The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger

by Crumby, Robin

  “As long as she’s not sacrificing animals or practising witchcraft, I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”

  “I wouldn’t go giving her ideas either.”

  “One day, you should all come to Ventnor. I think you might actually like it there.”

  “I’m too old for all that nonsense, Sister,” she said, stroking her abdomen.

  “Then perhaps it’s time you put yourself first for a change. You still have time. Your whole life lies ahead of you.”

  Chapter 35

  Left alone in his cell, with little else to occupy his thoughts, Zed pored over every detail trying to reconcile Donnelly’s narrative with what he knew. Catalysed by the regular injections of psychotropic compounds, reality seemed unfamiliar, alien somehow. Everything he took for granted turned upside down. Layer upon layer of lies and falsehoods. The war on terror. The invasion of Iraq. Regime change. Oil. Export licences. Reconstruction and defence contracts. Money and power.

  Did the absence of weapons mean they never existed or that they were destroyed before any Allied soldier ever set foot in Iraq? The words kept tumbling around his head on a spin cycle. The truth had become impenetrable. Perhaps the major was right after all. UNSCOM had been manipulated to achieve political objectives. The invasion nothing more than a land grab. Kelly had taken a stand and been rolled over. The same would happen to Zed if he pursued this fool’s errand. Why waste his life in pursuit of retrospective justice? He could barely remember what he was fighting for.

  Whether it was the drugs or the lack of sleep, he struggled to organise the jumble of facts. The pieces of the puzzle no longer fit neatly together. If Doctor Hardy was simply a pawn, loyal to a fault, as Donnelly suggested, then perhaps Gill was the mole after all? The major seemed intent on leading the investigation as far away from Porton as possible. The answer was right in front of his nose all this time.

  Seeing Gill point the gun at his chest, pull the trigger, without a flicker of emotion, had undermined any residual friendship he felt towards her. Had she deceived him, like all the others? The coded letters were designed to mislead and confuse, feeding him more lies. As for the colonel, his prolonged absence prompted suspicion. Who was he really working for? He could no longer be trusted.

  Zed felt exhausted by the mental gymnastics, closing his eyes for a moment, fighting the urge to sleep. It was the waking dreams, vivid hallucinations, that unsettled him most. Trapped in the Porton archive during the fire, his severed arm clawing its way across the table, his dead son calling his name. One time he convinced himself that Briggs was in the room with him, arguing with Donnelly. At least when he was awake, he retained some semblance of control.

  A hand on Zed’s shoulder shook him awake, his senses gradually returning like flattened blades of grass after a footfall.

  “What’s wrong with him?” said a familiar voice. Zed blinked in disbelief at the face staring down at him. It was the colonel’s. His lips were moving, but the words were somehow incomprehensible, as if spoken in a foreign tongue. Zed concentrated intensely and the shape of the words formed, floating before his eyes like stylised subtitles.

  “He’s heavily sedated, sir,” said the nurse.

  “Why?”

  “The Doctors said he suffered some kind of breakdown. He was transferred here by ambulance nearly three days ago. His medical history shows some previous ‘episodes’. Depression, self-harming, attempted suicide. It’s lucky we caught it when we did.”

  The colonel leaned in and looked deep into Zed’s eyes for any flicker of comprehension. Zed tried to respond, to tell the colonel everything he had found out, about Donnelly, about Iraq, but his facial expressions seemed frozen, his lips sewed shut. At first, he thought he must have suffered a stroke. From the way the colonel was staring at him, he imagined he must look deranged.

  “Why isn’t he responding?” asked the colonel, clicking his fingers.

  “It’s called locked-in syndrome. Mentally he’s alert, but incapable of physical movement. Doctor said the condition is temporary, it should pass in a few days. He’s getting the very best treatment,” claimed the nurse.

  From the end of the hallway came the sound of footsteps along the corridor. The colonel stepped outside, leaving the door ajar.

