by Ken McClure
Maxine welcomed Steven and left him admiring the view while she made coffee and returned with everything on a silver tray.
‘How can I help you, Dr Dunbar?’
‘Mrs French, the last time I saw you you very kindly handed over some disks that your husband had been keeping safe.’
‘Yes, government property, you said. Is something wrong?’
Steven still wasn’t sure in his own mind how to approach the problem, but now, faced with the smiling Maxine French, he had to make his decision. He took a sip of coffee. ‘Did anyone else have access to the disks you gave me?’
‘Yes,’ said Maxine, matter of factly, making the word music to Steven’s ears. ‘An executive called round from Deltasoft. He seemed to know about the disks, and said that when he was clearing Charles’s office he had come across the latest versions, which Charles obviously hadn’t had time to bring home. We exchanged them. I’m sorry. I should have mentioned it.’
‘No problem,’ said Steven. ‘No problem at all.’ He felt both relieved and apprehensive. The good thing was that he had made progress: he now knew for sure that Sci-Med had been set up to believe that there had been a plan to reintroduce the old Northern Health Scheme and it had ended with the explosion in Paris. There had never been any such plan, but knowing that now raised many more questions.
‘Did you know the man who came to see you?’
‘No, but he showed me ID. It’s quite a large company,’ said Maxine. ‘And I wasn’t involved in it at all. I think it fair to say I took as much interest in Charles’s computer business as he did in my charities. Not-a-lot, as that chap on the telly used to say.’
Steven smiled and wondered about Maxine’s marriage. He felt sure she’d been a loyal, supportive wife — probably the reason French had married her. She’d ticked all the boxes for service as a top-flight political animal’s wife. He hadn’t been looking for any sort of companion and she, coming from the same sort of background, hadn’t expected to be one.
‘Does the term Schiller Group mean anything to you, Mrs French?’ He watched Maxine carefully for a reaction, but none was visible. She shook her head.
‘Not in any meaningful way,’ she said, a reply that Steven found strange: his facial expression said so. Maxine explained. ‘I remember once at a dinner party we gave, one of the guests mentioned something about the Schiller Group and Charles told him to shut up. I thought it very rude of him but he was clearly very angry. I asked him about it later but he said it was something that didn’t concern me — something he said rather a lot, if truth be told. But then, I suppose that was because of his government involvement?’
Steven gave a knowing nod. ‘The price we all have to pay, I’m afraid, not being able to share things with our loved ones. Thank you, Mrs French. You’ve been a great help.’
He returned to the Home Office, feeling well satisfied with his morning’s work. He was particularly pleased that he’d managed to find out what he wanted to know without alerting anyone to the fact, particularly anyone connected with the Schiller Group.
Steven reflected that this was the first morning since the start of the emergency that there had not been a meeting of COBRA. There was one pencilled in for the following morning — more a case of not wanting to tempt fate by calling a complete halt to them, he suspected — but it was a sign that fear was being replaced by optimism. The epidemic could have been so much worse, as he’d noticed the newspapers were starting to point out when he flicked through the copies on his desk. Some of them were already taking to task the consultant microbiologists across the country who’d been predicting something much more serious.
Steven noticed that they were largely the same experts who’d been asked to pronounce on the swine flu ‘epidemic’, and was reminded of some questions of his own he wanted to ask. He needed to speak to someone about the course of the cholera epidemic and considered calling an old friend at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, but then he changed his mind. He needed something more than a strictly academic view. He called Lukas Neubauer at the Lundborg labs instead.
‘Steven, you have some work for me?’
‘Not right now, Lukas. I need to talk.’
‘Talk doesn’t put food in my children’s mouths. We could do with a big, juicy government contract down here. We’re bored stiff doing DNA analyses for paternity suit lawyers and bacteriology reports for councils closing down Chinese restaurants.’
‘Well, it keeps the Merc on the road,’ Steven joked, alluding to the Mercedes Lukas drove.
‘When would you like to come over, my friend?’
‘This afternoon?’
Dr Lukas Neubauer, a tall, Slavic-looking man, welcomed Steven with a smile and a firm handshake. ‘Maybe we can talk in the lab? I’ve got a couple of things on the go.’ Steven perched on a lab stool and rested an elbow on the bench while he waited for Neubauer to transfer a rack of tubes from one water bath to another and start a stop clock. ‘Now, what would you like to talk about?’
‘When you found that the cholera strain was sensitive to antibiotics, what was your first thought?’
Neubauer pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and put his head to one side. ‘I was surprised,’ he said. ‘But relieved too because it suggested the Vibrio had not been genetically altered.’
Neubauer’s reply had been simple and to the point, so he didn’t understand why Steven suddenly appeared spellbound. ‘Steven? Are you all right?’
‘Christ, that’s it.’
‘What’s what?’
‘That’s what we were meant to think. Did Colindale do any further analysis of the bug’s genetic make-up?’
‘I don’t think they did — everyone was so pleased that it was still sensitive to antibiotics. And, of course, it was quickly apparent that the enterotoxin had not been enhanced because people were recovering as long as they were kept hydrated.’
