The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger

by Crumby, Robin

  “Perhaps if people knew the truth about the Allies’ vaccine, they would think differently,” claimed the professor.

  “But why should they believe you? Anyway, it would change nothing. Logic dictates that we question their version of the truth. But at the same time, people are desperate, they want it to be true, meanwhile Captain Armstrong makes empty promises about an end to war, to hunger, to disease.”

  “Promises you yourself have repeated, Minister.”

  “Those statements were made in good faith.”

  “They unravelled in the blink of an eye.”

  “The Council was taken in by their lies. Not any more.”

  “You should have taken a stand when you had a chance,” suggested the professor.

  “No, it would be like a steamroller crushing a wasp. Their momentum had become unstoppable by then,” explained the colonel. “His only viable option, as I suggested, was to climb onboard and attempt to steer us away from danger, to course correct where possible. We are all resigned to where this is heading. I’ve seen their corruption and bias on the island firsthand. Captain Armstrong has made sure the rich and powerful get the best of everything. Vaccinated first, luxury accommodation, wine, women and song.”

  “We’ve all heard the rumours,” acknowledged Briggs. “While the rest of us on the mainland squabble over what’s left.”

  The minister cast his eyes around the room, taking in the gold jewellery, the designer clothes and top-of-the-range vehicles parked outside. “You’ve not done too badly yourselves. You deserve the spoils. My sources tell me this hospital continues to make great strides with your research programme.”

  “What are you suggesting, Minister?”

  “Let’s not pretend that Doctor Hardy is the only one throwing caution to the wind, employing, shall we say, unorthodox methods. There’s no point denying it, professor. We intercepted one of your volunteers on the island. She seriously believed she was carrying the cure and was stupid enough to tell everyone. Our tests proved otherwise. Turns out she was infected with a new strain of the virus, more deadly than the last. Unfortunately, we were too late to stop it, but we could at least trace its origin.”

  The colour drained from the professor’s face. “That’s preposterous. I would never allow…”

  “We’re not here to apportion blame. On the contrary, the strain you identified has helped accelerate our own understanding of how the virus is changing.”

  “Trouble is, we’re just not moving fast enough. The Porton team is convinced the next wave of the virus will be more deadly. Without a widely-available vaccine, none of us may have any resistance at all. The United Nations could change all that. But we don’t have much time. We have to work together.”

  “We’re all ears, Colonel. What do you propose?” asked Briggs.

  Chapter 45

  Once the formal section of what Terra facetiously referred to as ‘the rebel tea party’ finished, Briggs invited everyone for a twilight cruise on board the Sheridan. Air-conditioned buses waited to ferry his guests down to the quayside. Once aboard, uniformed staff served champagne in cut-glass crystal, accompanied by canapés prepared by his ‘private chef’.

  Terra helped herself to a blini topped with a splodge of cream and a smear of what the waiter said was ‘caviar’. Knowing ‘Big Dave’ from the school kitchens, it was more likely herring roe. Briggs had a penchant for the stuff. He thought eating fish eggs on miniature pancakes made him look sophisticated. Terra sneered at his bourgeoisie. At Briggs’s request, the chef put in an appearance in starched whites, shaking hands with the minister. She caught the colonel’s eye-roll and they laughed together. The collective bonhomie ensured this friendly detente continued throughout the evening.

  At the appointed hour, the Sheridan’s skipper ordered lines be cast off and angled away from the low jetty at Berthon Marina in the gathering darkness, their destination still under wraps. Terra suspected they were to rendezvous with another group. Most of the moorings were deserted, the plethora of sail boats and cruisers relocated to the island to prevent more refugees attempting the crossing, the vessels deemed unseaworthy towed and sunk on the far side of the channel, their ghostly shapes visible below their surface, masts and rigging marking their locations.

  The Sheridan’s search light picked out the unlit posts, mudflats, and shallows on their meandering route to open water. Twice, larger vessels, anchored within the deep water channel, loomed out of the darkness, passing within touching distance as they slid past, briefly illuminated by their deck lights.

