More Harm Than Good

by Andrew Grant

  “Suspect two down,” he said, a second later. “Compound clear.”

  Melissa and I hurried to the gate, and I saw a man lying in our path on the far side, twitching slightly, still attached by the neck to the agent’s gun with a pair of transparent wires. Melissa glanced at him, then hurried towards the van where the other pair of agents was waiting. They were standing over another man’s body. This guy was wearing similar overalls, but he was completely inert. It looked like they’d taken care of him the old-fashioned way.

  “Have you looked inside?” Melissa said.

  One of the agents nodded.

  “And?” she said.

  “They’re all there,” he said. “Four canisters, battened down, safe and sound.”

  Melissa let out a long, slow, sigh of relief, but I have a less trusting nature. I felt compelled to look for myself. The rear cargo doors were standing open, and the space inside was dominated by eight pairs of metal arms. They were bolted to the floor via heavy duty rubber shock-absorbers, twelve inches from the van’s reinforced sides, and each pair met in the centre, three feet above the armoured floor. The jaws at the top of the four outer sets were empty, but the others were clamped around shiny metal canisters. They looked identical to the ones I’d seen being wheeled through the hospital garden, except for the coloured discs that had been attached to the seam where the lids met the bodies. They were radiation indicators. And all four were green.

  “It looks good,” Melissa said, stepping across to join me. “We’ll get the new hazmat team to check them, though. To make sure they’re the real deal. In the meantime, we just have to flush the other two out of that building. Then we can see about scooping up their contacts, like you suggested.”

  Melissa asked me to keep an eye on the two prisoners. It didn’t seem like too hard a job. Neither had regained consciousness, and both had been dragged into the space between the wall and the van and were lying on their backs, secured at the wrists and ankles with flexicuffs. She checked that the four agents were still in place on the far side of the compound. Then she approached the building, a pair of agents fanned out on either side of her, and signaled for the helicopter to descend to a level where its rotor blades were clearly audible.

  “Armed police,” the pilot said, his voice amplified through the speakers on the outside of his aircraft. “The building is surrounded. Throw your weapons through the main door, and come out with your hands in the air. You have thirty seconds.”

  Melissa kept her Sig trained on the door. The other agents covered the windows on either side, methodically scanning the six windows on each of the three floors.

  No one showed themselves.

  “I repeat,” the pilot said. “Armed police. We have you surrounded. This is your last chance to surrender. Leave the building immediately. If we have to come in after you, we will shoot on sight.”

  Five more seconds crept past in silence, then I saw the agents stiffen. I heard footsteps. They were coming from the main doorway to the building. There were two sets. They hesitated, then stopped altogether. An object flew through the air and crashed on the ground. A handgun. It was followed by a second one. Then the footsteps started again, and two men shuffled reluctantly into the courtyard, one in front of the other.

  “Good,” Melissa said, taking a step towards them. “Now, get on the ground. Face down. Hands behind your heads. Do it now.”

  Neither man moved.

  “Face down, on the ground,” Melissa said, raising her Sig and lining it up on the closer man’s forehead. “You can do it while you’re still breathing. Or while you’re not. Either way works for me.”

  “Wait,” he said, taking a half step forward. “Please.”

  “Stop,” Melissa said. “Get on the ground.”

  “I will,” he said. “I will. We surrender. We’re unarmed. But please, listen to me first. There’s something you need to know. About what we took from the hospital. It’s urgent. I swear. We’re in danger. All of us.”

  “Why?”

  “Those big flasks?” he said, inching a little closer to Melissa. “They’re not stable. They’ve been sabotaged.”

  “How?” she said. “When? By whom?”

  “Before we left the room, in the hospital. The driver did it. He’s the technician.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Attached some device.”

  “What kind of device?”

  “It’s on a timer. The people who are supposed to meet us have a key to deactivate it. A radio thing. But if they don’t do it by...”

  The guy raised his left arm as if to check his watch, and when it was at chest height he sprang forward, reaching for Melissa’s throat. I expected her to shoot him on the spot but instead she swatted away his outstretched arms and drove the heel of her left hand into his jaw, knocking him flat on his back.

  “How about you?” she said to the second man. “Have you got any urgent information for me, too?”

  The guy shook his head and got down on his knees. He paused, then pivoted as if to lie down. But instead of hitting the ground, he used the momentum he’d created to close the gap with Melissa, regain his feet, coil one arm around her neck, wrap the other around her waist, and spin her round to shield him from the other agents’ Sigs.

  “Give me your gun,” the guy said to Melissa.

  She dropped the weapon and kicked it away.

  The guy tightened his grip around Melissa’s neck and reached into his overall pocket with his other hand. He withdrew it a moment later and stretched his arm straight out to the side. His fingers were clenched around a narrow, white tube and his thumb was pressed hard against the top end.

  “That was stupid,” he said. “You’ve forced me to do this. Now all our lives are on the line, not just yours. Tell your people to drop their pistols.”

  Melissa didn’t respond.

