All eyes turned to the professor for his response.
“Doctor Hardy is right,” he agreed, after a slight hesitation. “The war against viruses is unwinnable. They outnumber us by a million to one. Pandemics have always been a natural feature of life on this planet, shaping civilisation and culture unlike any other force of evolution. Each novel virus, whether Spanish flu, Cholera, Bubonic plague, Smallpox, coronavirus, changed the world. Our only hope of survival long term is to enhance the body’s own defences to make us more resilient to infection.”
“Miss Stephens has already been kind enough to provide us with her perspective on the outbreak. We’re keen to understand more about the focus of Porton’s research, in particular classified programmes relating to viruses.”
Hardy shot Gill a reproachful scowl. “Colonel, as you’re well aware, national security interests prevent me from discussing this. Major Donnelly gave explicit instruction...”
“Major Donnelly is suspended from duty, pending investigation. Look, if you refuse to cooperate with this enquiry, Doctor, you may face charges of obstruction. Are we clear?” demanded the colonel.
Hardy swallowed hard, weighing up the consequences. Damned either way, thought Zed. “Colonel, with all due respect, I’m a scientist, not a politician.” He shuffled the papers in front of him, as if playing for time. “Synthetic biology is a discipline without limits. Doctor Wu is exploring the very frontiers of science. Do you really believe he should be shackled by Victorian attitudes to morality? Laboratories in China were allowed to pursue similar programmes without constraint. Meanwhile government scientists in the West struggled to compete with well-funded start-ups. Years of austerity reduced our labs at Porton to the second or third tier of international research as endless oversight committees tied our hands.”
“Is that why Major Donnelly pulled strings to get his hands on those Iraqi samples? Research that would catapult Porton Down back into the premier league?” Hardy stared at his fingernails, waiting for the colonel to continue. “There’s no point denying it, Doctor, we’ve seen the evidence confirming their existence. Flight data proves they were delivered to Boscombe Down air base.”
Hardy took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “I can tell you what I know. Back in 1997 the MoD received intelligence they believed credible that Iraq had perfected a novel strain of West Nile virus, code named WN1417. Potentially, it was a game changer. Highly infectious, mortality rate of over ninety per cent. Donnelly ordered me to suspend all other research. Without a vaccine our ground forces would be vulnerable. It was given the highest priority.”
“Why?”
“Because we believed an attack was imminent. Saddam had openly supported terrorism against Western targets.”
“How was it Iraq had developed such a weapon?” asked LaSalle.
“They had help, from the Soviets. We know they outsourced classified research programmes to locations within Iraq. Not just West Nile but several haemorrhagic fevers like Marburg. We called it Project Bonfire. It galvanised scientists at Porton and Fort Detrick into action. Major Donnelly considered obtaining samples of these novel pathogens top priority.”
“Was your team personally responsible for analysing the samples in 2003?”
“No, but we all heard the rumours they existed. Look, you have to understand that, even to a senior staffer like me, there are areas of the Porton Down complex completely off limits. Entire sections that don’t appear on any floor plan. Underground sub levels no one has access to. Perhaps that’s where they stored the samples, if they really did exist. Only Donnelly would know.”
“That’s a little convenient, wouldn’t you say?” accused the colonel.
“Not really. Did you know everything that went on at GCHQ? Of course not. Porton Down is one of the most secure military facilities in the country. Even the office cleaners have to sign the Official Secrets’ Act.”
“I know. We tried to recruit one of the janitors,” admitted the colonel with a wry smile. “That’s why I insisted Mister Fox be brought in. To get to the bottom of these rumours.” He acknowledged Fox’s presence, taking notes as Doctor Hardy provided his responses.
“Major Donnelly insisted on secrecy at all times. We were threatened with suspension, even prosecution,” continued Hardy. “He warned us never to speak to anyone outside of our immediate teams.”
