“Yes. We must be seen to be swift and decisive. Something along the lines of ‘the chain of command have been immediately relieved of their responsibilities and recalled to Air Command for a full investigation.’ Happy with that?”
“Not really, but it’ll have to be done. Section Fifteen?” Cope was referring to the Armed Forces Act 2006. There was an offence in Section Fifteen that covered failure to perform a duty. It wasn’t a civilian offence, but a military one that carried a maximum sentence of two years in a military correctional facility followed by a dishonourable discharge. “If you want them out that quickly and on a Sunday, then arresting them is the only way to do that.”
“Do what you need to do, Cope,” Waterfield replied. “Get them out, replace them, and then hide them behind the wire at High Wycombe until the dust has settled. The charges can be quietly dropped when everything’s died down.” There was no reason for two good men to lose their privileges and pensions because of some idiots.
“Understood. I’ll get onto it.”
“Make sure you do.” Waterfield disconnected the call before Cope could reply, deliberately not giving him the chance to respond. He finished his tea and popped one of the custard creams into his mouth, brushing the crumbs it produced away with his hand. He’d never met Group Captain Leeson or even heard of him, but the mental image of him sitting down to his Sunday roast just as the military police knocked on his door was a satisfying one.
Waterfield nudged the mouse and navigated to the meteorological office’s website.
“Perfect,” he muttered as he scrolled through the local weather forecast. An afternoon out on the water was just what he needed.
37
Eleanor looked around the almost empty offices of the Eastern Daily News to make sure that she would be able to print her document out and get to the printer to retrieve it with no one noticing. Unsurprisingly for a Sunday morning, there were very few people in the entire building, let alone her own floor. She could see a cleaner half-heartedly waving a duster over one of the large screen televisions on the wall, and a man who she thought was one of the sports writers huddled over his own computer in the corner. But that was it. Eleanor clicked the print icon on her screen and hurried over to the printer.
When she returned to her desk, she sat down to read the documents. The first one was a three-page curriculum vitae of sorts. It was also a piece of creative writing, as the only accurate information on it was Eleanor’s name and date of birth. Even her name wasn’t quite right, as she had used Ellie instead of Eleanor, but it would match her passport or driving license if it needed to. Her eyes scanned down the document. Where she should have listed her time at the Eastern Daily News, she had said in the narrative that she had been travelling. She was confident enough that she could talk about some of the places she had visited in the past and make it sound like she’d lived there for months, not just visited for a week on a package holiday.
Eleanor didn’t use social media of any description, at least not under her real name or even an approximation of it. She had an account on Facebook that she rarely used, and only people she knew very well in real life were listed as friends. Her Twitter account was still an egg with a nonsensical name, and she’d only got as far as the home page of LinkedIn before realising that it wasn’t her thing.
Not all the information in the curriculum vitae was fictitious. She did have a degree in English, but the certificate only had her first initial on it. Similarly, her school qualifications were correct. Eleanor was banking on the fact that she wouldn’t have to present them. Even when she had applied for the job at the newspaper, the recruiter had only glanced briefly at her certificates.
Satisfied with the curriculum vitae, Eleanor slid the paper into a plastic sleeve, which she then put into a hard-backed envelope. Then she picked up the other piece of printing, an accompanying letter that introduced herself and had a brief blurb about how much she wanted to work for the Ascalon Institute. She was, according to the letter, available for an immediate start if required.
Eleanor made her way out of the building, careful to avoid anyone on the way out. She didn’t want to be seen, especially when she was about to either be off sick for a while or on an extended period of leave, depending on how the conversation went with her general practitioner the next day. She was hoping that the doctor would sign her off for a month or so with a stress related illness. Eleanor had been on a few websites at home earlier in the day and was convinced that she could put on enough of an act to be taken seriously. If it didn’t work, then she had the option of taking leave and an excuse for doing so, but Eleanor didn’t like the thought of using Fiona’s death as the excuse. But if it gave Eleanor a way to look more closely at the Ascalon Institute, then she would be honouring her memory in a sense. A very weak sense, but it was there.
