“Respect, integrity, standards, and ethos,” Chalkie had said just before they closed up the armoury the previous evening. “You’ve not got any of them, Corporal Hunter. I’m going to think about it over the weekend and we’ll talk Monday. You might want to think about it as well.”
“Well, bollocks to you, Chalkie,” Titch muttered as he checked his appearance in the mirror on the wall of his small bathroom. He wanted to look good for Charlotte in case she asked him to turn the camera on. Titch looked at his watch again. It was almost time.
Even though he was expecting the call, Titch still jumped when his laptop started trilling at him. He moved the mouse to answer the call and was rewarded with a single silhouette on the screen. Titch was disappointed. He’d been hoping that both George and Charlotte would be there to receive him to the next layer of the organisation.
“Mr Hunter?” Charlotte’s voice emerged. Titch frowned. The name he had chosen was Charles. Charles Sixte.
“Yes,” Titch replied. “I’m here.” There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“Good. We have your results. Have you researched your family tree?”
“I have,” Titch said. “I went back as far as I could on the Ancestry website. Got back six generations.” He hadn’t actually done it himself, but paid some woman on Fiverr to do it for him.
“And your bloodline is pure as far back as you can go?” Charlotte asked.
“Yes, like driven snow.”
There was another pause, this one lasting almost a full minute. Titch waited, unsure if he should say anything to break the silence. He was about to say something when the screen flickered and another silhouette appeared.
“Someone is lying, Robert,” George’s deep baritone voice said.
“I’m not lying,” Titch shot back, instantly regretting his outburst. “I’m not lying,” he repeated, this time more civilly.
“I didn’t say you were lying,” George replied. “I said someone was lying. Tell me about your parents.”
Titch paused before replying. His father had been a bulldog of a man, quick with his belt and even quicker with his fists, who had drunk himself to death before Titch’s tenth birthday. Much to Titch’s mother’s relief.
“My mother lives in Lincolnshire and my father’s dead.”
“Go on.” It was Charlotte. “What does your mother do for a living?”
“Um, she doesn’t work. Never has. She lives on benefits,” Titch said. “I don’t really see her that much anymore, to be honest. Her lifestyle can be a bit chaotic.”
“And your father? What did he do when he was alive?” Charlotte asked.
“He worked on the roads,” Titch replied.
“How did he die?” Charlotte’s voice was business-like, with no trace of sympathy.
“He died of cirrhosis of the liver when I was ten.”
“A drinker?”
“Yes,” Titch told Charlotte. “A big drinker.” Titch left out the part about what happened when his father did get drunk. The beatings, both of him and his mother, when his father was alive. And what his mother did after he was dead.
“I see,” George said. “That must have been a troublesome time for your family.”
“It was,” Titch replied, not really wanting to talk about either his father or his mother.
“You’re an only child?” George asked. Titch was getting annoyed about all the questions about his family. That was the point of the DNA test, wasn’t it?
“I am, yes,” he said.
There was another pause, and Titch wondered if Charlotte and George were talking between themselves somehow.
“Well, we have your DNA results back, and I think they’re going to be something of a shock to you, Robert,” Charlotte said. She almost sounded sympathetic, and Titch started to get nervous about what she might be about to say.
“On your mother’s side, we’ve gone back six generations. They show some artefact DNA, almost certainly from further back than that, with some Germanic and Scandinavian strands, but over ninety-seven per cent of her autosomal DNA is English or British.” Titch almost punched the air in delight at Charlotte’s words. He’d been worrying for nothing. “But on your father’s side, it’s a bit more complicated.”
“How d’you mean, complicated?” Titch asked.
“Well, your father’s DNA profile shows that he too had a strong and permanent bloodline in his country of origin,” Charlotte replied. “We were only able to go back four generations in his case, mostly because of his country of origin and their lack of reliable records.”
“I don’t understand,” Titch said, thinking back to the Ancestry report the woman from Fiverr had done for him. There had been nothing about unreliable records in that.
