by Ken McClure
Steven supposed that pain-killing medication must be playing a part of all of this, but this wasn’t what he had expected. He approached and said her name softly.
Jane opened her eyes and turned her head slowly. ‘Steven, how are you?’
‘It seemed such a ridiculous question in the circumstances that Steven shook his head and said, ‘A scratch, but you . . .’
Jane interrupted with a raise of the hand. ‘Ssh, what’s happened has happened. Let’s not go through it all. Six pays me for my intellect, not running the two hundred metres hurdles . . .’
‘You are something else, lady,’ said Steven.
‘That’s also why Six pays me,’ said Jane.
‘Yes,’ agreed Steven and he meant it.
‘I don’t remember much after the car hit me, but I have a vague notion of gunfire. You?’
‘Yes.’
‘Islamic terrorist?’
‘A Russian hood, he was after us and no one else.’
‘Nice to know it wasn’t an accident. Did the police get him?
‘No, I did . . . I shot him.’
‘Dead?’
‘Very.’
‘Before he could be offered counselling, understanding and an inquiry into his troubled past?
Steven caught Jane’s mood. He looked at the flat area under the sheets where her left leg would have been and leaned closer. ‘I blew him to Kingdom come,’ he whispered.
A smile appeared on Jane’s lips. ‘Someone has to go after the bad guys, Steven.’ She closed her eyes and Steven nodded to the nurse who had appeared in the doorway.’
John Macmillan tried to argue Steven out of going to Porton Down to witness the opening of Petrov’s flask. ‘You should take it easy for a couple of days, you never know with head wounds.’
‘I’m fine, really I am,’ Steven insisted, ‘but I could do with a smaller dressing. This thing is too dramatic.’ He touched the white bandage that had been wrapped round his head, just in his opinion, to keep a smaller square dressing in place.’
‘I’ll fetch the first-aid box,’ said Jean.
Steven picked what he needed and went off to find a mirror. He returned with a small dressing, taped in place over his wound.
‘Good job,’ said Jean, ‘attracts less attention.’
‘And questions,’ said Steven.
‘I don’t want you going alone,’ said John Macmillan. He said it as if this wasn’t a sudden thought.
‘I don’t need a baby sitter,’ said Steven.
‘No, you don’t,’ Macmillan agreed, ‘but you’ve become a target for a bunch of powerful Russian criminals. ‘I’ve asked Scott Jamieson to go with you . . . on the ground that the only thing better than an armed Sci-Med agent is two, armed Sci-Med agents. He’s on his way up from Kent. The Home Secretary is alerting Porton to the change in personnel.’
Steven smiled and said, ‘He’s already made a big contribution to the investigation and there’s no one I’d rather have guarding my back.’
‘That’s settled then, although Jamieson did make one condition . . . There’s no way on Earth he’s going to travel in that open-top Porsche of yours.’
‘The man has no taste . . .’
‘I’m taking no chances, I’ve arranged helicopter travel for the pair of you.
Later, the two men drove to the designated helipad in Scott Jamieson’s Jaguar saloon.
‘Sounds like the old man’s being ultra-cautious,’ said Scott, ‘You must have upset someone real bad.’
‘Or MI6 did,’ said Steven.
‘So, what do you think is in this flask?’ Jamieson asked.
‘The best guess at the moment is that it’s some new synthetic drug, so addictive it will entrap an entire new generation.’
‘Aren’t heroin and crack cocaine good enough?’
‘With synthetics, all you need is a laboratory. There’s nothing to be grown and harvested, nothing to transport half way across the world, an end to the struggle of avoiding police and customs and coast guards and the like when it’s on the move,’ said Steven.
‘I guess,’ said Scott. ‘Put that way, you could have pop-up drug labs all over the place – very fashionable.’
‘Trust you to see a business opportunity.’
‘Are you on board with the drug theory?’
‘Not entirely,’ said Steven after some thought. ‘There are pieces that don’t fit and I don’t like that.’
‘If you smell a rat . . . there’s usually one not very far away.
Both men looked down at the seven-thousand-acre science campus of Porton Down as it appeared below them.
‘So many years, so many secrets,’ said Scott.
‘And some better not to know.’
After ID checks and being relieved of their weapons both men were informed that the flask was to be removed from its travel container and opened under full bio-safety conditions, no chances were to be taken. Even although they personally were not going to be in the high security lab itself, but viewing from a gallery above, they were required to do don boots and protective clothing, which they did without question.
Their guide led the way through a series of check point doors, saying what each one was as they went until they reached a final door.
‘There are no windows of course, in the lab we’re using and the entire area is kept under negative pressure so that nothing airborne can escape. Air can only be released from the lab after passing through several filters and a decontamination process we won’t go into. This lab has seen some of the most dangerous organisms on the face of the Earth pass through it – organisms that are capable of putting an end to mankind.’
‘A sobering thought,’ said Steven. ‘It makes an addictive drug seem almost desirable, never thought I’d say that.’
