The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger

by Crumby, Robin

  “I see. And you think there’s more to this than meets the eye?” The colonel unfolded the hand-written sheets and skimmed their contents. “Hmm. I have some clever software we can run this through, see if it tells us anything about her state of mind when she wrote this.”

  Zed explained how Gill referred to Salisbury pubs and restaurants they once visited. Somehow Il Forno restaurant had mysteriously moved half way across town. Street names and locations subtly altered. It was only on the third reading that Zed realised something was awry.

  “At first I wondered whether the accident might be affecting her memory.”

  “Can I hold on to this?” said the colonel, stroking his chin thoughtfully, intrigued by the contents of the letter. “There are a few things we could try but, right now, I can’t be late for this Council meeting,” he said, checking the time. “Come to think of it, there’s an old GCHQ colleague joining us today, Mister Fox. He’d know what to do with this. You two will get on like a house on fire.”

  “Actually, I think it’s best we keep the letter to ourselves until we know more.”

  “As you wish.”

  Zed nodded, wondering what spycraft the colonel had up his sleeve from his GCHQ days. Zed had always been a fan of spy novels growing up, an amateur historian; Bletchley Park, Alan Turing, the enigma machine, cyphers and dead drops.

  By the time they arrived in the Hospital Boardroom, coffees in hand, there were only a few seats remaining at the mahogany conference table. Zed assumed it was replica. It seemed unlikely that NHS furniture budgets would stretch to such corporate opulence, unless soldiers had liberated the centrepiece from nearby office buildings. Zed unpacked his canvas satchel with the various official reports he’d read the previous evening, pencil marks in the margins.

  He glanced around the table at the so-called ‘Council of Twelve’ that held decision-making power for the Allied relief effort. Led by Captain Armstrong, the Council was made up of military officers, scientists and politicians who met bi-weekly. The colonel insisted on Zed’s participation as a permanent guest, an observer warned to be on his best behaviour. Outbursts were no longer tolerated. There were several new faces Zed didn’t recognise. He wondered which one was the colonel’s former GCHQ colleague.

  Captain Armstrong took his seat at the head of the table, immaculately turned out in starched whites, black tie and epaulettes. He conferred with a junior officer who went everywhere he did. She was striking, her hair-tied back in a pony tail. Their body language suggested a more intimate relationship. Armstrong called the meeting to order, inviting each member of the Council to provide quick updates on their areas of responsibility: construction projects, food production, births, and deaths. Over the last few weeks, St Mary’s had begun to resemble a citadel overseeing an expanding base of operations that now included specific zones for farming, power generation and numerous labour camps spread across the island. Emergency powers remained in force to deal with the latest outbreak and the attempts to contain it via rolling lockdowns, restrictions on movement and isolation of affected areas.

  “Most units are reporting reduced rebel activity across the region,” boasted the captain, seemingly oblivious to the resulting death toll.

  “What about Briggs?” asked David Woods, the former member of parliament for Southampton and Itchen. “If he’s quiet, it means he’s up to something.”

  “Not necessarily. We should avoid doing anything to provoke him. Leave him be,” suggested the Captain.

  “We should have taken him out when we had the chance,” criticised the minister, heaping blame on the failed American-led attempt to eliminate several rebel leaders.

  “Briggs is too well protected,” cautioned the colonel.

  “No, someone tipped him off,” reasoned Lieutenant Peterson, “it’s the only explanation.”

  “At the very least, losing his associate, Damian King, weakened the rebel power structure,” added Armstrong, attempting to smooth ruffled feathers.

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” dismissed the colonel. “It likely strengthened Briggs’s grip on power.”

  “Have we had any further communication with the Channel Islands group?” asked the minister.

