Lost causes sd-9

by Ken McClure

  ‘On my day off.’

  ‘Not any longer. The Prime Minister has called a meeting of COBRA. He wants a Sci-Med presence.’

  ‘Where? When?’

  ‘Conference room A in the main Cabinet Office building in Whitehall. Three p.m.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Good. I wasn’t looking forward to telling the new government that neither you nor Sir John could make it.’

  ‘What’s all the fuss?’

  ‘I don’t know. There was no warning.’

  ‘Exciting. I’ll call in at the Home Office afterwards.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll have something for you on the medical records by then. The team supplied by the health department has been working through the night.’

  Steven called in at his flat to shower and change. Jeans and sweatshirt were exchanged for dark blue suit, china-blue shirt and Parachute Regiment tie. He had been to a couple of COBRA meetings before but always with John Macmillan. Such meetings were called by government to discuss imminent problems of national significance, the composition of the committee varying with the nature of the emergency. Not only would he be on his own this time but the politicians present would be strangers to him — appointees of the new Prime Minister, including the new Home Secretary who was technically his boss.

  Steven could feel the burden of expectation start to weigh him down. John Macmillan knew his way around Whitehall; he didn’t. The fact that the new administration was a coalition was going to make it even more difficult to tell the organ grinders from the monkeys. But then that was going to be true for a lot of people, not just Sci-Med.

  As he walked along Whitehall, trying to guess what the convening of COBRA might be about, he couldn’t help but feel that this would be the perfect time for any faction wishing harm to the UK to strike. The ruling coalition comprised a party that had been out of power for over thirteen years and another who hadn’t known it at all in living memory. Ministers would be not only strangers in their own departments but also alien to their new colleagues.

  The civil service would, of course, keep everything running, and might even relish the chance of being even more in charge than usual with dependent strangers in their midst, but when it came to making big policy decisions under extreme or emergency pressure the test was yet to come.

  ‘Hello, Steven. I heard you were back. Good to see you,’ said a voice behind him as Steven climbed the stairs. He turned to see the head of MI5 with one of his colleagues.

  ‘You too,’ he replied automatically. Relations between 5 and Sci-Med weren’t always cordial when 5 did the government’s dirty work and Sci-Med shone a spotlight on it, with John Macmillan asserting that no one should be above the law — an attitude that had delayed his knighthood for many years.

  Steven nodded to one or two familiar faces from the Metropolitan Police and the civil service. There was also a military presence, but the ministerial contingent from the Department of Health — the government department he usually had most dealings with — seemed to be entirely made up of unknown faces.

  The deputy Prime Minister made apologies for the Prime Minister’s absence without giving a reason, and got down to business straight away.

  ‘Intelligence suggests that the UK will be subjected to a chemical or biological attack in the very near future.’

  He had to pause to let the hubbub die down.

  ‘How reliable is this intelligence?’ asked the health secretary.

  The head of MI5 said, ‘We’ve had a tip-off from an anonymous source.’

  ‘So it could be a hoax?’

  ‘It could be. On the other hand, it might not be. We’ve been told that Islamic fundamentalists are behind it. We don’t know much more than that.’

  ‘Do we have any indication at all about the nature of the attack?’ asked the Met commissioner. ‘Gas? Chemicals? Anthrax?’

  ‘I’m sorry. We don’t know.’

  ‘Which means we can’t prepare,’ said Steven.

  ‘We can certainly tighten security at all airports and rail and ferry terminals,’ suggested the commissioner.

  ‘Our intelligence suggests they are already here,’ said the head of MI5, a comment that provoked another hubbub. ‘We think the terrorists are home-grown,’ he clarified. ‘Our colleagues in MI6 have heard nothing of an attack coming from outside the UK.’

  ‘But you have no inkling at all of the nature of the attack?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Which means we’ll have to initiate standard emergency procedure in all our cities without telling the services what they’re up against,’ said the Home Secretary.

  ‘Containment must be the immediate aim,’ said the deputy PM.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s a gas attack,’ said Steven. ‘At least that will be localised. If it’s microbiological, the chances are we haven’t got any hope at all of containing it.’ He was immediately aware of the discomfort his comment had provoked.

  ‘I don’t think we need such negative thinking,’ said the cabinet secretary.

  Steven bit his tongue. He knew he was prone to saying more than was wise at such meetings, and had no trouble at all in imagining the kick on the ankle John Macmillan might have given him at that moment. Truth had to be approached in a more circumspect fashion in the corridors of power, which usually meant tiptoeing through a minefield of other people’s egos and sensibilities.

  ‘Our emergency services are the finest in the world and have been trained over many years for just such eventualities,’ said the Home Secretary.

  One of the Department of Health people, a confident-looking man named Norman Travis, Steven learned from his desk name plate, said, ‘With all due respect, sir, I think the problem arises in not knowing exactly what “eventuality” we might be dealing with. As Dr Dunbar says, a gas attack will, by its very nature, be limited in area, and our services have been trained to deal with that sort of incident, but if it should turn out to be anthrax or even, God forbid, smallpox… we will have a much more challenging situation to deal with.’

