The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger

by Crumby, Robin

  “Why do you think I’ve been helping you all this time?” answered Peterson, refusing to take the bait, perhaps seeing Zed’s ruse for what it was. “Listen, we all have our orders. You’ll understand if I can’t discuss mine.”

  “A word to the wise. All this secrecy? People are talking. About what really happened onboard the Chester.”

  “I try not to pay attention,” said Peterson, crossing his arms.

  “They call you Fletch.”

  “Because I look like Chevy Chase?” asked Peterson with a boyish grin.

  “No. You know, after Fletcher Christian?”

  It took a moment until the penny finally dropped. “Right, Mutiny on the Bounty, Captain Bligh. So, what, they think me and my fellow officers murdered the Captain, XO and half the rest of the crew?”

  Peterson’s eyes narrowed as if the accusation went to the very core of who he was as an officer. Zed realised he might have taken things too far. “This is a US warship, not some mutinous brig. You really think the people I served with, fought alongside…” His voice trailed off. He could not bring himself to say the words. “I would have done anything for those guys.” Peterson’s face flushed crimson as if Zed’s question had touched a nerve.

  “I apologise.” started Zed, attempting to backtrack, “I thought you should know what they’re saying.”

  “I lost forty-three crew during those first two weeks in Karachi. You think I wanted any of this?” he gestured towards his epaulettes. Zed had never seen Peterson so angry before. His rage threatened to boil over into physical aggression. The lieutenant took a deep breath, attempting to master his emotions. “I would trade my life with any of those guys, in the blink of an eye.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time we all put our cards on the table?” Peterson let out a sigh, reappraising the man opposite him. There was no question Zed had sacrificed as much as anyone. “Like who was really behind today’s attack? That wasn’t just some disgruntled fishermen, was it?”

  Peterson’s eyes narrowed. “One of our patrols intercepted a boat making for Portsmouth last night. They surrendered without a fight. Their equipment was NATO-issue. One was South African. The others spoke heavily-accented English. Could have been French. So far, they’ve refused to answer questions.”

  “You think they were sent here by LaSalle?”

  “Who? The pompous little French guy with the Napoleon complex?”

  “He’s Belgian actually.”

  “They’re in the brig. Seemed very well informed about what’s going on at Camp Wight. Fox is convinced there’s a leak.”

  “Could they be the same men behind the attacks on the Rowridge Transmitter? It’s possible the UN have been monitoring our communications all along.”

  Peterson didn’t react in any way, other than a simple nod. “What we need is someone on the inside who can tell us what’s really going on at Porton Down. What about your pen pal, Gill Stephens?”

  How much had the colonel told the American? He recovered his composure. “No chance. After everything that’s happened? Donnelly’s got that placed locked down tight.”

  “What if I could get you up there?”

  “How? All flight plans get filed centrally at St Mary’s. If I went anywhere near that place Donnelly would know soon enough.

  “There might be another way.”

  Chapter 25

  Zed and Daniels sat in silence in the Chester’s canteen, devouring a rich Irish stew with mashed potatoes. A sixth sense made Zed look up and there in the doorway was the unmistakable silhouette of Sergeant Jones, broad shoulders, square angular jaw, like some cartoon GI. The two men embraced in the corridor. Jones pointed to Daniels, watching them both with interest.

  “Who’s the stiff?” whispered Jones with a wink.

  “Where I go, he goes. Come on, I’ll introduce you. The name’s Daniels.”

  “Someone must think you’re important to need a bodyguard,” he acknowledged with begrudging respect, inspecting the faded bruise on his forehead. “That big mouth of yours getting you in trouble again?”

  “People don’t like me picking through their rubbish.”

  “You should talk to my ex-wife.” They both laughed.

  “So I hear you need our special taxi service again?”

  “Did Peterson explain why?”

  “He didn’t need to. It’s my job.”

  “You know me, Pete. I wouldn’t normally ask.”

