Anthrax Island

by D. L. Marshall

  I knelt by Ingrid for the last time, ran my fingers over the blanket covering her head. I had to force myself to stand. Plenty of time to dwell after the job.

  I checked through the labs, but there was no outdoor clothing. In the second lab I stood on the chair again and snatched up Gambetta’s Walther PPK from where I’d put it back on the cupboard. I’d briefly checked it before and knew the magazine was empty, but there’d been one round chambered. I double-checked to confirm, pushed it into my pocket, made my way back to the decontamination chamber.

  Ingrid’s wellies were sitting on the bench but since they were at least five sizes too small, I ignored them. I didn’t ignore the gas mask hanging from the hook above. Adjusting the straps for my bigger head, I slipped it on. It smelled of her – in a non-stalker kind of way, moisturiser or conditioner or something – which made me more determined than ever to get, if not justice, then at least revenge. Finally, I wrapped the shemagh around my head, a Mad Max post-apocalyptic Lawrence of Arabia, and punched the button for the door.

  Even though I didn’t think the killer would have stuck around, I gripped the pistol tightly, hiding round the corner as the door slid open. The sun was still beneath the mountains but the sky was aglow, fog now light grey, the island a dirty watercolour wash. Rotten-looking grass and rusty bracken. A quick glance at my watch told me I had minutes until ignition. I couldn’t see anyone in the expanse of fog, which meant no one could see me, so I ran outside, pistol up and ready.

  Chapter Sixty-four

  I avoided the bracken as I sprinted across the island – no desire to stab my foot on an anthrax-laced twig – sticking to the safer but harder-going mud track. After only a few steps I had to surrender the makeshift T-shirt sandals and socks to the sucking mud, thanking the gods there was no danger of broken glass in this wilderness. The fog continued to blow on the breeze and by the time I’d reached the crest of the hill I could look back and still just about see the camp washing in and out of view; my saviour, the pipe, stretching out into a milky nothing.

  I forged on as fast as I could in the terrain, jumping rocks and skirting craters, still holding the pistol ready. As I ran I replayed everything I knew to that point – I couldn’t think of anything worse than using my one and only bullet on the wrong person. The doubts I still carried were mainly due to the fact that I still hadn’t figured out how Gambetta was killed – or more accurately, how they’d shot him, hidden the vial, and then escaped. I was pretty sure that somehow the disappearing trick was the key to everything.

  Though everyone on the island had an alibi, one of them had killed both Ingrid and Gambetta, and attacked me. They were clever, but still a cold-blooded murderer.

  I approached the stone cairn and the large crater that I’d sat in with the Royal Marine, Jarrett, in the pouring rain the night before, and thought about the report I’d given to the crackling voice on board HMS Dauntless. Even though the wind and rain had been abysmal, through the downpour and static the clipped tones of Colonel Rupert Holderness had been unmistakable.

  Scottish but educated in a way you’d never know it, the voice was one I was well used to. It belonged to a man I’d first become acquainted with in Iraq, where I’d been making good money with my brother and a few of his ex-special forces mates of dubious reputations. Never been a military man myself – Greenbow had been right about that – but we’d had a particular set of skills that had appealed to Colonel Holderness, and he’d taken us under his wing.

  Alice was wrong – I’m not MI5, not by a long stretch. Holderness is head of Section something-or-other in Defence Intelligence, and often finds it helpful to have an outsider, an unknown, on a job that might otherwise prove embarrassing to the British Government. ‘Mercenary’ is an ugly word; I prefer ‘contractor’. He uses the term ‘deniable asset’.

  A couple of weeks prior to Scotland, I’d been in Syria, showing rebels how to disable Soviet-built trucks with improvised explosive devices made from Soviet-built artillery shells. IEDs – a term I’d first heard in Afghanistan a decade or so earlier, when I’d ended up on the receiving end of one thanks to some shit intel. I’d come away with scars back then, not all physical. My brother hadn’t come away at all.

  You heard about the old millionaire kidnapped from his yacht by Somali pirates a couple of years ago? The one rescued by French special forces in Eyl? The news didn’t tell you they landed in the wrong place and I had to carry him through half the town, pursued by some very angry bastards all the way to the evac point.