  That’s how to go about it, Steven thought to himself. Travis even finished his comment with a disarming smile. Steven remembered that this was the man who had led the negotiations with the pharmaceutical companies over vaccine production to a successful conclusion.

  ‘I think our experience with the swine flu pandemic will stand us in good stead,’ said the deputy PM.

  Steven shook his head slightly and looked down at the table as he kept hold of his tongue.

  ‘But you don’t agree, doctor?’ challenged the cabinet secretary, who had noticed his reaction.

  Steven lost the struggle. In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘The handling of swine flu was a complete and utter disaster and one that we should learn from, not crow about.’

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to expand on that assertion?’

  ‘Swine flu wasn’t a real pandemic. It was a bad cold,’ said Steven dismissively.

  ‘People died from it.’

  ‘People who would normally have died from ordinary flu because they had underlying medical conditions.’

  ‘Not all.’

  ‘All right, there were a few who died without having underlying conditions, but they were very few and far between, and their deaths were built up to justify the hype and create a totally wrong impression. It was a mess from the start. Advice was conflicting. Doctors squabbled over payment. Tamiflu was handed out to anyone who phoned a surgery — including the worried well — and anyone who was ill was told to stay away from hospitals and surgeries, the end result being that we have no real idea how many people actually caught swine flu. When I asked how many people went down with ordinary seasonal flu, they couldn’t tell me because all cases of flu were being recorded as swine flu. We ended up with a mountain of Tamiflu, to the delight of shareholders in the company who make it. Frankly, a box of tissues and a hot toddy would have been a damn sight more use. What we learned from swine flu i
s how not to go about handling a pandemic. If swine flu had been smallpox we’d all be dead.’

  The silence in the room seemed to go on for ever.

  The cabinet secretary looked first to the health officials and then to the Home Secretary but failed to find anyone keen to put up a defence. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘The only defence against a virus attack is to vaccinate people beforehand. Once they’re infected it’ll be too late. We were actually better prepared to deal with outbreaks of infectious disease in the the first half of the twentieth century when we had hospitals specifically for that purpose and nurses trained to look after such cases. Now we have half a dozen fancy isolation beds in our big hospitals in case someone comes off a flight with a problem. Unless we’re protected beforehand, we’ll simply be overwhelmed. Sending in emergency service personnel wearing biohazard suits in vehicles with lights blazing and sirens blaring isn’t going to help. It’s a PR exercise. We’d be as well sending in morris dancers.’

  Another awkward silence was broken by Travis. ‘I think I must agree with much of what Dr Dunbar has said. The only real defence against biological attack is vaccination, but, as was pointed out earlier, if we don’t know what is going to be used against us we will be forced into second-guessing the opposition. Not ideal. Apart from that, we are still painfully short of vaccines, although we hope this will change in the near future when Merryman Pharmaceuticals are fully up to speed.’

  ‘So what do we do in the face of an imminent attack?’ asked the deputy PM. ‘Wait and see?’

  ‘I think a gas attack is more likely than anything biological,’ said a spokesman from the Ministry of Defence. ‘Sarin, or some such agent. That sort of attack is a damned sight easier to mount than trying to infect a whole population and, of course, you get the all-important immediate terror factor.’

  ‘Not sure I’m with you,’ said someone.

  ‘If you let off a sarin bomb in a shopping centre or on a tube train, you get an instant effect. People die; there is widespread panic. Press and TV gather round the incident. It’s a big story. If you attempt to infect people by sending anthrax spores through the post, or spraying a virus into the air, there is no instant effect. Things take time to develop; people will spread out and fall ill in their own time. It will not even be clear to the man in the street that an attack has taken place, so the terrorists lose out in the propaganda stakes and we get more time to deal with it.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said the deputy PM. ‘Let’s hope the terrorists see it that way too. I take it we are well prepared to deal with a gas attack wherever it happens?’

  The question was directed at the Home Secretary, who assured him that contingency plans were in place in all UK cities.

  The cabinet secretary turned to the head of MI5 and asked, ‘Is there still a chance you might be able to stop this attack happening?’

  ‘My people are working round the clock.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure that the attack is coming from within?’ asked the Met commissioner.

  ‘Eighty per cent.’

  ‘So there is still reason for heightened security at entry points around the UK?’

  ‘I think we must go for increased vigilance all round,’ said the deputy PM.

  Steven saw Travis whisper something in the new health secretary’s ear. The minister nodded and said, ‘With everyone’s agreement, we’ll approach Merryman Pharmaceuticals and — without giving details about why — ask them to step up all their vaccine production schedules to maximum?’

  No one dissented.

  ‘It won’t take rocket science to work out what that’s all about,’ said one of the men in uniform — a colonel in the army.

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed the Home Secretary. ‘But at least they won’t know that we have no better idea than them about which ones will be needed.’

  ‘Food for thought, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the deputy PM, indicating that the meeting was at an end with a hand gesture that involved making a steeple with his fingers and then opening them.

  Steven went over to the Home Office and found Jean Roberts looking expectant. She was too professional to ask directly what the meeting had been about but clearly hoped Steven would say something.

