“The same reason Donnelly couldn’t bring himself to kill you.”
“Then tell me. Why?”
“That night of the ambush, Briggs wanted you to suffer. He still blames you.”
“For what?”
“Something you did a long time ago.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know the guy.”
“Why else would he spare you? Twice.”
“Oh, so I should be grateful? The man took my arm, brainwashed my son.”
“He rescued Connor from those death camps. Look, I don’t know all of it, but there’s more to Briggs than you realise. It took me a while to figure it out, but I’ve seen a different side to him. I’m telling you, he likes playing mind games, but he’s not all bad. No one’s defending his methods, but if it wasn’t for him…” Her voice trailed off, conflicted.
Zed shook his head at Terra’s naivety, blind to Briggs’s wickedness. “If he’s done anything to Connor…,” he began. “Why don’t we all stop pretending, eh? This isn’t some twisted game of happy families.”
“Connor will come round. You’ll see. He’s angry with you, that’s all.”
“Why does Briggs care?”
“His dad died when he was still a kid. Unresolved daddy issues,” she half-joked. “Look, Connor’s insurance. That’s all. Just give Briggs what he wants.”
“Why would I trust him?”
“Because he’s old fashioned. A man of his word,” she admitted with a shrug.
Zed was remembering what Briggs had said. ‘Finish what you started’, ‘bring down the circus’, ‘set the world on fire’. Wondering again what he meant. In the cold light of day, Briggs was asking the equivalent of free climbing El Capitan with one arm. Not impossible, just very, very difficult. What was he missing? Something didn’t add up.
“Where’s Briggs right now?” he asked.
“He left at first light. Some urgent business on the island,” she answered cryptically.
“What’s your angle here, Terra?”
“If it wasn’t for me Briggs would have slaughtered every man, woman and child at Hurst Castle.”
Zed snorted at Terra’s distorted sense of reality. “You may be able to twist everyone else round your little finger, but not me. I’m not buying the whole Mother Teresa act. ”
The barbed comment seemed to give her pause, reconsidering her approach. “Has it never occurred to you that if you stop pushing people away, they might actually help you?”
“What could you possibly know?” he asked dismissively.
“About your investigation. About Donnelly.” She leaned in and whispered. “You think you’re the only one searching for answers.”
Was this just another confidence trick, thought Zed, or had he underestimated Terra? “Go on.”
“Briggs says the colonel’s been playing you since day one.”
“That’s his job. He’s a former spy,” he mocked. “You’re going to have to do better than that. He’s about the only person around here who has told the truth.”
“You’d bet your life on that, would you? He was asking all kinds of personal questions about my brother.”
“What does your brother have to do with anything?”
“I can only assume he’s connected with your investigation somehow.”
“Stephen Jeffries? I’ve never heard your brother’s name mentioned.”
“Hastings. Stephen Hastings. He died, years ago, in a car accident. 2003.”
Why did that name sound so familiar? Since his interrogation, Zed’s memory palace was more tumble-down stately home. “Then Jeffries is your married name?
“No, I never married. It’s a long story.”
“Now who’s holding back?”
“Okay, okay,” she conceded. “Not long after Stephen died, all this crazy stuff started happening. The police said it was a stalker, some ex-boyfriend trying to get his own back, but it was more than that. Anonymous notes left on my windscreen. Phone calls in the middle of the night.”
“Saying what?”
“Nothing explicit. They were warning me off. Not to ask questions. The police refused to take action.”
“Why is the Colonel so interested in your brother?”
“Something to do with a case Stephen was working on. He suggested GCHQ believed the circumstances of the accident were suspicious.”
“What was the case about?”
“Money-laundering. White-collar crime. He mentioned the name Al-Nazridi?”
And there it was. Like synapses firing again after weeks of inactivity, the name Al-Nazridi triggered a flurry of connections, an overload of possibilities, all converging in that one instant.
“Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Sorry. That threw me for a loop, Stephen Hastings is your brother,” said Zed, nodding in reverie. “He went to Oxford, didn’t he? Linacre College.”