  “I came as soon as I could,” stammered a flustered Major Donnelly.

  “Perhaps you can start by explaining what happened and why this man’s been arrested?”

  The colonel’s face remained a mask as the major listed out a whole page of charges from a printed sheet. “Some of the historical charges relate to events that happened in the lead up to the Second Iraq War. Conspiring with a foreign power, stealing sensitive documents, fabricating evidence, altering archive reports. He’s been charged under the 1351 Treason Act and the Official Secrets Act.”

  “I see,” sighed the colonel, momentarily lost for words.

  “Before he lost the ability to speak, he signed a confession, asked that you represent him. In the circumstances, it might be more appropriate to appoint someone else, don’t you think? I can provide a list of candidates.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Major. I’ll act as his legal counsel.”

  “Very well. I’ll send Chappell over later with the prosecution’s evidence. With the confession, the hearing should be a formality. The case is cut and dried.”

  “Major, we both know his confession will be inadmissible.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Look at him. He’s in no fit state to know what he signed.”

  “The breakdown came after his confession. The attendant psychotherapist suggested the burden of his guilt was a contributing factor.”

  “I’d like to speak with the attorney who advised him thus far.”

  “Actually, he refused representation, insisted he wanted to do everything himself. Given the classified nature of this material, the only person he wanted to talk to was you, Colonel.”

  “I don’t think that’s entirely surprising. Perhaps you can walk me through the salient points?”

  “Certainly. How familiar are you with Operation Rockingham?”

  “Not in any significant detail.”

  “Back in the Nineties, Rockingham was a tiny intelligence cell tasked with locating Iraq’s weapons sites and supporting the UN inspections team on the ground. They had access to satellite imagery, human intel. Zed Samuels was a rising star of that Defence Intelligence Staff unit.”

  Zed could hear their conversation as clear as day but found himself wholly unable to protest his innocence, to shout out what was in his head.

  “I don’t remember any mention of Rockingham on his service record.”

  “They kept everything off the books to avoid political interference. Rockingham only came to light following Kelly’s death.”

  “Why was it all so secretive?”

  “Because Rockingham product went unfiltered to the UN inspection teams. UNSCOM had no intelligence capability of its own. What none of us realised at the time was that Rockingham was not quite as independent as they claimed. Turns out Mister Samuels and his colleagues were fabricating evidence to justify inspections, then using those visits as proof of Iraqi non-compliance. Building the case for war, playing politics, or so we now understand.”

  “Hold on,” insisted the colonel. “I worked directly with some of those DIS guys. Ex-naval intelligence, fiercely proud of their independence. Most would never allow politicians to interfere or to colour their view in any way.”

  “No-one is saying Samuels and his colleagues didn’t start out with honourable intentions. By all accounts, the early years were a great success, but at some point the team morphed into a propaganda puppet, telling politicians what they wanted to hear. I’ve read the transcripts. The political decision to invade Iraq was taken months before. Rockingham was tasked with backfilling evidence to support the government’s position.”

  “What actual evidence is there that Samuels was involved?”

  “Fr
om what we’ve seen so far, Samuels was personally responsible for cherry-picking intelligence. He had a rare talent for doctoring satellite imagery, forging signatures, even editing audio. We have sworn testimony from a former colleague.”

  “Really. I’m sorry, Major. I’m still having a hard time believing an independent UN group was so easily led. However convincing Rockingham’s intelligence may have appeared, we’re talking about highly trained inspectors from half a dozen countries. Experts like Doctor Kelly with years of experience.”

  “Rockingham’s output was high quality, very convincing. Like I said, unfiltered, bypassing normal checks and balances. The dissenting voices were silenced. Peer review was suppressed. We all remember what happened to those who spoke out. Kelly got on the wrong side of the narrative and paid the price.”

  “I remember, it was a crazy time for all of us.”

