Jack could see the argument and although the report applied to large tech corporations, there was no reason why a smaller company would not do the same, as long as the market it was targeting was worth it.
The clock had changed since he had started reading. It was almost 6.45am in Langley. Time to make his call. He dropped a text to Steve Harris. Need to discuss a theory. Will meet you in the lobby at Vauxhall Cross.
What better place to make a secure call than the impregnable building of MI6?
* * *
Yvonne waved at Nancy from inside the mortuary room. Another day … another cadaver, she liked to quip. The young woman with whom she was working had finished sewing up the Y incision. It was time to tidy up and Yvonne could leave this to her. She approached the bin next to the sliding door of the room, removed her gloves with a precise movement, folding them in such a way that she would not be exposed to any of the residue staining them. She removed her visor and gown and put them in a large bin. She washed her hands as meticulously as she had removed her gloves and finally made her way to greet Nancy.
“I have an envelope for you.”
“And I’d like to see the man who died in the flat incident …”
“Something I missed?” Yvonne grinned. She enjoyed rather than resented Nancy’s acute mind.
They moved to another room, distinctly cooler than the one they had just left. A middle-aged man was closing one of the drawers and turned around.
“Nick … do you mind showing us RG-734- A?”
Nick nodded and moved to the far end of the room. They followed and he pulled open the square door of one of the drawers. He slid the slab halfway out and left them to it.
Nancy froze for a moment, the images of her crashing a chair over the man’s back the ferocity of her attack assailed her. She blinked a few times to will them away.
“Are you alright?” Yvonne murmured.
“Fine … I’m fine.” Nancy approached closer to the gurney and Yvonne removed the white sheet.
“It is a dagger …” Nancy concentrated on the man’s shoulders.
Yvonne stood on the other side and started nodding. “Absolutely … I took a few more pictures with better resolution.”
“Russian prisoner … probably a contract killer.”
“Anything else?” Yvonne waited and Nancy shook her head. It was enough. There was nothing left there for her to glean. Nick reappeared to roll back the gurney and close the drawer.
“Let’s get a coffee somewhere.” Yvonne walked out first and made sure Nancy was following closely. They walked into her office and she handed her the envelope.
The place was new and cosy. They were waiting for their order when Nancy pulled out the envelope from her satchel.
“Are you going to open it?” Yvonne’s forehead was raised, her eyes slightly larger than usual.
“It would be rude not to share with a friend.” Nancy smiled.
“Exactly so …” Yvonne leaned forward. “The suspense is killing me … I know, it’s a bad joke considering the circumstances.”
“I’m afraid you hit the nail on the head, and I worry that may not be just a metaphor.”
“Come on … indulge my nosiness.”
“You’re not nosy. You’re resolutely curious.”
“… must remember that …” Yvonne’s eyes had not left the package.
The order arrived.
Pain aux raisins and black coffee for Nancy.
Triple chocolate muffin and espresso for Yvonne.
Both took a bite of their pastry and approved.
Nancy could delay no longer; she slid a finger underneath the flap and lifted it carefully. When this was done, she tipped the contents carefully into her hand. A USB key appeared together with a couple of photos. What looked like a very old photocopy also slid into her hand.
Nancy brought her other hand to her chest for a short moment. She slowly put the pictures on the table. Her father had again been photographed with Deng Xiao Ping, but this time another man was also present who looked the same age as Deng. The picture had been taken in China before they had left. There were characters written at the back, but she could not decipher the Chinese ideograms.
The second photo was of her father looking older than he did when he left Paris, an aged man photographed somewhere that looked like a public space, but she couldn’t tell where.
She looked at the first photo again, replaced it on the table and took a sip of coffee.
“The same man in both these photos is … was … my father, Li Jie Wu.”
Yvonne smiled kindly. “A trip down memory lane is sometimes hard.”
“This one is particularly …” Nancy hesitated. “… Challenging.”
“Is Pole helping you?”
“He is … but what can he do? It was China, 30 years ago.”
Yvonne nodded without asking more.
Nancy was glad her lie had been accepted so readily by someone as astute as Yvonne.
She resisted going through the other documents in detail, but speed read the conclusion in what turned out to be an article mentioning her father.
It had been written by a French academic 20 years earlier when China was beginning to open up and reveal the activity of its contemporary artists. A period when key people like Ai WeiWei were starting to emerge. It didn’t say whether the author Emmanuel Licot was still alive, or where he could be found. But the report indicated that what he had written had been well researched and rang true.
“The document I was concerned about has been validated. It also gives me the name of the author.”
“Any way of contacting him?”
“There is no address, or name of an institution or publication, but I could try a few contacts in Paris.” The final document looked more official. It was arranged in neat paragraphs and had been rubber stamped a few times. The photocopy was of good quality and one paragraph had been highlighted in yellow.