“The United Nations became so frustrated with Porton’s intransigence, we considered tabling sanctions for non-compliance with our reciprocal inspection programmes. The Russians and French complained bitterly about British hypocrisy,” conceded LaSalle. “They demanded action, but there was little we could do without first-hand intelligence. In the end, we were unable to reach an agreement on punitive measures. Warring factions on the Security Council bickered and delayed.”
“As usual,” complained the minister. “Once the MoD refused to play ball, the Russians took the moral high ground, claimed a new era of openness was being blocked.”
“It was a disaster. We suspended the international inspection regime indefinitely.”
“That wasn’t the end of the story,” explained the colonel. “We held our own enquiry behind closed doors. There were domestic repercussions certainly. Doctor Hardy testified before a special session of the Joint Intelligence Committee. I’ve shared the transcripts.”
“I had no choice. My responses were all scripted. The MoD lawyers advised me not to reveal anything that might self-incriminate. Donnelly ordered us to deny and dissemble. In the end, everything was swept under the carpet.”
“Doctor, when you first learned what Donnelly is accused of, were you surprised?”
Hardy’s expression narrowed, lips pursed. “I suppose we all were, to an extent. It seems inconceivable such a programme could have remained hidden all these years.”
“The scale of deception is breathtaking,” added the colonel.
“You have to understand the unspoken code amongst military scientists. Unlike academic and commercial laboratories, there’s no cultural taboo about secrecy, even in this country. They teach us to mind our own business. Never to disclose details of active research programmes. Period.”
“But it doesn’t stop the rumour mill.”
“No, of course. In the canteen, in the corridor. Ask Miss Stephens,” said Hardy, appealing for support. All eyes turned towards Gill.
“When I first started at Porton,” she explained. “I was lucky enough to have Kelly as my mentor. I suppose he taught me the importance of curiosity, of respect. To always be professional. Kindness costs nothing, he said. He learned from inspecting Russian bioweapons sites that people are more likely to let their guard down if you remain civil. Threats so rarely work. He told me to keep my eyes and ears open. To never judge. Little by little, I built a more complete picture of what each Porton team was working on.”
“In hindsight, there must have been moles like you, reporting back,” claimed Hardy, with a note of bitterness. “Perhaps the Colonel knows?”
“If there were others within Porton, I wasn’t aware of them. Donnelly had that place locked down tight.”
“Miss Stephens, what was it that persuaded you to turn on your colleagues? You must have suspected something was wrong,” asked LaSalle.
“As a woman, it was the bullying, the endless harassment, which pushed me over the edge. The whole culture of that place was toxic.” She shot Hardy an accusatory stare. “I wanted to bring the curtain down on the whole Porton circus.” Circus was the word Briggs used on the Sheridan, thought Zed. “I have no idea what they actually did with all that information I passed them. Reports, data, personnel records.”
“Without hard evidence, there’s not much anyone can do,” admitted the colonel. “By the time the MoD inspectors gained access, most of the evidence had been destroyed.”
“Donnelly learned the art of hiding equipment in plain site from the Iraqis,” admitted Hardy. “A lick of black paint here and there proves remarkably effective a
t masking something’s true purpose from visiting investigators. You can make high specification stainless steel tubes look rusted, air purifiers like air conditioning units.” Hardy laughed. “The Iraqis were masters of disguise. So was Donnelly.”
“Surely inspectors are not that credulous?”
“You’d be surprised. After years of austerity, the calibre of MoD investigator was certainly not what it used to be under Kelly. The team that visited Porton were academics, unqualified to determine truth from fiction.”
“Even though the evidence was staring them in the face? How exactly does one hide bioreactors and high-end air filtration systems?” asked the Chester’s Chief Medical Officer.
“The burden of proof is always on the inspection team. Knowing Donnelly, Porton’s programme of concealment would have been very convincing,” admitted Hardy. “The Official Secrets Act prevented us from volunteering anything the inspectors couldn’t directly prove. Even then we were told to deny everything. Non-compliance is surprisingly hard to substantiate.”
