by Ellis, Tim
‘There was a long-standing covert order for the Head of IT Services in each facility to send Friday night’s back-up tapes to Basement 7. They copied each tape and sent them back.’
‘What the hell for?’ John Webb asked.
‘Do you also recall Commander Allan Hewitt back in the day when MI6 was called SIS?’
The same people nodded.
Nana Rodriguez yawned behind a beautifully manicured hand.
‘He was a right paranoid bastard,’ Webb said. ‘A product of the Cold War. Thought everyone was going to defect and take our most valuable secrets with them.’
‘Exactly,’ Hibbert agreed. ‘He wanted everybody monitored. There was a whole team in Basement 7 allocated to that specific task, which they did by combing through your computer files.’
‘And said files were never deleted?’ Donaldson concluded.
Fran Hibbert wobbled her double chins. ‘I’ve only recently found out, of course, otherwise I would have authorised their destruction.’
‘Don’t you just love twenty-twenty hindsight?’ Sir Peter threw at them.
‘So, do we have a damage limitation plan?’ Donaldson asked.
‘Nana – do you want to take it from here?’ Fran Hibbert said.
Her face reddened. ‘Yes, of course. One of our monitoring stations isolated a call between two females earlier today. During the conversation one of them referred to Basement 7 and made reference to two of the codenames on the list. My people are attempting to identify the location of the receiving phone . . .’
‘I thought you could track a nanobot on a microbe,’ Webb said.
‘Unregistered pay-as-you-go mobile phones are the bane of our lives unfortunately. These people are fully aware of our capabilities. They switch the phone on, make a call – which is too short to be tracked – and switch the phone off, or destroy it. Pinpointing them takes time. We have to wait . . .’
Donaldson massaged his tic. ‘Apologies if I sound like a cliché, but time is a luxury we don’t possess.’
Nana shrugged. ‘We can only do what we can do.’
‘In the meantime,’ Ruth Völker said. ‘They can do what they want with our data.’
Sir Peter helped himself to the last of her chocolate bourbons – the greedy bastard. ‘We have teams standing by. As soon as Nana finds them . . . Well, I think you’re all well aware of what will happen.’
They all nodded.
Ruth hoped it would be soon. God knows what the other files contained, but she knew that if information on the Epsilon experiments spilled out into the public domain . . . Gott im Himmel! She couldn’t bring herself to think of the ramifications. What she did know was that they would have to re-write history.
Chapter Five
Two of the original three founding members of Group 323 – Tyler Orton and Suzie Chang – had moved on and joined the oppressed masses. He – Mark Whitebrook – was the only one left who was still fighting the good fight. As the only founding member left, he was considered the leader. He wasn’t a leader, never would be a leader, but everyone deferred to him.
He’d stayed – not because he was a zealot, or burned with the fire of righteous indignation – but simply because he had nowhere else to go. His middle-class family had disowned him years ago. Now, wherever he lay his hat was his home – as the song went, and the people in the group were his family. If he’d left, his life would have meant nothing. At least here he was wanted and loved. Outside in the world he would have been just another nobody.
Annie Ritch had come to him with the news concerning the government files. He thought all his birthdays had come at once when he saw what was stored in the online vault. There were a whole stack of intelligence reports generated by GCHQ from a previously unknown UK-run electronic eavesdropping programme called “Polyhedron” that monitored social networking sites through hidden backdoors; a long list of covert operations by MI5, MI6 and the military with codenames such as alpha33, buckshot, chopstick, commando, cudgel, delta12, duluth, everest, evergreen, foxfire, gamma54; mustard64 . . . Some of the names he’d heard about, but others were new to him.
For instance, he’d never heard of Alpha 33, which described a failed mission from 1999 to provide financial and military assistance to the Chechen separatists and would have helped them move away from Russia; Buckshot was a partially successful mission to disable Russian Tupolev-95 bombers in Archangel, Russia to prevent them from flying over Britain to test our defences; Delta12 was another failed mission to oust Libyan leader Colonel Muammar Gaddafi; Duluth concerned pilots flying missions to prop up the regime of Bashar al-Assad by carrying cash from Russia and weapons and explosives from Iran. It had always been the understanding that the British Government supported the rebels not the Assad regime. Gamma54 described a current mission to destabilize North Korea and their nuclear program; Mustard64 described the relocation of a Stasi officer’s daughter to England; Epsilon described a series of five genetic experiments on monozygotic twins in the early nineties at St Winifred’s Maternity Home in Heybridge by someone called Dr Orvil Lorenz.
There was a glut of emails, which were largely innocuous, but a couple of the messages identified a Ruth Völker from the Defence Geospatial Intelligence Fusion Centre discussing Epsilon5 and someone called Jed Parish.
Mark Whitebrook wasn’t an expert by any measure of what constituted an expert, but he had the heady feeling that the information contained in the vault could bring down the Conservative government.
‘Well,’ Annie said. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think we’ve just become members of the walking dead.’
‘That good, huh?’