When Eleanor had filled out the online application form in Liam’s studio flat, she’d been sure to take screenshots of everything that she filled out to make sure that if it did go anywhere, she wouldn’t be caught in a lie. The form had been pretty basic, with only free text fields for employment information. She had listed her previous employment, which she apparently ended a couple of years ago just before going travelling, as the company that Liam worked at. Except it wasn’t really a company as Liam was effectively a self-employed web designer, but it was registered with Companies House and Liam would give her a glowing reference.
To Eleanor’s surprise, it was only a couple of hours after she’d filled out the online form that she’d received a response.
Dear Ellie, it had read. Thank you for the interest in the position at the Ascalon Institute. We would like to interview you on Monday afternoon at two o’clock. Please bring a copy of your latest CV and proof of identity. If you’re successful at interview, would you be able to start on Tuesday? The letter was signed with an illegible signature that apparently belonged to Sue Bentworth, Head of Human Relations.
Eleanor had seen the rapid response, particularly on a Sunday, and the possibility of starting as soon as Tuesday as positive signs. They obviously needed someone as soon as possible, so she thought she had a good chance, especially as Eleanor had said she could start straight away.
A few moments after leaving the Eastern Daily News offices, Eleanor was in a hairdresser waiting for an appointment. There weren’t many open in Norwich on a Sunday, but she had managed to find one.
“Have a seat, pet,” the hairdresser had said as she painted an elderly woman’s hair with some sort of dye. “I’ll be right with you while these highlights are developing.”
While she waited for her appointment, Eleanor spent some time ordering a few more things that she would need using her phone and her Amazon Prime account. The first thing she ordered was a pair of glasses with clear lenses and a tortoiseshell frame. Then she added some coloured contact lenses to change her eyes from pale green to what would hopefully be pale blue. A few moments later, Eleanor was sitting in the hairdresser’s chair.
“What can I do for you today, love?” the stylist said as she ran her fingers through Eleanor’s shoulder-length brown hair. All Eleanor wanted was to look nothing like the photograph of her on the Eastern Daily News website.
“I fancy a change,” she said. “I’d like to go for a pixie bob, please. And blonde, if you would?”
“Are you sure?” the stylist replied, still running her fingers through Eleanor’s hair. “You’ll look completely different.”
Eleanor looked at her reflection in the mirror.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, smiling at her reflection. “I know I will.”
38
Lizzie peered out of the panoramic round window of the Gulfstream G650 jet she was sitting in and watched as the city of Norwich retreated into the distance. The aircraft’s twin Rolls Royce BR725 engines were almost silent, especially compared to the planes Lizzie was used to flying in where you could barely hear yourself think. She looked around the small cabin, lavishly furnished wit
h beige armchairs and a matching carpet. In the middle of the cabin was a small meeting area where Charlotte and Claire were sitting on either side of a burnished wooden table with a laptop between them. Lizzie watched as Charlotte looked up and caught her eye, giving her a smile and wave before returning her attention to the screen.
Looking around to make sure no-one was watching her, Lizzie took her phone out of her pocket and discretely took some photographs, including a selfie. She could add that to the one from the clinic as evidence for Adams of how the other half lived. It was a shame, Lizzie thought, that it was only temporary. She put her phone away and looked back out of the window.
“What do you think?” Lizzie looked up a few seconds later to see Charlotte standing next to her chair. “Quite nice, isn’t it?” Charlotte waved her hands at the aircraft’s interior, and Lizzie laughed.
“It’s a bit nicer than the usual things I get to fly in, I’ll give you that,” Lizzie said. Charlotte perched on the arm of Lizzie’s chair, which was wide enough for the woman to sit on without encroaching on Lizzie’s personal space.
“Don’t say anything, but the Ascalon Institute doesn’t actually own it,” Charlotte said in a conspiratorial whisper. She had leaned forward, and Lizzie had again caught the faintest hint of the expensive mystery perfume. “Not at sixty-five million dollars a plane, it doesn’t.”