  Terra refused another glass of fizz, as they began to roll in the swell. The other guests retired to their seats inside the cabin and quarterdeck, but she stayed put, enjoying the sea air, toying with her hair. She would need her wits about her tonight. Victor suggested they were to meet LaSalle, the Belgian leader of the United Nations. She vaguely remembered him from the celebrity gossip rags she devoured to stay current. Terra imagined what she might say to him, given the opportunity.

  A small commotion on the bow caught her eye. The crewman operating the spotlight picked out a fast-moving RIB smashing into the waves towards them, its navigation lights dancing in the spray. The rigid inflatable turned sharply and fell into step alongside the Sheridan. Stars and stripes. Americans. The colonel saluted Lieutenant Peterson. Four crew, one standing, gripping the machine gun mounted at the bow. As soon as their group rounded the last channel marker, the Sheridan’s skipper opened up the twin diesels, powering down tide towards the dark outline of the Maersk Charlotte, its deck lights just visible in the distance.

  “Is this seat taken?” Terra was jolted from her reverie by the colonel’s hand on her shoulder. She glanced around, noting there were several other places available.

  “Be my guest.” He surreptitiously checked over his shoulder as he took his seat, their elbows touching. No one was within earshot, their voices drowned out by the throaty diesel engines. “I was wondering when you were going to come over,” continued Terra, with a flick of the hair.

  The colonel tilted his head. “Then Briggs told you?”

  “He mentioned you wanted to speak to me, that’s all. He didn’t say what about.” Secretly, Terra had been looking forward to this conversation all day, but she needed the colonel to make the first move. Perhaps he needed her help for a secret mission, she mused excitedly.

  “Then I should dispel the mystery. I wanted to ask you about your brother.”

  Terra laughed, off guard. “Stephen? Why would you want to talk about Stephen?” she repeated. “He died years ago.”

  “Yes, I know. In a car crash. September 2002.”

  “Sorry, Colonel,” she struggled to hide her confusion, “you have me at a disadvantage.” She stared at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to continue.

  “You’re aware I worked for military intelligence.”

  “GCHQ, wasn’t it?”

  “Exactly. You do realise the security services looked into the circumstances of your brother’s death?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Stephen was helping us with an enquiry.”

  She giggled at the ridiculousness of her brother knowing anything that might relate to matters of national security. “Are you sure you don’t have him confused with someone else? I can’t imagine how my brother’s knowledge of tax law was in any way significant to military intelligence.”

  “Quite sure. Did he never talk to you about his work?”

  “Not really, except to say it was all terribly dull. Tax evasion, white collar crime, that sort of thing.”

  “Too modest by half. The information your brother supplied us with led to the conviction of two high-value suspects, wanted for a string of offences. Did he ever mention the name: Abu Bakir al-Nazridi?”

  The colour must have drained from Terra’s face. “I don’t think so?” she lied. A name that haunted her darkest thoughts for many years after Stephen’s death.

  “It was a case he was helping us with.” The c
olonel studied her reaction carefully.

  “My brother was a very private person. He never liked to talk about anything.”

  “Al-Nazridi’s case was covered in most of the papers. Saudi business man suspected of money laundering via a diverse network of laundromats, cash-and-carrys, builders’ merchants, legitimate businesses operating throughout the Midlands. Between them they handled tens of thousands of pounds of cash per month. His organisation channelled most of that into half a dozen shell companies and offshore accounts. I’m surprised Stephen never mentioned it. It was his first high profile case.”

  “I vaguely remember,” she said, desperately trying to recall something they had discussed before he died. “Stephen got him off, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, his team successfully argued the transactions formed part of a blind trust Al-Nazridi had no control over. The judge threw it out.”

  “Since when did GCHQ become so interested in domestic crime?” Terra instantly regretted her question. It suggested a more advanced knowledge than she was prepared to admit.

