‘How are the others?’
‘They’re decontaminating on the Dauntless.’ He shot me a sideways look as he kicked the wheel of my car. ‘Other than Captain Greenbow, they’re fine.’
‘I can explain that.’
He nodded, seemingly unconcerned. ‘So where’s the real sample?’
‘Destroyed in the fire.’
‘Whitehall will be disappointed.’
‘I don’t see why, since officially we don’t develop biological weapons.’
‘Always got to do it your way, eh, John?’
‘My way’s kept me alive all these years.’
‘Barely. So, no one has the sample and we’re two million dollars up. Another feather in your cap, in any case.’
‘The last one.’
He picked at his fingernails. ‘How many times have I heard that? Though it is comforting when you remain in character.’
‘I mean it this time.’
‘Hm. Well, Special Branch are coming to close off the area, and we’ve got a full bio-response team on the way.’
‘They’ll want to get down to the bottom of that gorge, there’s an American down there that’s not feeling too well.’
He raised an eyebrow and looked out over the trees.
‘And I’ll need my car transported home.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘It’s potentially contaminated, the only place it’s going is a bonfire.’
My mind raced. ‘You don’t know it’s contaminated. It’s mine, it’s private property, and you owe me.’
Several hazmat-suited soldiers appeared from the fog, carrying various boxes and pieces of equipment.
‘You’ll be compensated, as always,’ he said, motioning for me to follow him towards the chopper.
I guarantee you won’t compensate me that much…
‘As a personal favour, then. The car’s got sentimental value. Just give the inside a spray.’ He wasn’t going for it. ‘It was my brother’s.’
He sighed. ‘Whose fool idea was it to go chasing around the Highlands anyway?’ After a few seconds’ consideration, he barked instructions at the hazmat guys to tear out the front seats and hose down the rest. They started assembling equipment and inflating some kind of containment tent. He turned back to me. ‘Oh, and you’ve managed to infuriate an entire village, we’ve had to seal off the only place they can buy milk for miles.’
‘You owe them on expenses, too.’
He pretended he hadn’t heard, gesturing to the hazmats. ‘For God’s sake, leave the car for now, start with this lout.’ He saw my expression and smiled. ‘You’re not getting on my helicopter until you’re scrubbed clean, my boy. Now, tell me what the hell happened on that island.’
Chapter Seventy-three
Same as it ever was.
When siblings fight, one can’t gain total victory over the other, otherwise an imbalance occurs. Imbalances upset the status quo, sometimes permanently. Siblings know they need to resolve issues in a mutually beneficial way in order to preserve the relationship.
The Americans were happy because, even though they knew the Brits would be pissed off, they knew we needed them. Mason had seen me take the sample from Hurley with his own eyes, so when they discovered it was worthless they’d have to chalk it up to their own overenthusiastic agent. Nothing they could pin on me, nothing they could do about it now he was dead.
The Brits were happy because they knew the Americans didn’t really have the sample, and the whole affair had put our cousins across the Atlantic in a weaker position, diplomatically. Not without cost – but everything costs these days, everyone’s expendable.
So the UK had prevailed in a way that allowed both countries to save face because even though they’d need to apologise, America secretly thought they’d won. Britain secretly knew they hadn’t. A perfect ending, given the current political climate. Someone in Washington would be forced to add a clause in a trade agreement more favourable to Britain, maybe get a few supportive tweets thrown the PM’s way. Essentially, the relationship was maintained, no nasty confrontations or unwanted media attention, which is what could have happened had anyone else been involved.
On top of that, I was personally two million dollars up, plus my hefty fee from the British and I was in their good books. On the down-low the CIA still thought I could be bought, which was good for future job prospects with them too. Most importantly, the job had finally given me the bargaining power with Mason I’d so desperately needed to get the information I’d been after for a while. A fairly rosy outcome, given the circumstances.