The Chinese language remained opaque to her. Nancy forced her mind to recall the construction of simple characters. She couldn’t. She was about to shove the document back into the envelope when she noticed some words written on the back of the page.
Two sightings of the man, Li Jie Wu, both in Hong Kong, on 27 July 1989 and 18 August 1989.
Nancy raised her hand to stifle a cry.
Her father had been alive after the massacre of protestors in Tiananmen Square in Beijing on 4 June of that year.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Jack Shield,” the man repeated into his earpiece. He gave Jack another look, neutral yet watchful. The heavy steel door, covered with a criss-cross linear pattern, was wide open, but the NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS written in bold letters on the wall behind him was ominous.
Jack’s black eye and swollen lip didn’t do anything to enhance his credibility. Then again, would an ill-intentioned suspect turn up to the gates of MI6 looking so beaten up? The guard listened to the reply that came into his headset. He gave way to Jack, moving aside his heavy bulk of muscle clothed in a bullet-proof jacket.
Jack nodded his thanks and made his way through the entrance of Vauxhall Cross. He lifted his head to take in the view of the interior. The exterior of the building had always impressed him, with its mix of heavy cream coloured stone blocks, the towers and turrets, and the light blue steel that gave the place a futuristic look. He was not sure that Legoland was an appropriate nickname for the postmodern construction.
A second guard was waiting for him at the revolving doors. He repeated his name and the man went through the same procedure. The guard released one of the gates. Jack pushed against the bar and went through.
He had visited Harris before, but their contact had usually been in areas of conflict, working on joint Middle East operations in Iraq, Afghanistan and Syria.
The Far East had no
t been their bag but recent events had changed that.
Jack entered the main reception area. It was less imposing than the entrance might suggest. However, it was comfortably furnished with black leather sofas, glass coffee tables and a choice of that day’s newspapers. One could have been entering any corporate building in the City.
The receptionist stood up, printed out a badge and handed it to Jack. Beyond yet another set of turnstile gates, Jack caught a glimpse of two sets of lifts. The rest was solid stone blocks and blue steel again … a fortress, as might be expected in a building housing one of the world’s finest intelligence agencies.
Harris was on his way. Jack got out his mobile phone and dialled Langley.
“Not too early, I hope.”
“Just because it’s you.” The voice was not flirtatious, unfortunately, Laurie genuinely enjoyed working with him.
“What is it that you couldn’t write to me about?”
“I presume you are in a secure location?”
“The reception area of the MI6 building in London.”
“That sounds good enough … even if they listen in on our conversation. Wait a moment, I’ll switch us onto a secure line.”
Laurie’s voice returned. “I did a search on that company, Viro-Tech Therapeutics, and its CEO Jared Turner.”
“And …” Jack had started pacing up and down. He stopped and sat down.
“I’ve been told to lay off the search.”
Jack took a moment to comprehend what Laurie was implying.
“Yep, I know … so I did what I do best, not take no for an answer.” Laurie took her time. “This is totally off the books etc, etc … you know the drill.”
“Go on.”
“Viro-Tech is part of a group of companies helping the US government to put together a task force of virologists, epidemiologists and immunologists who will be tasked to fight the next global epidemic, or even pandemic. The countries involved include the Europeans of course, but also a number of other players such as China.”
“What’s the idea behind it? Fighting the next SARS type virus?”
“Must be, and the significant thing is that the Chinese seem to have agreed to an exchange of researchers with other countries to strengthen co-operation if and when it happens.”
“Let’s hope it’s if not when.”
“The Gates Foundation and WHO disagree with you, Jack … according to them the world is due a global pandemic in the next 10 to 20 years.”
“Where is the catch in all this?”
“I don’t know. It’s been hard enough to get as much information as that.”
Jack sensed a shadow looming over where he sat. He lifted his head. Steve Harris was standing next to him.
“Thanks, Laurie … if you could …”
“I know, keep digging.”
Jack stood up and shook hands with Harris.
“Bad news?”
“Not sure … call me a cynic, but I’m always wary of news that sounds too good to be true.”
* * *
Rob’s contact at the NCA was going through his files. Pole could hear the distinct click of a computer mouse moving documents around a screen, looking for answers.
“Afghanistan produces 95% of all European opium-based drug supplies. So, you need to be a lot more precise. Your lab should be able to give you an idea of the province it comes from … poppy production from each area has specific characteristics. If the drug is of such good quality as you say it is, it won’t have too many additives, so the identification should be easier.”
“Have you seized any substantial shipments recently? Anything noticeable from the Russian side?”
“We’ve had a couple of good hits, but not on the Russian mafia. A Lithuanian gang has been partially dismantled and a German gang, originating from East Germany, has lost a lot of its members.”