‘You and me both,’ said Scott.
‘We’re going up here,’ said their guide leading the way through a side door. They mounted a short flight of steps leading to a viewing gallery fronted with armoured glass and took their seats. Their guide checked his watch. ‘They’ll be here in five minutes or so. There’s a standard procedure where the operators have to remove their outdoor clothes, shower and don full protective gear before passing through a final airlock into the lab.’
Steven nodded. He couldn’t help but think of the volunteer medics and nurses in DRC. They had protective gear, but no hi-tech lab to walk into. They would be faced with desperately ill patients on simple pallet beds in huts, some demented, all bleeding.’
Three white ‘ghosts’, their faces obscured by visors, entered the lab carrying a tubular container about two feet long by one foot in diameter, which they placed on a cleared bench area next to some equipment.
‘Hello John, can you hear me?’ asked their guide.
There was no response from the lab.
The guide unhooked a secondary microphone from below the glass screen and tried again.
Still no response.
The ghosts looked up and made gestures indicating they had no sound. One of them appeared as if he was trying to speak loudly but the guide just had to shake his head and accept the situation.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said to Steven and Scott. ‘We won’t have a running commentary.’
The ghosts unscrewed the lid.’
‘We know the Israelis opened the container,’ said the guide, and we know they didn’t open the flask, but we don’t know if they removed it from the container. The guys will check first to see if the flask is attached to anything inside.
‘You mean like a booby trap?’ asked Scott.
The guide shrugged.
One of the ghosts reached his gloved hands into the plastic packing material surrounding the flask and cautiously felt around it.
‘Plenty packaging,’ said Scott.
‘A bit like Amazon,’ said the guide causing smiles.
Satisfied that the flask was not secured in any way, the ghost removed a handful of the packing material and lifted it out t
o place it on the bench; he wiped away odd bits of packing clinging to it. One of his colleagues took over and held it steady while the third ran a scalpel blade around the seal holding the cap on and removed it.
‘They’ll do a few preliminary tests to see if the fluid contains nucleic acids or any other biological material,’ said the guide, ‘if not they’ll run a couple of spectrometer tests to see if they can identify any chemical substances present.’
Steven noticed the ghosts looking at each other as if acknowledging a problem, but the safety gear they were wearing made it difficult to discern what it might be. They seemed to repeat the first test before taking a sample from the flask to charge one of the spectrometers and set it running.
Steven leaned to the side to see if he could catch a glimpse of the screen on the instrument, hoping to see the spikes rise from the graph’s base line, but he couldn’t quite manage.
‘Anything?’ asked Scott.
‘Can’t see.’
More looks were exchanged between the ghosts before another sample was taken from the flask with a Gilson pipette and used to charge a second machine, which did its thing until the end of its cycle was signalled by the attached printer spewing out a short tongue of paper. The three ghosts gathered round the flask to read the data like witches discussing a new batch of toads. Eventually one of the ghosts raised his hand and made a cutting gesture across his throat to indicate they were finished.
The cap was replaced on the flask and it was left beside the container it came in. The cuvettes used to hold samples for the spectrometers were dropped from forceps into a beaker of what Steven assumed would be powerful disinfectant.
Their guide apologised for the failure in the communication equipment, but suggested that this would at least enable them to have coffee while they waited to be told what progress had been made. Steven and Scott were led from the gallery to a pleasant staff room where they were given coffee and engaged in small talk while waiting for the ghosts to appear in human form, something they did some ten minutes later, their hair giving away recent shower activity – two men and a woman smiled and shook hands with them, each giving their first name.
‘How did it go?’ asked the guide.
‘Well, we know exactly what it is,’ answered one of the men.’
‘Wow,’ said Steven, ‘you folk have some fancy machines.’
‘We drew lots for who should have the honour of telling you and Jenny here won.’
Jenny, the female ghost, smiled and said after a small dramatic pause, ‘The fluid contains sodium chloride at a concentration of 0.85 %. It is physiological saline . . . it’s salt water, nothing else.’
Steven felt a mixture of bemusement and embarrassment. All this hassle for a small jug of salt water? It was beyond belief. People avoided looking at each other. Scott looked down at the floor; the ghosts seemed mildly amused, exchanging the briefest of eye contact with each other, and their guide was wearing a neutral, nothing-to-do-with-me expression. A joke? Could it be some awful joke, but who would have thought it funny? Petrov? Had he died laughing at the thought of the intelligence services of three countries transporting salt water across the globe? No, no, no, it made no sense. If the opposition felt so threatened, why had they tried to kill him and an MI6 officer yesterday? Why ruin their own joke?
After an agonising silence, Steven said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.’
FOURTEEN
Flying back to London by helicopter only served to exacerbate the feelings of embarrassment Steven felt. What a waste of everything.
Scott sensed his mood and said, ‘There’s a reason for what happened, mate, you can’t see it right now, but you will, sometimes you just have to come at things from a different direction.’
‘Right,’ said Steven sounding less than convinced.
