“You just made that sound totally creepy.”
“God, no. It was professional. I liked him in a healthy, platonic, politically correct kind of way.” She backtracked. “He wanted to know what everyone thought. Always encouraged curiosity and debate.”
“Funny, the Kelly I remember was an introvert. A private person.”
“Well, outside of work, maybe.”
“I’m not sure he had much of a life outside of work, did he?”
“I suppose I identified with his work ethic,” she admitted. “He was always so dedicated.”
“Was it true he was having an affair with a younger woman?”
“Kelly? No. Where did you hear that? He was a family man.”
“I heard some US translator he met in Iraq, Mai Pederson, I think she was called.”
“Pederson. Why does that name ring a bell?”
“She acted as his counsellor, persuaded him to convert. Change his religion.”
“There were all kinds of rumours doing the rounds after his death. Journalists snooping around. Kelly was a man of honour and integrity. He deserved to be treated as such. His suicide was a tragedy. For all of us.”
“Well, I for one have never been convinced it was suicide.”
“Why?”
“Kelly was a biochemist. If he wanted to kill himself, he had access to all manner of toxic substances. Why choose a rusty blade and some painkillers? That strikes me as a cry for help, not a serious suicide attempt.”
“The newspapers suggested he suffered a breakdown.”
“Come on, there was never any hint of mental illness. He didn’t do drugs or drink. He was in good health for a man of his age.”
“Look Zed, whatever you think happened, this is England, not Russia or Iraq. People don’t just run around bumping off government scientists and getting away with it.”
“Gill, you said yourself: Kelly knew something. Something that got him killed. Trust me. I’ve spent the last few months looking into this again with fresh eyes. I’m telling you. Everything points back to Porton.”
“Listen,” she said, leaning in to stroke his face. “I can show you the door, but I can’t go through it with you.”
“Why are you so scared? They can’t silence all of us.”
“You don’t understand. This entire place is like a hall of mirrors. All you see is yourself.”
“Then don’t stay here.”
“I told you, it’s my home.”
“When Donnelly finds out I was here, he’ll put two and two together.”
“You’re wrong about Donnelly. There’s no proof he’s done anything wrong.”
“Why are you protecting him? He lied about his role here, what they were working on, what really happened before the Iraq War.”
Zed stopped and pulled a folder out of his bag containing dozens of print outs. He rifled through until he found the one he was looking for, nearly losing his grip. He handed her a crumpled set of sheets printed on United Nations stationery, stapled in one corner. She angled the page towards the light, scanning it quickly, her finger pausing on a few passages, eyes growing wider.
“Where did you get this?”
“From LaSalle, via the Colonel.”
“But if this is true…”
“Trust me, I’ve cross-checked it.”
“We need to talk to Ephesus, right now.”
Chapter 26
Ephesus, the Porton septuagenarian, reread the UN report, shaking his head in disbelief, staring off into the distance. “If this account is to be believed then we can no longer rely on the archive as a system of record.”
“Why would anyone take the trouble to alter archived information?” asked Gill.
“To hide the truth,” claimed Zed. “To erase what really happened.”
“The question is how,” said Ephesus.
“What do you mean?”
“My dear boy, this isn’t some normal library. The archive is one of the most secure storage facilities in the country. Some of the documents here exist nowhere else in the world. If other countries knew half of what we have worked on over the last century, there would be an outcry.”
“I’m afraid that genie is well and truly out of the bottle,” sighed Zed. “You can’t put it back in.”
“Quite. If you’re certain your source is credible, then the rumours we heard about mobile germ factories in Iraq might just be true.”
Zed rifled through the document folder until he found a highly magnified satellite image. “Two days before the invasion, US AWACS flying over Iraq tracked a forty-seven vehicle convoy travelling under cover of darkness, making for Syria.”
“What makes you think that was the mobile laboratory?”
Zed found an eye-witness statement written in Arabic with an English translation stapled together. “Two of the vehicles were converted container trucks loaded with medical crates and laboratory equipment. There were unconfirmed reports of multiple airtight pods with biohazard markings.”
Gill leaned in, reading from a passage of text on the following page: “The Americans tracked three Russian-built Ilyushin 76 cargo planes leaving a military airstrip near Baghdad all the way to southern Russia. What do you make of that?”
Zed interjected. “Anton claimed the Russians were desperate to evacuate the whole joint programme back to VECTOR. They couldn’t risk their research falling into American hands.”
“It would appear their attempts failed,” acknowledged Ephesus.
Zed produced another document stamped with the now familiar seal of the Central Intelligence Agency. “The Americans believed that one of the mobile labs was intercepted before it could join the main convoy, captured by an SAS recon team operating behind enemy lines near the weapons facility at Al Hakam.” Zed handed Ephesus a library photo of a converted long-wheelbase military vehicle. “The refrigerated pod was equipped with white phosphorus charges, designed to incinerate any traces of pathogen samples if captured. When the SAS ambushed the convoy, the guards triggered the self-destruct mechanism but for some reason the charges only partially detonated. All three Iraqis died in the attack, but the pod survived, almost intact.”
“What was inside?” asked Gill.
