by Karla Forbes
“He’s not going to die on us that quickly,” Anson assured him. “It would need a higher dose than that to kill him straight away, but there’s a chance that he’s not feeling too chirpy right now. I’ve alerted the local health authorities. If anyone shows up at a hospital or doctor’s surgery with symptoms of radiation sickness, I’ll hear about it.”
“It’s a long shot,” McKay said dubiously. “I assume you’ve got a contingency plan.”
Jenkins turned to him, his expression solemn, “You know as well as I do that the government doesn’t deal with terrorists. They’re prepared to buy time with a mixture of cheap diamonds and Cubic Zirconia, but that’s it. There’s no way they’ll be handing over sixty million quid’s worth of gems.”
McKay’s jaw fell open. “Cubic Zirconia? How long is that going to fool them?”
“Not long,” Jenkins admitted. “We’re relying on the fact that they won’t have time to examine the stones in any great detail until they’ve got away from the scene. You can’t tell the difference between diamonds and Zirconia with a quick glance. You have to magnify them ten times to see that the facets aren’t so sharp. You can also test them with ink; the ink goes into beads on the Zirconia. But you have to know what you’re doing.”
“These guys do know what they’re doing,” McKay growled. “And when they find out we’ve pulled a stunt like that, they’re not going to be impressed.”
“We’ll have a few pouches of cheap diamonds on top,” Anson assured him, “but under that will be the Zirconia. All we’re aiming to do is buy ourselves some time.”
“So your whole strategy is based on catching them before they get away?”
“Yes,” Anson agreed, clamping his mouth into a stubborn line.
“And if it doesn’t work, we’ve got some seriously-pissed-off terrorists on the loose with five kilograms of plutonium.”
Jenkins spread his hands apologetically. “It can’t be helped. That’s the way it is. I’ve spoken to the Home Secretary myself. He won’t play ball.”
“Plutonium isn’t a game,” McKay threw back. “What do we know about this stuff anyway? Have we got any idea where it came from?”
Anson gestured to the younger man at his side. “Over to you, Matt. Tell us what you’ve found out.”
Curtis cleared his throat. “We checked all official UK sources of plutonium, but none of them have reported any missing, so we turned our attentions abroad. As you know, the old Soviet Bloc countries present a serious threat with regard to radioactive material. In 2004, for example, two containers of Uranium 238 were discovered on a dump in central Russia by a couple of vagrants. They took them to a scrap metal yard in Saratov in the hope of selling them. In the same year, Russian security officers arrested a smuggler after he tried to sell weapons-grade plutonium to undercover officers.”
“Are you saying the plutonium came from Russia?” McKay asked. “Doesn’t that suggest that Fox and his accomplices are a front for the Russian Mafia?”
Curtis cast an anxious glance around him. “At first, I feared the same thing,” he admitted, “but after I did some digging I changed my mind. I approached the problem by starting with the murder of Tim Wellerby. What did he and Sullivan see that was worth killing for? Sullivan said in his statement that the three men had been scuba diving, so I checked the records for any wrecks within a radius of 100 miles. I turned up something interesting. It’s now my belief that they were recovering an old Soviet suitcase plutonium bomb.”
McKay looked around him questioningly, but the others didn’t seem to share his confusion. “I can see you all know what Mr Curtis is talking about,” he said, “but perhaps one of you could it explain it to me.”
Anson took up the story. “During the Cold War, the Russians developed a portable nuclear device that could be carried across frontiers in a suitcase. We’ll never know for certain how many were made, but estimates have been put as high as a couple of hundred.”
McKay inhaled sharply, but didn’t interrupt.
“Some of them were destined for the West,” Anson continued, “probably to hand over to sleeper cells to use in the event of war.” He turned to Curtis. “What makes you think that’s what we’re dealing with?”