It’s what I do, what I’m very well paid to do. I’m no policeman or judge. I don’t understand or give a shit about the ins and outs of the law, it doesn’t concern me. I’m contracted to clean up mess but I’m not a detective either, nor am I simply seeking truth. The reason I get paid the big bucks is because I steer the truth – and the mess – to an effective conclusion beneficial to whoever is writing my cheque. Of course, by sheer coincidence that conclusion always happens to benefit me too. Ideals are expensive, they cost a hell of a lot more than scientists. I live in the real world where deals are undone, promises broken.
Okay, I’m doing myself a disservice. I do have my own morals – and being an independent contractor gives me a certain amount of leeway to flex the jobs and my methods. For example, when I’d tipped the real vial of super-lethal anthrax into the sea last night whilst pretending to signal the ship, along with the remains from that sandwich bag. The spores might not be killed immediately but they’d break up beneath the waves, floating away on their own.
Holderness would certainly have been happier with it and it would likely have earned me a bonus but like I said, I have my own morals. The British Government sometimes pays my bills, but that doesn’t mean I like them.
Or trust them, but since they’d transferred a big chunk of cash into my account I did at least owe them an explanation, a reason why such a simple job had gone south so rapidly, why a bit of snooping to understand whether a technician’s death was suspicious had ended in such carnage dragged across the Highlands.
The flight to the ship was as uncomfortable as the one that had brought me here, though mercifully much shorter. Bates and the hazmat guys had stayed behind to direct the local police and clear up, so it was just Holderness and me. I shivered in an MoD-issue tracksuit and space blanket, still wet following a freezing shower in the middle of the road. I gripped the seat next to him, feeding him details through gritted teeth and screwed-up eyes as he scribbled in his notebook, already working angles for his report.
Holderness laughed when I told him there’d been something nasty in my Scotch, which might sound callous even for him – fortunately he knows I can’t stand the stuff, and that my hip flask only ever contains water. We’d thought it’d be helpful to be underestimated.
Holderness didn’t doubt that Hurley and Gambetta were guilty as hell, but still hadn’t worked out how and why Hurley had killed his partner in crime.
I explained, the windows were the key.
Chapter Seventy-four
As soon as the chopper’s wheels touched the deck I was whisked down to the sickbay to be swaddled in iodine and bandages and shots of all sorts of things anthrax-related. Not enough morphine for my liking before my finger was splinted properly, bloody gaffer tape was ripped off, and the slice over my ribs received more agonising staples than I thought necessary.
Afterwards my debrief with Holderness was interrupted periodically by muffled screams from the next room, where Captain Greenbow’s foot was receiving much the same treatment. Holderness tutted when I smiled. We didn’t make it through the whole story as he was called away urgently, no doubt bogged down with real-world details; crime scenes and jurisdiction, politics and paperwork, bullshit I’ve always been grateful to steer well away from.
The break gave me time to lie on my allotted berth feeling sorry for myself. My left ankle had doubled in size and my right leg was sliced to bits from j
umping through the window. My right hand was bandaged, but fortunately Hurley’s knife hadn’t slashed particularly deep. The iodine had stained sickly yellowy brown patches all over my skin. I looked at the mirror on the opposite wall, the broken man it reflected, scars old and new all reminders of jobs; assassinations, terrorism, civil wars, news stories of the last two decades condensed into miniature and mapped across my body. Pain, scars, pay cheque, repeat – there had to be better ways of making a living.
Maybe it didn’t have to be that way any more. I thought about my pride and joy being hosed down with bleach and formaldehyde and loaded onto a recovery truck bound for Yorkshire. The contents of the boot might finally let me get that place off Russell Square I’d had my eye on. I closed my eyes and, not for the first time, tried to imagine a world where phone calls and emails could be about shopping deliveries, unpaid direct debits, marketing crap. Netflix and a dog and taking out the fucking recycling once a week. Could I learn not to flinch at every car alarm and door slam and JCB digging the road? Could I live in a world where fireworks meant celebrations and helicopters flew over without discharging death? Where conversations never began with questions about languages, vaccinations, or my long-distance accuracy with a Steyr SSG 69?
My reverie was interrupted by knocking. I limped across the room, opening the door.