  The German police who arrested that Belgian would-be suicide bomber a while ago? The news didn’t tell you I’d been tracking him for a month. They didn’t tell you that when the police arrived he was already tied up on the floor, bomb vest disarmed. I’d been long gone.

  You don’t know the truth about any of these things, obviously my involvement isn’t reported; my income depends on it. Although I did actually make it onto the news once. That footage of the guy hitting the statue of Saddam with a shoe, if you look really hard at the background…

  South Ossetia, Libya, Iran, Syria, Yemen, Myanmar; to most people names like this are just dots in an atlas, occasionally read out by a newsreader when nothing interesting is happening to celebs at home. These are some of the tattoos up my arm, the jobs, and well-paying ones at that. I’m a private British citizen, albeit with several very well-made passports that say otherwise, so I can travel where armed forces can’t, places the Foreign Office can comfortably deny being involved. And I don’t always work for the British; emphasis on independent contractor, meaning available to whomever has a problem, if they can afford me to fix it. These conflict zones are pay cheques.

  You’re now thinking that because I’m a mercenary I’ve fewer morals than a shark; I’ve heard it all before. A sniff of blood in the water and we all come running. On the contrary, I do have morals; being self-employed allows me to choose my jobs and methods, but I’m also a realist. I’ve done lots of bad things, I’ve done lots of good things, but I like to think I’m a net positive – in my own book. I’ve sold arms to African warlords and then trained rebels to fight them. I’ve fought against Russians in Ukraine, then returned to London to take my G.U. friends from the embassy to get a decent suit cut.

  A wide variety of jobs, but always requiring someone with no ties to the security services, and usually involving a fair degree of violence.

  When a technician accidentally died on an island off Scotland, no one took a great deal of notice. But when the base suffered a malfunction a few hours later, suspicions were aroused in Holderness’ office. Clever of Alice to pull the fuse on the door, knowing it’d be picked up on, knowing they’d send an operative in. She’d merely assumed I was MI5 since I’d known who she was, and sought her out.

  Holderness himself had flown up to Faslane to brief me, before setting up station on the Dauntless. The mission had been simple in concept; investigate the circumstances surrounding the death of Andy Kyle, and monitor the activities of the team. Feed any intel back, let Bates and his Marines do any heavy lifting that might be required. As I now knew, it’d turned out more difficult in practice. I’d been dumped into the middle of a plan already in effect, gaining momentum, far wider reaching than we’d thought.

  An explosion shattered the air, interrupting my thoughts, slamming me to a halt. It could have been a pistol shot muffled by fog, only I’ve heard enough pistol shots to know better. It was the sound of a couple of cans of spray paint and a bottle of Acqua di Parma ripping apart, taking half a plastic corridor with it. The blast died on the breeze, heavy silence swaddling the island again. I dispensed with caution, taking off down the steep section of hill, snagging toes on roots and stones. Halfway down, an ugly sound started up, a howl like a demented sea lion stuck on repeat. X-Base’s fire alarm. The fog parted to reveal darker skies, filled with smoke. I knelt to take stock.

  Thick black tentacles rolled up into the cold air, mixing with the fog, like tea being poured into a cup
of milk upside down. The fire had taken hold faster than I’d expected, flames already licked along the roof of the radio hut. From my vantage point I could see the section after it seemed okay, but only the skeletal ribs of the link corridor remained, plastic all melted. I did feel a brief pang of guilt before deciding the richest nation on earth could afford the repairs. The radio room was ablaze – something near the door had caught, setting off the hut. The power had been knocked off again in that section, I couldn’t see if anyone was moving inside.

  I gripped the pistol tighter, setting off again, slower now. I was just metres from the base when a figure dressed in green emerged from under the HADU, gun in hand.

  Greenbow.

  He stood slowly, pistol at his hip, aimed at my chest. He was wound tight, I got the impression he’d fire if I so much as flinched. I held the Walther just as steadily.

