“Because of the communication issues we’ve experienced, it would appear they were unaware of the Council or Camp Wight until now.”
“Why now, Colonel?”
“They were reluctant to commit ground forces until the outbreak had run its course.”
There was silence in the theatre as everyone digested the news. From Zed’s perspective, it felt like the UN had washed its hands of the UK, left them to their fate. That suggested the UN was stretched to the limit, operating well beyond standard mission parameters.
“How much longer do they intend to enforce this blockade?”
“They plan to review lockdown once tests are complete. Though we should be under few illusions of any short term reprieve. They expect our full cooperation. Resolution 392C gives them unlimited power to protect the European mainland.”
“Doesn’t sound like we have very much choice in the matter.”
“The Secretary General was uncompromising. The good news is that they brought with them over a million shots of anti-virals and half a million shots of vaccine. I’ve brought samples of both for us to test.”
“What proof do we have their vaccine works any better than ours?”
“None. In fact, they’re very keen to learn more about the research we’ve undertaken. They’re proposing an exchange between our respective teams.”
“How much did you tell them about our vaccine?”
“Nothing. I didn’t need to. They seem remarkably well informed,” warned the colonel.
“It confirms we have a leak here at St Mary’s,” suggested Mister Fox, the new Head of Security, casting his eyes around the room.
“And yet you’ve made no arrests,” challenged Captain Armstrong.
“I will be issuing warrants later today. We have identified several persons of interest to the investigation. We should know more by tomorrow.”
“Colonel, did the Secretary General explain why the UN chose Folkestone over Southampton?”
“Folkestone has better access to Calais, Le Havre, Antwerp, Rotterdam. And only a short hop to London.”
“How can we trust them after what happened to HMS Tracer?”
“Is that a serious question?”
“Absolutely, nothing they’ve done thus far builds trust,” complained the captain. “They intercepted a Royal Navy ship. In other circumstances, that could be considered an act of war.”
“Perhaps you can explain why Tracer broke quarantine in the first place?” demanded the colonel. “Despite, I might add, the Channel Islanders’ explicit warning that any attempt to enter the exclusion zone would be met with force.”
“Typical Frenchman,” sneered Major Donnelly.
“He’s Belgian, actually,” corrected David Woods. “Benoit LaSalle. I had dealings with him when he worked for the European Commission. He’s a career politician. Well regarded.”
“The last thing we need is some bureaucrat telling us what to do,” cautioned Captain Armstrong. “No offence, Minister.”
“None taken. We’re in absolutely no position to dictate terms.”
“Aren’t we? We are more than capable of defending our interests, if called to do so. Perhaps we should invite this LaSalle to appear before the Council. Hear what he has to say for himself.”
“He’s got a lot on his plate right now,” explained the colonel. “It would appear there’s a lack of trust on both sides.”
“Colonel, they attacked one of our ships. What do you expect?”
“They intercepted HMS Tracer, most likely quarantined her.”
“Speculation. We only have your word for that. Until we hear direct from the Commander, we must consider their whole organisation a threat.”
“Good God, man. You’re talking about the United Nations. Have you lost your mind?”
“No, Colonel, have you?” answered the minister. “You talk about the UN as some model of democracy. Well, they’re not. They never have been. For the last few years the UN has been entirely dysfunctional, factions within factions, a complex layering of national interests, never some united whole. I, for one, am not taken in by their talk of peace,” protested the former politician.
“We spoke at length. I didn’t get the impression there was any hidden agenda, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Their mission is humanitarian.”
“You don’t know him like I do. At the Commission, he was a hothead, an outspoken federalist, took a very hard line on trade talks, campaigned to impose import tariffs and sanctions, argued for the repatriation of benefit-seeking immigrants to their countries of origin.” Zed raised his eyebrows remembering the minister’s own outspoken views on immigration. “Look, all I’m saying is that, if that man is in charge, then this is not the United Nations as we know it. It’s more likely a vehicle for his own hard line agenda.”
“With all due respect, whatever LaSalle was like before joining the UN, I suggest we give him the benefit of the doubt, certainly do nothing to provoke him.”
“On the contrary, until we know more about his intentions, it would be a serious dereliction of duty for this Council to ignore a known threat to our operation.”
“Very well,” said Captain Armstrong, “I propose we listen to the minister’s advice, invite him to appear before this Council. If he refuses, then we should consider our response.”
“An ultimatum?”
“If that’s what you want to call it, then yes.”
“I will deliver the message myself. Perhaps he’ll listen to me.” The colonel slammed his folder shut in frustration, packed his bag and made for the exit. Zed followed him out.
“Colonel, please. I must speak with you.”
“There’s no time. I need to make preparations for my return.”
“Let me come with you. I have so much to tell you.”
“I need you here, with Hardy.”
Zed struggled to conceal his disappointment. The colonel seemed to relent with a heavy sigh.
“But I do have something for you,” he said, patting his briefcase, leading Zed back to his office, locking the door behind him. He fiddled with the combination lock and with a satisfying click, inside were two lever arch files, bursting with printed documents.