The young lieutenant saluted. ‘Morning, sir.’
‘Less of the “sir”, uniforms don’t suit me. What’s the verdict?’
‘Doc says it’s too early to tell.’ He handed me a heavy canvas bag and propped a set of crutches against the doorframe. ‘She says to let her know if you start vomiting or develop an itchy rash.’
‘Reassuring. Are the cast assembled?’
‘Breakfasting in the officers’ wardroom.’
‘I’ll be five minutes.’
Chapter Seventy-five
When I entered the wardroom, five pairs of eyeballs swivelled to lock onto me, only Holderness ignoring me as he lazily pulled apart a croissant. Toast and mugs stopped halfway to open mouths. I didn’t look up but could feel the eyes tracking me as I hobbled to a table laden with jugs of weak squash, tubs of sawdusty cereal, a meagre selection of both over- and under-ripe fruit. I put the canvas bag down, spread a napkin out, and pulled out the contents one by one: Gambetta’s Walther, Greenbow’s sooty Browning, Hurley’s charred Sig.
Greenbow glared in the corner of my eye, arms folded, one heavily bandaged leg propped on a chair. He opened his mouth, but Holderness waved it shut with his butter knife. They’d already had words about his foot. Holderness had told me he’d invoked all manner of national security crap to shut him up, told him if he mentioned it again he’d risk his compensation.
‘Glad to see you’re still in one piece.’ That beautiful French accent.
I turned. Marie leaned on the windowsill behind me, now clad in a fetching pair of ill-fitting jeans and a T-shirt, presumably borrowed from a member of the crew. Her face dropped when she saw the guns.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, lip trembling slightly.
I was about to reply when Holderness coughed. ‘Exhibit A?’ He pointed at the table.
‘And the other guns too, ready for dabs and DNA,’ I replied.
‘Fingerprinting?’ Greenbow’s ears pricked up. ‘There’s no need to test my sidearm.’
I leaned back against the table, pouring a cup of tea, watching him carefully. ‘They’re all being taken away for analysis.’
‘Procedure,’ Holderness added. ‘We need to cross all the t’s, for my report here.’ He held up a pad of paper and smiled.
‘But we know Hurley did it, and we have his gun,’ said Alice, joining me at the table. ‘Why do we care if his fingerprints and DNA are on it?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s an unusual case, but it’s still evidence.’
Greenbow looked around the room, clearly perturbed, making to stand. Alice reached for the guns tentatively, as if exorcising the demons of the last twenty-four hours.
‘No touching, they’re still loaded,’ I said, turning back to my mug of tea. I stirred, watching the brown tendrils swirl and spread through the lukewarm water, replicating like an infection. I shuddered, dropped the spoon, pushed the cup away, briefly contemplating taking up drinking coffee but thinking better of it and pouring a glass of orange instead.
Marie still hovered by my shoulder, face white.
‘So why did you take the window key?’ I whispered.
She tried to keep her face blank but her eyes darted around the room. No one else was listening.
‘I didn’t know what was going on,’ she whispered back. ‘I wanted an escape route of my own, just in case.’
‘I can’t argue with that, since I stole one too. You took it from the radio room?’
She nodded. ‘While you were checking Ingrid at Camp Vollum. I didn’t know you’d screwed the windows shut.’
‘I suppose I did tell you not to trust anyone.’
‘Yes, but Hurley? I still can’t believe it.’
My throat was dry, a combination of the gas and fire mixed with the anticipation of what was about to happen. ‘You gave him my gun and nearly got us both killed.’ I coughed, downed the orange juice, and smiled. ‘If you’d have shot him instead you’d have saved me a lot of trouble.’
‘Sorry.’
‘If you wanna make it up to me, I know this great pub in Inverness.’
I didn’t catch her reply, I was concentrating on Alice behind me, on her reflection in the coffee pot.
‘I told you not to touch the gun,’ I said.
She frowned. ‘But…’ Alice’s tongue tripped up.