  ‘Look here,’ he shouted, ‘you’re making a very serious mistake pointing that thing at me. You need to put down—’

  ‘I don’t need to do anything, Captain. It’s early in the morning and already I’m having a very bad day. I’m cold, wet, I’ve been shot, drowned, and I’m wearing your trousers without pants.’

  ‘Tyler?’ He raised the pistol higher, arm outstretched. ‘Why aren’t you wearing a suit? Where have you been?’

  ‘I could ask you the same; you weren’t in your room.’

  ‘No concern of yours, and you’ll answer my questions,’ he snapped. I stared at the barrel of his gun, and his finger on the trigger. He stepped forward. ‘Why are you out here, and why aren’t you suited?’

  ‘There’s more going on here than you understand, Captain, things you’re not entitled to know. Do something useful, find the others.’

  Even through the gas mask I saw his eyes bulge. ‘Don’t be a fool. I’m still in charge of this operation, and I don’t answer to spies.’

  I kept my own pistol low, started to close the distance between us. ‘If you want to come out of this on the right side, you’ll put the gun down. This is your very last chance to get out of the way.’

  Behind him the tall radio antenna groaned and started a slow drunken lean to starboard as a puff of smoke erupted skyward.

  He narrowed his eyes, clicked back the Browning’s hammer. ‘This is your last chance. I’ll count to three.’ He started counting, ‘One…’

  I looked at the idiot, English exceptionalism personified, felt my eye twitch. My knuckles ached gripping that Walther. I didn’t have three seconds to spare, and I’d given him enough warnings. I squeezed the trigger, striding forward. The bullet exited the Walther’s suppressor with a pop and a click. I was already dropping the empty pistol onto the mud as the bullet was burrowing through the toe of Greenbow’s left wellington boot, into the top of his foot. With only tiny bones to shatter the bullet didn’t ricochet, drilling straight out of the sole into the mud. Greenbow screamed, buckling forward, bringing his arms down. As I walked past I swung a fist into his stomach and plucked the Browning from his hand, not breaking stride as I mounted the steps to the base.

  ‘You’ll want to lie on your back with your foot in the air until the evac arrives.’ I winked. ‘It’ll help with the bleeding, and minimise any nasty infections.’

  ‘Tyler, you’re—’

  Whatever I was I didn’t hear it, as I’d already entered the base.

  Chapter Sixty-five

  My hands were shaking with adrenaline, sudden explosions of violence always catch me unaware, as if I’m watching with a satellite delay. I rested my hands on my knees until my breathing slowed but when I looked up and saw myself in the mirror I was smiling.

  I made a conscious effort to reset my face. It’d been overkill, unnecessary, I was certain to catch an earful from Holderness. No doubt I’d be forced to apologise, would face repercussions. I rationalised it by remembering I’d been warned the captain was an arsehole, and he’d been slowing me down. Mitigants or a comfortable story – was Bates right about me? Didn’t matter, I had a job to finish.

  No time to decontaminate, no point, given the integrity of the base was breached by the explosion. Fuck ’em, they could decontaminate the whole base or incinerate the thing for all I cared.

  No time even to find my trainers, I had to get down to the comms room ASAP. I kept my mask on, slamming through the door, Greenbow’s gun up in front, into the first corridor.

  Smoke had already made it this far, faint wisps rolling along the ceiling. I pressed on, wet feet slapping plastic, trailing mud and blood, running straight for the radio room. Past the kitchen, the smoke thickened. A small explosion echoed down from the radio room, not big enough to be one of the fuel tanks going up, maybe another pressurised can.

  I pressed on through the huts, slamming through doors, heading deeper into the smoke. Fire had engulfed the end of the corridor, molten plastic hanging from the ceiling, spewing acrid smoke across the hall. Most of it was sucked outside but enough rolled back to blacken the walls and obscure my sight. The door to the radio room was shut.

  I knew who was inside; there was only one person it could be.

  Chapter Sixty-six

  I brought the pistol up, aiming squarely at Hurley’s back. ‘Don’t fucking move.’