  I looked down at the two guys tied up next to the van. They were both still completely inert, so I tucked my Beretta into the back of my jeans, reached through the door, and picked up one of the handguns the agents had recovered when they’d entered the compound.

  “Your weapons, gentlemen,” the guy holding Melissa said. “On the ground. Quickly.”

  The agents who’d been on either side of Melissa remained still, but the two on the outside of the line started to move forward, looking for a clearer shot. It was an obvious ploy, though, and the guy responded by dragging Melissa backwards until his back was safely pressed against the wall of the building.

  “OK,” he said. “No more second chances. You see what I’m holding? It’s a remote trigger. You see my thumb is pressing the button? That means the system is armed. If I let go - boom. There’ll be clouds of caesium over half of South London. Is that what you want?”

  The agents stopped moving.

  “Good,” the guy said. “So, this is what I want. Put your guns on the ground, now. Then back off, and do not interfere while this nice lady and I get into the van and drive away. And when we’re gone, do not call anyone for thirty minutes. Remember the button. If I see anyone following, I’ll let go.”

  The agents stayed where they were and showed no sign of lowering their weapons, so I stepped out from the shadow of the van. I was holding the borrowed Colt out to my side at shoulder height, with its grip between my finger and thumb.

  “It’s OK, lads,” I said, throwing the gun down in front of me. “Do as he says.”

  It took a few seconds, but eventually the agents’ Sigs rattled to the ground.

  “Everyone, stay calm,” I said, then turned to the guy holding Melissa. “We’ve done what you asked. No one’s armed, and no one’s going to do anything stupid. You’re free to take the van. But how about this? Take me with you, instead of her?”

  “No chance,” the guy said. “I’m taking her.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “There’s no problem. You can take her. We’re not going to call anyone, when you do. And no one’s going to follow you, so there’s no n
eed for anyone to get hurt. OK?”

  “OK.”

  “Good. Now look, we’re giving you what you want. Everything you asked for. But I just have one thing to ask in return. Later, when you’re in the wind and we recover the vehicle, our people will have to make it safe. So can you tell me, are all the canisters booby-trapped? Or just some of them?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “We could always leave it an hour before we call this in,” I said. “Give you twice as long to get away. It would be worth it to know what we’re dealing with when we get our hands back on that van. And no one would ever know you’d told us anything.”

  “Two,” the guy said, after a moment. “Two canisters are wired.”

  “Definitely two?” I said.

  “Definitely.”

  “Which two?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So how do you know there are two?”

  “I saw the driver rigging the devices at the hospital. But I didn’t load them into the van. I don’t know which order they loaded them in.”

  “You saw him open them?”

  “No. The devices are attached to the outside. Just tell your people to look for the wires.”

  I took a moment to reconstruct the interior of the van in my memory. The exact appearance of the canisters. And to push the thought of their contents out of my mind.

  “OK, thanks,” I said, when I was ready. Then I reached behind me, took hold of my Beretta, and shot a glance at Melissa.

  It’s OK. He’s bluffing.

  “Agent Wainwright,” I said. “Would you like me to shoot him?”

  Understood, her expression replied.

  “No need,” she said, smashing her the back of her head into the guy’s face, then stamping down on his right knee and driving her elbow in his abdomen. “I think he’s changed his mind about that drive.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hurry up and wait. That’s how my father used to sum up the routine of life in the army. An unbroken cycle of frenzied action followed by long periods of doing nothing. He warned me to expect the same when I joined the Navy, but my experience has been pleasantly different. For one thing, I’ve had very little time on my hands over the years. And for another, the Navy really does try to keep what we call the ‘dead time’ - the meetings and the paperwork that follow every assignment - to an absolute minimum. But as I sat with Melissa in an office at Thames House the next morning, I began to suspect that things weren’t quite the same at MI5.

  The chair I picked was still warm when I sat in it, but the man at the end of the table - the Deputy Director General, the officer in charge of the day-to-day running of the whole organisation - showed no sign of having noticed the person occupying it had changed. He was too busy cleaning his half moon reading glasses, carefully spraying them with clear liquid from a tiny silver aerosol and buffing them with a square of bottle-green silk.

  Melissa took the seat next to me and we waited in silence until two more men came into the room. The first was the agent who’d fired the tazer through the gate at the compound in Croydon, and Melissa whispered to me that the other was her boss. They took seats with a space in between them on the opposite side of the rectangular table, but before they’d settled themselves the door opened again and Tim Jones appeared. Melissa beckoned him in, and he hurried to sit down at her side.

  The Deputy DG moved his head for the first time as soon the door had swung closed. He held his spectacles up to the light, nodded, then used them to gesture towards Melissa’s boss.

  “Introductions,” he said. “Chaston, get the ball rolling, will you?”

  “Colin Chaston,” Melissa’s boss said. “Central Counter Terrorism Unit.”

  “Phil Green,” the agent said. “Field Operations.”

  “I’m Arthur Hardwicke,” the Deputy DG said. “I’m taking a personal interest in this mess. Our friend on the other side of the table is Commander Trevellyan, who’s joining us temporarily from Navy Intelligence. And everyone knows agents Wainwright and Jones, yes?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Good,” Hardwicke said. “Now, we had a very close shave last night. A very uncomfortably close shave. Chaston – how do we smell this morning? Of roses? Or of the stuff they grow in?”

