Pausing for breath, Rhys met Sharon’s eyes with a grimness she had not seen in him for years. “If you think that’s impressive, here’s where it gets really clever: the other thing that happened when this algae arrived in Sinkat was that the tide was coming in. It peaked in the early afternoon. Do you remember when we met up for lunch? And all the visitors were clustered around watching the energy infographics? Well, at that point the water had essentially stopped flowing downstream. It pooled, and so did the algae, and so, of course, did the toxin.”
Sharon clenched her teeth to stop herself swearing. She looked down at the table for a moment, letting the full malevolence of what Rhys was describing wash over her. When she looked back up, she could see her own full-blown horror mirrored on everyone else’s faces, as if to say now that she knew the truth, they no longer had to put on a brave show.
“And then?” she asked steadily.
“And then it all washed away on the ebbing tide, dying and becoming diluted as it went. A few people from the Limedog area have reported feeling poorly, and the timing of their symptoms matches up with when the toxin would have flowed past them. But there aren’t many, and their symptoms are much milder: the toxin had become so diffused by then that it didn’t have much impact.”
“I see.” Her own voice sounded alien to her, quiet and dangerously calm.
Rhys and Achebe knew what that meant; they shifted and glanced at each other as she turned to Fayole. “You said there was a spike you can’t explain.”
“Yes . . .”
“Try.”
Fayole met her gaze. Her eyes were, a little to Sharon’s surprise, just as angry as her own.
“Can we put this back up?” Fayole asked Achebe as she swiped her tablet awake, but her gaze stayed on Sharon.
A map appeared on the screen on the back wall of the incident room: the Thames, centered on Sinkat and bracketed by City Hall and the bridge to the left and the long southern sweep of the river as it curved past Limedog on the right. Fayole flicked at the tablet and the map shifted with dizzying speed, scrolling sideways and upriver—but not far, Sharon realized. They were still in the city.
“These are the western suburbs,” Fayole said. “There’s a lot of green space, as you can see—some parts are quite densely populated, but there are many derelict neighborhoods, especially south of the river.” She expanded a segment of the map marked out in different shades of green, crossed with meandering streams and the lines of drainage ditches. “This whole area is wetland. Our monitoring station just upriver didn’t detect any spike, and nor did most of those within the swamp itself. But there’s one in this channel”—she tapped at a gently curving water-course, as blue as her hair, that led into the river—“which did register a big increase in microflora count earlier that morning.”
Sharon studied the map. The white line of an access road ran near the channel, touching it at one point. “So you knew there was a problem,” she said.
“No, we didn’t,” Fayole replied. “The system flagged it up, but there was no reason for the colleagues who received that alert to think there was anything wrong—”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a wetland,” Fayole said tiredly, “and algal blooms are quite common in that environment. It’s also common for readings to fluctuate after heavy rain when runoff goes into the catchment area—that’s part of what it’s for. And there had been storms the day before, if you remember. So yes, there was a spike, but it wasn’t alarming, and resources were stretched really thin because of the rain: we have to prioritize alerts from areas of human habitation, places where there might be hazardous materials, sewage overflows, that sort of thing. If the readings had stayed high, they would have known something strange was happening and someone would have gone out to take a look, but they dropped back to normal, which is exactly what you’d expect when you don’t have a problem.” She looked Sharon in the eye again. “I’m not trying to make excuses, Detective Superintendent. This was a major public-health threat that our systems failed to spot. But you need to understand that the way it was done . . .”
“They gamed the system,” said Achebe.
Sharon nodded, looking back at the map. “Where does that lead?” She pointed at the access road.
Fayole moved the image again, following the line. “Back out to the main arterial road through the area and from there to the southern bypass.”
“Do we have eyes on it?” Sharon asked Achebe, then, “Do you?” She looked at Fayole.
The blue-haired woman shook her head. “There’s no reason to,” she said. “At least we didn’t think there was, and budgets are tight. There aren’t any access restrictions—they close the road if there’s a bad flood, but that’s about it. I’m told people go out there, fishing, walking, kayaking, and so on.”
Achebe was peering at his own tablet. “We don’t have eyes on it either,” he said. “There’re no cams in the immediate area—there’s a few at the main junctions on the arterial, and of course on the bypass.”
She acknowledged the information with a nod; she didn’t need to tell Achebe to pull the feeds from those distant cams anyway. They might get lucky, but she was not inclined to bet on it.
“You said you’re told people visit the site?” she asked Fayole. “This isn’t your area, then.”
“I’m on the other side of the river,” she replied. “The northwest quadrant of the city.” The map swept into motion again.
“Any idea why you’ve been assigned to work with us on this?”
“Probably because I’m a gem and they thought it would look good,” she replied tersely. “It would’ve made more sense for it to be the district manager for the Sinkat area, but they told me they wanted someone with fresh eyes. Now that we know about this site, if you’d rather have someone from there—”
“No!” Sharon and Achebe said together. Their vehemence made Fayole start. Rhys’s lips twitched.