‘Can you get your hands on the bug? I can go through the usual channels but it might be quicker if we bypass them.’
‘I can ask my friend at Colindale. We have a licence to handle dangerous pathogens here so I can’t see any great problem.’
‘I need you to carry out a full analysis of it. Tell me everything you can as quickly as you can. Make it your number one priority.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘I don’t know.’
TWENTY-NINE
The evening broadcast from the advisory committee urged caution. People must remain on their guard against a disease which could still kill if given the chance. Water supplies were being kept under constant surveillance, but should suspicion be aroused the public were urged to report it quickly to the authorities. Arrangements for vaccination against cholera were proceeding as planned, and it was envisaged that there should only be a gap of around ten days after the first wave of vaccinations before the entire population could be protected. Together they would wash away the evil.
Steven had noticed the new government slogan appearing on posters in the city. Swine flu had had one too: someone in Whitehall believed that all epidemics should have a slogan. His mind strayed to what it might be if weapons-grade smallpox or bubonic plague came to call.
‘Anything in from Lukas?’ Steven asked Jean when he arrived at the Home Office in the morning.
‘Nothing apart from a memo yesterday evening saying that the lab had the strain and would be working on it all night.’
‘Let me know if anything comes in. I’m going over to Belmarsh prison after the COBRA meeting. I need to speak to the Asian who claims he was set up.’
‘Aren’t you going to say good morning to Sir John?’
‘I’m sorry?’
Jean inclined her head towards John Macmillan’s office, a gesture that made Steven break into a disbelieving smile. He knocked on the door and waited for a response before entering. ‘Good to see you back. Does your wife know you’re here?’
‘She made a bit of a fuss, but frankly I think she�
�s glad to be rid of me.’
‘Well, I’m delighted to see you sitting there,’ said Steven. ‘Are you officially back at the helm?’
‘No. Call me an interested observer until the medics sign me off completely.’
‘I was just telling Jean I’m going over to Belmarsh to talk to Anwar Khan. If you were to attend the COBRA meeting instead of me, it would save some time.’
Macmillan smiled. ‘You never were much of a one for meetings, were you, Steven?’
Steven concurred. ‘There’s quite a lot to tell you about, but it’ll wait till later. Will you attend COBRA?’
Macmillan nodded. Steven set off for Greenwich and HMP Belmarsh, home to some of the most violent prisoners in the country. He paused at the door to check with Jean that full code-red status had gone through. This was important because, although Sci-Med agents always had the right to request assistance and co-operation from the police and many other authorities, having full code-red status entitled them to demand it with total Home Office authority should it not be forthcoming — not something to be used lightly, but a useful power when opposition was anticipated.
‘The Home Secretary signed it yesterday.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t forget to remove your weapon before you try to enter the prison or we’ll be seeing you on the six o’clock news.’
Steven had a brief meeting with the two MI5 interrogators on duty before his interview with Anwar Khan. ‘None of them is saying anything,’ one told him. ‘They’re shit scared but they’re not talking.’
‘It’s not us they’re scared of,’ said the other. ‘It’s the Muslim mob in here. They’ve obviously been told they’re dead if they say anything. It was a mistake bringing them here.’
‘I agree,’ said Steven.
‘What’s Sci-Med’s interest?’
‘The cholera,’ Steven lied, knowing it would be a reasonable angle for Sci-Med to follow up on, and hoping it would defuse any animosity about his muscling in on security service territory. ‘We’d like to know if they have a lab in this country.’
‘So would we if you learn anything. Good luck.’
Steven remained seated when two prison officers brought in the nineteen-year-old Khan, his eyes betraying conflicting emotions. Steven guessed that fear was winning but currently defiance was emerging as a front-runner.
‘What are you looking at?’ the boy snarled.
‘A loser?’
Khan made to move forward across the table but stopped himself when Steven didn’t react at all. ‘We’ll see who the losers are,’ he said, sinking back down in his chair.
‘Indeed we will.’
‘Our war is a holy war.’
‘But what you don’t realise, Khan, is that you were never part of it. You were set up just like you said you were. Weren’t you? You were conned. They set you up, then blew the whistle.’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
‘Come on, son, you’re the one who worked it out. Who set you up? At least make sure the bastard gets what’s coming to him.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Fair enough… but think about it. How many virgins do you get in Paradise when you’re a loser who was set up from the very start? You’re young, you made a mistake; someone used you and your friends. You’re not going to get off after killing all those people but if you help us to get the brains behind it… maybe, just maybe, your whole life won’t be wasted in a place like this…’
‘Fuck off.’
Steven returned to the Home Office.
‘How did you get on?’ asked Macmillan.
‘He wouldn’t say anything but I hope I planted a seed of doubt in his mind. I’m sure he knows he was set up, however much he might regret admitting it now.’
‘You said earlier you had some other news?’
Steven brought Macmillan up to date with what he’d learned about the disks and told him of his request that Lukas Neubauer subject the cholera bug to a full analysis. ‘I think that’s why they didn’t make it resistant to antibiotics, to stop us thinking it might have been altered at all.’
