by Ken McClure
‘Nothing,’ Tally stammered, trying to regain her composure, she couldn’t remember being so suddenly afraid before. She’d forgotten about the little bubble under her skin? Surely it couldn’t be what Steven had described, a tiny reservoir of Ebola virus waiting to be released, something that could end her life in the most horrible way possible?
She fought to convince herself it wasn’t, while Helga continued to wonder what the matter was. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Maybe you should sit down . . .’
Tally knew it was quite common for people to have tracking implants fitted if conditions warranted it. People working for large organisations and in security environments often had implants fitted with tiny chips to enable them to do such mundane things as open doors without keying in security numbers. It was part of everyday life, but remembering that it had been Marcus Altman who had presided over the fitting of trackers to the volunteers was pushing her over the edge. She immediately sprang into life and started hunting around for something. When she finally turned around, she had a scalpel in her hand, causing Helga to take a step back in alarm.
‘We must get rid of these trackers,’ said Tally, ‘I’ll do yours, you do mine, I’ll explain after we’ve done it.’ She resumed her search for some more bits and pieces and a small bottle of surgical spirit, which she used to clean and sterilise the area around the implant on Helga’s arm before opening the skin with the scalpel and removing the implant with forceps. ‘There, all done,’ she said, placing the implant carefully in a small dish. ‘Your turn.’
Helga removed Tally’s implant and Tally allowed herself a sigh of relief before saying, ‘We have to destroy these . . . by burning, I’m not going to trust disinfectant, it won’t get through the plastic.’
Although Helga had gone along with everything, she was clearly wondering if Tally had gone mad. ‘Right,’ she said, sounding unconvinced and looking wide-eyed.
Tally looked at her and understood, she said, ‘You asked me yesterday what was going on . . . there’s a lot to take in . . . but here goes, Marcus Altman and some of his friends have been deliberately causing outbreaks of Ebola by giving people sophisticated implants under the guise of vaccinating them . . . not everyone, just selected groups of people who would some time later be targeted to go down with the disease and then it would spread naturally as contacts became infected. The implants are harmless until they are caused to rupture by ultrasound . . . they then release live virus. I don’t know if ours are genuine trackers or two of the other kind, but we can’t afford to take chances . . . especially judging by the way Hans was looking at us.’
Helga nodded, still struggling with what she was hearing. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘Interpol and the intelligence services of several countries have been working on the infiltration of organised crime into global aid agencies; my partner, Steven, has been investigating what some of them have been up to. He told me about this last night. Tonight, I’m going to ask him to get us out of here as fast as he can, the authorities are taking far too long and I’m not sure why. Officially, Marcus was arranging it, but it looks like he had other things on his mind and if it now falls to Hans to make arrangements . . . well, that makes me uneasy. I take it you would like me to include you?’
Helga nodded. ‘Thank you, I think that would be for the best.’
‘Can you burn these things while I go over and see Monique, the girl I told you about? I’m going to give her the chance to come with us. When I come back, I’ll phone Steven.’
‘Of course.
Tally looked at the dish. ‘Make sure they don’t splutter.
Tally returned an hour later; Monique was with her. Tally had told her what was going on and she hadn’t taken too much convincing to agree to what was being proposed. Tally left Helga and Monique to introduce themselves while she phoned Steven. He didn’t answer, something Tally made light of, saying she’d try again in a short while. ‘Food,’ she exclaimed, ‘don’t know what I’ve got for a girls’ night in. Help me look.’
The three of them started searching through cupboards, collecting bits and pieces for a meal – Tally was deliberately using this in an attempt to relax the atmosphere. Hearing Helga and Monique laughing and apparently getting on suggested her plan might be working. She slipped away to try phoning Steven again. There was still no reply. Feeling slightly more uneasy this time, she decided to leave trying again until after they had eaten.
Tally finished her cupboard rummage and stood up triumphantly with a bottle of white wine in her hand – it had been left over from her get-together to celebrate the end of the outbreak in Equateur. ‘Specially warmed for the occasion,’ she joked.
They ate and drank, complementing each other on what they’d managed to do with what they’d come up with, but, as the conversation began to falter and minds returned to other things, Helga asked, ‘Why are they doing this?’
‘I don’t know,’ Tally confessed. ‘Steven had worked out what they were doing but not why when I spoke to him last night.
‘It’s crazy,’ said Monique.
‘I’ll try him again,’ said Tally, draining her glass. ‘Is there anything you have to back to your village for?’ she asked Monique.
‘Nothing,’ replied Monique sadly.
‘Good.’
Tally went through to the one other room to try calling Steven again. This time he answered and she felt a flood of relief wash through her. Thank God,’ she exclaimed, ‘Where have you been?’
‘Receiving the thanks of the PM and several intelligence agencies as it happens . . .’ said Steven.
‘You cracked it?’
Steven explained briefly what the Russian cabal had been up to, but sensed that something was wrong.
‘Well done,’ said Tally.