  “The line was never clear cut, especially with Al-Nazridi. He was Saudi by birth, but lived in the UK for twelve years. Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs’ tax department uncovered several suspicious property transactions. Sealed bids. Individuals paying way over market value. In total, we believe they funnelled millions into offshore trusts held in Panama or the Middle East. GCHQ only got involved when it came to light who really controlled the trusts.”

  “And you’re suggesting my brother knew about this?”

  “The defence team had privileged access to al-Nazridi’s financial records. Stephen knew all about the various flow of funds. He helped us join the dots. We were able to freeze dozens of accounts, identify dozens of suspicious transactions. Several million pounds in total. The money trail led to two of al-Nazridi’s cousins known to have fought in Syria for Islamic State.”

  “How did you convince my brother to help you?” asked Terra, already suspecting the truth. “My brother took client confidentiality very seriously.”

  “I suppose he felt guilty about getting al-Nazridi off.”

  Terra suspected there was more to it than that. Victor had warned her about the colonel’s methods. Digging up dirt, threatening to expose people for some misdemeanour. In that respect, he was no better than Briggs. A manipulative bully in a different guise.

  “When we were growing up, my brother had a talent for keeping secrets.”

  “It’s impossible to hide much from a sibling,” countered the colonel. She guessed he already knew Stephen was bi-sexual, though her parents had never put two-and-two together. Terra’s thoughts turned to the tragic circumstances of Stephen’s death, her mind cycling through the details, trying to reconcile this new information. “Perhaps al-Nazridi found out my brother was helping you.”

  “We don’t know what happened. But the night of the crash, he contacted his police liaison officer out of the blue.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Apparently, he was concerned someone was following him,” began the colonel, closing his eyes, as if the memory still had the power to haunt him after all these years. Terra was intrigued and horrified in equal measures, “The officer told Stephen to go home. To sit tight until we could take him into protective custody.”

  “You’re saying he panicked?”

  “We don’t know. There were no witnesses.”

  “The investigators said he lost control, skidded on wet leaves, drove into a tree.”

  “There were no other cars involved. He died instantly. Severe head trauma.”

  “He always did like driving fast,” she mused.

  “The coroner recorded an open verdict. Did you never wonder why?”

  “Not really. Until you mentioned it.”

  “One or two details were withheld at the request of the security services. Pending further investigation. There was a scrape on the driver’s door. Metallic blue paint belonging to a 1998 Mercedes 190E,” he said, checking his pocket notebook. “We couldn’t be sure when the damage occurred. It was inconclusive, at best.”

  “Then it’s possible someone ran my brother off the road and made it look like an accident?”

  “That was our line of enquiry, yes.”

  “Did you trace the vehicle?”

  “Actually, no. It was never found.” The colonel looked out over the waves, wringing his hands, in what Terra took to be simulated anguish, as if building towards the question he had really come to ask. “I wondered whether you could shed any light on your brother’s state of mind before he died. Did he ever suffer from depression? Or talk about taking his own life?”

  “No, never,” said Terra shaking her head, beginning to resent the colonel’s questions, trawling through his life, stirring up long-forgotten pain, anger, resentment, that sense of injustice that still lingered. “I’m sorry, but why are you so interested in all this now?”

  “Stephen’s death always troubled me.”

  “Because your people failed to prevent his death?” suggested Terra, going on the attack.

  “The whole department was devastated. I came to believe your brother’s crash might be part of a wider conspiracy.” The colonel let out a deep sigh. “Would you say that Stephen was religious?”

  “Hardly, I mean, he went to Church at Easter and Christmas, but that was about it.”

  “So he never talked to you about his conversion?”

  “Conversion to what?”

  The colonel made a note of her response.

  “He became a Bahá’íst.”

  “A what?”

  “You know, a member of the Bahá’í faith. They believe in peace, love, harmony, that sort of thing. They reject nationalism in favour of the prosperity of all races, creeds and classes.”