  “Intermittent contact, yes. We’re still having issues with the transmitter. We’ve been unable to locate the replacement parts, but we were able to intercept several transmissions from a ship when it passed within range.” The colonel sat forward in his chair. “From L’Aquitaine, a United Nations-flagged vessel, operating somewhere north of the Cherbourg peninsula. We believe she was patrolling the exclusion zone around the UK. I have a partial transcript available. Turns out one of the signals team is bi-lingual.”

  “Did we get a response?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then, in the circumstances, might I suggest we send one of our patrols?”

  “And break quarantine?” cautioned Doctor Hardy.

  “The Doctor’s right. It would be hugely irresponsible.”

  “We have a duty to save lives. What if the UN has an effective vaccine?”

  “Look, we’ve been over this a dozen times. The UK quarantine is in place for good reasons. If circumstances were reversed, we would do the same.”

  “The United Nations have a duty to help. They wouldn’t just leave us here to die.”

  “Until there’s confirmation that a UN relief operation really does exist, we should keep a lid on this. We don’t want to create false hope. We could easily start a panic. There’s no knowing what’s happening on the continent. They’re likely in just as much of a mess as we are.”

  “But the sooner we find out the better. Especially if earlier intervention could save lives. We should not delay. Why not despatch one of our patrols to make contact? All those in favour?” Captain Armstrong invited a show of hands. Only Doctor Hardy voted against.

  “Very well. Motion carried. Colonel,” said Armstrong, turning to his superior officer, “perhaps you should introduce our guest?”

  The colonel cleared his throat and sat straighter in his chair.

  “Of course. I’ve asked Mister Fox to review security at St Mary’s in the wake of recent attacks inside the compound. He’s done an excellent job as Porton Down’s Head of Security. The Major has kindly agreed for him to be stationed here for the next few weeks.”

  Zed had been watching the stranger from across the table as he took notes in a small black note book. A diminutive character with coffee coloured pockmarked skin and a closely cropped goatee. An intense expression with intelligent eyes that missed nothing. He nodded at those around the table.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” said Fox, glancing down at his notes. “We experienced similar attacks at Porton: power outages; break-ins; ambushes; rebel attempts to disrupt our operations. Too many coincidences to ignore. Growing co-ordination between once disparate groups. Advance knowledge of troop movements, convoy timetables, kidnap and ransom of key personnel. It would appear we have a leak. If not several.”

  It was impossible to deny Briggs led a charmed life, thought Zed. He was always one step ahead.

  “With your permission, Captain, I’ve drawn up a schedule of interviews. I’d like to start by talking to the base commander and key personnel.” Fox handed Armstrong a handwritten list.

  As the meeting broke up, the colonel led Zed over to meet Fox, stood by the window, conversing privately with the captain. He waited for them to finish before introducing Zed.

  “Zed is the one I was telling you about. Project Wildfire?” the colonel whispered conspiratorially.

  “Yes, of course. I’ve been rereading your reports. Very inventive,” volunteered Fox, shaking Zed’s outstretched hand, his palm damp with perspiration. The Head of Security forced a smile, revealing neat white teeth, studying Zed carefully. He was altogether strangely incongruous, certainly not military, nothing like Zed expected. More computer geek than soldier.

  “I’m surprised Major Donnelly is letting you out of his sight. He always se
ems so protective of Porton personnel.”

  “That’s right, you’re a friend of Gill’s,” said Fox, as if making the connection. “I don’t know. Donnelly is normally pleased to see the back of me. Scientists are never keen on outsiders, certainly not those poking their noses into private business. Law unto themselves.”

  English did not appear to be Fox’s first language, though Zed struggled to place the accent. Egyptian, perhaps. Fox was likely not his real name.

  “Fox was one of the very first cyber security contractors we brought in at GCHQ,” explained the colonel. “It was me that recommended you for the Porton job. Which reminds me, you never got that rug you promised me.”

  “It’s in storage, my friend.”

  “Zed, you can trust this man with your life,” said the colonel, resting his hand on Fox’s shoulder. “Think of him as an amateur archaeologist with a rare talent for unearthing information assumed lost or destroyed.”

