by L. A. Larkin
The memory evaporates like steam from a kettle.
My stomach heaves as if it is trying to vacate my body, to physically expel my humiliation. I collapse on to all fours and spew up last night’s meal; then, when there is nothing left, a trickle of yellow bile.
If I can’t have your love, no one can.
66
A voice from a police officer’s Airwave tells Wolfe she has company. She reacts instinctively, cramming the papers into her bag and diving through the floor hatch. From beneath the bungalow, she peers out at the tangled rear garden. They haven’t reached the back of the house yet, so she bolts for the spruce trees, clambering over the bramble-clad fence and into their welcoming darkness. Once through the closely planted trees, she’s on a public footpath that runs between two rows of houses. She jumps over the next waist-high fence and yanks open a side door to the garage. There she finds her grandmother’s Toyota Yaris; Mary’s neighbours let her park it there and Wolfe has never got around to selling it.
Concealed inside a tin of rusting screws, old screwdrivers and secateurs is the car key. Wolfe opens the two wooden garage doors on to Guinevere Street, wincing at the squeak of a rusty hinge, then ducks into the driver’s seat and turns the ignition. Nothing but a whine. She turns the key again. A sustained whine.
‘Come on!’ she breathes.
She pumps the accelerator. The engine coughs into life. Wolfe accelerates into Guinevere Street. The tyres drag, the pressure low. There is shouting. She’s been spotted. Wolfe aims for an old picket fence that divides the estate from a park and rams it, denting Mary’s pride and joy. The soft turf makes for hard going, but she hurtles across the open playing field, past a play area, and does a sharp turn on to a main road, the nose scraping the tarmac as she careens over the gutter. She hears sirens, but won’t give up. Not now she has a purpose - she can save Yushkov and redeem herself. She knows who stole the missing canister. In a multi-storey car park she dumps the Yaris and steals a 2002 Honda Civic.
Wolfe doesn’t stop until she reaches Toby Sinclair’s house in Sturton Town on the outskirts of Cambridge. His Volvo XC90 is not there, nor is he answering his mobile. The house is an end terrace, tucked into a right-angle bend. Brick walls, tile roof with chimney, blue door, lace curtains: just an ordinary suburban home.
Wolfe rings the bell. Nobody comes to the door. She calls through the letterbox. Down a side passage she finds the back door, picks the lock and slips inside. In the sink are dirty dishes and there’s a sour smell of rotten food coming from the bin.
‘Toby? You home?’
It’s colder inside than out; the heating has been off for a while. In the lounge room, Wolfe recognises the distinctive red octagonal elephant’s-foot pattern of a rug made by the Afghani women of Bukhara. There’s a pot-bellied stove in the chimney alcove, a white sofa with red cushions, red curtains, and wicker armchairs. Hanging from the length of the mantelpiece is a red ribbon, from which hangs a selection of bird feathers in black and brown, grey and white, russet and pale blue, in varying shapes and sizes, all sticky-taped by the quill to the ribbon. A child’s handiwork.
Framed family photos adorn the mantelpiece; one she suspects was taken some time ago, of Sinclair’s mum, dad and brother. She’s struck by how alike the brothers look. Next to it is a photo taken on a narrowboat, presumably on the local Fens. The boat looks new, its blue paint glinting in the sun, the brass porthole and window frames polished to a high shine. Sally and Ben wear yellow life jackets. Behind them, Toby and Huma pose arm in arm. They are laughing. The smiling man in the photo is very different from the one she has met. It’s not just that Sinclair is clean-shaven and slimmer, but he looks straight at the camera too. The Sinclair she knows avoids eye contact and camera lenses. Stuck into the back of the frame are two tiny blue and yellow feathers. Perhaps the kids loved collecting them?
With a sinking feeling, Wolfe remembers a solitary out-of-place feather stuck to the ice-cave wall at Camp Ellsworth, the first batch of samples destroyed. All bar one.
In the kitchen, Wolfe combs through drawers and a notepad by the fridge. She pokes her head into the downstairs bathroom and moves on. There’s a door beneath the stairs she assumes leads to a storage cupboard, but discovers wooden steps leading to a basement. To her left is a circular Victorian light switch with a brass knob; she flicks it on and finds herself looking down into a state-of-the-art, pristine, fully equipped laboratory, with white walls and concrete floor.