“The scuba connection,” Curtis explained. “These suitcases wouldn’t have been brought in by air; the security checks have always been too stringent, even prior to 9/11. It would have been a lot easier to smuggle them in by sea. When I searched the records, I came across a fishing trawler that went down en route to Britain from Rostock in 1979. In the chaos that followed, one of the crew took the opportunity to get away from the others and claim political asylum. During his debriefing, he said that a member of the STASI had come on board shortly before they disembarked from Rostock harbour. He had been carrying a suitcase that he wouldn’t allow anyone else to touch.” Curtis looked around him, pausing for maximum effect. “His name was Hubner.”
“That sounds pretty conclusive,” McKay observed, “but doesn’t that mean that we’ve got a nuclear bomb on our hands after all?”
Anson shook his head. “Unlikely. After all these years the mechanism is probably screwed. The plutonium, however, will still be active.”
McKay leaned forward and fixed the others with a scathing expression.
“So what you’re saying is this. We know for a fact that there are three men out there with five kilos of weapons-grade plutonium which started off life as a plutonium bomb. This bomb is, hopefully, no longer fully functional, but we can’t rely on that. The men have demanded sixty million pounds’ worth of diamonds, but the government is going to try and fob them off with Cubic Zirconia, and our main hope of finding them, before they irradiate half the country, is a man who is the main suspect in a murder enquiry and who is going to make damn sure that we don’t find him.”
“You make it sound worse than it is,” Jenkins said mildly.
“Is that possible?” McKay asked raising an eyebrow. “I’d be interested to hear how you think it’s better.”
“We do what we have to,” Jenkins told him sharply. “What would you prefer, that we give in to their demands?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “If we do that, we open ourselves up to attack by every terrorist group or petty criminal who fancies their chances. Where will it end? Kidnapping innocent people off the streets? Chemical or biological warfare? We don’t give in to blackmail. And as long as the rest of the world knows that, we can all sleep easier at night.”
McKay opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a tap on the door. In response to Jenkins’s command to enter, a young woman hurried in with a note which she handed to McKay. He read it, once to himself and then out loud for the benefit of the meeting.
“Malcolm Fox’s car has been sighted in the car park at Ashford International,” he told them. “At the moment we can only speculate what this means. Have they already left the country, or is this a diversionary tactic? We’ll be keeping the station under surveillance, along with the airport, but we have to be ready for anything. We must expect the unexpected. I’ll have all ports covered, and every police force looking out for them.”
“You’ll put a tracker on the car of course?” Anson said.
McKay nodded. “Already done…and the Zirconia?”
“Of course,” Anson confirmed, “although they’ll probably anticipate that, and take counter-measures. Basically we must have the whole country locked down so tight that if a gnat farts in Macclesfield, we’ll know about it.”
McKay shook his head with misgivings. “I don’t like this. We can’t afford to underestimate these men.”
“Whatever they do, we’ll be ready for them,” Anson said confidently. “In the meantime, our other priority is finding Nicholas Sullivan. Find him, and hopefully he can lead us to them.”
“But even if that’s possible, it won’t get us any nearer to finding where they’ve planted the bomb,” McKay protested. “That’s got to be our first priority.”
“Of c
ourse,” Anson assured him. “That’s why it’s so important to find Sullivan. If he really has been following these men, he’ll know where they’ve been. He might not know it, of course, but there’s a chance he saw exactly where they planted the bomb, or bombs. In which case, he’s just about the most important person in the country right now.”
McKay looked, if possible, even more miserable than before. “If that’s true, we’d better hope that they don’t realise he’s on to them, because if they do he’ll have a lot more than radiation sickness to worry about.”
Anson looked thoughtful, as though that possibility hadn’t crossed his mind.
“Then we must make sure we get to him first. Whatever happens, I want him in custody before tomorrow’s deadline is up.” He began gathering his papers, the meeting at an end. “For his sake, it seems, as well as ours.”
