Anthrax Island

by D. L. Marshall

  ‘Now, John,’ said Holderness.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Dash. ‘Are we going to find out what the heck just happened?’

  Holderness looked vaguely amused. ‘Nothing at all happened, if you want to keep your pensions.’

  I was steered out of the door. Marie gave me a smile as Holderness closed it.

  ‘You missed your calling,’ he said as he marched ahead, directing me down a narrow flight of stairs. ‘Gentleman Detective.’

  ‘Gentleman being the operative word.’

  ‘Incidentally, the only prints on the gun were yours, probably DNA too. It’d been bleached.’

  ‘She couldn’t take the risk, but I was about to pull out the shirt.’ Everyone had slept in yesterday’s clothes, still wearing them when they were evacuated. Her hands had been swabbed on the ship under the guise of testing for anthrax, but in reality those samples were winging their way to a lab in Glasgow to check for gunshot residue. My guess was it’d be a negative after over twelve hours, but her clothes would tell a different story. No getting gunshot residue out of clothing, not without a washing machine and time, two things she hadn’t had. The results wouldn’t be available for a while, but I’d bet on her not knowing that and panicking; drawing out a rapid confession on the spot is helpful. Letting Holderness wrap it all up before some other agency swooped in would put me in his good books, maybe still yield that bonus.

  Holderness led me through the ship’s intestines, along corridors and stairways that made X-Base seem like a luxury hotel, past steel doors and circuit boxes and pipes and conduits, never breaking stride or looking back. He didn’t notice when I occasionally paused to rest against the wall, breathing deeply, hanging my head to let the nausea pass before limping to catch him.

  When he’d picked me up on the mainland he’d been in good spirits, all things considered. His demeanour had changed entirely whilst I’d been getting showered, a cloud had parked itself above his head and now he wouldn’t look me in the eye as he finally opened a cabin door and waved me inside. A bonus was definitely off the cards.

  ‘A seemingly impossible crime, Tyler – you made some fairly large leaps.’

  ‘To be honest, I got hung up on catching them red-handed. It was pretty straightforward, really.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. It’ll make it easy to write up.’ He gestured at the desk, at a pad of paper resting on it. ‘Just some more detail for my report.’

  ‘Now?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve a call to make, I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

  He left me to it.

  Chapter Seventy-six

  I took a deep breath and started writing. Didn’t take long to lay it all out, the genius of their plan, how it’d unravelled. The three conspirators, Hurley, Gambetta and Alice.

  She’d come here with Demeter a few months ago to scout the island, and it was then she’d discovered the mutated strain. What to do with it? No point handing it over to her superiors, she’s employed by the British, which means no profit, just a pat on the back. It’s difficult working for two masters and receiving only one pay packet; she wanted out for good.

  The French, then – always anxious to keep up an independent array of weapons. Gambetta was their man on the island. I didn’t know why or how the Americans got involved, though doubtless I’d wheedle it out of Mason over a beer sometime in the future. Hurley had worked in the CIA office in Paris for a few months, I reckon that’s where he’d met Gambetta. The Americans have deep pockets; maybe the conspirators had known they could make a hell of a lot more by taking it to them. So with the base providing the cover to smuggle the sample away, the plan was set.

  Gambetta had been a poor choice, as it turned out. He was reckless and had a temper, as I well knew. He’d taken it upon himself to run a test. Kyle was the most expendable person in the base, and sadly the least likely to raise concerns. Someone the authorities wouldn’t really care about or dig too deeply into.

  Alice was sharper, when she found out, she knew there’d be questions, knew it needed to be covered up, so she took the initiative. She wasn’t an agent, but she was on MI5’s payroll so it would have looked suspicious if she hadn’t reported it. She did the only thing she could do, sabotaging the base, ensuring someone was sent to investigate. Someone who could easily be disposed of if it came to that. No way it could be pinned on her: by initiating an investigation she’d seemingly demonstrated the right allegiances.