‘Toby? It’s Olivia.’
She hesitates, then takes the creaky steps down to the surprisingly warm, windowless basement. She checks the door at the top of the stairs is still open. Cellars unnerve her. A portable hyperbaric chamber is set up on the floor: exactly what Sinclair would need to keep Psychosillius at the right pressure. She’s drawn to a shelf of Petri dishes with lids taped on. Suspended from the shelf above are a tubular light and a wide silver reflector that focuses the hydroponic light down to the Petri dishes. It is on a timer and emanates considerable heat.
Each dish holds creamy blooms of bacteria. Some are in a clear solution. But in the dishes with labels there is additional matter. Those in the first row contain fragments of copper, iron ore, steel, aluminium, titanium, silver and other metals. In each dish, the fragment is clearly visible. Except for iron ore and steel. Inside these dishes, the bacteria have multiplied, filling the whole dish, the lids now opaque.
Wolfe checks the second row: these dishes contain pieces of concrete, brick, cement, wood and various glues and sealants, all still present inside the dishes. The third row of dishes holds a bizarre selection: a piece of plastic, a fragment of glass, a strip of latex, even a cigarette butt. The specimens that really disturb her are animal tissue, probably rat: skin, bone, muscle, various tiny organs, an eye, hair. Wolfe backs away and pulls on surgical gloves and face mask.
Humming away in a corner is an old, dented refrigerator. She opens the door slowly, nervous of its contents. The fridge light has been disabled; the specimens are in total darkness. On the first shelf, the Petri dishes contain tiny pieces of metal identical to those under the hydroponic lighting, except the metal samples are all intact, even the iron ore and steel. Wolfe works her way down the shelves, each set of dishes mirroring those she has just inspected under the lighting.
What concerns her most is the hundred-millilitre plastic shampoo bottle with black plastic screw-top lying on the workbench near Sinclair’s computer. It’s the maximum size liquid container permitted on a commercial flight. Is an airport his next target?
With a shaking hand, Wolfe switches on Sinclair’s computer. It’s slow to respond.
‘Come on.’
Wolfe’s challenged for a password. Trying to guess it will waste precious time. Instead, she searches through a white filing cabinet for any hints on Sinclair’s plans. All she finds are bank statements, bills and printouts from previous research projects. One project catches her eye because it relates to a ship: the Titanic. Sinclair was the scientist who identified the deep-sea bacteria eating away the remains of the Titanic. Stuck to the front page is a faded handwritten Post-it note:
‘Don’t work too late, my darling. Night night, Huma x’
Wolfe frowns. Did Sinclair steal the canister to exact revenge on those he feels responsible for the death of his wife and children? With renewed urgency, she yanks open the drawer under the workbench to find stationery, memory sticks, some mints and, right at the back, a curling Post-it note. On it is written ‘Eisenhower1961’. The password? Why would someone with an almost photographic memory write it down? The handwriting is identical to Huma’s note. His wife needed to jot it down, not Sinclair.
The password is accepted.
Wolfe trawls through Sinclair’s emails, skim-reading: spam, messages from friends, invitations to birthdays and Christmas parties, a message from his mum, Gladys, urging him to join them in Edinburgh for Christmas. His brother, Hector, and his family are flying in from Australia on Boxing Day. Sinclair
hasn’t replied.
One email exchange stands out. There is a brief note of condolence from someone calling himself Jock007, sent two years ago. Then no further communication until Sinclair contacts him from Lake Ellsworth. Sinclair says he’s run down and needs a holiday, and when the project is over he’d like to visit Jock in Indian Springs, then spend a few days in Las Vegas. The email was sent the day after the canister was stolen. Jock replies with excitement.
But I’m not single any more, mate, and would you believe we met at Creech? Louise works for the HMO - that’s the Housing Management Office to you civilians. But if I can get time off to join you in Vegas, it’ll be just us lads. What goes on tour, stays on tour.