  “The colonel is making fun of me. He talks of digging, skeletons and treasure because my mother was from Cairo. One day, when this is all over, I will take you to Giza. I had an uncle there who made the most beautiful carpets you have ever seen. Literally in the shadow of the great Pyramids.”

  “You grew up in Cairo?” asked Zed.

  “Actually, no. I was born in Coventry, but my mother was from Egypt. My father fell madly in love when he was stationed there after the war with the Foreign Office.”

  Zed noticed a gold-coloured plastic band dangling from his wrist. It was the same kind that Gill wore.

  “Your wrist band…”

  “Damn. Sorry, I’ve got yours in my desk drawer,” answered the colonel. “They’re the Major’s idea. Colour denotes rank and privilege. Platinum is the highest, then Gold, Silver, Bronze, Grey etc. From next week, they’ll be mandatory. No wrist band, no access.”

  “Great. I’ll look forward to that. I assume mine’s Platinum?”

  The three of them laughed.

  “It was nice to meet you, Mister Samuels.”

  “Please, call me Zed.”

  “I’m sure we’ll have plenty to discuss once I’ve got my feet under the table.”

  Zed smiled, not sure what to make of the Head of Security. Most of the major’s staff were strait-laced, buttoned-down types. Mr Fox struck him as an unconventional free-thinker. There were already a hundred questions he wanted to ask him. He wondered why their paths had never crossed before, but then the colonel excelled at compartmentalising information, carefully controlling access. With any luck, Fox might just be the one person who could unlock Porton’s secrets and tell him what was really going on.

  Chapter 9

  The following evening, a staff officer summoned Zed to the colonel’s office to collect the folders he had requested from the Porton archive. Zed half-expected to find Mister Fox deep in debate about the investigation into the suspected security leak, but found the colonel alone, hunched over a computer monitor.

  “It would seem we both underestimated Miss Stephens.” Zed stared at the on-screen jumble of words and letters. “This is the handwriting software I told you about, called Chirographum, or Chiro, for short.”

  “What does it say?”

  “I assume she realised the Porton censor would review the contents of the letter. They may even have used the same software. Nothing was redacted so Major Donnelly’s team satisfied themselves that the contents were personal.”

  “I didn’t get the impression Gill wrote this under any duress.”

  “No, but the software found inconsistencies with the first letter you showed me. That suggests a change in her mental state, perhaps a more optimistic outlook linked to her recovery. How much do you know about ciphers?”

  “Only what I’ve read in James Bond and George Smiley novels.”

  “Hmm...Things have moved on a bit since the Cold War,” he joked.

  “You told me most spycraft dates from the war.”

  “Remember I told you about my stint at the British Embassy in Moscow. I was the liaison officer for a disaffected major within the Kremlin. We developed a code strategy, based on a unique cipher, pre-agreed between us.”

  “How does it normally work?”

  “Typically, we use a five to seven word phrase using all the letters of the alphabet. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog, for example.”

  “If it’s unique to the two of you, what if something happens to the handler?”

  “Oh, there’s a default protocol in case of emergencies.”

  “Then you’re saying Gill’s letter might be using a cypher?”

  “That was my initial theory. Here,” he said, handing Zed the printout, columns of words and letters, with various letter substitutions and displacements. It was like a giant crossword puzzle with all the clues removed. “I ran the text through a different software package Mister Fox actually helped develop that looks for any patterns or hidden anomalies.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start with this.”

  “Well, the cypher would have to be something only you two know. If I was you, I would start with places you went, things you did together. Mutual friends, parties, movies or music you liked.”

  “But that’s the thing. We weren’t that close. She was the flatmate of a girlfriend.”

  “Well, judging by the contents of the letter, she remembers you better than you think. Sleep on it. The subconscious mind can work wonders if you give it a chance,” continued the colonel. “It’ll come to you, I promise.”