‘You know the wheelbarrow joke, right?’
‘Hit me.’
‘This docker leaves work pushing a wheelbarrow with a tarpaulin over it and security stops him. Open it up! The guy removes the tarpaulin and the barrow is empty. This goes on three or four times a week for a month and always with the same result until finally the security guy gives up. ‘Okay, I’m not going to charge you with anything, you’re driving me mad, just tell me what you’re thieving.’
‘Wheelbarrows,’ says the guy.
Steven managed a shake of the head and a small smile. ‘Thanks, Scott,’ he murmured.
‘Maybe you’re looking at the tarpaulin, mate.’
John Macmillan took the news without a change of expression save for a slight raise of the eyebrows. Jean was more vocal. ‘Someone must have switched the flasks,’ she said.
‘And we are spoiled for choice,’ Steven sighed. ‘The chain is pretty long. It could have been someone in the Israeli lab or the Israeli intelligence services when they were called in, or the CIA when they became involved or Interpol or even MI6 when it was decided to bring the container to Porton although, frankly, I’m struggling to believe any of these.’
‘That’s not your only problem,’ said Jean. ‘Someone told the Russians where you and Jane Sherman would be yesterday and around what time.’
‘What Jean says is true,’ said Macmillan. ‘It’s clear that the Russian oligarchs and their hired lackeys are determined to protect their interests by killing people if necessary and yesterday it became clear that someone on the inside is helping them. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that the assassin was driving on Westminster Bridge at the same time Steven and Jane were walking over it. It’s not someone inside Sci-Med so it’s someone inside MI6 . . . and finding that person will not be as daunting as it sounds.
Jean and Steven exchanged glances.
‘We know that Jane Sherman was at a meeting in Westminster yesterday morning as was Steven, albeit a different one,’ Macmillan continued. ‘I think she told someone at her meeting that she was having lunch with Steven afterwards and that someone betrayed her schedule to the Russians who saw the chance to take out both Jane and Steven at the same time. That someone gave the Russians an update on the exact time the pair of you were leaving Westminster and that’s how they knew where you would be and when. MI6 don’t have to search through their ranks for the mole, the mole was one of the people at her Westminster meeting.’
‘I’m glad you are on our side, John,’ said Steven.
Steven left the Home Office; it had been a long day. There was no question of Sci-Med even considering investigating how Petrov’s flask had come to be changed or who had done it – it would be way out of their remit and far too big a task for them to even consider attempting. What was even more depressing was that it was doubtful that the intelligence services would pursue it too vigorously either as it wasn’t essential to their main investigation, which was concerned with corruption in world aid agencies and how widespread it was. Knowing what the original contents of the flask comprised was of course, important for his investigation, not knowing that or even seeing a new way of finding out was going to bring it to a complete halt.
Steven had taken to using standard precautions when under threat. He would enter and leave the Home Office at varying times and by using a number of different access and exit points. Although Macmillan hadn’t said as much, he knew that he was under police surveillance although not overtly so. He had spotted his minders on occasion, as was inevitable as he was keeping his own look-out for possible problems. He chose not to acknowledge their presence – something that might be construed as insulting.
Steven closed the door of the flat and stood with his back against it, embracing the silence at the end of a bloody awful day. Only, it wasn’t the end; he still had to explain to Tally why he hadn’t answered her call last night and then bring her up to speed with what had been going on. He feared it would be a conversation they’d had before.
‘Thank God,’ said Tally when Steven answered immediately. ‘I’m thinking something must have gone very wrong yesterday?’
‘It did,’ said
Steven, sounding as tired as he felt. ‘Our Russian friends decided that I and MI6 had to be discouraged from interfering in what they are up to.’
‘Was violence involved?’
‘Yes.’
‘Serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’d rather not talk about it?’
‘Not right now.’
‘Understood,’ said Tally softly, ‘There’s no real need for me to tell you to take care, but I’m going to do it anyway.’
‘And on this occasion, I have to say that to you too. ‘Has anything changed?’
‘I can’t say that it has, there is very little information that can be trusted emerging from Kivu Province although the government is insisting that the outbreak is being contained.’
‘Let’s hope they’re right.’
‘You asked about the names of people involved in a vaccination schedule that went terribly wrong according to my friend, Monique. The WHO official in charge was someone named Lagarde . . . Hello, are you still there?’
‘Yes, sorry, you took me by surprise. Lagarde was the murdered WHO official in my investigation.’
‘I thought the name was familiar, but hearing it out of context, it didn’t ring a bell.’
‘His last posting was to Afghanistan but I remember reading that he was in DRC a few years before that at the time of the big Ebola outbreak.’
‘Steven, you haven’t told me what was in the flask that Porton were going to analyse?’
‘Salt water.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘Fraid so.’
‘Oh dear, things are really not going well, are they?
‘You could say. By the way, I looked up the report you asked me to. Officially there were no deaths attributed to the experimental vaccine back in 2014-16.’