  “Look, any friend of Riley’s.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you up there. No questions asked.”

  Jones looked Zed up and down. He was still wearing deck shoes, a check shirt and chinos. “I’ll find you some both some tac gear. You can’t go dressed like that.”

  Zed and Daniels admired their reflection in the darkened window, waiting to board the rigid inflatable. US Navy issue tactical vests, webbing and surprisingly comfortable Durashock boots. He clambered in to the stern and stowed his holdall behind the seat. Two enormous outboard engines idled behind his head, spitting water through a cooling outlet every few seconds. Zed nodded at their escort, McIntyre and Pudifant, two of Jones’s men in matching black gear, backpacks, helmets and night vision goggles, semi-automatic weapons slung in front on a clip.

  “Don’t I get a weapon?” Zed asked Jones with a playful grin.

  “Not after last time. You worry about keeping that paperwork dry.”

  Zed nodded and stared back out to sea, scanning the distant shoreline, scattered with dim lights. The helmsman would steer them north west, past Fawley refinery and the dockyards of Southampton, to Eling, where the military had a small fortified compound near the Anchor Inn. Secured in a lock up, armoured vehicles would take them onwards to the military base at Porton Down. Zed got the distinct impression the soldiers considered tonight’s crossing routine, but they maintained their normal levels of professionalism, alert to any threat. As soon as they left the wind shadow of the Chester the breeze picked up. Daniels gripped the handhold nearest him, knuckles white, his face ashen.

  Nearly an hour later, they moored up next to a wooden pontoon surrounded by day boats and dinghies outlined in the darkness. Zed followed the soldiers as they jogged towards the lock up, staying close to a low wall, hidden in shadow behind brick buildings. Jones’s hand shot up and Zed sank to his knees, copying the soldiers.

  McIntyre wrestled with the padlock and chains, heaving the garage doors open to reveal three large SUVs inside. Jones directed them towards a black G-class Mercedes with window grills and a bull bar mounted on the front grill. Pudifant set to work releasing the yellow wheel clamp while McIntyre stuck his head under the bonnet, reconnecting the battery before starting the engine. It caught immediately, suggesting it was used regularly. Zed climbed into the back, a soldier and Daniels on each side, the barrel of the soldier’s weapon nudging against Zed’s foot. Jones took the driver’s seat, taking a moment to familiarise himself with the controls, shaking his head at the gear stick on the wrong side.

  “Couldn’t you find an automatic, McIntyre?”

  “Not to your specifications, sir. Not at short notice, anyway.”

  “Very well.” Jones sighed, crunching into reverse gear as the last man secured the gates behind them.

  The G-class Mercedes maintained a steady fifty miles-an-hour along the A36, the main road leading north west from Southampton to Salisbury. Army engineers had cleared extensive sections, rusting hulks nudged onto grass verges. The dark outline of the cathedral rose in the distance, its four-hundred foot spire visible for miles around. Zed lost sight as they turned off towards Porton Down.

  The night’s sky yielded a faint glow. At first Zed thought it was cast by the moon but soon realised it must be light pollution from the military base. Beyond the compound of St Mary’s, floodlights were such a rare sight. The scene struck him as eerily beautiful.

  “Take it easy,” warned Jones. “They won’t be expecting us. Make sure they know we’re friendly.”

 
; Two guards waved the Mercedes to a halt. Another took up a firing position covering their approach. The first signalled for Jones to wind down his window. He did as he was told, returning his hands to the wheel, clutching his military identity card.

  “Good evening, Sergeant,” said the guard, shining his torch into Jones’s squinting face before moving onto the other men in the back. “What can I do for you gentlemen tonight?”

  Jones fished his orders out of a top pocket with two fingers. The guard scanned the document, satisfied by its authenticity.

  “You can park over there, by the main building. I’ll have someone meet you.”

  “Thank you, Corporal.”

  “Sir.” He nodded at the soldier to open the security gate, saluting as they passed.