“Seriously?” Lizzie looked around with a newfound sense of awe. “That’s how much these things cost?”
“If you buy them, it is, yes.” Charlotte gave Lizzie a broad smile, and Lizzie instantly felt frumpy. There was something about this woman, some sort of innate confidence, that Lizzie envied no end.
“How long are you going to be in Sierra Leone for, Charlotte?” Lizzie asked.
“Probably a couple of weeks, I expect,” Charlotte replied. Lizzie was surprised, and it obviously showed in her face. “I’ve some samples to collect to bring back to the Ascalon Institute.”
“Is that what the lacons I saw being loaded into the hold are for?”
“Sorry, lacons?”
“My bad, it’s a military term. The large green boxes?” Lizzie noticed a look of confusion, perhaps even consternation, cross Charlotte’s face, but as soon as it appeared it was gone.
“Oh, those,” Charlotte said. “Yes. They’re for plant specimens. My doctorate is in viral genetics, but I have an interest in pharmacognosy.” It was Lizzie’s turn to look confused. Charlotte grinned at her. “The study of medicines made from natural sources, in this case an endangered tree in the forests that we think may be useful for treating various diseases.”
“Okay, got it. That’s why the Ascalon Institute is so interested in Sierra Leone?”
“Yes, that and one or two other reasons.” Charlotte looked up toward the front of the cabin, where the single steward was busy in a small kitchenette area. “Let me go and see what the score is with food. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.” With a brief smile at Lizzie, she got up and walked to speak to the steward.
Lizzie looked back out of the large window again as the plane levelled off. She estimated they were at about forty thousand feet from the view of the ground. Norwich was now far behind them, and Lizzie could see the wide-open beaches of the Norfolk coastline. The sea had tiny white streaks following boats that were too small to be seen, and Lizzie felt the aeroplane banking to starboard slightly to take them around the coast.
She reached back into her pocket for her phone and scrolled back through the photographs she had taken that day. On the way from the terminal building to the plane itself, she had snapped another selfie with the plane in the background. Lizzie scrolled in, focusing on the area to the rear of the fuselage. The steward was loading olive green boxes, the lacons she’d asked Charlotte about, into the bottom of the aeroplane. They looked very similar to the military ones that were used to transport drugs, as it looked as if they were hermetically sealed and temperature controlled by the fans on the top of them. Lizzie looked back up at the front of the cabin as she put her phone away to see Charlotte deep in conversation with the steward. From Charlotte’s animated body language, it didn’t look as if they were having a conversation about sandwiches. If anything, it looked to Lizzie as if they were arguing.
Lizzie looked around the inside of the cabin. On the other side, Divya was fast asleep, a half-smile on her face. Obi and Jack were deep in conversation in a pair of armchairs that faced each other. Isobel was engrossed in her Kindle, and Claire was still staring at her laptop.
As if she sensed Lizzie looking at her, Claire looked up from the screen. Lizzie prepared a smile and was about to wave at the woman when she saw her expression. There was nothing friendly about it at all. Lizzie frowned when Claire looked away from her and back at the laptop screen. What had she done to upset Claire? Lizzie had barely spoken to her, let alone said anything to upset the woman.
There was no mistaking it. The look that Lizzie had seen just now on Claire’s face was pure anger.
39
Titch compressed his abdominal muscles and pulled as hard as could on the lat pull down bar. He had his hands in a reverse close grip on the exercise machine, knowing that he would pay over the next few days for the weight he was trying to lift. But he needed some way to decompress after the call last night with George and Charlotte.
What George had told him was, in Titch’s opinion, absolute bollocks. There was no way his biological father was from Pakistan. Titch had blonde hair, blue eyes, and was as British as they came. He wouldn’t have been surprised to hear his mother had been sleeping around even before Titch’s father had died, but if she had fallen pregnant by a foreigner, surely the best option would have been for her to have had an abortion? He had tried to argue this point with George, but he wasn’t having any of it, nor would he even begin to consider that there had been some sort of mix-up with the sample.