“How on earth...?” she began, confused, but excited at the same time. “Yes, he did a post-grad in criminology.”
“Linacre was Doctor Kelly’s alma mater.”
“The scientist who died?”
“That’s right. Before becoming a weapons inspector, Kelly was a senior microbiologist at the University.” Zed remembered a family photo in the UN document cache of a much younger Stephen, standing next to his parents and a teenage sister, outside a semi-detached suburban property. “You wore your hair longer back then. Shoulder-length, tied back. Knee-length black leather boots, cargo trousers, your father wore a green Barbour jacket.” The mental image brought a smile, picturing the different fashions and hairstyles.
“How are you doing this?” asked a spooked Terra.
“Once upon a time I had a photographic memory. Now it comes and goes. I’m not sure why I remember that photo so clearly.”
“Is that why Donnelly was trying to brainwash you? Or is there a link to Rockingham you’re not telling me about?”
“How do you know about Rockingham?” asked Zed in genuine surprise.
“I heard Briggs talking to the Colonel. I told you,” she boasted. “I know more than you think.”
“The whole prosecution case is a pack of lies.”
“I heard you signed a confession.”
“I was high on opiates. Those charges will never stand up to scrutiny. None of it matters any more. I’m beyond caring what happens to me.”
“Poor Zed. Forever the fall guy,” she mocked.
“Spare me your pity.”
“They’ve all used you, haven’t they? To get what they wanted. The Colonel, Briggs, Armstrong, Donnelly, Peterson.” Zed looked up, surprised by the inclusion of Peterson’s name on the list. “You didn’t know he came to see Briggs several times while we were living at Carisbrooke Castle? That’s right. The Americans have been playing one side against the other. ”
“Why?”
“He used Briggs as his wrecking ball. Kept his nose clean.”
Zed remembered the mugshots of rebel leaders in the Allies’ operations room at St. Mary’s. King’s face crossed out with a Sharpie. He took a moment to process, working through the permutations, reviewing the spare puzzle pieces that hadn’t seemed to fit, until now. Zed was still struggling to make sense of Briggs’s part in all this.
“Did Briggs say anything else about my investigation?”
“He wanted to punish you. He was convinced you were holding something back during the interrogation. Getting his hands on those data drives from Porton was a cover. You were the real target. What he did to you was...,” she hesitated, “excessive.”
Zed ignored her words of comfort, a sixth sense making itself heard. “How much does Briggs know about your brother?”
The question seemed to give Terra pause. “Nothing that I’m aware of.”
“Then why was the Colonel really asking you?”
“Because he thought I might remember something about my brother’s mental state before he died. Something about his religion and poli
tics. He suggested another car ran Stephen off the road.”
Zed nodded disinterestedly. His mind had already progressed to an older question, parked for another time, that had just jumped to the top of the pile. “Were you never curious why Briggs chose you? I mean, a man like him could have had…”
“Anyone?” Terra finished the sentence. Clearly it wasn’t the first time she had been asked the question. “When I was first captured, Briggs used to say that ‘I was the key’ over and over again. I never understood what he was talking about.”
“The key to what?”
“I always thought he meant Hurst, but he’s never shown the slightest interest in that place.”
“The castle was King’s obsession, not Briggs’s.” He stroked his chin, trying to remember what he had read in the Kelly folder. Kelly had made many friends in Iraq. Many enemies too. “It’s possible Briggs worked with al-Nazridi.”
“I doubt it. Briggs is a lifelong patriot. He would never work with a terrorist fundraiser. Whatever you think about him, he’s got standards.”
“Why are you protecting him, Terra?”
“I don’t expect you to understand. We don’t get to choose who we’re attracted to.”
“You’re not the first or the last to fall in love with their captor. It happens in like one in ten hostage rescue situations. They call it Stockholm syndrome.”
“This is different. I’m in control, not him.”
“We all tell ourselves that we’re in control. Perhaps deep down Stephen shared that inner conflict. Maybe he felt guilty for getting al-Nazridi off?”
