The Lucifer Network

by Geoffrey Archer

  She’d considered not going in to work today, but decided she had to face things. When with deep trepidation she passed through the doors of the department, Ailsa Mackinley was the first to confront her, rising awestruck from behind the reception desk.

  ‘Jul! Brilliant!’ she beamed. ‘You’re famous!’

  ‘I hope not,’ Julie answered, making straight for her office. ‘That certainly wasn’t my intention.’

  ‘Well I’m with you all the way,’ Ailsa assured her, hanging on to her arm. ‘People like that shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.’

  ‘Oh Ailsa,’ Julie moaned. ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ She gripped Julie’s arm more firmly and blocked her path. ‘He wants to talk to you.’ She pulled a long face.

  ‘The professor?’ Julie’s heart turned a somersault.

  ‘Asked me to tell you as soon as you got in. Said you should see him before you did anything else.’

  ‘Hell.’

  ‘Don’t let him bully you. Stick up for yourself.’

  ‘Oh sure. Don’t fuss, Ailsa.’

  Inside her office her two colleagues were already at their desks. Janet smiled awkwardly, then looked away. George, her unsuccessful admirer, took it upon himself to voice what the two of them had just been saying to each other.

  ‘We wondered whether this was your idea or someone else’s?’ he asked without any preamble.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘This accusation about spies and dirty tricks. Hardly your style, we’d have thought. Someone pressure you?’

  He’s being patronising, thought Julie. The little woman unable to take big decisions for herself.

  ‘It was my choice,’ she answered sharply. But yes, she had been pressured. By a man now dead. ‘And I don’t want to talk about it. I . . . I’m not in the habit of discussing my personal life with the people I work with.’

  ‘But you’re quite ready to discuss it with the rest of the nation,’ George snorted. He turned back to his computer and began downloading a screensaver from the Internet.

  Julie put her bag on the floor and sat down, blinking back tears and forcing herself to ignore what had just been said and to think about the day ahead. There were some test results to be studied. God knew how she would be able to concentrate. She picked up the phone and dialled the professor’s number.

  ‘Norton.’ He had a soft voice.

  ‘Professor, good morning.’

  ‘Ah, Julie . . .’

  ‘You wanted a word, I believe.’

  ‘Yes. Would now be convenient?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Good. Come on in, then.’

  She stepped out into the corridor and walked to the room where she’d first crossed paths with Simon Foster four days earlier.

  ‘Come and sit down.’ The professor, a tall, thin man, of the old school as far as women were concerned, rose to his feet, his lined face a picture of discomfort.

  ‘This business with the newspapers.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you in advance,’ Julie mumbled.

  ‘Yes. I’d have welcomed knowing it was coming, rather than reading it over breakfast.’ He sat down as she sat. ‘Now look. As far as I’m concerned this is your private affair. I have no wish to know anything about it. I have no views on the likely truth of the allegations you’ve made, nor on the rights and wrongs of getting mixed up with the papers like this.’ But he did have, Julie realised. Strong views. And they weren’t supportive. ‘My sole worry,’ Norton continued, ‘is that this institution might in some way be tarnished by it.’

  ‘Tarnished? I don’t see . . .’

  ‘No, I’m sure you don’t. If you did, you’d have discussed it with me beforehand.’ He clasped his hands on the meticulously tidy desk. ‘The point is this. What you’ve launched yourself into comes under the heading of scandal. And scandal tends to stick to anything mentioned in the same breath. I was relieved to see that the St Michael’s Hospital Group and this department were not named anywhere in this morning’s article . . .’

  ‘No. They weren’t,’ Julie interrupted defiantly.

  ‘. . . but there will doubtless be many more. Both in the Chronicle and in other parts of the media. Presumably the journalists you talked to know where you work?’

  ‘I don’t think I ever said . . .’ She racked her brains, trying to remember.