“No,” Sharon repeated, more calmly, “we absolutely wouldn’t. What I’m getting at is: when did Environmental Management know or suspect that the algae in the wetland was connected to the Sinkat illness?”
“We’ve only just worked it out—it wasn’t until last night that the hospital confirmed the algae as the source of the toxin, so then I started looking specifically at algae levels and noticed the wetland readings. Inspector Achebe, Dr. Morgan, and I correlated that with the other data, calculated the river’s flow rate and realized that the toxin would have washed down to Sinkat at precisely the right time. And then Inspector Achebe called you.” She tapped nervously at her tablet. “I still need to let my managers know. We’ve got to collect samples, but most of all we need to make sure whatever’s still in there doesn’t proliferate and wash downstream again.”
“Understood.” Sharon rested her chin on her fists. Her eyes flicked up at Rhys. “Am I right in thinking there was no purpose to the bioengineering of this algae other than to make it produce the toxin?”
“Not as far as we can tell.”
“And the toxin itself isn’t good for anything other than to poison gillungs?”
“Not as far as we can tell,” Rhys repeated. “Can I absolutely swear to you that it was not developed for some legitimate industrial process, that it isn’t just an unhappy coincidence that it does what it does to them? I can’t, obviously, but the way it activates, and the timing . . .”
“Is as solid as any evidence I’ve ever seen,” Sharon said. She sat up straight, drumming her hands sharply on the table top, a signal that decisions had been made and that action was about to be taken.
“Fayole, I’m going to have to be part of that conversation with your bosses. Securing the site is a priority, but it can’t be done by the local EM team. The area is a crime scene and at this stage we can’t assume that none of your colleagues are involved. Achebe, you’ll need to question the staff who normally manage it—which is why I’m glad you’re not one of them, Fayole. We’ll be getting forensics in t
oo. I’m going to ask that you remain assigned to us, if that’s all right with you.”
Fayole looked profoundly shaken. “Of course—I can’t believe—But you have to eliminate people from suspicion, right?”
“Right. Achebe, I would like you out there with a team within the hour—Fayole and I will be breaking the news to Environmental Management. Rhys, what’s the status of the victims?”
“Most will be released from hospital today or tomorrow. We think they’ll make a full recovery, although they may be shaky for a while yet. We’ve got five or six who are still very ill, including Tamin, the first patient—he’s in pretty bad shape.”
“You’ll remain as our medical liaison.” It was not a question.
“I will.”
Again, she felt a moment’s reassurance. But it was fleeting, and as she gazed at the faces turned toward her—shocked, solemn, quietly furious—she recalled the prediction she’d made at the TideFair. Not for the first time, she wished with all her heart that she had been wrong.
BANKSIDE
13
The news broke like a tidal wave over the city.
Sharon, Achebe, and the rest of the Met had managed to keep it quiet long enough for the West London wetland to be secured and to complete the initial investigation of Fayole’s colleagues. No one was arrested and, despite police requests for discretion, the interviewees were happy to add to the stream chatter springing up around the peculiarity of a police forensics unit descending on a soggy, uninhabited nature reserve. The waterway where a colony of the altered algae had been found was now blocked off from the river, but the danger was far from over.
“As long as we don’t know what the catalyst is, we can’t assume it isn’t still in Sinkat,” Rhys told a briefing of the City Councillors. “And until the police catch whoever’s behind this, we also can’t assume there aren’t tanks of both algae and catalyst ready to be dumped into the river somewhere else—maybe in Limedog, or some other city with a gillung population—Bristol or Glasgow or Gateshead. Who knows?”
At least the estuary was safe; like most freshwater microflora, the algae did not long survive an encounter with the sea. But London’s gillungs lived mostly in the city, in reclaimed and reconfigured neighborhoods along the Thames’s wide eastern reaches. It occurred to Mikal, gazing down at the river from his council office, that the toxin attack was likely to galvanize plans for new development further out, where it was salty and empty and safe.
Thames Tidal Power had already committed to investing a portion of its profits in the building of an estuary town. Mikal had understood the commercial logic, as well as the appeal of living in a place where gillungs’ ability to inhabit dual environments was not an aberration for which accommodation might or might not be made but the standard to which everything would be designed. Even so, he had been unable to muster much enthusiasm for the prospect of a separate, homogenous, inevitably more insular outpost. But neither could he in conscience urge an angry, embattled community to remain where they could so easily be targeted. He wondered if that had been a part of the attackers’ plan: to strike a blow against integration, driving the water-breathers away into enclaves not only separate, but apart.
He wanted to believe that the reaction to the joint bulletin issued by the Council and the Met—the timeline of events, warnings that the threat had not been eliminated, and the label of terrorism now officially applied to the case—would be enough to reassure them. The public outpouring of concern was immediate, heartfelt, and growing by the minute. There was a shared anxiety, an awareness of vulnerability to the hatreds of others; but between all the outrage and demands for the perpetrators to be brought to justice, a whispering dread of whether, and in what form, retaliation might come.
