by Ken McClure
‘More bushmeat is eaten here,’ said Hans Weber.
‘Even after being warned that it could give them Ebola?’
‘It’s hard to change people’s habits,’ said Hans.
‘True,’ Tally agreed, but modified her puzzled agreement with a slight shrug before adding, ‘Another thing I wonder about is vaccination.’
‘What about it?’
‘I know it wasn’t available at the outset of the 2014 epidemic, but it did become available – albeit late on in 2016 in experimental form with limited stocks. You’d think that quite a number of contacts up here would have been given it and be immune.
‘Uh huh,’ agreed several of the volunteers, waiting for more.
‘Well, what I’m trying to say is that when you add to them the people up here who contracted Ebola and survived, you’d have a population, many of whom would be immune to the disease, making the north-west the last place you’d expect a new outbreak to occur.’
‘Good point,’ said Hans, ‘although I’m not sure we could ever come up with reliable numbers to do the maths. The only facts we know for sure are that DRC has had nine outbreaks since 1976, four of them in Equateur Province – 1976, 1977, 2014, and now 2018.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Tally with a smile, ‘My problem is that I can never accept anything without scientific evidence to back it up. I know it’s very probable that fruit bats might be the natural reservoir of haemorrhagic viruses like Ebola, but until someone comes up with clear and incontrovertible evidence, I’m going to keep an open mind.’
‘Good for you,’ said Mary Kelly, the Irish nurse. ‘It’s never easy to swim against the tide.’
‘Much easier to go with the flow,’ said Hans.
The meeting ended but Hans Weber and Mary Kelly stayed behind, knowing that they would no longer be baby-sitting Tally from the following day and checking that she was comfortable with everything.
‘Absolutely,’ said Tally, ‘and many thanks for your help. What have you guys got lined up for tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Refrigeration,’ exclaimed Hans with an exasperated sigh. ‘The vaccine has to be kept at a temperature below minus 60 degrees Centigrade and you know what the power supply is like in this country.
‘I do,’ Tally agreed.
‘And I’m meeting with the Red Cross volunteers who have recently arrived,’ said Mary. ‘I’m going to listen to their initial thoughts.’
‘It must be difficult dealing with so many different aid organisations,’ said Tally.
‘Think of a minefield,’ said Hans, ‘only with egos instead of mines. Tread carefully.’
EIGHT
Steven wasn’t alone in pounding the pavements on a pleasant evening, although he felt decidedly scruffy in faded T-shirt and track suit bottoms when compared to his fellow keep-fit enthusiasts, many of whom would not have seemed out of place on a cat-walk in Milan. It seemed that wealth had to advertise itself on every conceivable occasion.
He had chosen a route which would allow him to pass by the Islington town-house owned by Dimitry Petrov when fate and a change of the Russian establishment had led to his becoming a Londoner. The house was a dark stone affair lacking any outward sign of ostentation in keeping with its neighbours. Seven figure price-tags spoke for themselves. Bells and whistles were not required.
Steven had no good reason for choosing the route he had other than feeling he needed something more than names on pieces of paper to work with. Seeing where one of them lived would be interesting and take his mind off the fact that his own flat was empty and Tally would not be coming back any time soon.
On the second lap of his chosen circuit, Steven became aware of a dark stretch limousine turning into the street he was about to enter on the other side. It moved slowly and drew up outside the Petrov residence. Steven’s immediate thought was that this might be interesting. He paused and pretended to deal with a loose shoe lace while a well-built man wearing sunglasses – despite the absence of sun at that time in the evening – got out of the front passenger door and appeared to look around for signs of threat before opening the pavement-side rear door and permitting a late middle-aged man with a mop of swept-back, white hair to emerge. The cut of the man’s suit as he straightened suggested that he belonged in the world of stretch limos and expensive property. He said something to sunglasses who kept up surveillance of everything around him while he listened and then nodded.
Fearing that he might be taking too long to tie up his lace and was about to attract more than the cursory glance from the heavy, Steven undid the shoe and removed it completely before going through the motions of shaking out an imaginary stone that had been annoying him. With the performance over, he stood upright to push his foot back into the shoe before bending down again to do up his lace, but, just as he finished, he surreptitiously slipped his hand into his pocket and brought out his mobile phone.
When Steven saw the sunglasses swivel away to the right, he seized the chance to take a couple of shots of the well-dressed man, but then it went wrong. Almost simultaneous with the click of the shutter, the bodyguard shouted something at him and it didn’t sound like ‘Good Evening’. Steven realised that he had made the elementary mistake of thinking the man had been looking elsewhere when, in fact, it had been his sunglasses that had been looking elsewhere. Behind their reflective lenses, his eyes had been fixed on him: that’s why bodyguards wore the damned things.
The shout made the well-dressed man turn around as he reached the door of the Petrov residence and Steven, despite the sudden rise in his pulse rate, took a couple more camera shots before taking to his heels as the heavy made to cross the road towards him, pausing only to secure an earpiece in his left ear.