  ‘A threatened gas or biological attack,’ said Steven. ‘Thought to be imminent.’

  ‘Well, the warnings have been around for long enough,’ said Jean. ‘A case of when rather than if, as Sir John said more than once. Any idea what we have to look forward to?’

  Steven shook his head. ‘That’s not known.’

  ‘You know, I often wonder what aliens must think if they’re observing our planet. The things we do to each other… Unbelievable.’

  Steven nodded. ‘How are the health department people getting on?’

  ‘You can get the report from the horse’s mouth. They’re upstairs in room 211.’

  Steven went upstairs and found a team of ten people hard at work going through the case notes of College Hospital patients. ‘Hello, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Steven Dunbar.’

  People smiled, and one woman got up and came towards him. ‘Sophie Thornton.’ She was in her mid forties, round-shouldered, with frizzy hair that seemed determined to escape from its bindings of several pins and a hair band. She swept a wayward strand from her eyes as she said, ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Any joy?’ asked Steven.

  ‘I think yes, but it’s not straightforward.’ She led the way over to two piles of files which had been weeded out from the rest and rested a hand on one of them. ‘These people all fall into the categories Miss Roberts outlined — long-term sick, those over seventy years of age, people suffering from untreatable conditions — and all of them died within a year of being treated, either at College Hospital or in the surrounding area.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Post-mortems were carried out on some of them, but there was no suggestion of suspicious circumstances in any of them.’

  ‘Right,’ said Steven thoughtfully. She’d confirmed what Mary Cunningham had told him. It has been the case with Tolkien’s patients too. People who were costing the NHS a lot of money conveniently died once the Northern Health Scheme came into play, but there were no suspicious circumstances. ‘Thank you, that’s exactly what I’m looking for. How far are you into the examination?’

  ‘About a third of the way.’

  Steven looked to the two piles of records and made a mental calculation. ‘So we could be looking at two hundred deaths, maybe two fifty?’

  ‘Thereabouts.’

  Steven nodded, then changed the subject. ‘The election must have brought about big changes in your department. How are they affecting you?’

  ‘Too soon to say, I suppose. There’s not been enough time, but two ruling parties are going to make things… interesting.’

  ‘I’ll bet. I’ve just come from a meeting with some of the new people at Health. I thought Norman Travis was impressive.’

  ‘He does seem to know what he’s doing,’ agreed Sophie. ‘Unlike many, he actually has a particular interest in health matters and knows what he’s talking about.’

  ‘While others have health thrust upon them?’

  Sophie smiled. ‘I suppose it’s to be expected when people have to move quickly from one ministry to the next.’

  ‘Or from no ministry at all, as with the current situation. Rookies, the lot of them.’

  ‘A bit like a Chinese curse,’ said Sophie.

  Steven saw what she meant. ‘May you live in interesting times.’

  He returned downstairs, deciding to use John Macmillan’s office to have a quiet think about the day. Not one of his best. The progress he was making with his investigation was completely overshadowed by the prospect of a bio-terrorism attack. He had a particular loathing of the employment of microbes as weapons, seeing their use as the very epitome of evil. He thought about what Jean had said about alien observers and found himself agreeing. Human behaviour could be quite beyo
nd comprehension.

  It was impossible to think about such an attack without conjuring up images of the dead piling up in the streets as services were overwhelmed and society broke down, conceding defeat to a tiny, unseen enemy. As to which one… Would there be faces horribly disfigured by the eruption of smallpox pustules? The blue-black complexion of plague victims? The crippling paralysis of polio or the unstoppable bleeding of haemorrhagic virus infection? The answer was out there, and imminent if the intelligence was correct.

  A knock came to the door, and Jean came in with coffee. ‘Thought you might need this. What news from upstairs?’

  Steven snapped out of his preoccupation. ‘The Northern Health Scheme was killing people off, but we’re no nearer knowing how they actually managed it.’

  ‘An untraceable poison?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe it was untraceable back then,’ suggested Jean. ‘Science has moved on…’

  ‘A good thought,’ said Steven. ‘But we’d be talking exhumation.’

  Jean shrugged her shoulders uncomfortably and said in a small voice, ‘Maybe worth thinking about?’

  ‘Not something to do without good reason; it always causes such distress to families. Maybe I’ll mention it to John when I see him. I need to tell him about the COBRA meeting anyway. He should be part of what’s going on.’

  NINETEEN

  ‘You look tired,’ said John Macmillan when Steven sat down.

  ‘Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?’ Steven’s grin took a deal of effort.

  ‘Things not going well?’

  He explained about the COBRA meeting and the reported threat.

  Macmillan’s shoulders slumped forward as he let out a sigh. ‘Strange,’ he said. ‘We knew this had to happen. But now that it’s here on our doorstep the very thought of it is just as horrifying as if it had come out of the blue. Any idea what?’

  ‘None.’

  Macmillan echoed Steven’s earlier thoughts regarding a chemical attack. ‘We can cope with that, but microbes let loose on a largely unprotected population… doesn’t bear thinking about. It could destroy the entire country.’