“It sounds laughable now, but the word of scientists, like those in my team, was generally distrusted. Especially when data became politicised,” added Gill. “Kelly would often say that two inspectors could look at the same evidence and draw completely different conclusions.”
“Bias is, unfortunately, everywhere. If someone genuinely does not want to believe in wrongdoing, then it’s almost impossible to convince them otherwise.”
“But others must have known the truth.”
“I’m not so sure. I think it was a matter of pride for Donnelly. He’s never been bothered by issues of morality. He thinks that’s the job of the politicians.”
“Did neither of you ever witness explicit examples of wrongdoing or malpractice?” asked LaSalle.
Gill thought about the Secretary General’s question for a few seconds. “There were certainly lapses, rules were broken, but nothing that would have got the place shut down.”
“You mean safety lapses?”
“Sure. Common sense by-pass stuff, too. Colleagues who should have known better handling samples without proper equipment. Once I witnessed someone suck on the end of a pipette without a thought for their own safety. The liquid later turned out to be harmless, but that’s not the point. Safety failures had become systemic on some teams.”
“If it hadn’t been for Miss Stephen’s bravery in coming forward when she did, we’d still be in the dark,” suggested the colonel. “Miss Stephens is a patriot.”
“Please.” Gill feigned embarrassment. “All that flag-waving nonsense curls my toes. I had my reasons.”
“Only if you mistake nationalism for patriotism,” claimed Hardy. “People like Miss Stephens are incapable of feeling proud to be British or of anything else for that matter.”
“Pride is a zero-sum game, Doctor,” added Gill. “For one country to be great, you believe others have to suffer. I disagree.”
“Good Lord,” exclaimed Hardy. “I never had you down as one of those dreadful apologists, judging the actions of our greatest imperialists by modern-day standards. Cecil Rhodes, David Livingstone, Brunel, Gladstone and Disraeli. People who established the foundations of the British Empire through blood, sweat and tears.”
Gill looked dumbfounded by the wild accusations. “Me? I’ve never laboured under the illusion that our country is any better or worse than others. I believe in science, Doctor Hardy, regardless of boundaries and borders.”
“Then you’ve totally missed the whole point. The greatest lesson this pandemic has taught us is that all our futures are bound together. If one nation falls, we all fall.”
“The UK thought it was different,” claimed LaSalle.
“Secretary General, true patriotism means standing up for what we believe in. It takes guts. We all do what we believe is right,” countered Doctor Hardy.
“People like you, Doctor, still believe the old lie: dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. How sweet it is to die for one’s country,” accused the minister.
“After what happened to me, I had no choice,” claimed Gill.
“I tried to warn you. You should have listened when you had the chance,” said Hardy.
The door opened and an agitated staff officer stood gasping for breath. “Sorry to interrupt, Lieutenant, but we’ve just received an urgent message from the Chester.”
“You may speak freely.”
“Sergeant Jones’s team has reported in from the Needles Battery. His message was incomplete but he says Donnelly may have taken refuge in the underground bunkers beneath the Old Battery.”
“Thank you, that will be all.”
The colonel waited until the door closed again. “Why on earth would Donnelly want to seal himself off? If he knew we were on to him, he would return to Porton.”
“Some suicide pact?” suggest LaSalle.
“What if Donnelly’s men mean to attack the convoy?” said Zed, thinking out loud.
“With what? A few museum cannons,” dismissed Lieutenant Peterson. “The escorts are more than capable of protecting those ships.”
“Then perhaps you weren’t listening,” countered Zed. “Riley said an entire construction team was working there, renovating the place. Who knows what they’ve built.”
“How soon can we leave?” asked the colonel, looking nervously at his watch.
“I can have the Seahawk here within the hour,” promised Lieutenant Peterson.
“We may not have that long.”
Chapter 57
It was already late afternoon by the time the Chester’s twin-engine Sikorsky SH-60 Seahawk was refuelled and ready for departure. Based on the last communication, Lieutenant Peterson estimated the convoy was now less than twenty miles south of the Needles, steaming north. It would be dark within a couple of hours, thought Zed. Captain Armstrong had volunteered a Royal Navy pilot with local knowledge to rendezvous with the French-flagged Mimosa and guide the United Nations ships through the Solent towards their ultimate destination in Southampton docks for immediate unloading.