Steven didn’t imagine for a moment that the heavy would chase him, thinking he just wanted to shoo him away . . . but when he glanced round, he saw the man was still in hot pursuit and appeared purposeful. Why? he wondered, Why in God’s name? . . . He was just a scruffy jogger who had taken a phone camera shot of someone getting out of a posh limo. This was an everyday occurrence in London where pop and film stars got in and out of ostentatious vehicles all day long – often actually hoping to be photographed. It was well-known that newspapers paid big bucks for exclusive images of those currently in fashion. He could hardly be seen as a threat to his employer . . . Why didn’t the heavy see that? Didn’t he realise he had left his boss exposed and alone? No, he hadn’t, he reminded himself, the man would be safely inside the Petrov house.
When Steven risked another glance, he saw that the heavy wasn’t gaining on him but wasn’t falling back either. What was more worrying was that his right hand was reaching inside his jacket for something and, in the current situation, he suspected it wasn’t a handkerchief. This was becoming ridiculous. He really couldn’t be intending to use a gun on a jogger in a London street . . . could he?
Steven’s failure to convince himself resulted in his upping his pace and it was hurting. He desperately needed an alternative strategy. The man intent on catching him was obviously as fit as he was and the fact that he was associated with Russian oligarchs suggested he wouldn’t have been recruited from the ranks of local nightclub bouncers. He would be a pro – a thought that awoke in Steven a real longing for the 9mm Glock he had picked up from the armourer yesterday – the one he’d put securely in the safe at home . . . and left it there. When fate threw a curve ball . . .
Steven had been opting to run through narrow lanes, hoping to shake off his pursuer, but also looking for opportunities to be briefly out of sight, hoping to spot some feature which might give him a chance of gaining the initiative, but the real risk of a gun being used made him think he should be heading for a heavily populated area. A pro wouldn’t be so foolish as to use a weapon on a crowded street. He could see that two hundred metres ahead, a street running across at right angles seemed much busier and headed for it.
The heavy saw what he was intending to do and the left side of Steven’s face was sud
denly peppered with stone fragments as his pursuer opened fire, hitting the wall beside him. There had been no sound of a gunshot, although Steven recognised the thwack of a silenced pistol as a second shot narrowly missed him before ricocheting off an iron down-pipe with a fading whine.
There were no turnings off the lane he was on and he still had over a hundred metres to go as he introduced a desperate zig zag to his run.
Up ahead, a small red car turned into the lane and stopped before a young woman, searching in her handbag and obviously in a hurry, got out and hurried towards a flat entrance to disappear inside. Steven immediately zig zagged towards the car, praying that she’d left her keys in the ignition. A bullet smashed into the car’s offside headlamp as he reached it and threw himself inside, struggling to get his knees under the steering wheel, which was too close to the seat for his six foot plus frame. His pursuer had stopped running to adopt the classic taking-aim position, spreading his feet, holding his weapon in both hands as Steven clumsily managed to find first gear and press his foot to the floor. The car’s rev counter roared into the red zone as it hurtled towards the heavy who managed to get off one more hurried shot before throwing himself to the side to avoid being run over, something he didn’t quite manage as Steven felt the nearside of the car hit him a glancing but substantial blow in the chest.
Steven slowed after a further fifty metres to check the rear-view mirror for signs of physical damage he’d inflicted. The heavy was getting up unsteadily to his feet, crouching and holding his ribs but still very much alive. Steven had no wish to provide him with any more target practice so he accelerated away, reaching down to slide the driving seat backwards for some semblance of comfort. A last glance in the mirror before turning out of sight suggested that the injured man was holding a phone to his ear.
Steven pulled off into a quieter street and sat for a few moments, calming down and getting his breath back while his phone brought up his map location. He called the Sci-Med duty officer and gave him details of what had happened.
The duty man calmly recorded them and asked a few questions of his own, finishing with, ‘How would you like this handled?’
‘As discreetly as possible,’ Steven said. ‘The police will probably have been called about a stolen red car – the one I’m sitting in. Try to intercept any police action on this and stop it. Have Special Branch handle it. The Russian in question is armed and will be heading back to this address.’ He read out where Dimitri Petrov lived. ‘where a black limousine and its driver may still be waiting for him – The Russian has chest injuries, maybe more.’
‘Understood.’
‘I’m going to leave this car now at the location I gave you in case patrol cars have already been asked to look out for it.’
‘Understood.’
‘And inform Sir John what’s been going on.’
‘Will do. Do you need transport?’
‘No . . . I’m fine.’
Steven got out of the car and straightened up before massaging the small of his back with both hands and deciding a Nissan Micra wasn’t for him. He brushed away some stone fragments from his shoulders that had managed to stick there and checked his shoelaces before setting off at a slow jog back to normality. When he got in, Steven poured himself a large drink and slumped down into his favourite window chair to put his feet up on the sill and reflect on the events of the past hour.
Surprising didn’t quite cover it. Why on earth had the Russian gorilla been so determined to hunt him down? To all intents and purposes, he had been an evening jogger who had taken an impromptu snapshot of a fancy limo and whoever happened to be getting out of it. Who the hell was the owner who demanded such privacy? Was an armed response the price to be paid for gazing upon his countenance? Steven drained his glass and headed for the shower.