“We don’t know for sure. Anton said the Russians would have airlifted anything really sensitive, but that the centrifuges and the bioreactors in the mobile lab could have provided trace elements of any pathogens they were working on.”
“Did he say what those might be?”
“Yes, he believed the Iraqi team was working on modified versions of Marburg, Ebola, possibly Bubonic plague. They may also have included quantities of the new hybrid virus his old Russian team worked on.”
“So what happened to the pod?”
“The Americans claim a Hercules transporter airlifted it to Boscombe Down. They think it arrived by road in Porton a few days later.”
“In all my years here, I’ve never once heard mention of this mythical Iraqi pod,” dismissed Ephesus.
“Nor me,” agreed Gill.
“But if it did come to the UK, Porton is the logical choice. Where else has a level four containment unit capable of analysing those samples?”
“Someone must remember. Who was working here back then who would know for sure? Doctor Hardy?”
“No, he came here much later. Donnelly most likely.”
“What about Kelly?”
Ephesus seemed to consider the question. “I’d have to check the dates. No-one knew more about Iraq’s weapons programmes than Kelly did, but didn’t he die several weeks before the invasion?”
“Still, he spent a lot of time in Iraq in the Nineties. Isn’t it possible he knew about the mobile labs?”
“And said nothing? He would never lie for anyone.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Only yesterday, Donnelly claimed Kelly was lying about the interviews he gave to journalists. When the MoD found out, they hung him out to dry.” Zed clicked his fingers, realising something for th
e first time. “Don’t you see? Kelly ties together so many of these pieces. He has to be the missing link.”
“You’ll never get Donnelly to talk. There has to be another way of proving what Kelly knew or didn’t know.”
An ear-piercing alternating alarm interrupted their conversation as the sounds of footsteps and raised voices were heard throughout the building. Gill hobbled over to the fire control panel nearest the door. She double-clicked on the flashing red icon displaying the location and turned in shock towards Ephesus, her voice trembling. “My God. It’s the archive.”
Zed and Daniels ran as fast as they could towards the source of the alarm. The protection officer paused at the doorway, grabbing a carbon dioxide extinguisher and two smoke hoods, waiting to push the emergency door release.
“Shouldn’t we wait for others?” asked Zed, his voice wavering.
“No time,” said Daniels, gulping breaths. “If the argon control system didn’t activate, we’ll need to trigger it manually.”
Zed nodded and the pair readied themselves, trying to get their breathing under control before stepping inside. Thick smoke shrouded the ceiling but there was no sign of flames. Through the haze he could see the emergency exit sign.
“The fire control panel is on the far side, by the main stairwell,” shouted Daniels, his words muffled by the hood. “Stay tight behind me.”
There was a lump in Zed’s throat, glancing over his shoulder towards safety. Memories of the Chewton Glen Hotel fire made him want to run in the opposite direction, but he couldn’t let the archive and all this evidence go up in smoke.
An orange glow to their right flared as if fanned by a fresh source of oxygen. They weaved through the shelves lined with weighty tomes, printed reports and folders detailing every chapter from over a hundred years of research into chemical and biological weapons, knowledge Zed knew could never be replaced.
Daniels’ pace slowed, momentarily disoriented, seemingly uncertain which way to turn through the veil of smoke. He set off in one direction, then backtracked. The fire control panel loomed ahead, lit up like a Christmas tree. Daniels silenced an irritating buzzing alarm with a tap, navigating through various on-screen prompts to reset the system and trigger the argon gas. A red icon confirmed the suppression system had failed. ‘Low pressure’ read a warning message.
“There has to be a backup,” wheezed Zed, finding it increasingly hard to breathe.
“We’ll have to use the hose,” shouted Daniels, pointing towards the bright red fire hose reel underneath.
“You can’t use water in here.”
“We don’t have a choice,” The cabinet was locked, the key hook empty. Daniels smashed the glass with his gloved hand, grabbing the axe. He began dragging the hose nozzle towards the inferno, rapidly spreading from shelf to shelf.
Zed fed the hose out from the the reel, hand over hand, as far as it would stretch. When Daniels shouted he was in position, Zed reached in and turned on the water, hurrying over to help direct the resulting jet. At first the fire stubbornly ignored their attentions, until, little by little, the pair forced their way forward towards the IT centre where blinking server stacks sat behind fireproof glass. Zed noticed the door jammed open, the first tower already sparking, its plastic wires fusing together in the heat. Zed grabbed a fire blanket and did his best to snuff out the flames spreading across the carpet. There was a distinctive smell here, fumes that made him cough, retreating from the acrid smoke. It reminded him of kerosene or some other fuel accelerant.
Daniels screamed as one of the shelving units toppled towards him, disappearing beneath the resulting cascade of books and papers. Momentarily, Zed lost sight of the former policeman, clawing at the debris until he found an arm then a leg, before dragging Daniels clear, clutching his head, getting unsteadily back to his feet.
Both men turned towards the sound of someone coughing.
“Hey. Over here,” they both shouted, fighting to make themselves heard over the roar of the fire.
