by Ken McClure
Steven left the meeting with that now familiar hollow feeling in his stomach. There was something terribly wrong about… everything, but he couldn’t say so. Norman Travis, who had been accepting the congratulations of some of the others over the health department’s handling of the affair, detached himself and came downstairs with Steven.
‘Isn’t it strange how much things can change in such a short time? A week ago I wouldn’t have put money on anyone’s smiling today.’
‘We’ve been very lucky,’ said Steven.
‘I know there can be no guarantee that there won’t be another attack, but with Merryman coming on stream with new vaccines we should be in a much better position to defend ourselves.’
‘You’re right, and I understand your contribution to that has been invaluable,’ said Steven.
‘Some things are more important than party politics — as I think the coalition is demonstrating. If you see something needs doing, you should get your head down and damn well do it.’
‘Indeed,’ said Steven with a smile.
‘It was good to see John Macmillan at the meeting the other day, but we didn’t get a chance to speak afterwards. Is he back full time?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Give him my best.’
Steven felt the need for fresh air and a walk. He needed to experience a sense of normality, see people going about their business, be assured that all was right with the world despite feeling sure that it wasn’t. He was leaning on a rail watching the river traffic chug past when John Ricksen rang.
‘They’ve found Zaman.’
‘What’s he saying?’
‘Not a lot. He was swinging from a tree in the Clyde Valley.’
Steven closed his eyes. ‘What’s the thinking?’
‘The brains think he must have started to feel guilty about working for us — maybe seeing the fuck-up in Afghanistan — and was really converted to fundamentalist philosophy. He was one of those chosen to run the cholera attack, but when he realised how many were going to die after a second hit he got cold feet and blew the whistle. It wouldn’t be hard for the hierarchy to work out he’d been the one who’d done that so they strung him up.’
‘Is that what you think?’ asked Steven.
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘We should talk. Can you come over to the Home Office?’
‘Give me an hour. There are a couple of things I have to do.’
John Macmillan asked Steven how the COBRA meeting had gone.
‘Everyone was happy except me.’
‘Did you tell them what Lukas came up with?’
Steven shook his head. ‘I didn’t want to be a party pooper. If I’d had any idea why they’d disabled the bug I would have, but I haven’t. You?’
‘No,’ said Macmillan. ‘Islamic terrorists don’t do kindness. Doesn’t make sense.’
‘I’ve asked John Ricksen to come over. We need to talk.’
Macmillan raised his eyes.
‘Waseed Malik was an MI5 informer. His real name was Assad Zaman. He was found hanging from a tree in Scotland in the early hours of this morning.
Macmillan slumped back in his chair. ‘I’m beginning to think a cruise might be a better option.’
‘MI5 think he was converted to the opposition. He ran the first attack but chickened out of the second and made the call that stopped it.’
Ricksen arrived and Jean Roberts brought in coffee.
‘No calls please, Jean,’ said Macmillan.
‘Very good, Sir John,’ she replied, winking at Steven on the way out. Normal service had been resumed.
‘I’ve told Sir John what 5 thinks about the man we know as Malik and you know as Zaman, but I got the impression that you might have some other ideas,’ Steven began. Ricksen seemed uneasy, and Steven guessed it was because Macmillan was present. ‘Everything said here stays here,’ he added.
‘Something’s not quite right,’ said Ricksen.
‘That’s exactly the impression we have.’
‘People are desperate to come up with plausible explanations for implausible happenings. We get a warning of a bio-weapon attack but we don’t know where from. None of our sources know anything at all about it. Same goes for Special Branch. We’re told the terrorists are home-grown — and they are — but no one knows anything about their masters. Zaman’s involvement is not only a surprise to us, it’s a surprise to the fundamentalist groups. Then his body is found — unmutilated. He still had his tongue. Very strange.’
Steven told Ricksen about the disabling of the cholera strain. ‘They didn’t want to kill too many people.’
‘And our conclusion must be, gentlemen?’ asked Macmillan.
‘It wasn’t an Islamic terrorist attack at all,’ said Steven slowly.
THIRTY-TWO
Macmillan nodded. ‘It’s the only explanation. Some unknown faction recruited disaffected Muslim youths in our cities and groomed them to carry out the attacks, telling them they were acting for the Islamic fundamentalist cause.’
‘Then they shopped them to the police to bolster the impression that it was Islamic terrorists who were responsible,’ added Steven.
‘But what on earth for?’ asked Ricksen. ‘And why use a weapon that’s deliberately been blunted, if what you say’s true?’
‘To create the right conditions for… something else to happen,’ said Macmillan. ‘The people who died were expendable… collateral damage.’
‘Working-class people in old council blocks of flats?’
‘Oh, shit,’ said Steven. ‘It has to be the Schiller Group.’
Ricksen’s expression suggested that he did not see this as good news.
‘It’s another Northern Health Scheme. They’re setting out to reshape the population.’
‘Reshape the pop-’ stammered Ricksen.
‘It’s a long story, going back twenty years,’ said Steven, unwilling to break his stride. ‘They’ve been manipulating events to set it up all over again. That’s what the killings in Paris were all about. It was a take-over bid. A new hierarchy with new ideas is in charge.’
