The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger

by Crumby, Robin

  “You can’t bury the truth forever. There will always be more people like me, asking difficult questions.”

  “Traitors, sceptics, time-wasters. Non-believers can always be re-educated.”

  “You can’t brainwash us all.”

  “I don’t need to. Eventually, you’ll come to your senses, like all the others. You of all people should remember the dangers we faced. The irony is that we want the same thing. To protect what we value most. From those threats, known and unknown, seen and unseen, heard and unheard. We’ve been serving our country so long we have become blind to what really matters.”

  “For people like you, the war on terror was just a pretext. Iraq was no more a significant sponsor of terrorism than Saudi Arabia. Risks were overstated to create a burning platform for change, to secure oil and power for years to come.”

  “That’s one narrative, yes, but you forget we were facing a new era of state-sponsored terrorism. Iran, Iraq, Syria, Russia, North Korea. The dawn of bioterrorism. Porton Down was at the forefront of that defence.”

  “We both know that Porton’s programmes were under UN investigation way before the outbreak,” blurted Zed, unable to suppress the thought that had been lurking, unspoken.

  “So I’m learning. Good. Finally, we’re getting somewhere,” acknowledged Donnelly, pleased with their progress. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten the United Kingdom and her allies were the ones who campaigned tirelessly for reciprocal inspections in the first place. One of the founding members of the Biological Weapons Convention.”

  “Inspections which yielded all manner of illegal research.” The drugs had taken hold again. Zed’s blood was up and he found it impossible to keep his thoughts in check. “The truth is that Porton went out of its way to acquire new strains of pathogens, playing catch up after years of underfunding and austerity.”

  “Fascinating. Let’s say for a moment, you’re right. Somehow we manage to acquire genetically modified versions of Spanish Flu, Marburg and other hybrid viruses, then what? Why would we do that?”

  “The dawn of a new arms race. Designer viruses that might bring about social engineering, ethnic cleansing, population control. That’s the real reason people like Basson and others came here.”

  “What a wonderfully active imagination you have. Wouter Basson? The man was a fraud.” He laughed at the suggestion, but answered anyway. “I assume you’ve been talking to Ephesus again?”

  “I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes,” he lied. “Travel itineraries, exchange visits with the South Africans. Project Coast was rated the second most sophisticated weapons programme after the Soviets.”

  “That was all apartheid era PR. Basson’s programme was tiny. The bio-reactors they used were much too small to produce anything other than trace quantities. Useful for assassination attempts but not social engineering. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree with Basson.”

  “Am I?” said Zed, emboldened, his mouth running ahead of his thoughts. “Russia wasn’t the only one outsourcing R&D programmes to Iraq, were they?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Porton was doing the same in South Africa. Beyond the reach of the international inspectors.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? How else could Project Coast have got so far without help?”

  “No British government would share classified research with a pariah state, especially not one supporting apartheid.”

  “I don’t believe they knew. The entire programme was off the books. Inspired by the Russians’ success with Biopreparat. I’ve read the Basson transcripts. He claimed biological agents designed at Porton were field tested in at least five assassinations of enemies of apartheid. Untraceable heart attacks, respiratory failures, and strokes.”

  “The wild claims of a desperate man. They were never proven.”

  “When they searched Basson’s apartment,” continued Zed in a voice he barely recognised as his own, “they found dozens of classified MoD documents. The apartheid regime secretly planned the roll out of a vaccination programme designed to reduce fertility in the black population.”

  “What the South Africans got up to was considered low impact, insignificant alongside Soviet programmes. Porton Down simply didn’t have the resources to investigate every rumour.”

  “But you personally met Basson, didn’t you?”

  Donnelly fell silent, a thin smile creeping across his lips. As if Zed was walking into another trap he had set for him.

  “Twice, but that was years later.”

  “What was your interest in him?”