  “What did you show him?” asked Zed as Jones closed his window.

  “There’s a guy I know. He’ll forge anything for a pack of cigarettes.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No, the Lieutenant fixed it for me,” Jones mocked. “The next bit is up to you.”

  “Don’t worry. I know just what to say.”

  The major’s deputy was waiting by the front entrance.

  “Mister Samuels, how nice to have you back,” said the officer, recognising Zed from previous visits. “Jim MacDonald, base commander,” he said, introducing himself to the Americans with an unmistakable coolness and formality. “The Major must have forgotten to tell me you were coming.”

  “It was all very last minute,” said Zed, rolling his eyes for effect. “If you can let Miss Stephens and Ephesus know we’ve arrived.”

  “They’re expecting you?” asked MacDonald, checking his wrist watch. “No one tells me anything.” He forced a laugh.

  “Actually, no, they don’t know either but the sooner we get started, the sooner we can be out of your way.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said MacDonald, scratching his head, “you see, all visits need to be authorised by the Major. There’s not much I can do, until he gets here.”

  Zed reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folded letter he handed to the commander, signed by Colonel Abrahams, it required all MoD personnel to ‘afford any and all assistance’, including access to military installations. “I’d appreciate your discretion, commander. The fewer people know of this visit the better.”

  MacDonald scanned the letter a second time. It would be difficult to ignore a direct order from the Allied supreme commander. “This is all terribly irregular,” he said, scratching his head. “Perhaps if you’d be happy to wait, I can set you up with somewhere to work.”

  “That’s not going to be possible. We’re expected back in St Mary’s by dawn. We’re all under orders, commander. These men are here to ensure I get what I need.” Sergeant Jones gripped his semi-automatic weapon a little tighter.

  “Very well. Let me see what I can do for you. If you’d like to wait in the canteen. There should be tea and coffee there.”

  The staff canteen was deserted. Stark overhead lights reflected off wipe-clean stainless steel counters and newly mopped floors. They helped themselves to hot drinks from a vending machine.

  Zed spotted a figure in the doorway, leaning on a stick. He wasn’t certain at first, Gill appeared unrecognisable from the last time he saw her after the accident. Dark circles under her eyes, grey streaks at her temples, that healthy vitality drained away. She avoided looking directly at him, submitting to his embrace.

  “I didn’t want you to see me like this. Why are you here?”

  “How are you?”

  “Getting better every day.” She leaned in close and pressed her delicate finger to his lips. “Don’t say anything here, okay?” she whispered in his ear. Zed looked around the empty tables, wondering what she was worried about.”

  “They’re fine. That’s my protection team.” He nodded towards Jones and the others, talking quietly over their drinks.

  “I’m not worried about them. Trust me, I’m not being paranoid. There’s always someone listening,” she said, covering her mouth as she spoke, directing his attention towards the CCTV cameras in each corner. “Even with the background noise, they pick up everything.” Her eyes flashed a warning. “The important thing is that you came,” she whispered, gripping his hand, a pained smile but a glimpse of the old Gill he knew and loved. “Let’s talk outside.”

  “How long have you been working?” asked Zed, as they walked arm in arm, back towards the main entrance.

  “Still on restricted duty. I struggle to concentrate on anything for more than five minutes, but, hey, I still have my uses.”

  “Well, you’ve got more colour in your cheeks than the last time I saw you,” he joked, noting her lank, unwashed hair. She smiled, skin drawn tight like tracing paper.

  “Did you get my letters?”

  “Of course. That’s why I’m here.”

  “But you never wrote back.”

  “I did. Twice. Didn’t you…?”

  “That bastard MacDonald probably intercepted them.” Her voice raised, as if she didn’t care who heard. She looked directly at the nearest CCTV camera, as if making a point. “The Porton censors are ruthless.”