“Robert.” George’s voice was soothing and gentle. “What I am about to tell you does not reflect on you or who you are. It is simply your heritage, which is completely outside your control. But it is also fundamentally important to the work that we are doing. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Titch replied in a quiet voice, even though he didn’t.
“We traced your biological father’s DNA to a place called Mahool Baloch in the Loralai district.”
“I don’t understand,” Titch replied. “My father was born in Grantham. So was his father.”
“That’s why I said biological father. You remember I said someone was lying?” George said.
“Yes.”
“We think that person may be your mother. Your biological father was not from Grantham, nor was his father, nor is your bloodline.”
“I don’t understand,” Titch said, confused at what George was telling him. “Where’s this Loralai place, then?”
“It’s in the northeast of Baluchistan province.”
“Where’s that?”
Titch could hear static hissing out of the speakers of his laptop as he waited for George’s reply. When it came, it was like a shotgun blast to his chest.
“Pakistan.”
35
“Adams, seriously, would you just go?” Lizzie said, struggling to stop her voice from cracking. If she was about to meet a bunch of new people who she would be spending a lot of time with, she didn’t want to do it with red-rimmed eyes. “Please?”
Adams didn’t reply but took a step forward, hugged her, and pivoted on his heel before leaving the small entrance hall to Norwich Airport. Too late, Lizzie realised he was as upset about her leaving as she was, but she couldn’t turn back now. She took a few moments to compose herself. In the corner of the entrance hall, there was a small group of people. Lizzie could see Doctor Lobjoie and Claire, along with a woman and a couple of men. Lizzie thought she recognised the woman from the Allied Forth presentation, but she couldn’t be sure.
“Boyfriend?” Lizzie heard a female voice ask. She turned to see a minute Asian woman standing beside her. She couldn’t be over five feet tall.
“Um, yes,” Lizzie replied. “Yes, he is.”
“Bless him,” the woman said. “He’ll be on the X-box the minute he’s back home if he’s anything like my boyfriend. I’m Divya, by the way. Divya Pawar.”
“Lizzie, Lizzie Jarman.” They shook hands, Lizzie grateful for the distraction from Adams’s retreating figure. She could still see him through the glass doors, and as she watched, he turned and waved at her. Lizzie let go of Divya’s hand to return the gesture. “Pleased to meet you, Divya. I take it you’re with the Allied Forth cohort?”
“Seeing as we’re the only people in the entire terminal at this unholy hour, yes.” Divya smiled, showing Lizzie a set of perfect white teeth that were emphasised by her dark skin. “You want to join the others, or do you need a moment?” There was nothing but sincerity in Divya’s smile, and Lizzie instantly liked the woman.
“Can I have a moment?” Lizzie replied. “I don’t want to meet them with tears streaming down my face.”
“Come here,” Divya said, stepping toward Lizzie and pulling her into a hug. Lizzie
blinked back tears as she hugged Divya. It was like putting her arms around a child. “You’ll be fine,” Lizzie heard Divya say, her voice muffled by Lizzie’s clothing.
The two women crossed to a bench and sat down to chat. In the space of a few moments, Lizzie realised she had told Divya almost everything about herself, but knew nothing about the other woman. Divya had steered the conversation away from any talk about Adams without Lizzie even noticing.
“What about you, Divya?” Lizzie asked, eventually. “I’ve just told you my entire life story, and all I know about you is your name.” Divya laughed, a high-pitched squeak that made Lizzie smile.
“Well, I’ve just finished a masters at the UEA,” Divya said, referring to the University of East Anglia on the outskirts of Norwich. “After the placement, I’ll be going back to start my PhD.”
“Wow,” Lizzie replied, genuinely impressed. She revised her estimate of Divya’s age. She had to be in her mid-twenties, not late teens as she had initially thought. Lizzie had assumed Divya was taking a gap year before starting university. “You’re proper brainy, then?” Divya laughed again, and Lizzie saw one or two of the group standing with Dr Lobjoie look over at them.