‘As good as it gets.’
‘How we gonna play it?’
‘We’re not playing with anything. This is too big for us. I’m not even going to claim responsibility. We’ll just send all the files to WikiUK. I’ll let them know it’s from us, but that’s as far as our involvement goes.’
‘We could have been famous.’
‘If you’d wanted fame and fortune you should have applied to go on Big Brother. I’ve told you before, we’re the gremlins in the machinery – nobody knows who or where we are – we simply cause mischief and then disappear.’
‘So, those know-it-alls at WikiUK get all the glory for our hard work.’
‘What hard work? Didn’t you say the files were a birthday present?’
‘That’s beside the point.’
‘Go and tell everyone to pack up – we can’t stay here.’
They were located in an abandoned farm that was wedged between Barnet and Potters Bar. It came with a variety of outbuildings and had the advantage of a slip-road onto the M25. It was completely out of the way, overgrown and nobody had bothered them for three months. In fact, they’d turned it into a home-from-home with a working still, pigs, chickens and a vegetable patch. It would be a shame to leave, but that’s the way the cookie crumbled. An alternative location had already been identified on the outskirts of Woodford Green in Essex – an old pumping station between the two reservoirs.
‘I really like it here as well.’
He brushed her face with his hand. They’d been together for as long as she’d been a member of the group. ‘Maybe we can come back sometime in the future.’ He held out his hand. ‘Give me your phone.’
She passed it to him.
He took out the SIM card and snapped it into four pieces.
Her eyes opened wide. ‘You owe me a SIM card.’
‘And you owe me your life. Hurry! If I’m right, we don’t have much time.’
He sent the link and password for the online vault to Cally Flinders at WikiUK and shut down his laptop. Cally would announce the upcoming leaks, and gradually, over the next month, release the documents.
A smile transformed his face. He and Annie would sit back and watch the government squirm, knowing that the gremlins had played their part in sticking it to the man – who just happened to be two men sharing power –
Cameron and Clegg.
***
Stick followed the signs and parked in a “Visitor” space outside the University of Essex Medical School. It was a circular concrete and glass five-storey building, which was attached to other buildings via an overhead walkway on the third floor. He and Koll strolled into the main atrium.
He’d expected to find a reception with a receptionist, someone to guide him in his search for answers, but there was no reception and no receptionist. In fact, the atrium was like the Marie Celeste – empty and eerily quiet, and could have sworn he heard the sounds of creaking floorboards and lapping waves.
‘Go and knock on a door,’ he said to Koll.
‘Which one?’
‘All of them.’
They found Mrs June Croft – an administrative assistant – hiding behind the fourth door they opened.
‘Hello,’ she said, tearing her eyes away from a computer screen. ‘How can I help?’
Stick imagined that DI Blake would have said something like: “Yes, you can stop playing online bingo and shopping on eBay when you’re meant to be working and tell us where the bodies are buried.” He smiled inside. The idea of Xena being awake and going to see her later made him happy.
He produced his warrant card. ‘We’d like to speak to the person in charge.’
‘In charge of what? There are a number of departments such as brain sciences; experimental medicine; immunology and inflammation; infectious diseases; diabetes, endocrinology & metabolism; paediatrics; pathology . . . do you want me to carry on?’
‘No, I don’t think that will be necessary. Let’s start again, shall we? Can we speak to Mr Mathew Pitt’s boss?’
‘Ah, Mr Pitt is the senior school administrator – he’s my boss, but he’s not in today.’
‘What about his boss?’
‘You want Professor Rachel Cornell. Would you like me to ring her secretary to see if the professor is available?’
‘That would be very helpful, thank you.’
She picked up the phone and pressed a button. ‘Hi Polly – it’s June. I’ve got two police officers down here and they’d like to talk to the professor . . . They said they’d arrest everybody and strip search them if . . . Thanks.’ She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Everything’s too difficult for Polly Hubery. She always needs a bit of encouragement. Although she’d probably enjoy a good strip search . . . Yes, that’s great. Thanks, Polly. I’ll send them up.’ She smiled. ‘Take the lift up to the fifth floor and turn left. Polly is the one with green hair and teeth.’
Stick smiled. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘You’re welcome.’
On the way up in the lift Koll said, ‘Do you really think this Polly Hubery has green hair and teeth?’
He shook his head. ‘I doubt it.’
She did have green hair, but her teeth were white. ‘What do you want to talk to the professor about?’
‘Mr Pitt.’
‘What about Mr Pitt?’
‘Hey!’ Koll said leaning towards the green-haired monster. ‘Are you the professor?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s who we’ve come to talk to, not the organ grinder’s green-haired monkey. So, stop acting like a self-important bitch and show us into the professor’s office.’
Polly stood up, knocked on the door and announced their arrival.
‘Sometimes, you’re too nice, Sarge,’ Koll whispered to him as they sidled through the open door.
He grinned. ‘DI Blake says that, as well.’
Professor Cornell moved from behind her large oak desk to greet them. ‘Hello. I believe you want to talk to me about Mr Pitt?’