Zed supported Daniels back towards safety. Behind them, the flames seemed to flare, devouring the reams of paper from the collapsed shelving unit, spreading more rapidly now. The fire door appeared locked and Zed wasted precious seconds trying to wrench it open, before remembering the green release button. He pressed it several times, without response, banging his fists impotently against the glass, peering through the window into the empty corridor beyond.
In the darkness, he glimpsed a shadow disappearing from view around the corner. Listening at the crack in the double doors, he heard distant footsteps, swiftly followed by half-a-dozen voices calling out, torch-lights flickering against the walls. To Zed’s immense relief a face appeared on the other side of the reinforced glass. The fire door swung open as three men in black and yellow protective suits surged into the room, carrying fire extinguishers and axes. Each wore a yellow helmet and breathing apparatus. Zed lowered Daniels, propping his head against the wall, accepting the drink of water offered by the new arrivals. Zed flopped down beside his protection officer, removing the hood, chest heaving. From the next door came the sound of crashing glass as part of the ceiling collapsed.
Chapter 27
It took just under an hour to bring the blaze under control. The Porton fire crew, made up of volunteers from across the site, thanked Daniels and Zed for their quick thinking. Their intervention had saved more than half of what remained of the archive. MacDonald, Donnelly’s deputy, paid particular attention to the kitchenette as the most likely source of the fire, examining a blackened toaster and melted kettle under the beam of a head torch.
Gill rested a hand on Ephesus’s shoulder, inconsolable at the scene of blackened devastation. Thousands of original documents irretrievably damaged by the flames and smoke, not to mention the water. Evans, Porton’s Head of IT, a bearded Welshman, tapped at his tablet computer, still assessing the status of the Porton network.
“The entire system is down,” said Evans, pointing to a tangle of wires fused together in the heat. “We can try replacing all this cabling and rerouting power. With any luck, we can get a few core services back online tonight.” He picked up one of the blackened servers. “Some of these are just smoke damaged, should be salvageable.”
“Do you know how it started?” asked Zed.
“Once I’ve finished talking to everyone, you’ll be the first to know,” reassured MacDonald.
“I’ve caught people smoking under the kitchen extractor fan before,” claimed Ephesus. “It would only take a smouldering butt in the waste bin. Mister Samuels says he smelled kerosene in the server room,” insisted Ephesus.
“But I couldn’t be sure,” Zed corrected.
“Maybe melted plastic from those cables,” explained the Welshman. “Or something inside your smoke hood. Burning paint, most likely.”
Zed didn’t seem altogether convinced, remembering hearing someone cough. There was little doubt someone else was there with them, though Daniels claimed the sound might have come from the floor above.
Ephesus inspected the damage at the epicentre of the blaze. The charred spines of countless folders. Several of the shelving units stood in pools of inky black water. Zed picked up one of the sodden volumes, its cover blistered. The pages inside disintegrated like puff pastry.
“The argon suppression system was brand new, state of the art. It should have triggered automatically as soon as smoke was detected,” muttered Ephesus, under his breath.
“It’s possible the system was manually disabled,” suggested MacDonald. “We’re still checking. This entire facility is operating at fifty percent power. To avoid rolling blackouts, we take non-essential subsystems off line.”
“Yes, but surely not fire control?” challenged Ephesus. “A whole lifetime’s work: ruined. And all so you lot can have air conditioning.” Ephesus let out a deep sigh, shaking his head. “I expect a full investigation, commander.”
MacDonald made his excuses and scuttled away. Zed followed Ephesus as he i
nspected the damage to the other archive sections, running a finger along the row of documents organised alphabetically. The Syria shelf had suffered minor scorching only. The same could not be said for the significantly larger section to its left.
“Which country comes before Syria?” asked Zed. “Spain?”
“No, South Africa.”
Zed leaned in closer, examining the singed spines, nervous about removing any in case they disintegrated, like the others. They would all need to be painstakingly restored, if any were salvageable at all. In a low voice, he whispered: “I don’t remember South Africa having much of a weapons programme?”
“Oh yes, during apartheid. You probably remember Wouter Basson?”
“Only in passing.” Zed realised the South Africa section stretched the whole length of the shelving unit, from top to bottom. “But this section is nearly as big as Iraq’s.”
“That’s right. Bigger than North Korea and Syria combined. Basson came to Porton several times. Caused a bit of a scandal back in the day.”
“In what sense?”
“The media got hold of the story, claimed British scientists were supporting the development of so-called ethnic weapons to be deployed in South Africa. It was utter nonsense but there was an enquiry. Turned out one Porton officer was passing classified documents.”
“I see. Did Basson overlap with Kelly at all?”
“Undoubtedly. They were both part of the so-called ‘CBW mafia’ in the Eighties and Nineties, back when the Allies were exchanging technical information on biological and chemical warfare. The enquiry suggested Basson was a gun for hire, they painted him as a rather unsavoury character. You see, the programme of reciprocal inspections in Russia, America, and elsewhere inadvertently created an international network of experts in this highly classified field, even furnished them with the channels to communicate. To someone like Basson, it was rocket fuel. Access to specialists who could accelerate South Africa’s nascent programme.”
The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger Page 19