“Not really,” Divya said with a grin. “A bit boring, probably. I’ve always got my nose in a book.”
“Where’s home?” Lizzie asked.
“Spixworth, born and bred,” Divya replied, “but my family’s from Chennai.” Lizzie frowned. She knew where Spixworth was—only a few miles from their current location—but she’d never heard of Chennai. “Southern India,” Divya continued as if she’d picked up on Lizzie’s uncertainty.
“Okay, sorry,” Lizzie replied. “It’s not somewhere I’m that familiar with.”
“Don’t worry,” Divya said, patting Lizzie on the back of the hand. “Not many people are. Come on, let’s meet the others.”
Lizzie and Divya walked across the foyer to where the rest of the group was sitting. Lizzie recognised Claire, who smiled at them both as they approached.
“Lizzie, Divya, welcome,” Claire said. “Let me introduce you to the rest of the team.” Lizzie looked at them, recognising the woman as the slightly older one who had been wearing a tie-dyed skirt. “This is Isobel,” Claire said, gesturing to the woman. “Isobel, meet Divya and Lizzie.” Isobel smiled, which caused the skin around her eyes to crease, and Lizzie remembered how kind they had looked at the presentation.
“Pleased to meet you, Isobel,” Lizzie said. “I remember you from the presentation.”
“Why, because I’m an old fart compared to the rest of you?” Isobel replied, and they all laughed.
Claire turned to one of the two men, a painfully thin-looking black man wearing shorts, flip-flops, and an open-neck shirt. Lizzie had thought he was older than he looked up close, in his thirties perhaps. Now she realised he was much younger, probably younger than her.
“This is Obi,” Claire said. The man smiled broadly at Lizzie and Divya. He bowed at the waist, placing his hand on his sternum as he did so. To Lizzie’s surprise, when he spoke, he had a broad cockney accent.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” he said, his eyes twinkling as he looked at them both in turn. “But if you wanted to make any Star Wars jokes, can we just get them out of the way now?” There was more laughter from the group. Claire turned to the last of the group, a sallow-looking man of oriental descent whose jet-black hair was cut into a long fringe brushed to the side of his face so that it covered one of his eyes. As well as black hair, he was dressed almost entirely in black clothes and had two rings piercing his bottom lip.
“And last but not least, this is Jack.”
Lizzie smiled at him, noticing that he had the faintest touch of eyeliner on. “Hey Jack,” she said. “Pleased to meet you, mate.” Lizzie held out a hand, which he took almost tenderly as the glimpse of a smile flashed across his face.
“Hi,” he said, glancing at Divya and nodding at her.
“So this is us,” Claire said with forced enthusiasm. “The band of brothers, and of course sisters, is complete.” Lizzie looked at the other members of the group. Between them, they were so diverse they could have been in a Benetton advertisement. “So, I’ve got some bad news and some good news,” Claire continued. “The bad news is that the flight’s delayed by a couple of hours because of some bad weather on the continent.” There was an exaggerated groan from Obi, which was accompanied with a wide smile. “But the good news is that the Ascalon Institute is buying us all breakfast.”
“Yay,” Obi said. “Fantastic.” He looked around the empty terminal building and at the still shuttered coffee shop. “Um, but where?”
“There’s a twenty-four-hour cafe just around the corner,” Claire replied. “We’ll go there and get to know each other over a full English.”
Lizzie’s mouth started watering at the thought of a breakfast that had so much cholesterol it could kill a cow. The meal that she and Adams had eaten last night was lovely, but the portions weren’t enough to feed a toddler.
“Do you know if they’ve got a vegan option?” Jack asked, and Lizzie had to press her lips together so he wouldn’t see her smiling.
36
“Get me the Chief of the Air Staff!” Waterfield barked into the phone.
“On a Sunday, sir?” His personal staff officer’s voice was, as always, unruffled, which was the main reason he was still with Waterfield.