‘Where have you been?’ Tally asked when Steven answered the phone with a towel wrapped round him. ‘I’ve been trying to call you for the past hour.’
‘Sorry,’ said Steven. ‘I went out for a run. I went a bit further than I originally intended. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘I’m well into the way of things,’ said Tally. ‘and after reading all the reports, I’m even letting myself feel more optimistic than I thought I might be. The measures taken to isolate pockets of infection are working well . . . although.’
‘Go on,’ Steven prompted.
‘Well, my one worry is that what I’m telling you is based on the figures I’ve seen coming in and there’s always the chance that I may not be seeing the whole picture.’
‘Under-reporting?’ Steven asked.
‘I’m hoping not but the authorities keeping it quiet for the first five months hasn’t helped.’
‘So, the damage to business might well be done anyway,’ said Steven.
‘Well, we’re all hoping that the new initiative is going to pay off. I’ve put in a request for the official WHO report produced after the end of the 2014 – 16 outbreak.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Similarities in the pattern the spread took back then.’
‘Don’t you have enough to do?’ joked Steven.
‘There’s really not that much to do in the evening.’ Tally replied.
Steven felt relieved that he had managed to get through the conversation without telling Tally anything about his awful evening. She had more than enough on her plate without worrying about him.
John Macmillan rang next to say that Special Branch had not managed to trace his assailant or the limo. They had taken care of returning the little red car to its rightful owner and they would also arrange for its repair. ‘They don’t want an insurance company finding the bullet that smashed the headlight and reporting it to the police.’
‘Of course,’ said Steven.
‘We’ll talk more in the morning.’
Next morning, Steven asked Jean if she would run a check on the photos he’d taken on his phone.
‘Anything to go on?’ she asked.
‘Almost certainly Russian,’ said Steven. ‘He was visiting Dimitri Petrov with a gorilla friend who shouted at me in Russian.’
Steven went through to John Macmillan’s office and went through what had happened all over again.
‘Damned Russians,’ said Macmillan. ‘You can’t move in Mayfair for them. London is awash with Russian money of dodgy origin. Every time you cross the road you run the risk of being knocked down by some Russian kid driving a Ferrari he got for his birthday. Are you really sure this character was determined to kill you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Steven. ‘He knew what he was doing.’
Macmillan let out his breath in a long sigh as his anger gave way to resignation. ‘What’s our country coming to?’ he murmured, ‘As long as you’ve got the money you can come here and do as you damn well please. You only have to show you have ten million in assets and it gets you a UK investment visa with permanent residence after only two years. It’s pretty obvious the police have been steering clear of them, going easy, looking the other way and now we’ve got nerve agents being used on our streets and gunmen running around Islington taking pot shots at joggers.’
Steven was used to seeing John Macmillan in fighting mode. Over the years he’d seen him take on cabinet ministers and win. He had made a prime minister back down on one occasion. His only yardstick lay in being sure he was right. The odds against him had never mattered as long as he was convinced that he was doing the right thing. But now, he was seeing a man who was coming close to exasperation with a political class that seemed to march to a very different drum, constantly avoiding action in favour of seemingly endless discussion and debate. He hid any sign of his thoughts as Macmillan looked up from his desk and asked, ‘Have you seen the armourer?’
Steven said that he had, but added, ‘There’s no reason to believe that chummy last night had anything to do with what we are interested in.’
‘Maybe not, but he was a Russian bodyguard and he was chasing you.’
‘Point taken.’
Steven left Macmillan’s office and found the missing ‘reason to believe’ as Jean handed him a file and said, ‘Here is the information you asked for on Sergei Malenkov and furthermore, we have a positive ID for the man in the photo you took last night.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Sergei Malenkov.’
Steven sank down into a chair opposite Jean’s desk. ‘Well, well, well,’ he muttered.
‘Good or bad?’ Jean asked.
‘Surprising,’ said Steven. ‘Malenkov is turning out to be a big player, the man who probably knows exactly what has been going on, the man who recruited and paid Martin Field and probably Simon Pashley too – Scott Jamieson is looking into that as we speak – but why was he calling on Dimitry Petrov?
‘He could have been offering his condolences on the death of his son,’ Jean suggested
‘A good thought,’ said Steven. ‘But, if these two know each other well, maybe Petrov knows what it’s all about too.’
‘An even better thought,’ said Jean.
Steven read through the file on Malenkov. He was enormously wealthy – even by Russian oligarch standards – something he had achieved through Russian mining interests, which were still substantial, despite several acrimonious disagreements with the current regime in Mother Russia. Steven immediately saw the parallel with Dimitry Petrov. Maybe these two were even business partners.
There was one major difference however, Malenkov had not moved to London; he still lived in Moscow where he enjoyed a lifestyle commensurate with his wealth. He was regarded as a brilliant business strategist, but someone who resented the interference of political ideology in what he saw as strictly business decisions, hence his uneasy relationship with the ruling elite. Steven thought he was ticking a lot of boxes.