Wolfe googles ‘Creech Indian Springs’. She finds Creech Air Force Base: a United States Air Force command and control facility, home to the Hunters of the 432d Wing and 432d Air Expeditionary Wing. It is famed for the remote piloting of armed drones in countries such as Iraq and Afghanistan. Ground crews launch drones in the conflict zone, then their operation is handed over to controllers hundreds of miles away at Creech. It is also where the next generation of combat drones is tested.
‘Oh shit!’
Sinclair’s reply was sent yesterday from his smartphone:
Boarding flight. See you soon, Toby.
Wolfe’s mind is spinning. First Sinclair slips his protection detail. Then the sinking of a Royal Navy aircraft carrier. And now he’s heading for the United States’ control centre for overseas drone missions. She stares at the Petri dishes under the hydroponic light and the penny finally drops: Sinclair isn’t releasing a pathogen to make people ill.
Wolfe stares at the dish marked ‘steel’: the steel has disappeared.
She looks around. Steel is everywhere. Skyscrapers, bridges, stadiums, airports, hospitals, cars, trucks, pipes, railway tracks, nails and screws. But Sinclair is targeting the military. Anything with steel in it: guns, bullets, knives, rocket launchers, rockets, tanks, bomb casings, submarines, ships, stealth bombers . . . and, of course, combat drones. All it takes is one tiny steel component.
Wolfe fumbles for her mobile but there’s no signal in the basement. She copies Jock’s cell number into her phone, then searches Sinclair’s emails for flight information, boarding passes, anything that will tell her where and when he flew. She guesses Las Vegas, the nearest commercial airport to Indian Springs. She checks his browser history. Nothing except for Purple Parking at Heathrow Airport. But Heathrow is one of the largest and busiest airports in the world. She needs more than that.
Wolfe is panicking, her breathing fast. Racing up the basement steps two at a time, her phone gets a signal in the hall. She dials Jock’s number. It goes to voicemail.
‘Hi, this is John Lindsay from Logan Aeronautical Systems. Please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
Wolfe leaves a message, trying not to betray her fear.
‘Hi, my name’s Olivia. I’m a friend of Toby’s. I think he’s staying with you? He’s in terrible trouble and I need you to call me urgently. It’s an emergency.’
She leaves her mobile number, then searches for Sinclair’s passport. Inside the hall table drawer Wolfe finds passports for Huma, Sally and Ben and two empty plastic passport covers. Two? Regardless, Toby’s is missing. Wolfe phones Stacy Price. Her call will be traced, but she has to know if she’s right about Psychosillius’s destructive power. Price answers.
‘Stacy, it’s Olivia. Please don’t hang up.’
‘I can’t—’
Wolfe takes the plunge. ‘Toby stole the missing canister—’
Price cuts her off. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Is Psychosillius corrosive?’
‘Oh God, no, no, no.’
‘No, what?’
Price gulps. ‘He’s going to use it, isn’t he?’
‘Stacy, how do you know that?’
‘He never got over their deaths. Blamed himself. He should have been with them. He found out it was a drone strike that killed them. It infuriated him they wouldn’t admit responsibility. He changed after that.’
‘Psychosillius doesn’t attack people, does it?’
Price is crying. ‘Michael’s dead. Committed suicide.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. Stacy, I—’
‘Michael was so ashamed. His greatest discovery.’
Wolfe checks her watch. If the spooks don’t yet have a fix on her location, they soon will. She must hurry. ‘Stacy, I can help Toby, but only if you tell me what Psychosillius does.’
‘It doesn’t corrode.’ A moment’s silence.
Wolfe relaxes.
‘It devours. The speed. I’ve never seen anything—’
‘Devours what?’ Wolfe asks.
But Price isn’t listening.
‘We ignored the drill. Then the tractor blades. We shouldn’t have; they were a sign. In Cambridge, we confirmed the bacteria’s hyper-activity is triggered by sunlight. That’s when it feeds and grows. If it’s kept in the dark, it’s dormant and harmless. We wasted valuable time testing it on rats. Toby worked it out way before the rest of us. He knew, or at least suspected, even at Lake Ellsworth. He was the first to notice the rats’ steel feeder-bottle spouts had disintegrated; simply disappeared within an hour.’
‘An hour?’