‘Why did you sound so relieved to hear from me?’ Steven asked.
‘I think we may be in danger,’ said Tally.
‘What!’ exclaimed Steven. ‘Who’s we? What’s wrong?’
‘Helga, one of the other area managers and Monique, the girl you already know about, they’re here with me right now. I don’t think we’re in immediate danger, but I suspect, Hans Weber, Altman’s assistant might be on to our suspicions and there’s no move being made to get us out of here. Can you help?’
‘After today, I think I could ask the PM for the moon and get it. I’m going to get John to get on to the Home Secretary and the PM right now. Can you give me your exact co-ordinates?’
Tally read them out from her phone.
‘Ring me back in an hour.’
Steven rang off and Tally returned to her guests. ‘Steven’s arranging something, I’ve to call back in an hour.’
‘You don’t think Hans might suspect?’ asked Helga.
‘Let’s hope not,’ said Tally. ‘I mean we’re not absolutely sure he’s a baddie . . . we just don’t like him and he doesn’t like us.’
‘True,’ Helga agreed, ‘but if he is, he’ll know I’m here with you if he’s been following us on the trackers – if they were trackers. This would be our last location before the signals were lost.’
‘Mm,’ said Tally, ‘happily, he doesn’t know Monique is here. If he did, that might really have set him thinking.’
Tally wasn’t sure if Helga was convinced. ‘Let’s see about sleeping arrangements,’ she said, ‘we’ll draw lots for the bed.’
This made the others laugh. Monique won the bed.
Steven checked her watch and phoned Steven.
‘I won’t burden you with details; all you need know is that a helicopter will pick the three of you up in the morning at 6 a.m. local time at the co-ordinates you gave me.’
‘Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
Tally told the others and everyone felt relieved. ‘We should try to get some sleep,’ she suggested.
Sleep came first to Monique and then to Helga while Tally lay awake, listening to sounds of the African night, wondering if she would
miss them and deciding not. After a few minutes there came a sound she was not prepared for . . . it suggested that the hut door was being pushed open slowly and carefully. She and Helga were sleeping on the floor; both were facing the door, which Tally could now see really was opening. The growing view of the night sky however, was gradually blocked out by a seemingly enormous silhouette.
Tally got over the fear that was clutching at her stomach and threatening to paralyse her. ‘Who the hell are you?’ she demanded as she rolled over and got to her feet, fumbling for her battery lamp without taking her eyes off the advancing spectre. The meagre beam illuminated a tall, ghostly figure just as Helga woke and screamed out in terror.
It wasn’t a ghost, Tally realised in the dim light; it was a figure wearing the full safety gear for dealing with Ebola patients. It didn’t speak but held out what appeared to be a TV remote in its gloved hand: it pointed and clicked, first at Tally and then at Helga.
Tally edged sideways towards Helga, pushing her along slightly so that the figure was between them and the door of the room where Monique was sleeping . . . but Monique wasn’t sleeping. She appeared silently behind the figure and Tally saw that she was carrying their empty wine bottle from earlier. She winced as Monique swung it round in a long arc before making contact with the back of the figure’s head with venomous force, causing it to crumple silently to the floor.
Helga did her best to comfort Monique who, filled with anguish at what she’d done, dropped the bottle and burst into tears while Tally knelt down cautiously beside the collapsed figure to pull away its visor and mask: it was Hans Weber. She stared at him for a few moments before feeling for a carotid pulse and finding none.
‘Good night, sweet Hans,’ she said coldly before getting to her feet. ‘May wings of angels speed thee . . . to the deepest pit of hell.’
None of the three was sure what to say for fully half a minute before Helga asked, ‘What’s this?’ She detached herself from Monique before picking up the ‘remote’ Weber had been carrying.
‘My bet would be the sound wave generator necessary for rupturing our . . . trackers,’ said Tally. If he hadn’t woken us, he would just have triggered them and gone away. In a couple of days or so, we two volunteers would have gone down with Ebola. I’ll hang on to this, it’s evidence.’
‘But he did wake you,’ said Helga, ‘and he didn’t know Monique was here. God, we were so lucky.’
The three of them engaged in a long group-hug.
At six a.m., the sound of rotor blades brought smiles to their faces. They watched as a military helicopter landed no more than fifty metres from where they stood. A crewman appeared at the open door to beckon them and they ran over without looking back to be helped on board one at a time, Monique was first, then Helga and finally, Tally.
‘Thank you so much,’ Tally said as she grappled for hand holds.
‘Not at all,’ said the crewman, removing his helmet and microphone. ‘Nice to see you.’
‘Steven!’ exclaimed Tally, taking a few moments to get over her disbelief before hugging him tightly. ‘What are you doing here? I mean, how . . . I mean, how is it possible.
‘I just love helicopters.’
‘Seriously?’ said Tally.
‘I told you I could ask for anything after briefing the PM and all the others as to what the Russian business was all about yesterday. She ordered the RAF to do what was required and with a bit of help from our allies, they did. I think I may have left my stomach on one of their aircraft on the flight down and, please God, they don’t send me the bill.’