  ‘Well it doesn’t matter whether you did or not. The job description “virologist” will be enough. A quick search of the websites and they’ll find your name on our department’s. I expect we’ll be inundated with calls in the coming hours.’

  Julie sank back into her chair. It hadn’t occurred to her there’d be follow-ups.

  Norton pulled himself up straight. ‘I’ve instructed Ailsa to say you’re not here today.’

  ‘But there’ll be legitimate calls for me, there always are,’ she responded, startled.

  ‘Others can deal with those. For now I’d prefer your absence to be fact rather than fiction.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘That you stay away from the lab until this blows over.’

  Julie gaped. ‘But I’ve got loads to do. What are you saying? You’re suspending me from duty?’

  ‘Oh no. Call it compassionate leave. I just don’t want us to be involved in any way.’ He stood up again to show her the interview was over. ‘Why don’t you give me a call in a couple of days and we’ll see how things look?’

  She hated being railroaded. ‘But . . .’

  ‘Best not to hang around,’ Norton interrupted, opening his office door as she stood up. ‘And best slip out through the goods bay at the back. In case there are camera crews.’

  Julie turned to leave, saying nothing. A great lump blocked her throat. Back in her own room George was on his own. He watched Julie pick up her bag and head for the door.

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘No. I’m taking a few days off.’

  ‘And if anyone rings?’

  ‘Better say you’ve never heard of me.’

  The deliveries entrance was in a mews which joined the main street twenty metres from the front entrance. A quick glance revealed no media types anywhere. She headed for the underground station, uncertain where to go. The Chronicle people knew about her room in Acton. In the clubby world of journalism others would soon know it too. She’d do better in Woodbridge, she decided. At least Liam would be glad to see her.

  Suddenly a hand grabbed her elbow, making her jump.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Jackman.’ A male voice close by her ear.

  She turned. A man and a woman stood each side of her, boxing her in. Media, she decided.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, heart thudding. ‘I’ve got nothing more to . . .’

  ‘We’re police officers, Miss Jackman.’ The man flashed an ID. ‘You’re to come to Paddington Green for a chat.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re investigating your father’s involvement in the illegal transportation of strategic materials,’ the woman told her.

  ‘But I’ve already told the intelligence people I know nothing about his business dealings.’

  ‘Except when the newspapers ask you about it, eh, Miss Jackman?’ The male officer’s manner was unpleasantly aggressive.

  ‘Come on, Julie,’ the woman pressed. ‘There’s some important people waiting to speak to you.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ Julie was scared. This was a whole new ball game.

  ‘Not really,’ the man told her. ‘I’m entitled to arrest you on suspicion of concealing information relevant to a breach of the nuclear non-proliferation treaty.’

  ‘This is outrageous . . .’ Julie mouthed.

  ‘Our car’s round the next corner,’ the woman told her as she took Julie’s arm. ‘I really would advise you to co-operate. It’ll save so much time.’

  ‘They’re on their way,’ said Detective Chief Inspector Stephanie Watson as she entered
the interview room where the SIS woman was waiting. ‘Be about fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Denise Corby crossed and uncrossed her legs. She wore black stockings beneath a dark grey skirt. ‘Thanks for setting this up so rapidly.’

  ‘Not at all. I needed a break from the Southall business,’ said Steph. ‘White nationalists aren’t my favourite sort of people.’

  The arrangement to bring in Julie Jackman for further questioning had been made little more than an hour ago. The call to Special Branch from Vauxhall Cross had found a depleted team on the sixteenth floor at Scotland Yard because of summer leave taking, but they’d agreed to spare Steph for the morning. Which had pleased her, since she had a personal interest in the case.

  ‘What exactly have you got on this girl?’ she asked, sitting down on the opposite side of the interview table.

  Corby held out a plastic folder. ‘Something highly significant. Proof that she lied about her involvement with her father’s business activities.’

  ‘May I see?’ Steph took it.