“Turns out our new friend LaSalle has his own investigation team. First folder is their preliminary report into the outbreak. The second relates to UNSCOM and Iraq’s biological weapons programme. There’s plenty more where this came from. Just tell me what else you need.”
Zed gawped at the two folders on the table. It was almost too much to take in. Original documentation from an independent source, without redaction or censorship by officials at Porton Down. He skimmed the pages, like a child with a new book on his birthday. Some documents were in French. Import orders, translations of official documents, analyst reports documenting the full extent of their various enquiries.
He glanced up at the colonel with disbelief. “This is almost too good to be true. There must be a catch.”
“No catch. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Believe me, I am. Does Major Donnelly know about these?”
“Not yet, but it won’t take him long to find out. Make sure you keep them in that safe I got for you. How’re you getting on with Daniels?”
“He’s waiting outside. Actually, I’ve stopped noticing him. He’s like my shadow. Everything Fox said he would be.”
“Good. Make sure he stays close. Guard these documents with your life.”
“I’ll get to work on them right away.”
“You should know,” said the colonel, choosing his words carefully, “LaSalle intends to send an inspection team to Porton.”
“The Major would never allow that.”
“By the time LaSalle gets here, Donnelly won’t have a choice.”
“What do they know that we don’t know?”
“I’m not sure, but he kept referring to the outbreak as the ‘English flu’. It doesn’t take a genius to see where this is all heading.”
Chapter 22
Zed’s first pass through the cache of UN documents took him most of the night. Those written in French were too technical for anything more than a cursory reading. As the dim light of dawn brightened his desk, he sat back and yawned, reviewing the two sides of scrawled notes.
Daniels stirred in the armchair opposite, like a dutiful hound ready to follow his master. It took several attempts to wake the colonel. The door opened a crack to reveal the former intelligence officer in his pyjamas. He didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to see them and showed Zed through to a tiny sitting room, shelves filled with hard-back books and the dying embers of a fire. He poured them both a glass of water from an antique jug before taking his seat with a weary smile.
“So, what was it couldn’t wait till morning?”
Zed handed the colonel a well-thumbed report in French, its cover stamped with the UN seal, waiting for him to read it.
“What am I looking at?” he began, struggling to grasp its significance. “My French is a little rusty.”
“It’s written testimony from one of the UN weapons inspectors. At first, I dismissed it as a translation of something else I’d seen previously,” said Zed, tapping the report, “but the more I looked, the more I saw inconsistencies.”
“Lost in translation?” The colonel shrugged, unimpressed. “It happens.”
“No, Colonel, I think there’s more to it than that. The author, Frederique Dumar, was a veteran of more than a dozen visits to Iraq. His account of what the inspectors found is materially different.”
“But we don’t know which is the more accurate.”
“Until I cross-referenced against the individual accounts from the Swedish and German members of the team. The British version is the odd man out.”
“But why?”
“To support the case for war, I presume. To prove that Iraq was non-compliant, that elements of their biological weapons programme survived the Allied bombing campaign or that the inspectors missed suspected production sites altogether.”
“Yes, I see. The issue you have is timing,” explained the colonel. “We have no way of knowing whether the documents are original or were replaced later on.”
“You know what Ephesus is like. He’s a stickler for the rules. We should be able to cross check the dates in the Porton log. All document requests are logged. Some of the more highly classified ones require the signature of the Minister of Defence himself.” Zed paused as if troubled by doubt. “How much do you trust this LaSalle?”
“He wants the truth as much as we do. I’ve no reason to doubt his motive.”
“What if he’s feeding us what we want to hear?”
“I’m not following.”
“Look, he must know access to Porton Down is strictly controlled. We’re his best route in, so he throws us a bone, keeps us on side.”
“He’s sharp. I certainly wouldn’t underestimate him. He would make a powerful ally.”
“I think I remember him. Wasn’t he married to that British actress?”
“Emilia Dale. Yes, he’s a rare breed, fluent in five languages, educated at the Sorbonne, then Harvard. Self-made man, hedge-fund manager turned politician. Secretary General of the United Nations aged forty-two.”
“Was the Minister right about the UN?”
“It’s a different animal now. An amalgamation of NGOs operating under a shared mandate. I got the distinct impression this is something of a personal crusade for LaSalle.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Zed.
“He lost his wife and daughters in the outbreak.”
Zed empathised with the sense of loss. It could become a powerful motivation if harnessed correctly in the search for closure.
“When I mentioned the focus of your investigation,” continued the colonel, “LaSalle became unusually animated. He volunteered two of his closest aides. Offered whatever support we needed, including access to their research.”
Zed’s eyes lit up at the prospect of an independent data source, unfiltered by the Ministry of Defence. It was more than he had hoped for. He rifled through his briefcase and produced another two documents that piqued his interest, headed ‘La Mort de David Kelly’ and ‘ADM - Arme de Destruction Massive’.