“Yes,” Waterfield continued through gritted teeth, “on a Sunday.”
Waterfield sat back in his chair and stared at the screen of his Ministry of Defence laptop. In the screen's corner was the word MODNET, with the N, E, and T coloured navy blue, red, and light blue for the three services respectively. He drummed his fingers on the desk, wondering how long it would take the chief to get the message. There was a soft tap at his door, and he got up to answer it. It was Amelia, holding a china cup of tea with a couple of custard cream biscuits on the saucer.
“Sorry to disturb you, but I thought you might be peckish,” she said with a soft smile. Amelia handed him the cup and saucer and took a step backward. “Not the best way to be spending a Sunday morning, is it?”
“Far from it,” Waterfield replied. “Hopefully this won’t take long, though, and thank you for the tea.”
Amelia turned and walked away as Waterfield closed the door behind her. By the time he got back to his desk, there was an incoming Skype call from a mobile number. He clicked on his mouse to answer the call.
“Yes?” Waterfield barked into the phone.
“Air Chief Marshal Cope, general,” a male voice replied. In the background, Waterfield heard a thwack and smiled as he realised he’d interrupted a golf game. “You wanted to speak to me? Your PSO said it was rather urgent.”
“Yes, it is. Can you talk?”
“Of course.”
“The Station Commander at RAF Honington, and the Station Warrant Officer?” It was partly a question, partly a statement. There was a pause on the end of the line.
“Group Captain Leeson, if I remember correctly. I’m afraid I can’t place the SWO.”
“Get rid of them,” Waterfield said.
“Excuse me?” The surprise in the chief’s voice was obvious.
“I said get rid of them. Relieve them of their command with immediate effect.”
“Why?” Cope’s tone had changed from one of surprise to irritation. There was no love lost between the two men, both of whom had gone for the Chief of Defence Staff role. Waterfield, mostly due to the fact that he had more dirt on senior people within the organisation, had won that particular contest, but he held no allusions that Cope was an ally.
“I’m guessing that ‘because I say so’ isn’t enough, Cope? Even though I’m the Chief of Defence Staff?” Technically, the two men were the same rank with four stars each, but despite that, there was still a hierarchy, and Waterfield was at the top of it.
“What’s happened?” Cope replied with a sigh, and Waterfield relaxed slightly
. He’d demonstrated that he had the bigger dick, figuratively speaking.
“It’s what’s about to happen, Cope,” Waterfield replied. “I had a call this morning from Victoria Carson.”
“The journalist?”
“The very same.” Victoria Carson was a freelance journalist with an uncanny knack of uncovering stories that sold for a lot of money, mostly to the tabloid press or, as Waterfield preferred to refer to them, the gutter press. If the rumours Waterfield had heard in the corridors of Main Building were correct, this ability was enhanced by her willingness to lie back and think of England for the right sources. To his disappointment, Waterfield had never been offered that opportunity. “She sent me a video that I’ve forwarded on to you.”
“I’ll have to look at it when I’m back at home,” Cope replied. “I’m out and about at the moment. What does it show?”
“Another initiation ceremony,” Waterfield said. “At RAF Honington.”
“Is it a bad one?” There had been a ceremony a while ago that bordered on gang rape, but the three chiefs had managed to keep that one quiet.
“It could be worse. They stripped him naked, poured whisky down his neck through a funnel, and then abandoned him in the forest miles from the base.” Waterfield heard Cope swearing under his breath. “Bloody idiots filmed it all on their phones. One of them uploaded it to You-Tube, but it got taken down almost immediately.”
“But not before Victoria Carson downloaded it?”
“Correct. She asked me for a statement.” Waterfield took a sip of his tea. “The story’s going to hit the press later today.”
“By which time you want the station commander and the SWO gone?” Cope asked.
Enemy Within: A heart-wrenching medical mystery (British Military Thriller Series Book 3) Page 14