  “I’m quietly optimistic, actually,” Chaston said. “We already knew we’d recovered the right number of containers, yesterday. Well, the lab boys have been burning the midnight oil, and they’ve now confirmed the correct amount of caesium was inside them. None had been syphoned off, diluted, stolen, or in any other way tampered with. So, any immediate threat has been avoided.”

  “That’s good. But what worries me most about this whole bag of spanners is that we didn’t see it coming. It landed on us completely out of the blue. So, what else do we know? Who’s behind it? What were they planning?”

  “Well, we’re progressing on three fronts. The hospital crime scene. The vehicle. And the criminals we apprehended with it.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Well then, the simple answer is we’re in the dark.”

  “Start with what’s happening at the hospital. Wainwright, that’s your bailiwick, yes?”

  “Yes sir,” Melissa said. “Jones and I became involved when axe marks were discovered on the door to the caesium vault. These did not represent a credible attempt to gain access, so we’re working on the theory that persons unknown were attempting to cause the caesium to be removed, thus rendering it more vulnerable.”

  “This was not successful?” Hardwicke said.

  “No sir. The damage was only cosmetic, so there was no need to move the caesium at that time.”

  “Who wielded the axe?”

  “A fireman. Or someone dressed as one. We haven’t yet been able to establish his identity. Or, if he’s a real fireman, whether he was bribed or coerced.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m sorry to report this sir, but the Met allowed the only witness to escape.”

  Hardwicke picked his glasses back up from the table and carefully sprayed more fluid onto each lens.

  “I assume you’re doing something about getting him back?” he said, catching an excess drop of liquid with the cloth before it could hit the table.

  “Yes sir,” Jones said. “I’m taking personal responsibility for that. I’ll ensure he’s found.”

  “Very good,” Hardwicke said. “And what about last night’s episode? A second try?”

  “We believe so,” Melissa said. “It seems that someone learned their lessons and tried a more refined approach. The fire brigade believes the fire was started deliberately with some wads of insulation from a disused generator. The stuff was soaked with oil, so it gave off copious clouds of very dense smoke. And it was arranged around some pieces of an old x-ray machine, to give off enough of a radiation signature to prompt us to call the emergency hazmat team.”

  “Ingenious.”

  “Very. It was improvised, and highly successful. And because all the components were sourced from the hospital itself, it gives us very little to trace.”

  “I see. And what about the van?”

  “Nothing constructive, I’m afraid sir,” Green said. “The van, the tools, the hazmat suits, all completely clean. There were no prints, other than from the four individuals we apprehended at the scene, and nothing with any DNA.”

  “Was it rigged in any way?”

  “No sir. We don’t think it was intended as a come-on. Based on how the thieves reacted when we arrived, we think they were just waiting to hand it off to someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “We don’t know. We kept the location under observation for another four hours, but no one showed their face.”

  “What are the thieves saying?”

  “Nothing. But they may well not know anything. Whoever planned this is clearly too sophisticated to allow any of the pawns to know anything about their set up.”

  “You’re probably right. But I want
them sweated, anyway. Any other observations?”

  “Yes sir,” Melissa said. “We’re talking about the thieves and the people they were apparently handing the caesium over to as if they’re separate groups. And yet we haven’t heard a whisper of either one. Doesn’t that strike anyone as strange?”

  For a moment there was silence.

  “Continue,” Hardwicke said, when no one else responded.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” Melissa said. “What if we’re actually dealing with a single organisation? With one team to steal the caesium, one to turn it into whatever kind of weapon they’re planning on using, and maybe another to take it to their target. Feasible?”

  No one spoke, but Green and Jones nodded their heads.

  “Now, let’s stack up what we know about this organisation, so far,” Melissa said. “They’re determined. They misfired with their first attempt on the vault, but that didn’t put them off. They adapted and tried again. And they’re resourceful. Look at how they used the junk they found in the hospital basement. It certainly fooled us. We played right into their hands, by sending the emergency crew. So alongside what we’re already doing, I think we should prioritise the key piece of the puzzle we’re missing.”

  “That piece being?”

  “What they’re targeting. And I think we should bring in additional resources specifically to help in this area.”

  “I’m not sure,” Chaston said. “We can’t afford to dilute the operation, or lose focus or control. The consequences would be too dire. We have a plan, and we should follow it through with maximum expedience.”

  “I think we should do both things,” Melissa said. “And here’s why. We can see how this group responds to setbacks. So, the failure to secure the caesium may well not stop them. They’ve probably got a plan B, ready to roll. They could just press ahead, only with a different weapon. And they could easily shut down this whole arm of their operation, leaving us high and dry if it’s the only thing we’re looking at.”

  “There’s the timescale to think about, too,” Jones said. “The second attempt on the caesium was so hard on the heels of the first, it suggests they need it urgently. Which means we may not have long to unravel this thing. They could be preparing to strike at any moment.”