  The second phase of the plan had been to subvert my investigation by creating a fall guy to take the blame for Kyle’s death and my attempted murder. The radios needed to be destroyed to allow the fall guy to disappear, and unfortunately when Ingrid tested the sample of anthrax that had sealed her fate too. Viktor Demeter ‘the Russian defector’ was an obvious choice. What better way to divert blame for everything than to have Demeter destroy the radios and escape the island – in the process murdering Ingrid and attacking Gambetta – in such a way that it couldn’t possibly be anyone else? I had to admit, it was a decent plan.

  So Gambetta raced up to Camp Vollum, shot Ingrid, smashed the radio, and with Hurley covering his stint on the radio back at X-Base, all of their alibis were solid. Now all Gambetta had to do was get back into the radio room without being seen, to keep that unshakeable alibi intact. The clever thing was how he did it in such a way as to implicate Demeter at the same time; after decontaminating, he handed his pistol to Alice so it couldn’t be found on him, and changed into a fresh red suit.

  While he did, Alice came to Captain Greenbow’s room to fetch us. And as Gambetta came plodding up the corridor in character as Demeter she’d set the stage directions, ensuring Greenbow and I were in the right place at the right time. She ensured we saw him arguing and entering the room, reinforcing the idea that Gambetta was already in there. He’d been arguing with an empty room, yet more misdirection to confirm his own alibi and condemn Demeter.

  Once inside the comms room, Gambetta went into overdrive, tearing off the red suit, throwing it and the gas mask under the floor. He took a lighter to the USB stick from the CCTV, because it would have shown that it was him, not Demeter, decontaminating. He smashed the radio, gave himself a couple of scratches and a bloody nose along the way, made it look like he’d been attacked.

  Last thing he needed to do was open the window – which would have been ‘Demeter’s’ escape route. Shout for help, wait for us to arrive, claim Demeter had burst in and attacked him.

  And that’s the point when two separate things snagged the thread to unravel the plot.

  The first was when he tried to open the window and it stuck where I’d screwed it closed. Gambetta struggled with it, starting to panic – because if we came in, how would he explain Demeter’s disappearance? His alibi would evaporate. But just as he was desperately thinking of a way out of his predicament, the second snag was occurring. Hurley and Alice had changed the plan – they’d double-crossed Gambetta. He was expendable, and about to die.

  He was a weak link, had almost ruined everything by killing Kyle and being too quick to get rid of me. A public death at the hands of Demeter – which we’d all witness – was even better than the original plan, tying up loose ends, further cementing the Russian’s guilt, bolstering their own alibis.

  Everyone in the base heard the gunshot. Alice in the corridor with me, Greenbow further along, Dash and Marie down the other end of the base. Hurley had his head out of his room, shouting at us purely to keep his alibi intact.

  But that wasn’t the shot that had killed Gambetta.

  Hurley had fired his own gun, that was what we’d heard. Being pushed for time and with limited resources, they’d no way to get hold of blanks, I could picture him trying to open his window just like Gambetta, he would probably have fired outside if I’d not screwed it shut. Instead he’d done the next best thing, opening the wardrobe and firing inside. It worked, the signal to Alice for the next phase – the rollercoaster was almost at the end of the track, just one more drop and timing w
as everything. At this point we thought Gambetta was dead, but he was actually still struggling with the window in the radio room. Alice ran on ahead. As I hurried to catch up, Hurley came flying out of his room to stall me.

  Alice had mere seconds to pull off the perfect murder. She opened the door, stepped into the room. If she’d waited just a heartbeat she’d have found out the window was screwed shut, blowing the whole plan – but she didn’t have a single heartbeat to spare.

  Out from her rucksack came Gambetta’s own silenced pistol, and at that range she couldn’t miss. A few minutes before we’d heard the distinctive sound a suppressed pistol makes. I was close, might still have heard it, so she screamed loudly enough to bring everyone in the base running, covering up any noise as she put a bullet through his eye. She dropped the pistol into her bag, then was backing out of the room, into the corridor in full view of everyone. The whole thing took mere moments, and now Gambetta and Ingrid were dead, Demeter the only possible suspect.

  Holderness would keep the vial switch out of his report. He’d be sure to let his superiors in Whitehall know, the whole thing would be much easier to swallow that way, but they wouldn’t spread the word around too much; let the Americans think they’d won, they’d hardly have the balls to ask for a refund.