‘But you had no choice, did you? Because you need a way of explaining why your prints and DNA are all over it.’ I turned to face her snarl. ‘They were already all over it because you used that gun to shoot Eric Gambetta last night.’
Her mouth started working but no sound escaped as she quickly slid the magazine out, backpedalling away. Out of reach, and with my injuries, I was too slow to stop her. I took a step forward but she slammed the magazine back, cocked the pistol.
I dropped my arm and laughed. ‘It’s over.’
She raised her arm, still trying to speak, when Marie reached round me, smashing the gun aside with the coffee pot, spraying the wall with scalding coffee, splashing back across my face. I raised my arms instinctively, saw Marie launch, grabbing Alice’s arm, preventing her from swinging the gun in my direction. Alice whipped it round, cracking against Marie’s jaw. I reached and stumbled, wincing as I caught the table to steady myself. There was a brief scuffle, a choked scream, then uneasy quiet. As I blinked the hot liquid from my eyes I saw Marie held prisoner, Alice’s head over one shoulder, Gambetta’s Walther over the other. Marie struggled but Alice tightened her grip, grinding the barrel into her neck.
‘No one move.’
Dash, silent thus far at the other side of the room, quietly placed a chair back down on the floor. Greenbow hovered on one leg, gripping his chair, brandishing a crutch, which he slowly lowered. Holderness remained seated, cradling his croissant.
‘Where’re you gonna go, Alice?’ I asked. ‘You’re on a Navy ship in the middle of the sea.’
She was silent, unbreathing, eyes narrowed.
‘Let Marie go,’ I continued.
She looked at Holderness. ‘Tell them to get the helicopter ready.’
‘Or what?’ he asked.
‘Or no one’s getting out of here alive.’
‘There are ten armed Marines outside that door,’ Holderness said, still gesturing with his butter knife.
‘Then I’ll start with him.’ She removed the gun from Marie’s neck and pointed it at me.
‘Go ahead. I’ve got nothing better to do.’ I let go of the table to limp forward, closing the distance between us.
Marie thrashed, lashing out with an elbow.
A silenced gunshot is far from silent. The room held its breath, the pop and mechanical click d
eafening. It was followed by several more in rapid succession, bouncing between the walls so quickly I couldn’t count how many times she fired. Chairs were overturned as Dash and Greenbow dove for cover. I tried to pull Marie towards me but instead she thrust out, driving her fist into Alice’s face. I stumbled and fell backwards, dragging Marie with me. Alice continued to jerk the trigger. Her head slammed sideways as a crutch smashed into it, launched by Greenbow from the other side of the room, but she recovered quickly, turning, furiously squeezing the trigger in his direction, the hammer continuing to fall and click long after the magazine was emptied.
The door flew open, Bates exploding into the room. He grabbed Alice, twisting her arm up her back, forcing her to drop the gun. Several of his team crowded the corridor behind him.
‘Take Ms String below!’ Holderness commanded.
He’d remained in his chair throughout – not through bravery, but foreknowledge. When we’d landed I’d asked him to raid the ship’s stores, loading the guns with blanks. Only an idiot would have loaded guns kicking around with a murderer at large.
She spat as the huge Scotsman shoved her out of the door, blood and tooth fragments sliding down the wall. The others recovered, not quite sure what had just happened.
‘Thank you, Marie,’ I said as we helped each other to our feet. ‘And well done, Captain,’ I added – sincerely for the first time.
He grunted, glaring at me. Holderness had primed him to make a fuss about the fingerprinting of the guns, but hadn’t explained why. I could see he hadn’t worked it out yet.
‘Right, that’s breakfast done,’ said Holderness, rising to his feet and striding after Bates. ‘John, with me. The rest of you, stay here.’
I pulled away from Marie, following him to the doorway, anxious to finish it. She reached out, grabbed my sleeve.
‘I never answered your question last night,’ she said.
‘Question?’
‘There’s no one back in Biarritz.’
I pulled my arm back before she noticed it was shaking again, a comedown of sorts. ‘That’s the real crime. So, this pub in Inverness—’
Anthrax Island Page 29