‘So what are they planning to do?’ asked Macmillan.
‘The mass vaccinations,’ said Steven. ‘It has to be that. The entire population is about to be vaccinated.’
‘You’re right,’ exclaimed Macmillan. ‘It does have to be that. The very young have been receiving what cholera vaccine stocks we had but the over-sixties are about to get the stuff that was bound for the Third World.’
‘Or not,’ said Steven.
‘Are you suggesting they’re going to kill everyone over sixty?’ asked Ricksen, as if he were in the throes of a bad dream.
‘Nothing so unsubtle, if the Schiller Group are responsible.’
‘So how do we stop them? The whole operation is up and running with full government approval and we don’t even know who “they” are.’
‘Indeed,’ said Macmillan. ‘And what is particularly worrying is that it would be much easier for them to stop us.’
‘And they must know we’re onto something because of the alert 5 put out for Zaman,’ said Steven.
‘It must have been them who killed him to stop him talking,’ said Ricksen. ‘That’s why it didn’t look right.’
‘We know from the cover-ups of twenty years ago that the Schiller mob was well represented in the police, so maybe informing them is not an option.’
‘They must have a presence in 5 too,’ said Ricksen, thinking about the National Front infiltrator who’d ended up in the Thames.
‘Let’s define our objectives,’ said Steven. ‘We have to stop the “vaccine” from getting to the mass-vaccination clinics all over the country. Its starting point is…’
‘Lark Pharmaceuticals,’ said Ricksen. ‘They’re diverting their overseas supplies.’
Macmillan hit the intercom button on his desk. ‘Jean, we need to have everything you can get on Lark Pharmaceuticals as quickly as you can.’
‘Lark may not be involved, of course. There might be a plan to swap shipments somewhere along the line,’ said Ricksen.
‘Then it’s important we stop them setting out if we can,’ said Steven.
‘Easier said than done,’ said Ricksen. ‘Any word of such an attempt getting back to the Schiller mob and they’ll simply change their plans.’
A knock came to the door and Jean entered. ‘Something to be going on with,’ she said, placing a thin file on Macmillan’s desk.
Macmillan read in silence for a few moments before speaking out loud for the benefit of Steven and Ricksen. ‘Lark Pharmaceuticals was formed in 1990 as an offshoot of Lander Pharmaceuticals but has never been listed on the stock exchange. It’s a private company. Although the expertise came from Lander, private money from a body called the Wellington Foundation was used to set it up. It’s run as a non-profit-making concern. What profits it does make from the sale of its pills and potions and diagnostic kits and so on is ploughed back into its vaccine programme for Third World countries.’
‘So it’s a charity?’ said Ricksen.
‘Not with a parent company like Lander,’ said Steven. ‘Lander supplied pharmaceuticals to the Northern Health Scheme.’
Macmillan continued. ‘The head of Lark is Dr Mark Mosely, a previous associate of Dr Paul Schreiber, head of Lander Pharmaceuticals at one time.’
‘Schreiber was deeply involved in the scheme. He ran the pharmacy at Newcastle College Hospital personally,’ said Steven.
‘Mosely, a brilliant molecular biologist, was recruited by Schreiber after getting his doctorate from Cambridge. He rose rapidly in Lander and was given the job of heading up Lark when it was formed. He’s been there ever since.’
‘Being funded by the Schiller Group,’ said Steven.
‘So it’s Lark we’re after,’ said Ricksen.
‘An outwardly respectable company, doing its level best to help Third World countries and commanding the admiration of all…’ said Macmillan.
‘Currently about to provide the vaccine necessary to protect some of our most vulnerable citizens,’ said Steven.
‘We need proof,’ said Ricksen. ‘Cast-iron proof before we can touch them, and that could take time…’
‘Which we haven’t got,’ said Steven. ‘We’ll have to get the proof another way.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Hereford,’ said Steven. ‘We don’t waste time with polite requests and bits of paper: we hit Lark head-on with an SAS assault.’
‘Jesus,’ said Ricksen. ‘Can you do that?’
‘Steven is ex-Regiment,’ said Macmillan. ‘His old chums have come to our aid in the past. The question this time is… do we need MOD approval?’
‘It could be argued that this is a civilian matter…’ said Steven.
‘Which might conceivably make it a Home Office affair,’ said Macmillan. ‘But this is big. We’ll have to seek the Home Secretary’s approval.’
Steven nodded. ‘She’s heard rumours about the Schiller Group in the past. It came up in conversation.’
‘Good. Who approaches her, you or me?’
‘You,’ said Steven. ‘I’ll call Hereford.’
Macmillan was with the Home Secretary for nearly an hour. He returned looking tired and drawn. ‘She will personally see that I am hanged from Tower Bridge if this goes wrong,’ he said.
‘But it’s a yes?’ asked Steven.
‘With you hanging beside me,’ continued Macmillan. ‘But it is a yes. Have you spoken to your friends?’
Steven said that he had. ‘I had confidence in your powers of persuasion. They’ll be here at eleven this evening.’
‘Are you going with them?’
‘Yes.’