Mikal found himself wearily contemplating just how right Jack Radbo was turning out to be. There had been sound logic behind the strategy the energy minister had laid out in the Thames Tidal building—was it really just five days earlier?—while the TideFair carried on outside and poison built up in the water. Events had only strengthened the case Radbo had made for an alliance, and he was past due for an answer. Pilan was at home, returning rapidly to health, and Mikal knew that a decision could be put off no longer.
The ping of an incoming call interrupted his thoughts. As if timed to add to his sense of siege, Moira Charles, Standard BioSolutions came up onscreen. It pulsed there while Mikal considered whether to let it go to message.
She could simply have sent one herself without attempting to speak to him; she had already done so twice since their meeting. He’d replied to the first, politely referring her to the Met’s inquiry into whether the submersible involved in the turbine damage could have come from a Standard subsidiary. She’d responded with a barrage of documentation showing that the suspect vehicle had been disposed of sometime previously.
“We got that too,” Sharon had told him. “Might be genuine, or they might just have been clever enough to shift it off the books. Whoever was behind the sabotage has done one of the best jobs of covering their tracks I’ve ever seen.”
He’d decided that the most agreeable tactic was to ignore Moira Charles, and had done so with alacrity, but she was failing to take the hint. At the last moment, almost on a whim, he swiped to receive and dropped into his chair.
She came up against the backdrop of an office that looked as blandly corporate as did the woman herself. She was leaning forward, fingers outstretched to tap at the screen—clearly she had given up hope that Mikal would answer. As before, she covered her discomfiture smoothly.
“Councillor Varsi! So glad I got you in person.”
“So sorry for the delay,” he said, with what he hoped was a sufficient expression of insincerity. “It hasn’t been the easiest of days. What can I do for you, Ms. Charles?”
“I’m calling to offer our assistance to you, Councillor. Standard BioSolutions is deeply concerned . . .”
“What did you have in mind?”
“You’ll recall that we have an extensive horticultural products division. As I understand it, the need is for some form of aquatic herbicide. We have considerable resources in that area.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Mikal said, and did not add you bandwagon-jumping opportunist. “I believe a similar offer has already been received. Of course, I’ll pass yours on as well.”
Hard on the heels of the police bulletin, Bel’Natur’s agricultural research division had volunteered to help engineer an organic inhibitor to deactivate the toxin-producing algae. The offer—prompted no doubt by Aryel—had been gratefully accepted by Environmental Management, but had not yet been made public. The industry grapevine must be working with its usual efficiency; and Standard must be after more than a share of public goodwill, to be making their offer through him. He waited for the rest of the pitch.
“Thank you,” she said. “We do hope to be of service.” She straightened up, shoulders square, resting her forearms determinedly on the desk behind which she sat. “Unfortunately, what we’ve learned today has reinforced our misgivings about the risks of working in an unsecured environment. We think an urgent safety review of marine workplaces is indicated—”
“Do you?”
“—before anything else happens to put people at risk.” She peered earnestly at Mikal. “You must be concerned for your constituents as well, Councillor. I trust we can count on your support?”
He looked back at the screen for a long moment, reluctantly appreciating the cleverness of the maneuver. If he rejected a call for safety checks, he could be portrayed as indifferent to the welfare of the people he represented. If he endorsed it, he would be admitting that Thames Tidal Power might not be up to the job. Pilan would never forgive him.
“The Health and Safety Directorate has been diligent about extending regulations to cover all possible workplace contingencies,” he said finally. “I fully support their efforts.”
Let her chew on that, though he disliked how easily the equivoca
tion had rolled off his tongue. No gillung venture had yet fallen foul of HSD regs—unlike Standard itself, which, along with its monolithic terrestrial rivals, always appeared to be in breach of something or other. In contrast, Thames Tidal had won praise from the agency for its adherence to the rules—although cynics had been quick to point out that these were relatively few, since the directorate was at a disadvantage when it came to determining what was safe practice for a gillung worker.
“That’s a very well-judged answer.” It sounded frighteningly like admiration. “Have you given any thought to the other matter we discussed?”
Mikal had not, assuming that whatever strategy the Trads were pursuing would have been abandoned after his speech at the TideFair and the inevitable rumors of the meeting with Radbo.
“To be frank, Ms. Charles, I’ve been a bit preoccupied.”
“I’ve been tasked with arranging an initial discussion. Very discreetly, of course.”
Once again, he was astonished almost to speechlessness.
“Have you really?”
“Really.”
“I’m not exactly an obvious choice for them.”
“I think that’s the point, Councillor. I’m not sure you appreciate just how much of an asset you could be.”
Damn right I don’t.
He made a decision. If you want the answer, you have to be prepared to ask the question. “Very well, Ms. Charles. I make no promises, but I will admit to being curious. Let’s set something up.”
That conversation was still looming large in Mikal’s mind an hour later as he crossed the great bridge and descended the steps, heading toward the riverwalk and Sinkat. There were many, not least those he was going to see, for whom even a conversation with the Trads would smack of betrayal, and he wondered if the whole point might be to leak the news and damage him that way. But the risk had to be taken, and he had his own strategies for mitigating it.
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