‘Yes,’ Stick said. He flashed his warrant card again. ‘DS Gilbert and DC Koll from Hoddesdon Police Station.’
‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you like a tea or a coffee?’
‘No thank you.’
She directed them to sit down. ‘You’ve been told Mr Pitt isn’t in today, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s why we’re here. When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Friday afternoon. He’s been off sick since Monday.’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Pitt was found dead in Woodford Green early this morning.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes. He’d been murdered.’
The blood drained from the professor’s face. ‘Murdered? But . . .’
‘I’m sorry.’
Stick waited while she poured herself a glass of water and took a swallow. ‘Do you know who . . . ?’
‘No, that’s why we’re here.’
‘You think someone from the university murdered him?’
‘We don’t think anything yet. We’re simply following leads and trying to piece together his final movements. He left the university last Friday afternoon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know if anyone saw him over the weekend?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘And he rang in sick on Monday morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who did he speak to?’
‘No one. He rang out of hours before the phones had been switched over and left a message.’
‘Have you still . . . ?’
‘No. Recorded messages are deleted by Mrs Croft once they’ve been actioned.’
‘Did you listen to the message?’
‘No. Only Mrs Croft would have listened to it, and then she would have informed me that he was off sick.’
‘Have you tried to contact Mr Pitt since Monday?’
‘Why would I? He was ill.’
‘I can tell you that Mr Pitt has been murdered.’
‘Dear God! And you think someone in the medical school . . . Surely no one here would . . . All the faculty and students live by the Hippocratic Oath . . .’
‘As I said, we have no preconceived ideas. We’re merely accumulating information and trying to fit the pieces together.’
‘How was he murdered?’
‘All I can tell you is that he was the subject of certain medical procedures. We won’t know the precise details until after the post mortem tomorrow.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Do you know if he had any enemies at the university?’
‘He wasn’t a popular man, but I don’t think there was anyone here who would have murdered him in the way you’re suggesting.’
‘For the moment, I’m going to rule out non-medical staff. I think that what was done to him would have taken medical knowledge and probably medical equipment.’
‘I find it difficult to believe that a doctor – or a medical student for that matter – would do something like you describe to Mathew Pitt.’
‘What was his job?’
‘He was the senior school administrator.’
‘What did that entail?’
‘I can get Polly to print you off his job description.’
‘That would be good. Could you summarise?’
‘Budgets; faculty procedures; support staff; student registrations, progress and coursework submissions . . .’
‘So he came into contact with the students quiet a lot?’
‘Yes. He was also responsible for organising their practical assessments.’
‘But he didn’t assess the students?’
‘No, he wasn’t a doctor. He maintained the rota of faculty staff available to carry out assessments and allocated those staff accordingly.’
‘I see. When you say he wasn’t popular, did you mean with faculty staff or . . . ?’
‘Both. He was pedantic and fastidious, and wouldn’t accept any interference in the performance of his duties. If a student submitted a piece of work that he considered was of poor quality, he would refuse to accept it. He dealt with members of staff in much the same way. However, I stand by what I said earlier – No one would have had reason to kill him because of the way h
e was.’
‘We’d like a list of faculty members and students, please.’
‘Of course. What about part-time students? And distance-learning students? And . . . ?’
‘I think we’ll focus on the full-time students for now,’ Stick said. He turned to Koll. ‘Anything you’d like to ask?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sure there’s a million and one questions we haven’t asked, so I expect we’ll have to come back in the next couple of days to ask them – if that’s all right?’
Professor Cornell stood up. ‘Of course. Just come on up and knock on my door – I’ll drop whatever I’m doing. Oh, and don’t hesitate to trample over Polly to get to me – she can be a bit of a Rottweiler sometimes.’
‘A bit?’ Koll said.
The professor offered a weak smile as she escorted them to the door. Outside, she told Polly to provide the agreed lists and shook their hands.
‘Oh,’ Stick said. ‘I shouldn’t need to tell you that the manner of Mr Pitt’s death is confidential for now – we don’t want any copycats.’
‘Of course,’ the professor said.
Once Polly had produced the lists they made their way back downstairs.
In the atrium, Stick stuck his head round Mrs Croft’s door. ‘Mr Pitt rang in sick on Monday morning?’
‘That’s right – he said he’d come down with a cold.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual about his voice?’
‘Well, it didn’t sound like him, but I put it down to the cold.’
‘Thank you.’
‘He didn’t ring in, did he?’ Koll said.
‘No. I suspect he was already being held captive.’
***
Parish walked into dinner, followed by Richards who looked fabulous in a floor length turquoise maxi dress with a halter top and cut-out back . . . Or, at least she would have done if it hadn’t been for the scruffy-looking crutches with a piece of dirty felt stuck round the rubber grips, and the swollen ankle at the end of her left leg with a plaster of paris back slab, which was kept on by a grubby bandage.
‘I look a mess.’
‘You look stunningly beautiful.’