The colonel nodded and took a deep breath. He gestured for Zed to follow him to the cramped kitchenette where he filled a pan with water and lit the gas. The colonel grabbed a tin of instant coffee from the cupboard and some milk from the windowsill, making them both a hot drink, stirring in two sugars to his own cup.
“The whole point of UNSCOM and the Security Council,” began Zed, “was to create a body that superseded national interests. Remember, the case for sanctions against Iraq was not universally supported. Without hard evidence of non-compliance, France and Russia refused to support US-led action.”
“France still clung to the romantic notion that Saddam might unite Arab nations and broker peace in the Middle East,” acknowledged the colonel. “I was stationed in Moscow back then. The Russians couldn’t understand why we wanted to replace Saddam. They believed he had potential. Those of us who had been around the block a few times were aware that the British government had an agenda. The decision had already been taken by Bush and Blair to invade.” He blew the steam off his coffee. “You see, when intelligence aligns with foreign policy, politicians accept it willingly, but when it doesn’t, they often ignore it with devastating consequences. For someone like Saddam, or even Gaddafi, nuclear or biological weapons embodied power and prestige amongst their peers. It was a price worth paying, even if it meant forsaking tens of billions of oil exports per year, risking sanctions that would exact a terrible toll on the people. The Russians saw first-hand. Saddam had everything he needed flown into his palace. It changed nothing.”
“True, but, in the end, Saddam had no choice but to allow the destruction of his biological and chemical weapon stockpiles,” asserted Zed. “The bigger problem was that experienced inspectors, like Kelly, knew that Iraqi scientists had gained detailed knowledge and know-how that could never be unlearned. Saddam could restart the weapons programme at any time. Let’s cut to the chase, Colonel. We all know that the ‘September Dossier’ was deeply flawed. The intelligence briefing used to support the case for war exaggerated the risks. Russia and France saw through the charade and concluded Bush and Blair were intent on regime change. Disarmament at any cost. Political aims masquerading as security concerns. There was never any doubt Saddam possessed weapons of mass destruction. We knew he manufactured thousands of gallons of anthrax and botulinum. Enough agent to kill every single person on the planet.”
“Except those inspectors spent years in the country tracking down every lead, destroying everything they could find. The threat to Israel and other Middle East partners was mostly neutralised prior to the invasion. Saddam’s missile system was a joke. Crude at best. More danger to the launch team than its intended target.”
“Nevertheless, that threat was still taken very seriously by the Joint Intelligence Committee,” insisted the colonel. “It only took one warhead filled with anthrax spores to penetrate Israel’s Patriot missile defence system and make hundreds of square miles uninhabitable for decades.”
“Russian experts disputed those claims. The liquid form of anthrax Iraq developed was far less deadly than the airborne variant. Iraqi production methods were primitive. And, let’s not forget, Russia was well qualified to comment. They pioneered the airborne variant.”
“The bigger issue faced by the intelligence services was the dearth of first-hand sources,” explained the colonel. “Closed states and repressive regimes made the gathering of reliable intelligence much more difficult. That’s why an experienced investigator like Kelly was so critical. He could cut through the deception, counter their denials. That’s why he became a veteran of what, thirty plus inspections of Iraq’s facilities?”
“Probably more. What Kelly didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing. And the Iraqis trusted him
too. He was the one chosen to interview the likes of Rihab Taha and Kamal. He gave the Iraqi scientists personal assurances that, if they co-operated, war could be avoided.”
“He should never have made promises he couldn’t hope to keep. That’s why Saddam expelled our inspection teams. From that point on, our collective IQ dropped about twenty points. We were essentially blind.”
“Not entirely. We still had two assets within Saddam’s command structure,” admitted the colonel.
“Yes, but much of the so-called intelligence we gathered at that time was based on aerial photography or third-hand reports, intercepts and interviews with defectors and captured personnel. It was of questionable value.”
“Nevertheless, it helped that the UN and France trusted Kelly. When he spoke out about the claims made in the ‘September Dossier’, people listened. His death made former colleagues on the UNSCOM team very uneasy.” The colonel noticed Zed’s disquiet. “Look, I appreciate you still have a deep attachment to Kelly, but he wasn’t the only expert the government took advice from. There was a lot of conflicting opinions flying around. The most logical reason no weapons were found is that we destroyed them.”
“As the saying goes, ‘the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence’,” ventured Zed with undisguised sarcasm.
“Remember, the Eighties and Nineties were a time of great austerity for the intelligence services. The end of the Cold War meant successive budget cuts, redundancies, departments merged, threats downgraded. They disbanded my team in Moscow, reassigned most of us.”
“Most of the Iraq team taking decisions back then were generalists,” added Zed. “Few had any practical experience of chemical or biological weapons. Kelly was different. What he didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing.”
“My dear chap, we both know that the only sure way of gathering reliable inputs is over a period of many years. Intelligence is like a giant jigsaw puzzle, assembling fragmentary information from multiple sources. The resulting picture is often incomplete, pieces left over, but collectively everything helps build a sense of context, motivation and intent.”
The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger Page 15