  They left the building by the main doors and wandered out in to the darkness, followed, at a respectful distance, by Daniels. It had started to drizzle but Gill seemed not to notice, resting on her stick. She angled her body away from the security camera covering the entrance.

  “How long did it take you to crack my code?” There was a playful edge to her words.

  “A while.”

  “I may have overestimated your crossword solving abilities. Don’t you remember? It was our little joke. The distant drums? The bugle call? I used to call you Fernando.”

  “No.”

  “Wait. Then, how did you figure it out?”

  “The Colonel had this GCHQ software.” He froze, remembering Gill’s warning. “I hope that’s alright. I showed him the letter?”

  “So long as you trust him?”

  “With my life.” He turned to face her, a question on his lips. “What did you mean when you said Kelly was right about everything? That Ephesus found what I was looking for?”

  “You don’t remember? Our last conversation? You told me you were still obsessed by what happened to Kelly. That you were determined to get to the bottom of what really happened.”

  “Whatever he found out got him killed. He could be the key to everything.”

  She linked arms as they walked a little further away from the floodlit entrance, a comfortable silence passing between them.

  “What about your ‘accident’?” asked Zed, with air parentheses. “How did you come into contact with the VX gas?”

  “During the rebel attack. Fox’s investigation said it was accidental release.”

  “And you believe that?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. One of my team tried to warn me what would happen. Apparently, the last time someone here blew the whistle, the MoD slapped them down with the Official Secrets Act, turned their life upside down. It’s all part of Major Donnelly’s reign of terror. Stepping out of line can be career limiting.”

  “I’m coming to the conclusion there’s more to Donnelly than meets the eye. I was so focused on Hardy, it never occurred to me that Donnelly could have a starring role.”

  “Those two are in lock step. Donnelly’s not so bad. Prefers to keep his hands clean and let other people do the dirty work.”

  “That time I saw Hardy threatening you outside the hearing, what did he really say to you?”

  Gill looked puzzled as if she’d forgotten all about the incident.

  “You remember, he accused you of leaking information to the investigation.”

  “Oh that. It was nothing. Typical Hardy. A throw away remark. He said something like: ‘Remember what happened to Kelly’.”

  “He actually said that?”

  “He was making a point, being dramatic. In his own inimitable way, I suppose he was trying
to protect me. I wouldn’t read too much into it.”

  “Depends what you believe happened to Kelly.” Gill stopped in her tracks and looked deep into his eyes, waiting for him to continue. “What was it Ephesus found?”

  “My God,” she exclaimed, remembering. “Travel itineraries, reciprocal visits between Baghdad and Moscow. Proof the Russians outsourced their research and development. One of the scientists that defected in 2001 confirmed everything.”

  “Excellent, that tallies with what Anton said the other night. He told me that, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, several of his colleagues transferred from VECTOR to sites in Iraq. Lucrative contracts to work on Saddam’s nascent weapons programme.”

  “If Kelly made the link, why was he so vocal about the September Dossier?” asked Gill.

  “I’m still working on that bit. It’s like peeling an onion. Each time you remove a layer, there’s another five beneath. Turns out Donnelly had as much to gain from Kelly’s death as anyone. He was next in line for the job.”

  “I’m not so sure. You could say the same of half a dozen others.”

  “You should have seen Donnelly giving evidence. He definitely has something to hide.” He took her hand, encouraging her to stop. “What if the same people who went after Kelly came after us?”

  “Come on. That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? What if they’ve been doing this for years?”

  “Let Kelly go. Why do you care so much?”

  “Because it’s always bothered me. I suppose you knew him better than me. The man I remember was a role model when I first came here. His passion for science was infectious.”

  “For all of us,” admitted Gill with an air of nostalgia. She smiled as if remembering something. “You know, I had a massive crush on him,” she laughed coquettishly.

  “You always did have a thing for father figures with beards,” he mocked.

  “Hey, leave me alone. I’m just saying, his door was always open. Kelly had time for the junior members of his team.”