“We all share responsibility for the parts we’ve played.” There was a fire in Terra’s eyes that made Zed look away.
“What if Briggs had something to do with your brother’s death?”
“He couldn’t hide something like that. Not from me.”
“Perhaps. Kelly called them ‘dark actors’ playing games, covering their tracks.”
“Is that so different from what’s going on now?”
“The inquiry into Kelly’s suicide was a sham. There’s no question, the authorities suppressed evidence. Maybe they did the same in your brother’s case too.”
“But why?”
“Does the name Phoenix mean anything to you?” Terra stared blankly, her eyebrows furrowed. “I just wondered if your brother ever mentioned it. Whether Stephen joined the dots, tracked the money to its final destination. It could have been enough to get him killed.”
“They recorded an open verdict. The police enquiry and coroner’s report were withheld.”
“They pulled the same trick with Kelly.”
“You think the two deaths could be linked?”
“I don’t see why not. In Kelly’s case, all the photos and post-mortem evidence were sealed for seventy years. Are those the actions of a system with nothing to hide?”
“Briggs said you knew Kelly. Professionally or personally?”
“I knew him well enough. His death was a tremendous loss.”
“Pressure does funny things to people. Anyone exposed to that level of media scrutiny would have buckled.”
“Not Kelly. If anyone could handle pressure, it was him. The stories about him were the stuff of legend in the Ministry of Defence. The weapons inspector who faced down gun-toting officials in Iraq and Russia with nothing more than a briefcase and an umbrella.” Zed let out a deep sigh. Talking about Kelly again had resurfaced all his anger about Rockingham. Donnelly’s claim that Zed was somehow responsible for Kelly’s death haunted his every waking thought.
Terra pressed her advantage, perhaps sensing his private anguish. “Memories are fallible. None of us can be sure what really happened.”
“They get to all of us in the end. However much we pretend, we’re all compromised.”
“You made a convenient scapegoat. So if Kelly didn’t commit suicide and my brother didn’t really lose control of that car, who murdered them?”
“I wish I knew the answer. The Russians? The Iraqis? Maybe even MI6?”
“What about the Colonel?” asked Terra, mischief in her eyes.
“Impossible. Why launch an investigation if you knew it could lead back to your own door? Donnelly and Armstrong are the only ones with viable motives.”
Terra fell silent. “Then what did Kelly or my brother know that everyone was so afraid of?”
Zed hesitated, wondering whether to trust Terra. He shrugged his shoulders. What more did he have to lose?
“What if Kelly was the one person who knew the truth? The only one capable of seeing the wood from the trees? Kelly saw behind the curtain, had first-hand knowledge of Porton’s research programmes, their ambition, their culture. He spent years tracking down Iraqi weapons, testing sites, laboratories, factories, underground storage facilities.”
“You’re suggesting a degree of self-interest?”
“No, not at all. That’s not what I meant. Kelly was a man of integrity. The UN inspection teams depended on people like him, within the Ministry of Defence and other Security Council members. You see, UNSCOM didn’t have its own intelligence capability. Kelly read between the lines, understood the size of the opportunity. Intelligence flows both ways, after all. The UK knew that if they could get their hands on those rumoured Iraqi technologies, recover samples of genetically-modified pathogens they had heard so much about, then who knows? It could unlock an entire revolution in military science. One Porton aspired to lead.”
Zed paused, thinking aloud, the ideas forming as he articulated them.
“What if the threat of Allied invasion forced Saddam’s hand? He would have done anything to salvage the core elements of his weapons programmes. The knowledge and know-how that could be redeployed when circumstances allowed. What if Kelly suspected those samples were the real prize? He may even have known about the mobile labs and Saddam’s plan to smuggle them out of the country. Other than Donnelly, Kelly was the only one who could connect the dots. With Kelly out of the way, the truth would be unknowable.”
“Then why did Kelly go against the party line and betray his colleagues?”
“No, it was never about betrayal. Kelly was simply a man of principle. He refused to be bullied. Kelly was neither the first nor the last person to be silenced in this way. There were undoubtedly others in the US and the UK. People who refused to tow the party line.”