  “No one dared contradict the government. They kept the entire Ministry of Defence on a tight leash. Independent experts, like Kelly were demonised, called out as traitors. In hindsight, Samuels is probably as much to blame for Kelly’s death as anyone.”

  “Wait, I’m not following. What links Rockingham to Kelly?”

  “Rockingham documents were found at Kelly’s house after his death. His letters and emails proved he was appalled by what was going on.”

  Every time Zed tried to open his mouth, it was like his brain had become disconnected. His voice muted.

  “We also found correspondence linking Samuels with a South African scientist, Walter Basson, in the early Nineties. We’re still working on the timeline, but it would appear the two of them had regular dealings through Porton International, the subsidiary company set up to commercialise MoD intellectual property. Advising third parties on the design and construction of production facilities, level four containment laboratories suitable for research into highly-infectious pathogens, bioreactors, and the like. We think that was the real reason BioPharma recruited Samuels. The Americans and the Russians were actively courting him.”

  The colonel let out a deep sigh, as if overwhelmed by the weight of evidence Donnelly’s team had already assembled. “Excellent work, Major. I expect full disclosure by the end of today.”

  “Of course. Depending on Samuels’s recovery, I’ll make sure you have at least thirty-six hours before the court martial. If there’s anything else you need, let me know.”

  Chapter 36

  At the appointed hour, Daniels collected Zed from his cell and wheeled him through the passageways and security gates of HM Parkhurst Prison, across the road towards St Mary’s Hospital. Zed was still physically weak, but if he concentrated really hard he could remain alert and focused for a few seconds at a time. It was a small but significant step towards regaining control.

  In the larger conference suite in building seven, senior staff already packed the room, together with their aides and entourage. They all fell silent as Daniels manoeuvred Zed to his spot at the front of the room and the court official sat beside Captain Armstrong banged his gavel to start proceedings.

  “This court martial is hereby called to order. May I remind everyone present that much of the evidence you will hear is of a highly classified nature. Those without the appropriate security clearances will be asked to leave for those specific sections. Major, we’ll start with statements for the prosecution.”

  Donnelly stood and outlined the case against Zed Samuels for several minutes.

  “The truth,” he concluded, “is that Mister Samuels is a fifth columnist who remained undiscovered for many years,” he summed up. “A traitor at the heart of a grand deception about Iraq’s weapons capability and the threat those weapons posed to the West. His was a key role within the secretive Rockingham intelligence unit who facilitated an illegal war. When his deceit was exposed, he fled to the United States, selling his knowledge to the highest bidder, including the Central Intelligence Agency, divulging national secrets about classified research projects. The full scale of his treachery came to light only this month when he conspired with a foreign power to destabilise this Council and the wider post-pandemic Allied relief operation. Over the course of this hearing, we will reveal the accused as a fantasist, terrified of his own shadow, convinced the entire world is out to get him. A man who deserted his own family and children, to further his own interests.”

  As Donnelly went on, listening to the long list of claims, Zed couldn’t help but feel downhearted. The colonel, his sole defender, had been given so little time to prepare, it seemed inconceivable that there could be any way out from this deluge of accusations. When the colonel finally rose to his feet to begin the defence’s response, there was a noticeable air of resignation. He glanced towards Zed as if steeling himself for an impossible task. His remarks were bland and factual, giving little away, repeating some of the prosecution’s statements before going on the attack.

  “Tell me, Major. Didn’t they make similar claims against Doctor Kelly in 2003? They tried to discredit him too, to undermine his credibility. They said he was unable to tell fact from fiction. An unstable maverick. Curious parallels don’t you think? If Kelly was guilty of anything, wasn’t it simply disagreeing with the government?”

  “Zed Samuels is no Kelly, I can assure you of that. They were enemies, campaigning on opposite sides of the argument.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because Kelly and I were former colleagues, as you yourself confirmed in a previous hearing. I served under him when I first started at Porton. A veteran of countless UNSCOM inspections. Someone whose view I trusted implicitly.”