Chapter Fourteen
Nick sat back, his mind reeling with shock. How could he have become Britain’s most wanted man on the strength of a single murder that he hadn’t even committed? For a moment he wondered, illogically, if he had broken some other law without noticing. He quickly searched his memory, but drew a blank. He had paid his speeding fine from a few months back. As far as he knew he was up to date with his tax returns. He gave himself a mental shake and told himself to get a grip. He might not understand the reason for suddenly becoming the most dangerous person in the country, but that didn’t make it any less true. He had to act fast.
He quickly considered his options. He knew he couldn’t stay where he was. Although he no longer bore any resemblance to the smiling man in the photograph, the Receptionist had looked at him with enough suspicion for it to be only a matter of time before she put two and two together. But where could he go? He had to stay nearby. It was unthinkable for him to give up now. He came to a decision. Springing to his feet, he quickly gathered together a warm duvet, the last of his food, a small supply of drinking water and the medication he had bought for his growing list of ailments. He looked longingly at the bed that he had never got the chance to use, miserably acknowledging that his night spent in the car was just a taster of things to come.
He looked around him wondering what else he should pack, and noticed Annelies’s mobile lying where it had been discarded on the sofa. With a pang of guilt, he remembered that he still hadn’t contacted her since rushing out of the lodge the day before. He was about to slip it into his pocket when he realised it was dead; the battery was flat, and he hadn’t taken the charger.
This one small setback was the final straw. He sat down heavily, put his head in his hands and gave a howl of anguish. He leaned back on the sofa grinding his knuckles into his eyes, and for the first time since he was a child felt the tears welling. He angrily wiped them away with the back of his hand. At least he was still alive. That was more than could be said for Tim. Tim had called him cocky. He had laughed at the time, but what if Tim had called him spineless? Would he have laughed then?
Wretchedness gave way to anger. Rage flowed through him, rejuvenating, strengthening. These men had killed Tim without mercy or reason – and unless Nick got off his arse and did something about it, they might as well have killed him.
He angrily pushed himself up from the sofa and started to throw his few belongings into a couple of plastic bags. As he packed he made plans. The caravan park lay on the edge of woods and fields. He would drive the car off the road, just far enough into the trees to hide it from prying eyes. He would sleep in it by night and stake out the caravan by day. There were hedges and trees nearby from where he could watch without being seen, and if they made a move he could be back in his car within seconds. He wondered, briefly, how long this was going to go on for, but pushed the thought to the back of his mind. The fact that the three men’s actions over the last few days seemed senseless was irrelevant. He had almost come to know them. He knew they would do nothing without good reason. His instincts told him that whatever they were up to was coming to an inevitable conclusion, and all he had to do was stick with them and hope that when the time came, they would give themselves away and he would have the proof that he needed.
He swept up his bags and threw them over his shoulder. He got no further than the tiny shower room. His stomach heaved and he spent the next ten minutes vomiting his breakfast into the toilet. His day wasn’t getting off to a good start.
After that, he told himself, things could only get better.
***
As Ed knocked on the Inspector’s door, it seemed to him that he had seen the inside of his boss’s office more often in the last few days than he had done during the whole of his career. He guessed what it was about: Nick Sullivan. He had flicked the television on that morning over a hurried breakfast and had found himself staring in disbelief at the screen. He had gone to work a thoughtful and troubled man, and the summons to see his boss had arrived the moment he had walked into the station.
He interpreted an unintelligible grunt as permission to enter, and stuck his head around the door. The Inspector glanced up, and his expression changed from irritation to relief.
“Ah, Ed. Come in. I need to talk to you about your friend, the one who’s wanted by Kent Police.”
“I saw the News,” Ed said, uncertainly. “What the hell’s he done?”
The Inspector raised a questioning eyebrow. “He’s wanted for murder. You know that.”
“Yes,” Ed agreed “but an all-channels television appeal to find him? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“That was Kent’s decision. It was nothing to do with us. Sit down, Ed.” The Inspector leaned forward, forming his fingers into an arch. “It seems that finding your friend Sullivan has become top priority.”