  He flinched, the cover slamming down on the underfloor crawl space. He was sitting on the floor next to the panel. I scanned the room, saw a sand-coloured pistol lying on the floor just beyond his reach. SIG Sauer M18, evidently his that he’d somehow smuggled onto the island. He twitched, angling towards it, curling his legs under him as if to stand.

  ‘I said don’t move, Hurley.’

  He froze.

  ‘Now turn around. Slowly.’ I dragged the gas mask off my head, letting it drop to the floor, keeping my gun on him.

  ‘You went over the cliffs,’ he said as he slid round. Gone was the good-natured all-American charm, replaced with a sneer that twisted his face and set his eyes glowing. Any doubts about Hurley were instantly dispelled.

  ‘Nine lives. For an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, you’re not that bright.’ I moved the Browning to point directly at Hurley’s chest. At this distance I couldn’t miss, but I was too far away for him to jump me. How the tables had turned.

  ‘What now – you’re gonna take me in?’

  I didn’t move.

  ‘I’ll be stateside within the week,’ he added.

  ‘The “special relationship” can get fucked. You’ve murdered people. We don’t take that lying down.’

  ‘You’ll take it bending over, like you always do. You, Porton Down, your whole fucking annex of a country.’

  I clicked the hammer back with my thumb.

  ‘You won’t shoot,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t be cricket.’

  ‘You’ve killed a Scottish civilian and two scientists from the most sensitive military research facility in the United Kingdom. You’ve killed a Norwegian scientist and an admittedly detestable French agent. Maybe that’s baseball where you come from, cos it’s certainly not fucking cricket. Your people aren’t gonna want this kind of heat, they’ll give you up. Hopefully we’ll extradite you to France; their prisons aren’t as friendly as ours.’

  The room was heating up big-time, trails of smoke puffing under the door. The wall behind me was warping, the plastic had reached critical temperature. The fibreglass exterior shell, the insulation, and the aluminium supports would hold for a while – their melting point was higher – but if we didn’t get out soon we’d be shrink-wrapped inside a melting cocoon.

  ‘You’re forgetting something,’ Hurley said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You don’t know shit. You can’t connect me to this. I’ve got a rock-steady alibi. They’ll look at the evidence, the testimony of everyone here will back me up. You’ve gone rogue. It all points to Demeter – shit, your own government are itching to have something concrete on the Russkies, they’ll want to believe it was him.’

  ‘Demeter’s corpse is safe under a hut on the other s
ide of the island.’

  ‘Not any more. They’ll shut you up for rocking the boat, man. You days are numbered, not mine.’

  ‘That vial of anthrax in your pocket says otherwise.’

  ‘Your word against everyone else’s here. The word of a rogue spy who self-medicates from a bottle to keep the straitjacket at bay and needs to get results to find redemption, even if it means making it up. Like I said, no evidence.’

  ‘I took psychology GCSE too. Easy way to make up the grades.’ I smiled, leaning in, emphasising the gun in my hand, my finger gently squeezing the trigger. ‘Let’s do it the other way, then. I don’t need evidence, it won’t be your word against anyone’s if you’re not around to talk.’ He was right, though, killing in cold blood is a very different proposition indeed, as I well knew.

  He held his hands up, trying a new tack. ‘How does a million bucks sound?’

  ‘Sounds good, but not good enough. Give me the sample.’

  A blast rocked the hut, blowing the door in, slamming me further into the room. It was the distraction Hurley had been waiting for as he dived for his gun.

  I pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  The trigger clicked, dropping the hammer.

  The hammer struck the firing pin.

  The firing pin slid forward and struck nothing.

  No explosion, no tug on the wrist, the slider remained in place. I pulled it back and squeezed the trigger again – same impotent click.

  Hurley was moving fast. I stepped forward, lashing out with my foot, kicking his gun across the floor just as his fingers reached it. He grabbed for my leg. I kicked out again, this time aiming for his face, but he was too quick, rolling away. I slid the magazine out of the pistol. Empty! Greenbow, the stupid bastard, he’d emptied his mag earlier, didn’t have any more ammo, and I’d wasted my only bullet on him! I should have checked, had been too focused on getting inside. Well, I had even less remorse for shooting him now.