  ‘When I talked to her on Friday,’ Corby continued, ‘she denied all knowledge of her father’s scams. And she repeated those denials on Saturday when the letter turned up. The so-called red mercury – and Vienna? It was all in the fax I sent you.’

  ‘I read it. Go on.’

  ‘Well, the inquiries we’ve been making in Austria tell a different story.’ She pointed to the folder.

  Steph ran her eye over the pages and handed them back. ‘I get the drift. But what’s the UK angle? There has to be one if you’re involving the Met.’

  ‘Conspiracy. We suspect that the material her father shipped out of Russia could have been nuclear weapon components. If we can get her to admit discussing the smuggling of them with him when he was last in England, then we’ve grounds for a prosecution.’

  ‘Possibly. Conspiracy’s hard to get past a jury,’ Steph cautioned. She’d have liked to see Julie Jackman banged up for life after what she’d done to Sam, but there were rules to be followed. ‘We’ll give it a whirl.’

  ‘Good. You’re happy for me to lead?’

  ‘Makes sense.’ Steph stood up again. ‘I’ll see if they can get us some coffee. Like some?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say no.’

  Julie recognised the Paddington police station as the one they took terrorists to. She’d seen it on TV. Her nerves began to fray as they led her into an interview room. When she saw who was there she groaned inwardly.

  ‘Thank you for coming in, Miss Jackman.’

  ‘Wasn’t given much of a choice,’ she answered stonily. She’d hoped never to see Denise Corby again.

  The narrow room had a plain table in the middle with a tape-recording panel at one end. The other woman there looked almost as butch as Denise Corby, she decided, and was staring at her with a curiosity too intense to be merely professional. Two bull dykes ready to work her over.

  ‘My colleague here represents the Metropolitan Police,’ Corby began. ‘No need for you to know her name,’ she added sourly.

  The door opened and a uniformed policewoman entered with a tray of coffee, this small act of hospitality belying the hostility that crackled in the air.

  ‘We thought we’d talk informally at first,’ Corby began. ‘If we reach a point where the Chief Inspector thinks you need to be cautioned, then we’ll switch the recorder on. Understood?’

  Julie found it hard not to be cowed by them. ‘Would you mind explaining why you’ve got me here?’

  ‘Because we don’t think you’ve been truthful with us.’

  ‘That’s nonsense. I have.’

  ‘Really? That letter your father wrote – you claimed it was the first time you’d ever heard of red mercury and also said you’d never been involved in your father’s business activities.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘We think that’s a lie, Miss Jackman. We have evidence that says otherwise.’ Denise Corby coughed behind her hand. ‘It suggests you may even have been his accomplice.’

  ‘What?’

  Julie shivered. Her father’s warnings about the deviousness of the intelligence people were coming true. They were going to frame her.

  ‘July 1997. Your father was in Vienna setting up the shipping arrangements for the so-called red mercury. He said so in his letter.’

  ‘Yes,’ Julie whispered. She felt her neck begin to glow.

  ‘A criminal business deal which you claimed to know nothing about.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she croaked.

  ‘Which is odd, because you were there in Vienna too. Weren’t you, Miss Jackman?’

  Julie opened her mouth, but no words came. She shook her head in dismay.

  Denise Corby opened the folder and produced a sheet of fax paper.

  ‘According to the register of the Intercontinental Hotel, on three consecutive nights that month you had room 115 and your father room 120.’

  Julie felt the ground opening up. An innocent happening was to be twisted and used against her. The establishment’s revenge for what she’d said to the Chronicle.

  ‘But you don’t understand,’ she protested feebly. ‘Yes, I was in Vienna at that time. But under my own auspices. It was pure coincidence my father was there too.’

  ‘Coincidence?’ Corby mocked.

  ‘What auspices?’ Stephanie asked, deciding to take a hand. Still unsure what to make of the girl, she had a suspicion she was telling the truth.

  ‘An international conference on HIV. My boss, Professor Norton was one of the speakers. And a few days before I went, my father happened to ring, saying he had to be there at the same time. For business – but the point is, I have no idea what business.’