“East Germany? You still make that distinction?”
“It helps where gang members are concerned.”
“Could there be a link to Russia?”
“That’s a possibility. There was nothing indicating that when we intercepted the guys, but that was not what we were looking for.”
“What was the origin of the drugs they were importing? Did you find out?”
“We systematically analysed the drug we picked up before destroying it so that we can trace the area of the supplies.”
More clicking on the other end of the phone … Pole was taking notes of his own.
“The heroin came from the Herat region. That’s not a usual provenance. Poppy cultivation there is not intense. Helmand province is the most prolific …”
“Any reason why the Herat province?” Pole kept typing.
“It’s a good quality production and the land on which it is farmed is near the Turkmenistan border.”
“In short, easy to export.”
“That’s right.”
“What’s the route from Turkmenistan?”
“Across the Caspian Sea, into Georgia … across the Black Sea, and into Europe through Romania.”
“A well known route?”
“Well known but difficult to close … the local police don’t have enough resources and the drug traffickers are often better equipped than they are.”
“Without forgetting the usual bribes and blackmail.”
“That’s the sum of it.”
“Any chance you can send me the exact molecular composition of what you lifted from the East German traffickers? It might …” Pole’s sentence was interrupted by the sight of a uniform that had stopped short of entering his office. The bulky frame of Commander Ferguson was waiting to enter, his face drawn and dark.
“Apologies … I’m going to have to go. Do you mind emailing me the rest of the info?”
Pole hardly heard the other man’s reply. He thanked him anyway and hung up.
“What’s up, Ferguson?” Pole stood up. Ferguson came in and closed the door.
“My team and I have been reviewing the data your DS sent us.”
“Good, and he told me he had also sent some information about mobiles and associated usage in and around Scotland Yard.”
“We extended the search a little wider.”
Ferguson removed a pile of documents from the chair in front of Pole’s desk, and sat down, his chunky body filling it.
Pole sat down again and nodded his approval.
Ferguson took a piece of paper out of a file he was carrying with him. A list of numbers and locations had been compiled, together with relevant dates and times.
One line had been highlighted in red and the location of where the burner phone had been activated circled several times, also in red.
Islington – Rosebury Avenue – 173 New Riverhead … Nancy’s address.
* * *
“This is all I have.” Cora handed over a thick A4 envelope to Nancy. They were sitting in the little café opposite her flat. DS Branning had agreed to cut the ladies some slack. He stood outside the little food shop, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of tea at the table outside. Branning had wrapped his scarf twice around his neck, a sign the weather was getting colder. Nancy wondered whether a winter coat might not be more efficient.
Branning had been convinced when Nancy asked for privacy to discuss female issues. At first he looked at her rather blankly. Then he nodded slowly. Perhaps it was best not to be too inquisitive about which female issues Nancy had in mind. The sun had been kind enough to show its faint rays at the right moment. Here they were Branning on the outside and the ladies in the inside.
Nancy took the envelope and placed the documents cautiously in her lap. The research papers she would read later, but Jared Turner’s schedule was immediately intriguing.
There had been a clear increase in the frequency of travels to China. F
irst Hong Kong, then mainland China and then always Beijing. The Beijing address seemed at first obscure, but when Nancy typed it into her iPhone the organisation that resided there came up immediately.
The National Institute of Biological Sciences, a strategic Chinese government initiative, according to its website. It housed over 500 scientists working on life science related issues. Nancy sat back in the small wooden chair and looked around the café as she digested this information.
The owner of the café came up with the offer of a top up. Cora nodded and Nancy smiled. Nothing better than a good old-fashioned cup of builder’s tea to clear ones mind.
“Did Ollie ever mention these trips?”
“Never … he kept asking more questions about China, but I assumed it was because of my background, and about my interest in Ai WeiWei’s work. Perhaps I should have been more inquisitive.”
“No one could’ve known … I fell into the same trap. Ollie spoke about China and I gave a pretty grim description of what I recalled, but it was such a long time ago, and the only place I praised was Hong Kong. Setting foot on the shore of Hong Kong Island felt like reaching the promised land.”
Nancy stopped, concerned about where the sudden flood of memories might take her. This conversation was not about her.
“We need to find out more about the NIBS in Beijing. I’ll make some enquiries.”
“And I’ll find out who Randy Zhang is.”
“I have spoken to Ollie’s PA and arranged to pick up his personal effects from his office.” Cora drank some tea to stop her voice from trembling. She ran a hand through her spiky hair that no longer felt like a bristling hedgehog, more a puffed-up sparrow.”
“That sounds good.” Nancy took a sip of tea and smacked her lips. It had the right reach aroma that reminded her of late-night work at Chambers, slaving over a complex case.
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