  “The Russians were trying to recruit Basson. The security services were concerned he might sell himself to the highest bidder. He had a money weakness, fond of fast cars and private jets. Fell in with the wrong crowd: arms dealers and criminal gangs. An easy target for blackmail and intimidation. His greed got the better of him. In the end, he was arrested for narcotic offences. Disavowed and imprisoned.”

  Zed struggled to focus, the room swimming before his eyes. His heart was beating so fast, like a drum beat inside his head. The drugs were making him giddy. He fought to regain control, to resist this impulse to unburden himself, drawn inexorably towards a desired conclusion, whatever that was.

  Donnelly smiled, baring a set of straight white teeth, unblemished by coffee or tobacco. “You’re so close, but you still can’t see it, can you?”

  “See what?”

  “That there was a mole at Porton. Someone helping Basson. Why don’t we cut to the chase? We both know who it was.”

  “Kelly. But why?”

  “Sometimes, people’s motivations are unknowable, contradictory even. Rather like yours.” Zed didn’t respond, he simply glared back, waiting for Donnelly to continue. “Even now, you’re convinced there’s a mole at Porton, aren’t you?”

  “How else do you explain the persistent leak of classified documents? Why else was Fox brought in?”

  “Yes, dear Mister Fox. Our very own Inspector Clouseau,” he derided. “Our plucky Head of Security spent months poring over every record, interviewing my staff. Do you know what he found? Nothing. No evidence of a leak. Porton’s security is less porous than you think. Those documents could’ve come from somewhere else.”

  “How?”

  “Back then, members of the Joint Intelligence Service insisted on unfettered access. There were separate investigations, teams digging around for dirt.”

  “I read their conclusions. They recorded an open verdict.”

  “Because?” encouraged Donnelly leading Zed towards something. A trap?

  “Because many of those approached to testify were conveniently retired or posted overseas at short notice, others were protected by powerful allies. It was a classic white wash. I’ve seen the list of historical suspects. We both know your name was on there.”

  Donnelly laughed. “Perhaps an earlier, unredacted draft. There were several versions of the list, shared with different groups. GCHQ used it as bait to flush out those with secrets to hide. You were also named.”

  “Me?” protested Zed.

  “You seem surprised. Why do you think you’re really here? I’ve been watching you for years, Samuels, waiting for you to make your move. When you had the temerity to return to Porton, I knew it was simply a matter of time before you showed your hand. The colonel wouldn’t let us arrest you without proof. I knew you’d break cover eventually.”

  Zed’s mind was racing, trying to remember what else was in the safe in his office. In the wrong hands, it might prove a treasure trove, twisted to Donnelly’s narrative. The major seemed to be enjoying Zed’s discomfort.

  “There’s no point denying it. Miss Stephens confirmed everything.” He noticed Zed’s confusion. “You seem to forget. She works for me. Who do you think kept me in the loop about your investigation? You’re just like Basson. How much did you settle for?”

  “I worked in a secondary school, lived in a bedsit. Hardly the trappings of power.”


  “A convincing cover. Except we found out about the offshore accounts, the villa in Greece you held in your wife’s name.”

  Zed didn’t even bother responding to these allegations. He didn’t need to. It had suddenly dawned on him that Donnelly could say whatever he liked. It would be almost impossible for him to disprove whatever he was accused of. Little by little, Donnelly was turning the world on its head.

  “Once I have the translations of those French documents we found in your safe, I’ll have the remaining pieces. Enough to convict.”

  “I want to see a lawyer.”

  “You’re a traitor, an enemy of the state. You have no rights.”

  “The charges relate to my time in the service. Under the Armed Forces Act 2006, I demand a court martial.”

  “Very well,” conceded Donnelly, “but you’re only delaying the inevitable. I’ll arrange for legal representation.”

  “I want the Colonel.”

  “Your hearing is being fast-tracked for the day after tomorrow. If he’s not back by then, I’ll appoint someone to represent you.”