  There was a knock at the door. It swung open and Holderness stepped into the room.

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  ‘Are you all right?’ Holderness asked. An expression that I’d come to understand as concern crossed his face. ‘You’re sweating.’

  I hadn’t noticed my pen drumming a beat on the table. I put it down, pulled my arms close in to my sides where I could grip the chair, and nodded.

  He closed the door behind him. ‘I saw your face.’ I must have looked puzzled, as he continued. ‘When Alice threatened to shoot you. If I didn’t know better I’d say you wished I hadn’t loaded the gun with blanks.’

  I didn’t answer because I didn’t understand if it was a question or not. He looked relieved to not be having the discussion we’d carefully avoided for years, but I could still tell he was anxious. ‘Well, we’ll say no more about it.’ There was something else. I waited for him to speak. ‘So, your, ahem, classic –’ he definitely pronounced that as if it were a question, he may as well have done the quotation marks with his fingers – ‘car is already on its way south.’

  ‘Straight to my lockup?’

  ‘It’ll be in Yorkshire by tonight. How’s the head?’

  ‘They glued it together pretty well.’

  ‘Well, you’re fairly indestructible, and heads always bleed more than they have any right to. No, ah, ill effects, then?’

  One broken bone, forty stitches, a thousand cuts, burns, and bruises. ‘No worse than usual, I’ll mend.’ The bleeding would stop, swellings reduce, but I wouldn’t mend, not really. Nothing was healing properly these days, as if my body was slowly packing in, needing twice as much downtime after every job but never getting it, always playing catch-up and slipping further behind. And that’s before we get into the other damage, the nightmares, the screaming, blurred faces every time I close my eyes, and sometimes even when they’re open. I needed to get out of this game or I wouldn’t be playing it for much longer.

  He coughed, pulling me back to the room. ‘What are your plans, then?’

  ‘I was thinking you could have Bates drive me to Inverness. Browse Leakey’s, first-class ticket to London and on to the Eurostar, maybe Biarritz for Christmas. That what you had in mind?’

  ‘Biarritz? Marie’s out of your league, you know. Too many brain cells.’

  Here we go, the reason for his attitude change. I sighed. ‘I told you this was my last job.’

  ‘As you always tell me. Interesting you mention France, how’s your skiing?’

  ‘I can hardly bloody walk, and, to be honest, I’m not sure I’ll be welcome there for a while.’

  ‘Job in the Alps I’d like you to look over for me.’

  ‘Isn’t there an incubation period for anthrax? Even if I wanted to, I can’t travel until I’ve had the all-clear.’

  ‘Mountain air will do you good. I’ve just spoken to the doctor and to Porton Down. They’ve given the go-ahead for you to travel on military transport and are fast-tracking the final results. I’ll keep in touch.’

  I shook my head. ‘Get Weatherstone instead, or maybe Groom, if you can afford him; they’re always looking for contract work.’

  ‘They lack your sang-froid. What else would you do, John, honestly?’

  ‘Get Netflix, take up painting, eat chips on a bench.’

  ‘Painkillers and Prozac and group-counselling sessions at the church hall. You think you want out, but really you know it’s the only thing keeping you alive.’

  Shit, maybe we’re going to have that conversation after all. ‘I’m ready to take my chances.’ I made to stand, but Holderness waved me back down.

  ‘You kid yourself that you don’t enjoy it.’

  I gave him my best ‘conversation over’ stare.

  Holderness sighed, leaning back against the door. ‘I didn’t want to do this but you leave me no choice.’ He picked at an imaginary piece of fluff on his lapel, something he always did when he had something distasteful to share, when he couldn’t look me in the eye. ‘I can’t protect you if you’re out.’

  ‘I’ve never needed protecting before.’ I frowned. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘MI5 are flying someone out. Something about a stash of dollars in your car.’

  I stood quickly, too quickly for the staples down my ribs, arms raised. ‘You bastard, you know how this shit works. You know the things people like me have to do so people like you get the medals.’ I caught myself and lowered my fists. ‘You’ll get a big fuck-off pension and a knighthood when you retire. What will I get? A cheap cremation with no mourners, or worse, left to rot wherever I fall.’