  Zed tucked the letters and the heavy folders into his satchel for the short walk back to the other side of the St. Mary’s compound. It was already dark outside. After a warmer spell that suggested Spring had arrived, the temperature had plummeted once more. He pulled the duffle coat tighter around his frame, blowing hot air from his mouth.

  The distant sounds and smells from the dining hall made his stomach grumble like some Pavlovian dog. He would grab a sandwich later. First, he had four hours of interviews with Doctor Simms and the other members of Hardy’s team to transcribe before the late kitchen closed.

  He took a shortcut, snaking between the hospital buildings separating the staff quarters from the newly constructed science block housing all the level two and level three biocontainment units and laboratories where scientists worked with the live virus. There was almost no-one around at this hour. Those not still working their shift would be grabbing dinner in the canteen.

  He nodded at a gaggle of nurses smoking behind the waste disposal unit. One of them laughed as he turned into a poorly lit alleyway, another rat-run that weaved behind disused storage units.

  A sixth sense made Zed step away from a shadow in the doorway. The next few seconds happened almost in slow motion. He swayed left as a heavy tubular object swung towards his face. The short scaffolding pole missed his nose by no more than an inch as a heavy-set figure emerged from the shadows.

  Zed froze, glancing over his shoulder towards the street lights and safety. Another hooded figure stepped into the alleyway, blocking his exit. The glint of a knife in his right hand.

  Holding his satchel out in front of him as a defensive shield, Zed’s instinct was to run, to shout for help, but something made him hold his ground, refusing to be intimidated by opportunists, desperately trying to remember his MoD self-defence classes, hoping instinct would kick in. There had been a spate of recent assaults, stabbings and robberies, here within the compound. With a prosthetic arm, the odds were not exactly stacked in his favour. He took a deep breath and determined to talk his way out.

  He undid his watch strap, playing for time, wishing he had an umbrella, a rolled-up newspaper, anything he could use as a weapon. “Here, take it. It’s a diver’s watch.”

  “Throw me the bag,” demanded the silhouetted man with the scaffolding pole. From his size and build, he had to be military.

  Zed opened his briefcase and showed them what was inside, keeping his hands visible. “Paperwork. Reports. Maybe a stapl
er and some pens,” he added as an afterthought, instantly regretting making light of the situation. Something about the men’s movements suggested this was no random attack. A third man kept lookout at the far end of the alley.

  A gloved hand reached for the satchel. Zed hesitated, considering its classified contents. There was no way he was handing them over without a fight. His instinct kicked in. Training from twenty years ago.

  He hurled the bag onto the low roof of the storage unit, dropped his shoulder and launched himself at the man with the scaffolding pole, catching him off balance, barging him into the brick wall. The man recovered quickly, grabbing hold of Zed’s coat and spinning him round. Their positions were now reversed. The pole swung through a narrow arc, cramped for space. Zed was slow to react, raising his arm to block the blow. He heard the ceramic of the prosthetic limb crack on impact.

  Footsteps behind. Zed angled his body, back against the facade so he could keep an eye on the accomplice. Both men attacked at once. A jab with the scaffolding pole caught him hard in the ribs. A punch to his temple. Zed went down, winded. The splash of a puddle in his face, wet tarmac, gulping air. A succession of kicks and blows to his shoulders and head, curled into a foetal ball. The men took it in turn to inflict pain.

  A shout from the look-out made both men pause in their endeavours. Zed needed no second invitation, kicking out hard, catching a knee as it bent sideways. The man collapsed against the brick wall, groaning as he smashed his head.

  Zed flinched as two shots echoed around the confined space. The streetlight reflected off a pistol, held aloft in a shaking hand. A dark figure silhouetted, face in shadow. The assailant’s scaffolding pole fell clanging against the tarmac as the three men bolted into the darkness. Zed rolled onto his back, fighting to control his breathing, adrenaline subsiding, every part of his body ached like crazy. A hand helped him back to his feet.