  With that Donnelly rose, knocked on the door twice and left without looking back.

  Chapter 33

  For the next few hours, Zed drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to punch through the fog induced by a fresh cocktail of psychotropic compounds. Lucidity arrived only when they pumped him full of stimulants for the purposes of his regular sessions with Donnelly. Prolonged sleep deprivation became a nightmare he could not wake from, ready to say anything for a good night’s rest without these constant interruptions.

  With no natural light, day and night merged into an abstract construct. Meal times changed, lights turned on, seemingly at random. In his confusion, song lyrics blended with memories of family life. A shoeless child on a swing. Meeting a man from the motor trade.

  Even with his eyes open, the hallucinations seemed all too real. Meandering aimlessly through a dense wood, his path long forgotten, stepping over fallen branches, tangled tree roots, stumbling towards the light, alone and forsaken. Stinging nettles and brambles scratched his face.

  Donnelly’s barrage of questions was unrelenting. In his weakened state, Zed lacked the mental dexterity to side-step the major’s pitfalls, dazzled by the alternate narrative forced down his throat. He only hoped the colonel might return before he gave up his tenuous grasp on reality. Collapse seemed inevitable, like a sandcastle attempting to resist the incoming tide. ‘You can’t fight fate’ kept repeating in his head. The forces lined up against him were too formidable. He imagined what they might do to a traitor like him. Corporal punishment or worse. Being made to live with his shame. What more could they take? He had nothing left to lose.

  Zed was dimly aware of the attendant nurse shuffling around his cell, the blinding reflection off her stainless steel tray, followed by the familiar sharp nick in his arm. He bolted upright, the fog clearing. Donnelly’s dull lifeless eyes stared into his.

  “Remember that reward we talked about?” asked Donnelly, his tone paternal, patronising even, earning Zed’s full attention. “A promise is a promise.” Zed sat up straighter assuming he meant the colonel. “They’re waiting just outside.” He pointed towards the door. “But first I wanted to talk to you about something.” Here we go again, thought Zed.

  The major scraped the visitor’s chair across the concrete floor, holding one of Zed’s leather notebooks, summarising his research. He tapped its cover. “You really do have a wonderful imagination.” He shook his head with a wry smile. “Your hypothesis is really rather entertaining.”

  “Which bit?” mumbled Zed.

  “The bit where we locate and recover the Iraqi pathogen samples and bring them back to Porton.” Donnelly laughed, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye.

  A jumble of words formed in Zed’s mind. He struggled to articulate a response, unable to resist or deflect, his head rolling to one side like a rag doll. A slap across the face brought him back to his senses.

  “I need to rest. I can’t…,” he protested.

  “You’ll rest when I say you can,” snarled Donnelly, forcing Zed’s head against the wall, waiting for the opiates to kick in. Zed’s heart was racing, his nostrils flaring, blinking rapidly, fully alert.

  “History is written by the victors, isn’t that what they say?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Then this is your chance, Samuels. I’m giving you the chance to put right the errors of the past. You might even help decide what happens next.”

  “Not the future you’re planning,” Zed whispered, barely audible.

  “Come, come. These people need a cheerleader, an optimist, to restore their sense of hope. This is our chance to make the country great again.”

  Those words stirred an echo from the past. A foothold on his slippery descent. His arms flailed, grappling at the memory, but it slipped past before he could hold on. A flicker of empathy, perhaps concern softened Donnelly’s expression. He injected him with adrenaline, pouring water into Zed’s mouth until it ran down his cheeks and soiled shirt.

  “Don’t you want to be part of that? I’m offering you redemption.”

  “By erasing the past?”

  “History is more malleable than you might think. Perspective is everything. A new narrative is being written.”

  Zed’s whole body began to convulse with a stirring rage as if his former self was screaming, shouting at him to fight, to resist. “If we fail to learn these lessons, we’re destined to repeat them, over and over.”