Ed sat, feeling distinctly uneasy. “But why? Even if he did it, which he didn’t, it’s not as if he’s a danger to the public.”
“A murderer not a danger to the public?” the Inspector asked with a wry smile.
“You know what I mean. Killing a mate because he’s screwing your wife doesn’t make you a mass murderer. What’s this all about, Guv?”
If the Inspector knew, he wasn’t saying. “How’s your sister, Ed?”
Ed’s shoulders dropped. “Not good. She came round in the middle of the night, but not for long. They’re doing tests at the hospital to find out what’s wrong.” Ed threw the inspector a look of anguish. “It’s the blow on her head. They think there might be pressure building up. She should have come round properly by now, but instead she’s getting worse.”
The Inspector looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry to hear that, Ed.” He swallowed hard. “So there’s no chance of her being able to tell you where Sullivan is?”
Ed rose to his feet, his face twisting with rage. “I tell you that my sister’s getting worse, and all you’re bothered about is whether or not she knows where to find Nick!”
The Inspector gestured for him to sit down. “I’m sorry, Ed. You’re right. But this is coming all the way from the top. We’ve got to find him.”
Ed lowered himself slowly into the chair, fixing his boss with a steely look.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
The Inspector looked uncomfortable. “I don’t understand?”
“Come on, Guv,” Ed urged. “They must think he’s done something other than kill Tim. What is it?”
“I’ve no idea. I just know we’ve been told that we’ve got to bring him in.”
Ed shook his head in disbelief. “My sister is lying in hospital fighting for her life on account of Nick Sullivan. If he’s done something, I’ve got a right to know what it is.”
“I’ve told you all I know” the Inspector said, his tone hardening.
“Well I don’t believe you!” Ed snarled.
The Inspector’s eyes narrowed. “Easy, Ed. I know you’re upset about your sister, but remember who you’re talking to.”
For a moment Ed felt as though he was going to argue, but then thought better of it. “Sorry, Guv,” he muttered. “It’s
just that I thought I knew him… He was a mate… But now I don’t know what to think.”
“Yeah, I know,” the Inspector said, his tone softening. “Look, why don’t you go back to the hospital and be with your sister? We can spare you from here.”
“I’d rather be busy,” Ed said, dispiritedly.
The Inspector shrugged. “Fair enough. You know best… But Ed…you would tell us if you knew where Sullivan was, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah, of course,” Ed said, hoping the lie didn’t show. He would tell them all right, but in his own good time. And that wouldn’t be before he found out what Nick had done to put Annelies in hospital.
***
Nick watched the darkening skies with foreboding. He had hidden the car in woods which fringed the perimeter road of the caravan site, and had then tracked back to a small thicket to set up base from where he could keep watch. He had the perfect vantage point, looking down on them from an elevated position among the trees, able to see without being seen. He had smoothed himself out a small hollow in the ground in a spot that was sheltered on three sides by undergrowth, and had spread plastic bags on top of the moss to keep the encroaching damp at bay. With enough food and water to hand, and the duvet from the caravan for warmth, his mood was determined. He had suffered plenty worse when camping as a youngster, and although feeling more poorly with each passing hour, he was confident that as long as the weather stayed dry he could sit it out for as long as necessary.
That was before he had nibbled unenthusiastically on a bar of chocolate and had immediately vomited it back up again. It was also before the alternate shivering and sweating had settled into a raging fever, and the skies had turned black with the promise of heavy rain. All in all, he decided, cheerful optimism was going to be a difficult state to maintain. He took a swig of water from the bottle, waited a moment to see if it came back, then gingerly used another to wash down a couple of painkillers from his rapidly-depleting store. He had never had a headache like it in his life. Even hangovers from his student days seemed mild by comparison, and at least then he had had the scant satisfaction of knowing that he’d deserved it.