‘Unbelievable. isn’t it? That’s why we had our doubts. It’s all very well attacking living organisms, but steel? And so fast!’ Price pauses for breath. ‘Look, the reality is we know very little about Psychosillius except it destroys steel, and iron of course, even alloyants, like manganese. Our models show that a capful can destroy the steel in an armoured tank in two days; the iron in the Eiffel Tower in four days; the 76,000 tonnes of steel supporting the Sears Tower in Chicago in seven weeks.’
Somebody shouts at Price. A man’s voice, ordering her to put the phone down.
‘ . . . we don’t know how to stop . . . ’ Price doesn’t finish. There’s a scuffle.
‘Who is this?’ a man demands.
Wolfe cuts the connection, heart thumping. If Sinclair is already in the USA, somebody must alert the FBI. But nobody will believe her.
There is only one person she knows who can trigger the necessary emergency protocols. Somebody the FBI will take seriously.
Dan Casburn.
67
‘Stop dicking me around. Tell me where you are.’
Wolfe’s call to Casburn hasn’t started well. She watches the wall clock’s thin red seconds hand jerk a fraction. When it has completed one revolution, Casburn will know she is at Sinclair’s house; five or ten minutes later, unformed officers will storm the place. If she’s going to hand herself in, she has to be sure Casburn believes her.
‘Dan, we’ve known each other a long time, so please hear me out. Toby Sinclair stole the canister of Psychosillius. He’s been testing it, modifying it in his basement lab. He used it on the Queen Elizabeth. He wants revenge: a US armed drone killed his wife and kids in Afghanistan two years ago. I think he’s on his way to Las Vegas and he has Psychosillius with him.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Listen! His target is Creech Air Force Base.’ No response. ‘Dan? Did you hear what I just said?’
Wolfe hears his agitated breathing and wonders how many others are listening in. She checks the clock.
‘Where is this crap coming from?’ Casburn says.
‘Emails with John Lindsay from Logan Aeronautical. He works at Creech, probably a contractor. Yesterday, Toby told him he’s boarding a flight and will see him soon.’
‘So? He’s hooking up with a buddy in America. Proves nothing.’
‘He escaped your protection detail.’
‘You scared the little twat.’
Her head is pounding. She has to convince him.
‘Take a look in his basement. He’s been experimenting with the bacteria. And he’s using hundred-millilitre shampoo bottles to carry it on board.’
; ‘The local uniforms are on their way. Stay where you are.’
‘Check the passenger manifests.’ Wolfe is almost out of time. ‘He’s probably used Purple Parking.’
‘I’ll pass that on.’ He sounds distracted.
‘And? What happens to me?’
‘You’re a murder suspect. You know the drill.’
‘And you? What are you doing?’
‘I’m doing my job.’
‘Which is?’
‘Focus on protecting this country from an Isil terrorist attack.’
‘You don’t get it, do you? Sinclair is the imminent threat. He is the terrorist!’
‘Olivia,’ sighs Casburn. ‘This bullshit won’t save Yushkov. It just makes things worse for you.’
A man says something unintelligible in the background. Wolfe slams down the handset. Casburn doesn’t believe her. Will he even check Heathrow’s passenger manifests? She is left with no choice: she must get to Las Vegas and find Sinclair. It is for just such an unexpected departure that she always carries her passport in her Go Bag.
Running out of the back door and through the garden gate, Wolfe dives into her car and heads for Heathrow Airport. She calls Butcher.
‘Liv, are you okay?’
‘Do you still have faith in me?’
‘What? Of course I do.’
She swallows. ‘I need your help.’
‘Go on.’
‘I know who stole the canister, and I think he’s taken it to America.’
‘Slow down. What’s in the canister?’
‘Steel-eating bacteria.’
‘Steel?’
‘If it’s exposed to sunlight it becomes a steel-saw on steroids.’ She explains what Dr Price told her.
‘Seriously? That fast?’
‘According to Dr Price. I think his next target is Creech Air Force Base.’
‘Jesus! Is he mad?’
‘He’s angry. His wife and kids were killed by a drone strike in Kandahar. He’s hitting back, targeting the military and manufacturers of combat drones.’
Silence. His unresponsiveness worries her.