  “Everyone thinks that at first, but they’re wrong. Perception can be a fickle mistress. We simply need to re-educate. It’s less hard than you think to recast villains as heroes and vice versa.”

  “You mean brainwashing.”

  “Good heavens, no. Nothing so primitive. Biochemistry is far more effective.” Zed snorted in response, his eyes flaring. “Pharmacology has come a long way. These days we simply open people’s minds and purge them of any undesirable thoughts. Camp Wight is proving most productive in boosting our numbers. Those that survive the camps are blank slates, ready to serve society again.”

  “I’ve seen what you do to them. You’re creating a new worker class, made to follow, not challenge. Meat for the grinder.”

  “Is that really any different to other successful regimes forced to adapt to circumstance? We’re giving desperate people a fresh start. Helping them understand and accept their new circumstances. When they first came to the island they were on their knees, now they stand on their own two feet.”

  “Work sets you free. Isn’t that what the Nazis claimed? Arbeit macht frei.”

  “We’re liberating them, not enslaving. Releasing them from their shackles. Giving them back something they thought they’d lost: a sense of purpose. They’re more free now than they ever were before. They don’t have to worry about where their next meal comes from or how to protect their families. This is the new social contract. Freedom is never without sacrifice. We’ve replaced anarchy with order, given these people some much needed leadership. Is that so wrong?”

  “You only care about power and control.”

  “No, Samuels, this way, we all win.”

  “What about all those promises the Council made about handing power back to civilian authorities…?”

  “We had to tell them something. Fear only works for so long. The war on terror proved that. People must believe something better is coming. Hope is our best ally. It can be used to control.”

  “You expect us all to shrug our shoulders and compromise?”

  “What choice do they have? If it wasn’t for us, these people would already be dead.”

  “What you’ve given them isn’t life, it’s slavery.”

  “No, the opposite: freedom. Future generations will be free from this awful virus and others like it. Genetically superior in so many ways. Not just immune, but programmed to outperform. Faster, healthier, better. The Council couldn’t hope to und
erstand the scale of our ambition. You’ve seen for yourself, the maternity units in Ventnor are incubators of human progress.”

  “When they find out what you’ve done, there will be revolution,” suggested Zed, closing his eyes as the temporary adrenaline surge began to subside.

  “People crave stability, not more change. And we’re delivering what we promised. Population numbers on the island have begun to creep up again. Fatalities are slowing.”

  “Your purge is almost complete.”

  “We expect a return to growth within the next eighteen to twenty four months. Even a few months ago, that would have been unthinkable. Doctor Wu’s trial has the full support of the Council. In time, we will expand the programme, further accelerate birth rates by reducing the recommended gap for volunteers between pregnancies.”

  “He’s turning those maternity wards into battery farms.”

  “You can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs,” derided Donnelly. “In a few years, we’ll look back on this period as a forgotten blip in human evolution.”

  “And you the grand architect of this bold new future.”

  “I played a small part, certainly, but an important one.”

  “Doctor Wu suffers from a God complex. You people see yourselves as morally superior, don’t you?”

  “Progress dictates what must be done. You look down on our methods as distasteful and yet, deep down, you know that they are necessary. James Watson, one of the godfathers of modern genetics, saw things so clearly, but he was ahead of his time, his views were disabused. As one considers the future of our entire species one cannot deny the relationship between race and behaviour, who lives and who dies. It seems only natural that we select those most able to thrive in the new world. Watson’s view of genetic destiny remains undeniable.”

  “Why not call your regeneration programme what it really is: human engineering?”

  “Do you never wonder why stereotypes persist? Because there’s a prevailing truth in each of them. That people from Poland work hard, that Italians are inherently lazy, that Ethiopians make better distance runners. Doctor Wu’s techniques give us the ability to bio-engineer the future. To develop resistance to disease, to be smarter, more resilient, better able to survive. We’re simply giving human evolution a helping hand.”