  ‘You can’t expect us to believe that,’ Corby insisted. ‘Same hotel. Rooms on the same floor. You knew exactly what he was doing there.’

  ‘I did not. We co-ordinated our plans, of course we did. We wanted to see each other.’

  ‘How much time did you spend together?’ Steph asked.

  ‘Just one evening. On the other nights there were conference events.’ She noted Corby’s disbelieving glance towards the policewoman.

  ‘Tell us about that evening,’ the Vauxhall Cross woman continued. ‘Was your father alone?’

  ‘No. He had his latest woman with him. South African, I think. Quite nice. Most of them were, his wives and girlfriends. I never understood why none of them lasted.’

  ‘Know her name?’

  Julie frowned, trying to recall it.

  ‘Linda, I think.’

  ‘Where did you meet them?’ Steph asked.

  ‘In the hotel bar. They were sitting with three or four others. All men. My father introduced me. The men just nodded, then carried on with their conversation. In whispers mostly. I didn’t speak to them at all.’

  Stephanie’s uncertainty deepened. Any man with a normal set of tackle would have made a pitch for a pretty girl like Julie. Sam had.

  ‘And your father was involved in their conversation?’

  ‘Most of the time, yes.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘I didn’t hear. I was talking to Linda. She and I got on really well. I’d not met her before.’

  ‘You spent the whole evening there?’

  ‘We stayed in the bar for a while, then the three of us went to the restaurant and had dinner.’

  ‘You, your father and Linda,’ Corby checked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about the men your father was with? They didn’t join you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Later?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ Julie complained, ‘I hardly looked at them.’

  ‘Nationalities?’

  ‘God knows. It was a year ago.’

  ‘But they weren’t English . . .’

  Julie frowned, trying to think why she’d always assumed they were foreign. ‘I believe not.’

  ‘W
as one of them Russian?’

  ‘Could have been. I really don’t remember.’

  ‘Names? Does Vladimir Kovalenko ring a bell?’

  The name in the letter. She shook her head. Only one man had registered with her that evening, and that was long after she’d bade her father goodnight.

  ‘What about the Arab?’

  She shook her head again. ‘I don’t remember any Arabs.’ She was surprised at how calm she was sounding now.

  For several seconds, maybe as much as half a minute, they just looked at her, digesting what she’d told them.

  ‘You’re quite sure your father never told you the specifics of why he was in Vienna?’ Steph queried again.

  ‘Certain.’

  Denise Corby leaned forward across the table. For a moment Julie feared a re-run of the hand-holding trick.

  ‘You do understand what sort of deals your father did, Miss Jackman?’ Corby asked, hush-voiced.

  ‘I always assumed they weren’t a hundred per cent straight,’ she replied.

  ‘Not a hundred per cent,’ Corby mocked. ‘His whole world was a web of lies, Miss Jackman.’

  ‘He wasn’t a saint,’ Julie answered defensively, aware that a change of direction was under way.

  ‘His speciality was avoiding customs controls – that’s a serious criminal offence. He paid bribes to officials – also a crime. His career in Africa began with the theft of precious minerals that didn’t belong to him, which he sold for personal gain. A fraud in anybody’s language. Need I go on, Miss Jackman?’

  ‘I’m not sure what point you’re . . .’

  ‘Simply wanting to make sure you understand that of all the considerable wealth he amassed in recent years I doubt whether one penny was earned honestly. He lived by lies and deception.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but whatever my father did, I’m different,’ Julie insisted, riled by the implication that she was dishonest too. ‘Everything I’ve got, I’ve worked for.’

  ‘The simple point I’m trying to make,’ Denise Corby persisted, ‘is that your father was one of the most untrustworthy men you could ever hope to meet.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’m not a liar.’

  ‘Oh really? What about that extraordinary load of tosh in the Daily Chronicle this morning? Where did that come from?’