“I suppose it’s too late to divert them to the east of the island?” asked Zed through the Seahawk’s headset.
“If Donnelly’s done his homework, he’ll have both options covered. Remember the rumours about Spitbank Fort? Heavy equipment being unloaded there a couple of weeks back. That was the main reason we switched routes in the first place. Anyway, between the Mimosa and the Chester, no one’s going to try anything.” Zed remained unconvinced. If Sergeant Jones’s report was correct and Major Donnelly was indeed at the Old Battery, it could mean only one thing.
“Did we get any updates from Sergeant Jones?” Zed asked Peterson. The lieutenant was leaning over the co-pilot’s shoulder, relaying instructions.
“Not yet, but we’ll keep trying. Knowing Private Rodriguez, he’ll be exploring every inch of those tunnels by now.” The pilot gave a thumbs up, his pre-flight checks complete. “Strap in gentlemen. Might get a little bumpy with that head wind.”
They flew low, north over the hospital buildings and security fence surrounding the St Mary’s compound, gaining altitude, banking around to the west, then back over Parkhurst Prison and the fields and woodlands beyond. They levelled off at five hundred feet, picking up speed, racing towards Newtown Creek and the river estuary that fed into the Solent, spread out like a shimmering silvery carpet in the evening light.
Once clear of land, the pilot descended again, skimming fifty feet above the waves, following the line of the island’s coast towards Yarmouth. Rounding the headland, Zed spotted Hurst Castle in the distance in all its glory, its Gun Tower dressed in summer bunting, Union Jack flying proudly above the battlements once more. He imagined Will, Scottie, Tommy, Liz and Greta ready to cheer the arrival of the United Nations convoy. On the opposite side of the Passage, Cliff End Battery raced past the open doorway. The Needles hove into view, the jagged rocks silhouetted against the setting sun.
Through the headset Zed overheard the co-pilo
t trying to reach the Chester, again and again without reply. The helicopter’s forward momentum slowed as they crossed Alum Bay, the multi-coloured cliffs towering above them, the rusting chair lift and cable stretching up from the loading platform on the beach. So many memories here. He brought the kids here when Connor was learning to walk. Candyfloss and ice creams. Happier days before the pain of marital problems and resulting separation.
“There they are, sir,” said the pilot, pointing at the first of the ships less than three miles south east of the island.
“I want to get a closer look at the Battery while we wait. Any idea why the Chester isn’t responding? Keep trying.”
The pilot gained altitude until the helicopter was level with the Coastguard look-out station and grassy area above Alum bay. There was no sign of Sergeant Jones, other than the Foxhound and Land Rover parked next to the Second World War concrete bunkers.
“Where exactly are these concealed firing positions?” Peterson asked Zed, scanning the cliffs with binoculars.
“Good question. They’re virtually invisible to the naked eye unless you know where to look,” responded Zed, peering at the rockface, scanning for camouflage netting, discolouration, or man-made structures.
“There,” he shouted, pointing at one such horizontal slit. From this distance, it looked harmless, wide enough for the barrel of a weapon, like the arrow slits you saw in medieval castles. On closer inspection, this aperture was considerably wider, perhaps a relic of the Napoleonic War, large enough for a cannon to fire on unsuspecting French ships entering the narrow channel leading to the Solent. Peterson shook his head, convinced this entire theory was a wild goose chase.
The pilot withdrew and circled around for a better angle. The convoy had already closed the gap. Four vessels in formation. Two warships and two massive container ships. The Mimosa took the lead, perhaps a third the size of the Chester, an old French Audacieuse-class coastal patrol ship, lightly armed with a front-mounted cannon. Nevertheless, her grey hull and sleek lines no doubt provided a reassuring presence to the UN relief workers and civilians aboard.
The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger Page 43
