the lights disappearing into the distance.
There was no time to take in their surroundings, though. Cope brought him up to speed as they walked along the corridor.
“We had an SIB team at Honington already after the initiation ceremony videos got leaked,” Cope said, slightly out of breath at the effort of walking and talking at the same time. “They spoke to the lad involved, a Corporal Robert Hunter. Known as Titch.” Waterfield, who couldn’t give a monkey’s what the man’s nickname was, stopped himself telling Cope to get to the point.
“And?” he asked brusquely.
“This Hunter never turned up for work this morning.”
Waterfield stopped walking for a moment and turned to Cope.
“Hang on, wait a moment. We’re on our way to a COBRA meeting with the PM to talk about one of your airmen who’s gone AWOL? Is he the arsonist?”
“We think so, yes.”
“And why do you think that? Just because he didn’t turn up for work this morning?”
“No,” Cope replied and Waterfield looked at him carefully. Waterfield had been right with his earlier assessment. Cope wasn’t just rattled. He was scared. “Hunter’s not the only thing missing from RAF Honington.”
The two men walked side by side down the corridor as Cope filled Waterfield in on the crisis that was emerging. With every step, Waterfield felt his knighthood slipping further and further away from him. If anything, he and Cope would be lucky to escape from this with their jobs and pensions.
A few moments later, having been shown into COBRA, Waterfield was sitting at one of the remaining seats at the table. The fact it had been kept for him wasn’t lost on the man. The only person Waterfield recognised was the Metropolitan Police commissioner, but the room was busier than he’d ever seen it before. Serious looking men and women in sharp suits milled about having hushed conversations. From what Cope had just told him, they were security services. Lots of them.
When the door at the far end of the room opened, the low hum of murmured conversations stopped almost instantly. Every head in the room turned to see who had just walked in. The new arrival stared at Cope and Waterfield in turn as he ran his hands through his tousled blonde hair.
“Right then,” the Prime Minister said. “Which one of you two is going to let me know what the fuck is going on?”
64
Adams looked at the small child in the triage room. According to Adams’s screen, her name was Tiffany, and she lived in about the shittiest bit of Norwich it was possible to live in. She was attending with her father, a heavily tattooed man called Patrick, who stood some six inches taller than Adams.
“Hey, Tiffany,” Adams said, smiling reassuringly at the father who was glaring at Adams with undisguised hostility. “Your daddy tells me you’ve got a sore arm?”
The child, who was three and a half years old, just nodded sadly. Adams made no move to touch Tiffany’s left arm. She was holding it awkwardly with her elbow flexed and her forearm prone. Adams knew, or at least was fairly sure, what the problem was before he had even called them into the triage room.
“So, what happened?” Adams asked Tiffany’s father.
“We was walking down to Maccy D’s for supper,” Patrick replied. “They’ve got a meal deal on with toys from her favourite film, and we was going to ask them for one of the penguin toys. That’s the only one she hasn’t got.” He looked at Adams as if expecting him to challenge the fact he’d taken his daughter to a fast-food restaurant for supper.
“What’s your favourite meal at McDonalds, Tiffany?” Adams asked the child, ignoring Patrick’s pointed stare.
“Chicken nuggets and fries,” Tiffany said with a small sniff.
“Have you ever stuck the fries up your nose and pretended to be a big fat walrus?” There was no sign of a smile from the child, and Adams realised that if she came back with chips stuck in her nostrils, he had better make himself scarce. Patrick didn’t look like the sort of man who would find that amusing. “So what happened exactly?”
“We was just about to cross over at the zebra crossing and this little…” Patrick caught himself. “This young lad in a pumped-up Astra came screaming round the roundabout. I grabbed Tiff’s arm and pulled her back off the crossing. She would have been run over otherwise, but she’s not used it since.”
“Did you get his registration plate?” Adams asked. There probably wasn’t much the police would do, but they might pop round for a word.
“No,” Patrick replied. “Don’t need it. I know him.” So it would not be the police that would have a word, Adams realised. “He’s off the estate.”
“Well, don’t create too much extra work for us, will you?”
“Nah, don’t worry,” Patrick replied with a knowing smile. “But he won’t do it again. How long’s the wait?”
“Well, we normally try to get kids through quickly, but it’s really busy tonight. It could be a couple of hours.” The look on Patrick’s face showed Adams exactly what he thought about that.
“I’ve got to drop her back at her mum’s in an hour,” Patrick replied. “I’m supposed to be going to work.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’ve got some casual work on the roads,” Patrick said. “We’re doing the resurfacing on Thorpe Road.” If he was working casually, then Adams suspected Patrick wouldn’t be paid if he didn’t turn up on time, and probably wouldn’t be asked back.<
br />
“Tell you what,” Adams replied, looking at Tiffany but talking to Patrick. “Let me just get a friend to help me. I’ll be back in a second.”
Adams left the triage room and walked into the main department. He looked around, trying to find a member of staff who wasn’t busy. The only person he could see was Hannah, who’d barely said two words to him all shift.
“Hannah,” Adams said as he walked up to her. “Can you give me a quick hand?” She looked up at him from her seat behind the desk.
“Sure,” she replied, her face even. “What do you need?”
“I’ve got a kid in triage with a pulled elbow. Can you distract her for a few moments?”
“Is that all I am to you, Adams?” Hannah replied, her face like stone. “A distraction?”
“Er, no, I just meant—” Hannah’s face broke into a smile and she slapped his arm playfully.
“My God, you are so up yourself,” she said, laughing. “Come on, idiot.”
When they returned to the triage room a few moments later, Patrick was looking even more annoyed. He glared at Adams when he walked into the room, barely looking at Hannah.
“Hey Tiffany,” Adams said, ignoring her father as he crouched down by the child’s chair. “This is the friend I was telling you about. The one with the really funny face?” Adams jumped slightly as Hannah pinched his upper arm. “She’s got the world record for pulling the silliest faces, but I think you can beat her.”
“No way,” Hannah said, crouching down on the opposite side of Tiffany’s chair. “No one can pull sillier faces than me.”
Adams reached out and put one hand around Tiffany’s elbow and lightly put the other one on her wrist. The child glanced uncertainly at Adams at the contact, but then turned her attention back to Hannah who had her fingers in her ears and was waving them at her.
“That’s not a silly face,” Tiffany said, the ghost of a smile on her face. Then she screwed up her eyes and stuck her tongue out.
Enemy Within: A heart-wrenching medical mystery (British Military Thriller Series Book 3) Page 24