‘I take it you know this man?’ said Helga.
‘Yes,’ Tally replied with a smile, ‘I know him.’
As time passed and the sound of the helicopter engines largely put a stop to conversation, they were all left alone with their thoughts. Steven noticed that Tally looked particularly troubled and drew her close to ask what she was thinking about. She gave a small dismissive shake of the head but he persisted until she turned to face him with a distant look in her eyes.
‘I was thinking . . . God help us all, Steven, God help us all.’
THE END
Author’s Note
Although MIASMA is a work of fiction, several facts have been employed in its writing.
In May of 2018, The Democratic Republic of Congo announced an outbreak of Ebola virus in Equateur Province – the ninth to occur since 1976. Unlike the West African outbreak, which claimed over 11,000 lives between 2014 and 2016, this new epidemic was unexpectedly declared over in mid-July of 2018.
Almost unbelievably, a new epidemic was announced at the beginning of August 2018 in another area of the country – Kivu Province, a wild. lawless area some five hundred miles to the east, plagued by violence and banditry – it had to be classified as a new outbreak rather than possible late spread of the old one because genetic analysis showed the cause to be a new strain of Ebola virus, the so-called Zaire strain.
The official explanation for continual outbreaks of Ebola in DRC blames the diet of the population, which includes fruit bats, the suspected natural host of the virus and animals subject to bites from these creatures – collectively known as ‘bushmeat’. As yet, there is limited scientific evidence to support this theory.
2018 has seen several news stories appear about rogue members of world aid agencies exploiting vulnerable people in the course of their duties. Naturally, it is hoped that these people are few and far between, but this does require vigorous investigation. It is not difficult to imagine that access to hundreds of thousands of displaced, vulnerable people could be an attractive ‘resource’ to organised crime.
At the other end of the scale from displaced vulnerable people we have an increasing number of wealthy people wishing to set up home in the UK– particularly in London and often Russian – with effects on property prices and constant suspicions of money laundering. At the time of writing, having assets of ten million pounds or more is sufficient to obtain an ‘investment visa’, leading to permanent residence after only two years.
About the author
KEN McCLURE is an award-winning medical scientist as well as a global selling author. He was born and brought up in Edinburgh, Scotland, where he studied medical sciences, gaining a PhD in microbial genetics. Using this strong background to base his thrillers in the world of science and medicine, he is currently the author of twenty-six novels which are available in over twenty languages. He has worked in many countries in the course of his research but now lives in the county of East Lothian in Scotland.
www.kenmcclure.com
Other Titles by Ken McClure
THE STEVEN DUNBAR SERIES
THE DEVIL’S LANDSCAPE
THE SECRET
LOST CAUSES
DUST TO DUST
WHITE DEATH
THE LAZARUS STRAIN
EYE OF THE RAVEN
THE GULF CONSPIRACY
WILDCARD
DECEPTION
DONOR
OTHER NOVELS
HYPOCRITES’ ISLE
PAST LIVES
TANGLED WEB
RESURRECTION
PANDORA'S HELIX
TRAUMA
CHAMELEON
CRISIS
REQUIEM
PESTILENCE
FENTON'S WINTER
THE TROJAN BOY
THE SCORPION'S ADVANCE
THE ANVIL
Reviews for Ken McClure
'His medical thrillers out-chill both Michael Crichton and Robin Cook.' Daily Telegraph.
'McClure writes the sort of medical thrillers which are just too close to plausibility for comfort.'
(Eye of the Raven) Birmingham Post.
'Well-wrought, plausible and unnerving.'
(Tangled Web) The Times
'A plausible scientific thriller . . . McClure is a rival for Michael Crichton.'
(The Gulf Conspiracy) Peterborough Evening Telegraph.
'Contemporary and controversia
l, this is a white-knuckle ride of a thriller.'
(Past Lives) Scottish Field.
'Ken McClure looks set to join the A list at the top of the medical thriller field.'
The Glasgow Herald.
'McClure's intelligence and familiarity with microbiology enable him to make accurate predictions. Using his knowledge, he is deciding what could happen, then showing how it might happen . . . It is McClure's creative interpretation of the material that makes his books so interesting.'
The Guardian.
'Ken McClure explains contagious illness in everyday language that makes you hold your breath in case you catch them. His forte is to take an outside chance possibility, decide on the worst possible outcome . . . and write a book.'
The Scotsman
'Original in conception . . . its execution is brilliantly done . . . plot and sub plot are structured with skill . . . the whole thing grabs the attention as it hurtles to its terrifying climax.'
(Requiem) Independent Newspapers (Ireland).
'Pacey thrillers from Scotland's own Michael Crichton.'
Aberdeen Evening Express
'Fear courses through the narrative, unhinging the characters. It leaks through the government, corrupts the body politic and infects the nation. It is fear, too, tinged with curiosity, that keeps the reader turning the pages.'
(White Death) The Independent