“No British government would sanction murder.”
“Kelly was a squeaky wheel. He dared contradict the Blair-Bush narrative. Someone had to shut him up. Maybe someone did the same to your brother.” Zed fell silent, thinking this through. “You need to get Briggs to talk. He knows more than he’s letting on.”
“You’re suggesting a partnership, of sorts?”
“A temporary alliance. Come on Terra. If anyone can do this, we can.”
“I know you think I have Briggs twisted around my little finger, but he keeps me at arm’s length.”
“You focus on Briggs. I’ll work on the Colonel.”
“You said it yourself. It’s the only way to get Connor back.”
“First you need to get me off this boat,” said Zed, sliding his stiff legs to the side of the bed.
Chapter 54
By the time the Nipper came alongside Briggs’s powerboat, Zed was standing by the rail, hand raised in welcome, dressed in borrowed clothes.
“Thank God you’re alright,” said Riley, hugging him tightly once he was safely on board the fishing boat. “I was so worried.” She looked him up and down, taking in the oversized shirt and ill-fitting trousers.
“What?” asked Zed, self-consciously checking his zip.
“You look different. Less pale.”
“I feel different,” he joked with renewed confidence, “I think I’m getting my mojo back. And my memory.”
Sam angled away, the Nipper’s engines responding faithfully, wheezing and panting like some dutiful workhorse. Zed glanced round, remembering Terra, who was watching their reunion with
something approaching envy. “Good luck,” she shouted from the Sheridan’s cockpit.
In the distance, the Chester’s twenty-four foot rigid inflatable skimmed the wave tops, racing towards them at incredible speed. They circled and fell into step alongside. The Chester’s Chief Medical Officer gripped the handhold, cheeks flushed, wiping spray from his glasses with a handkerchief. Either side of him sat Lieutenant Peterson and Sergeant Jones.
The small flotilla continued on its journey, passing the entrance to the Beaulieu River. Buckler’s Hard, some two miles beyond had once been one of Zed’s favourite places for a family day out. The motor museum, the views over the estuary, the Georgian cottages, and its proud shipbuilding history, playing its part in countless naval operations from the Battle of Trafalgar to the D-Day landings.
On their starboard side, the capsized hulk of the Maersk Charlotte had become the latest addition to the Solent’s innumerable nautical hazards, her bridge and superstructure blackened by fire. Sam gave the wreck site a wide berth, slowing considerably to navigate the part-submerged containers floating east on the tide. Once they were clear, he opened up her twin diesels, surfing down the waves towards Cowes.
The harbour wall running along the western shore of the Medina River carried newly sprayed graffiti Zed couldn’t read from this distance. LaSalle passed the binoculars, shaking his head in disgust. Beneath the old Royal Yacht Squadron and Island Sailing Club Zed located a warning in four-feet high letters that read simply ‘Island for Islanders’ and ‘UN = virus’.
“I wouldn’t pay too much attention,” warned the colonel. “You see these messages everywhere these days. It’s all part of Donnelly’s little propaganda machine.”
“I’m not surprised, just disappointed. People try to blame the UN for spreading disease all the time. I saw it first-hand in Sierra Leone during the Ebola outbreak.”
“Consider it a compliment. You’ve clearly got someone’s attention.”
Beyond Ventura Quays and the giant Union Jack-painted hangar doors, deserted waterfront warehouses and dockyards cluttered the east bank. Cranes and rusting machinery sat idle. They motored south, leaving behind the dense forests of masts and rigging in the marinas and river moorings, replaced by open countryside, woods, and ploughed fields ready for planting. On the outskirts of Newport, the enormous blades of wind turbines in various states of assembly littered the quayside. They moored at the Odessa Boatyard, not a stone’s throw from the secure compound at St Mary’s, in the very heart of Newport. A welcome committee lined the quay. Captain Armstrong stood with his arms crossed. There was an awkward silence as they secured their mooring ropes.
The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger Page 40