  “That’s right. And I quote from your earlier remarks, ‘a scientist’s scientist’, ‘analytical to the core’, ‘always well-informed’.”

  “People could tell Kelly anything, without a thought of betrayal,” mused Donnelly in a soft voice, full of reverence. “Completely disarming. The one person not taken in by all the lies and the smokescreen put up by Samuels and Rockingham.”

  “But that’s only half the truth, isn’t it?” suggested the colonel. “The real reason no weapons were found in Iraq was that someone repeatedly tipped them off, giving them time to disguise production facilities or even destroy any incriminating evidence before the inspectors arrived?”

  “Colonel,” reprimanded Armstrong, “I will not see this court turned into a platform for conspiracy theories and rumour. I’ve spoken to both of you about this already. Neither the British government nor the Ministry of Defence are in the dock today. Please limit your line of questioning to events relating to Mister Samuels’s case.”

  “With respect, Captain, this provides a counter narrative and gets to the heart of who really stood to gain? Certainly not my client.”

  “Go on, I will allow it, but be brief.”

  “Captain, we know the UN inspectors were supplied credible intelligence these weapons existed, including, but not limited to, aerial reconnaissance of vehicle movements, informants at key sites, intercepted transmissions and witness reports. The evidence assembled was compelling.”

  “Circumstantial at best. Intelligence analysts like Mister Samuels engaged in a guessing game played with fragmentary and conflicting inputs, spun to order. They latched on to any hypothesis, however ludicrous.”

  “Is the world of science really so different?” challenged the colonel.

  “Absolutely. As scientists we rely on empirical data deduced from first-hand observation. We’re trained to be sceptical. If something doesn’t add up, then we keep looking. We deliberately avoid validating our own assumptions, unlike Samuels. No, scientists are altogether more discerning in their approach.”

  “Let’s not pretend Porton Down was impartial in all this. The UN document cache, subpoenaed by the prosecution, confirms the real reason the MoD was so desperate to locate those weapons was that this country was playing catch up. The Russians and Americans had stolen a lead in a new arms race. Finding those Iraqi samples would catapult Porton Down into contention in
the development of genetically modified biological weapons and the defensive strategies to counter them.”

  “I assure you, Captain, we had no such interest.”

  “Colonel, I would encourage you to get back to the matter in hand,” insisted Armstrong.

  The colonel nodded deferentially. “I’m nearly done. Major, do you also deny British special forces intercepted an Iraqi convoy heading for Syria loaded with an arsenal of biological weapons? And that those same samples were airlifted to the UK for analysis at Porton?”

  “May I remind you that Mister Samuels is on trial, not Porton Down.”

  “Then it is extremely convenient that he is unable to defend himself,” challenged the colonel.

  “Answer the question please,” ordered the captain.

  Donnelly laughed dismissively. “Categorically denied. We all know UN reports are often prone to subjective interpretation and factual reinvention. They were never as impartial as everyone likes to pretend.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Look, in the latter stages, UNSCOM was undoubtedly compromised, infiltrated by foreign agencies, it became a thinly disguised covert operation run by the Central Intelligence Agency, trying to pass the buck for their own failures in Iraq. It’s why Russia and France ceased to cooperate. They were the ones who insisted on the establishment of the independent Technical Evaluation Meetings I was invited to contribute to. There was never any doubt weapons of mass destruction existed but they were removed. That didn’t fit with the CIA narrative.”

  All eyes turned to Lieutenant Peterson and the Chester’s Chief Medical Officer who stirred at the suggestion of Agency involvement. Peterson shook his head in response.

  “I refer the court to document 14/3B confirming that two members of the inspection team in 1997 were current or former members of the CIA. Their finger-prints were all over UNSCOM. It’s why they tried to recruit Mister Samuels after his disciplinary and subsequent dismissal.”