Titch heaved the weight into the air, held it for a few seconds, and then let it back down again as gently as he could. The muscles in the back of his arms and his shoulders were screaming in pain, and he knew there was no way he could do another repetition. Not with that much weight.
The only chink of light that Titch could see had come right at the end of the conversation the previous evening. Charlotte had left the call by that point, and Titch had asked George if there was something he could do, anything he could do to prove his dedication. He hadn’t wanted to beg, but he sensed that his opportunity was running out and he had nothing left to lose.
“Such as what?” George had asked after a brief pause.
“We could start the Fifth Wave, here in the United Kingdom?” Titch had replied.
“You’ve read Rapoport?”
“Of course. You’ve talked about him a lot in your lectures. You talk about New Zealand, El Paso, Halle and Hanau.” Titch reeled off the place names of the attacks with ease. He’d studied all of them in depth, as George had instructed his followers to do, to identify why they failed to achieve what the attackers wanted. “It’s time for us to finish what they started. To push the issue to the front of everyone’s mind so that others will take action and rise up as one.” There had been silence on the end of the line as Titch said this. He’d continued, encouraged. “It started in Oklahoma; it could end in Britain. We could make The Turner Diaries a reality.”
Titch had read The Turner Diaries what must have been over a hundred times. The graphic violence in the book, which depicted the fall of government in the United States, a nuclear war, and finally an all-out race war, had captivated him, as it had Timothy McVeigh. There was still silence on the other end of the Zoom call.
“Are you there?” Titch had asked eventually.
“Why did McVeigh fail?”
“Because the United States wasn’t in a state of revolution then.”
“And you think the United Kingdom is?”
“Absolutely,” Titch had said. “Look at what’s going on around us. Footballers taking a knee before a match. B
lack Lives Matter demonstrations every other weekend in our cities. They’ve pushed us into it, and for every one of me who is prepared to take action now, there’re a hundred who will rise up when we do.”
Titch sat back in his chair, deflated as a further silence developed. Eventually, George spoke.
“Let me think,” he had said. “We will talk next Saturday.” With that, he was gone.
Titch crossed the gymnasium to the weights area. He needed to do some free weights, but when he lifted the first dumb bell, a wave of pain shot up his arms. He sighed, knowing that he had overdone it on the machinery and had nothing left for fine tuning. Titch couldn’t do any leg work either, not with the stitches in the back of his calf. Cursing under his breath, he made his way back to his room to shower.
A couple of hours later, Titch was walking through the forest that bordered RAF Honington. Looking around, he thought he was probably not far from the area he’d been abandoned in the other night. His thoughts turned to Big Guy, and as he walked through the woods, Titch refined his ideas on how best to exact his revenge. He had done some research on Big Guy and knew who he was, where he called home, and best of all, as far as Titch was concerned, who his girlfriend was. At some point, Titch was definitely going to pay her a visit and say hello. He’d seen several photographs of her on Facebook, and it was fair to say Big Guy was punching way above his weight. Whether she would like Big Guy so much after he had led Titch to her door remained to be seen.
Grinning to himself at the thought, Titch imagined a situation where Big Guy could watch Titch introducing himself to the girlfriend. That would never happen—it would be far too obvious that he was behind it as opposed to a random attack—but it was an entertaining fantasy.
There were many people in the forums that Titch visited who declared themselves to be incels or involuntarily celibate. Personally, Titch thought they were all a bunch of whining losers. While he agreed with some of their ideas, the concept that people were unable to find a romantic or sexual partner, despite desiring one, was nonsense. In Titch’s opinion—as Big Guy’s girlfriend would find out at some point in the future on a dark night—was that if you weren’t offered it, you just took it.
Enemy Within: A heart-wrenching medical mystery (British Military Thriller Series Book 3) Page 15