Macmillan’s eyes asked the same question of Ricksen.
‘If that’s okay?’
‘You bet,’ said Steven. He turned to Macmillan. ‘We’re going to need Lukas Neubauer and the lab to be on stand-by throughout the night. I’ll get the vaccine to him as quickly as I can.’
‘I’ll talk to him. Strikes me it’s going to be a long night for all of us. I’ll ask Jean to arrange some sustenance.’
Jean had not only come up with food and drink for them by the end of the afternoon but also some publicity photographs of the Lark Pharmaceuticals building. Steven was able to show these to the SAS commander who arrived at a service entrance to the Home Office at eleven p.m., one of twelve soldiers dressed in black counter-terrorist gear, travelling in four green Land Rovers. The others stayed where they were inside their vehicles.
Steven had to admit that neither he nor Ricksen had ever been inside the Lark building.
‘Great,’ said the man, who introduced himself as Tim.
‘Relax,’ said Steven. ‘I’m not looking for subtlety here. I need you to hit that building like a train and secure it as quickly as possible. I don’t think there will be too many people in the labs and offices at this time of night but if there are any, contain them but don’t hurt them. I don’t want anyone going anywhere or destroying anything. There will be people in the transport bays loading vaccine onto lorries. I don’t want them or the vehicles going anywhere for the time being.’
‘Understood. And if we meet resistance?’
‘Overcome it,’ said Steven. ‘Minimum force. These people will be innocents doing their jobs. I just need everything to come to a standstill until we find what we’re looking for.’
‘Which is?’
‘Let’s say I’ve reason to believe that the vaccine supplies this company are about to send out are not what they’re supposed to be. I need samples for our lab to analyse and, ideally, information about what’s really in the vials. Last but not least I need any information you can get about the organisation responsible for putting it there.’
‘The vials we can get from the loading bay,’ said Tim. ‘And we gather all files, disks, laptops from the exec suites?’
Steven nodded. ‘The managing director is a Dr Mark Mosely. Concentrate on his office before anything else.’
It took Tim and his men eleven minutes to occupy and secure the Lark building. The personnel on site — mainly transport and loading staff, as expected — were herded into the staff canteen, given an apology, and asked to wait there behind locked doors until further notice. No one chose to argue with the black-suited, armed men wearing balaclavas.
Steven and Ricksen joined Tim in Mark Mosely’s office. Tim watched while Steven made a thorough search of the room, selecting items to take back with him to London along with the vaccine samples obtained by the soldiers from the loading bay.
‘Christ, I hope you’re right about all this,’ murmured Ricksen.
‘You and me both,’ replied Steven.
‘Make that three of us,’ Tim chipped in. ‘The boss isn’t putting this operation through the books.’
‘Could get a bit busy under Tower Bridge,’ said Steven, a comment that passed over the heads of the other two.
‘Ready?’ asked Tim.
Steven took a last look round the office. ‘I’ll just make sure there aren’t any wall safes…’ He was thinking about Charles French’s penthouse.
He hadn’t really expected to find anything under the various pictures on the wall but when he moved Ville d’Avray slightly to the left with his fingertips he took a step back in surprise when an entire wall panel slid open.
‘What the f-’ exclaimed Ricksen. ‘What is it?’
‘A lift,’ said Steven, slightly bemused.
‘But there’s a lift just outside the door,’ said Tim.
‘Could be an executive lift,’ said Ricksen. ‘You know what these guys are like… executive this, executive that.’
Steven pressed the single button at the side and the lift door slid open. He looked inside. ‘One button. Only goes to one floor.’
THIRTY-THREE
Tim looked at the inside of the lift and decided they could get four into it. He called in one of his soldier
s and told another where they were going.
It was a tight squeeze: Steven was very conscious of the smell of gun oil from the soldier’s automatic weapon which was only inches from his nose as the soldier held it flat against his chest. ‘Ready?’ he asked, then pressed the button.
After what seemed a very long, slow descent, the lift bounced gently on its cables as it came to a halt and the door slid back to reveal brightness.
The two SAS men leapt out, moving to opposite sides and levelling their weapons at the four white-coated people working in what was clearly a basement lab. They froze. Tim signalled to his soldier that he was going to check what appeared to be a smaller room at the far end of the lab, and Steven watched as he kicked open the door.
A man was sitting at a desk. ‘What the hell?’ he exclaimed.
‘Over to you,’ said Tim over his shoulder to Steven.
Steven presented his ID. ‘Dr Steven Dunbar, Sci-Med Inspectorate.’
‘Dr Mark Mosely. This is my research lab. This is an outrage. Get out of here.’
‘Keep an eye on him,’ Steven told Tim as he left the small office to start examining the lab. ‘Very nice,’ he murmured, admiring the quality of the equipment. ‘A state of the art molecular biology lab… and some well-qualified people, I’ll bet,’ he said, eyeing the four nervous people standing motionless under the watchful gaze of the soldier.
He opened the door of an incubator and removed one of the Petri dishes from it. He angled it to read the writing on the lid. ‘Vibrio cholerae. Well, that answers a few questions. Is this where you made that ingenious cassette?’