‘Why would they want to do that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Steven, feeling his position weaken: he seemed to be saying that a lot.
‘Well, your instincts usually serve you well. Meanwhile, I haven’t been idle myself.’
‘Really?’ Steven immediately hoped he hadn’t sounded too surprised.
‘I’ve been checking through the things the computer’s been picking up on.’
The Sci-Med computer was programmed to highlight any article appearing in the UK press with a scientific or medical content that might conceivably concern Sci-Med.
‘An elderly woman living in Edinburgh, Mrs Gillian McKay, reported to the police that her next-door neighbour, a Mr Malik, had gone missing; she hadn’t seen him for some days. When police checked the premises they found nothing amiss — he’d apparently just gone away — but they volunteered to check with Malik’s relatives if Mrs McKay knew of any. She said Malik had told her all his relatives were back in Pakistan. Later, however, when a young reporter from the local paper came to see her, she remembered he had a nephew who worked for the water board… she’d seen the van at the house.’
‘Oh, you beauty,’ murmured Steven.
‘She’d spoken to Malik about it: he was going to ask his nephew to investigate her complaint that there was too much chlorine in the local water. She claimed it made her tea taste funny.’
‘Well, well,’ said Steven, ‘if you’ll pardon the pun. Do we know what day the van was there?’
‘We do,’ said Macmillan, breaking into a grin. ‘I checked the dates. The day of the attack on the Edinburgh flats. What’s more, with the story being taken from a local newspaper, a report about a missing person…’
‘The police didn’t pick up on the nephew?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Maybe we could hand it over after I’ve spoken to Mrs McKay?’ suggested Steven. ‘Actually no,’ he said, having second thoughts. ‘I could pass the info on to John Ricksen at 5. One good turn deserves another and all that…’
‘Frightening,’ said Macmillan with a shake of the head belied by a look of admiration. ‘You put one over on MI5 and then get a round of applause from them. I suggest you get started.’
Steven decided to go up to Edinburgh that evening on the British Airways shuttle out of Heathrow. He wouldn’t try to see Mrs McKay until the following morning, but he thought he might like to have a wander round the streets of Edinburgh. Although he’d never lived there, he knew it well enough. He and Lisa had set up home in Glasgow after their marriage and had often gone through to Edinburgh to see shows or just spend time there.
He’d also had occasion to visit the city several times in the course of his work with Sci-Med, so his memories were not all rosy and, in truth, he’d had some experiences there that he would rather forget. He’d found himself at cross purposes with Lothian and Borders Police on more than one occasion too, so rather than check into a hotel in the city he would keep a low profile and stay at a B amp;B recommended to him by Jean Roberts — Fraoch House in Pilrig Street, on the north side of the New Town. As one of the cities affected by the cholera attack, he wanted to get a feel for how Edinburgh was dealing with it.
If, as he suspected, he didn’t get much out of Mrs McKay, and Lukas Neubauer had not been in touch, he thought he would go down to Dumfriesshire to see his daughter before returning to London. With this in mind, he bought some children’s books for Jenny and his sister-in-law’s children at the airport before boarding the flight. He was flicking through the pages of Mother Goose when the man sitting beside him said, ‘I see you’re a Booker Prize man.’
Steven laughed. ‘Beats celebrity memoirs.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said the man. ‘I’ve just been interviewing a couple.’ He answered Steven’s enquiring glance with, ‘Liam Rudden, entertainments editor with the Edinburgh Evening News.�
�
The two men shook hands. ‘Steven Dunbar. The book’s for my daughter, honest.’
‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ joked Rudden. ‘Mother Goose is a favourite of mine too. In fact I’m directing it at the Brunton Theatre this Christmas.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No, I do a panto every year — the perfect antidote to interviewing too many celebrities. Panto’s more realistic than some of them are. What line are you in yourself?’
‘Civil servant,’ said Steven.
Rudden gave Steven his card. ‘Give me a call nearer the time. I’ll sort out some good tickets for you and your daughter.’
‘I may take you up on that.’
Steven’s planned evening walk around the streets of Edinburgh came to an abrupt halt when the heavens opened and torrential rain had everyone running for shelter. He found his in the bar of the Roxburghe Hotel where he stayed until the deluge abated more than an hour later. The talk in the bar was about the weather and how unpredictable it was. Global warming found its proponents and opponents until, with nothing decided, the conversation changed to the terrorist attacks.
As most of the people were out-of-towners — businessmen on trips to the capital — Steven learned precisely nothing about how the locals were viewing them. He gave up eavesdropping and went back to Pilrig Street for an early night, winding his way downhill through the New Town, with the gutters still running like rivers and the professional premises closed and dark.
He was in a deep sleep when his mobile went off. It was Lukas Neubauer. ‘Don’t bother telling me it’s two in the morning. I know it is; I’m the one still working,’ said Neubauer.
‘Fair enough. I’m impressed,’ countered Steven. ‘Is that what you phoned to tell me?’
‘The cholera strain has been genetically modified.’
Steven was suddenly very wide awake, his mind filling with the possible horrors that could stem from that statement. ‘In what way?’ he asked in trepidation.