  Terra laughed in spite of herself. “He wasn’t a hippy, if that’s what you’re suggesting? My brother wasn’t religious in the slightest.”

  “We believe he converted as a condition of employment working for Al-Nazridi. He was known to require conversion for all his employees. Did Stephen ever express any strong anti-war sentiment?”

  “Not particularly. I mean, my parents took us to Greenham Common once when we were kids, but he was hardly a flower-waving pacifist.”

  “Does the name David Kelly mean anything to you?”

  “Of course. The government scientist who committed suicide before the war. You’re not suggesting they knew each other?”

  “I am. They were photographed together, in and around Oxford. We think religion was the connection. They were both counselled by the same person, prior to their deaths, two months apart.”

  “Look, I’m telling you, my brother was neither political nor religious. He just wasn’t interested in any of that stuff.”

  “And yet, you admit that Stephen was rather good at hiding the truth from those he was trying to protect.”

  “He was always busy with work. When he left home, we grew apart.”

  “People change, Terra. It’s critical we understand his state of mind before he died.”

  “Why? This all happened twenty years ago.”

  “Because it may help shed light on what happened to Kelly. The slightest detail could make a difference.” She waited for him to continue, unsure how to respond. “Look, what I’m about to tell you is classified?” Terra nodded, leaning forward. “After Kelly’s death, the security services recovered documents from his house that painted a very different picture of what was really going on inside Iraq in the lead up to the war.”

  Terra’s thoughts were racing. A flash of memory. Zed’s interrogation after the rebels ambushed the convoy from Porton. Briggs asking repeatedly about Kelly, blaming Zed for what happened. None of it made any sense at the time.

  “How much has Briggs told you about your brother?”

  “Excuse me?” Terra assumed the colonel had misspoken.

  “Oh, yes. Briggs knew Stephen. I thought you knew that?” asked the co
lonel. A commotion on the foredeck interrupted their conversation.

  In the distance, Terra could see the outline of the Charlotte, silhouetted against the night sky, still perhaps a mile away. The crewman on the flying bridge was shouting, pointing at something in the water. Either Terra’s eyes were playing tricks on her or there was a dark shape moving rapidly across their bow, barely disrupting the surface, unlit by any navigation light. By the time they got closer, whatever it was had disappeared.

  The Sheridan came alongside the Charlotte, depositing its passengers on to the metal walkway, stairs that climbed steeply towards a hatchway beneath the bridge, giving access to the belly of the ship. Terra followed the professor through dimly-lit passageways, stepping through bulkheads. The bass rumble from the generator could be felt and heard from three decks below them.

  They reached a cavernous chamber within the ship’s hold. Far above them, Terra could make out the night sky, framed by ten-high container stacks, towering above them like skyscrapers, what remained of the Charlotte’s cargo made largely redundant in a world turned upside down. Containers filled with fridge freezers, washing machines, microwave ovens, personal possessions ready to start a new life in faraway places. The Allies had already unloaded the priority items on the ship’s manifest, including humanitarian aid, bottled water, tents, blankets and clothing.

  Their footsteps echoed off the steel deck. Folding tables and chairs were set in the middle of the cathedral-sized space, enough to hold a small conference. Logs burning in two empty oil drums sent shadows dancing across the multicoloured containers. Terra suddenly wished she had worn a thicker sweater. It was like a giant fridge in here.

  Seated in prime position at the front of the room was the man Terra remembered from various paparazzi photos and magazines. The glamorous movie star wife, precocious teenagers dressed in Gaultier and Rabanne. LaSalle’s celebrity looks had graced the pages of every magazine from Hello to The Economist. She always did have a soft-spot for French-speaking actors. Jean Reno, Vincent Cassel, even Sagamore Stévenin. LaSalle was certainly attractive, but in a more conventional sense: angular jaw, perfect white teeth. Too clean-cut for Terra’s liking. Though she might make an exception for his multi-millionaire lifestyle. The private jet, the superyacht, the designer clothes. It must be lonely being that wealthy, she supposed.