  ‘I turn a blind eye to certain aspects of your work, spoils of war, etcetera, but this is too high-profile, I’m afraid.’

  ‘The contents of my boot are nothing to do with you, or MI-bloody-five; that’s my fucking money. Cutting a deal was the best way to cement the vial’s credentials and get the Americans off our backs.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, but did you mention it in your report?’ He picked up the papers I’d been scribbling on. ‘No, I thought not.’ His accent was slipping, Aberdeen creeping in at the edges, it always did when he was angry. He straightened, jabbing a finger at me. ‘Taking their cash, hiding it from us, that puts you on the wrong side of this affair. Whitehall wants scapegoats on this side of the Atlantic. To an outsider it could appear as though you’d sold the Americans the real sample, and only told us it was destroyed.’

  I gritted my teeth. ‘You know me.’

  ‘Yes, so why did you tell me they’d only paid two million? At any rate, you might need a friend when they arrive in –’ he checked his watch – ‘ten minutes.’

  ‘A friend.’ It didn’t matter what I did or said, he already had me. Always would. I was a tool, nothing more, a tool getting blunter through overuse but one that wouldn’t be put aside until it had worn down or fallen apart, at which point I’d simply be replaced with the next poor sap.

  ‘Hercules leaves in two hours. The chopper will take you to Lossiemouth.’

  I tried to think of a move but my mind was spent and there was nothing more to say. I scratched my arm, at the skin around a cut, the black centre, the redness that had started to swell around it.

  There was a knock. Holderness shifted, opening the door. A naval pilot saluted him.

  ‘Warming up, sir, wheels up in five.’ It sounded like she’d added a question mark when she’d seen the state of me, eyes widening. I noticed she was carrying my bag.

  ‘Lieutenant Hannah here has packed your gear, and the armorer has serviced that museum piece you call a sidearm.’ He straightened my papers and hustled me through the door. ‘Few weeks skiing; previous chap ended up falling off a mountain.
Usual briefing pack on the helicopter, good luck, Tyler.’

  He didn’t offer his hand, never did when he thought he might be sending someone to their death. Good job, my hands were drenched with sweat. I wiped them on my trousers as the door swung shut behind me. Hannah, the pilot, was already leading the way to the helipad at the stern. The corridor rocked, bile stung my throat, I had to reach a hand to the wall to stay upright.

  With trembling fingers I felt the note in my pocket, the one Mason had given me, could almost trace the ink with my thumb. The information this assignment had finally given me the leverage to obtain, the single name scrawled on the paper.

  The man responsible for my brother’s death would have to wait a while longer.

  Author’s Note

  A quick glance at a map will tell you that Gruinard Island is a real place. It’s a bleakly picturesque oval island about two kilometres long by one kilometre wide. It’s right where I said it was, off north-west Scotland – a kilometre’s swim from where the A832 meets the sea at Mungasdale, and within sight of the tiny village of Laide. It’s pretty remote – a couple of hours’ drive north of Inverness, which is in itself a long enough drive north for most people. If you fancy making the journey yourself, then I recommend you do so in summer and not late November – thank goodness for four-wheel drive, that’s all I’m saying.

  I’d first read about Gruinard when I was doing a bit of online research for a completely unrelated horror novel, and I was immediately fascinated. I love old military sites, hidden haunted bunkers and the like, so I found out what I could. Gruinard didn’t make it into the horror novel, but I knew I had to revisit it.

  In 1997 the top-secret files relating to Porton Down’s experiments at Gruinard were finally made public, along with the horrifying details of Operation Vegetarian – thank goodness that plan was never put into force (that’s a whole other book right there…). Yes, the anthrax trials during the war actually happened, almost as described in the story. A top-secret group called BDP (Biology Department Porton) was set up in 1940 to assess the feasibility of Nazi germ warfare and to develop a deterrent. In 1942 Gruinard Island was purchased from a farmer for £500 and a veil of secrecy descended. I don’t know if the Ministry of Defence knew what they were doing or how evocative a name they’d come up with when they christened the island X-Base, but every time I see that name I can’t help but picture the Hammer Films The Quatermass Xperiment and X The Unknown – the latter coincidentally taking place near Inverness.