Enemy Within: A heart-wrenching medical mystery (British Military Thriller Series Book 3)

by Nathan Burrows

  He stirred as the door to the custody suite swung open. The man standing at the door was large, with the physique of a rugby player. His greying hair was cropped close to his head, almost military style, and he was wearing an awful suit that Waterfield thought was off the shelf. From a supermarket.

  “Mr Waterfield?” the new arrival asked.

  “General Waterfield, if you wouldn’t mind.” Waterfield replied, but the man sneered in reply.

  “Mr Waterfield, you’re in a civilian nick having been arrested. You, or your rank, have absolutely no authority here.” Waterfield felt himself being examined by the man as he sat down on the opposite chair. “I am Detective Superintendent Griffiths, the duty senior officer for the evening. I’m very unimpressed about having to get out of bed for a drunk driver.”

  Waterfield said nothing. He knew that what the police officer had just said was part of a dick swinging contest that Waterfield couldn’t win. But the fact that he was a relatively senior police officer, and a detective as well, told him that perhaps the message he had surreptitiously sent from the back of the police car earlier had hit its mark.

  “I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” Griffiths said. Then he glanced at the camera in the corner of the interview suite. Waterfield followed his gaze and saw that the small LED lights on it weren’t on. “But before I get to that, I would just like to tell you that what’s going on is utter bollocks. If it was up to me, you’d be in a cell and up in court tomorrow morning.” Waterfield suppressed a smile. He thought he knew what was coming. “It seems you have some friends in high places, Waterfield?”

  Waterfield grimaced. Other than by the odd friend, he’d not been referred to by just his surname since he was a Lieutenant Colonel, and that was a while ago.

  “Really?” he said to the police officer.

  “Really. It appears there’s been some sort of administrative error.” Griffiths sighed. “You’re free to go. You can get a cab from the rank at the end of Bethel Street.”

  “Why thank you, officer,” Waterfield replied with a thin smile. “The charges?”

  Griffiths pulled a face like he’d just swallowed something sharp.

  “There are no charges, Mr Waterfield. Like I said, an administrative error.”

  “Again, thank you. But what’s the bad news?”

  A slow smile appeared on Griffiths’s face.

  “Ah, yes,” he replied, leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands over his broad chest. “I sent a young traffic officer to retrieve your car and take it back to your house. No sense in leaving a fine vehicle like that parked on a country lane. Lord knows what might happen to it.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a bit more powerful than he realised,” Griffiths replied. “He managed to fish-tail it on a sharp bend and hit a magnificent old oak tree. Ever so sorry, but I’ve signed it off as an administrative error, so there’s no harm done.”

  Waterfield pressed his lips together.

  “Is there much damage?”

  “Well, the officer’s fine and thank you for asking. Shaken, but not stirred, as it were,” Griffiths said, his smile broadening. “But I’m afraid the bark on the oak tree’s in a bit of a mess from where the Bentley’s wrapped itself around it. But in my experience, when it’s a car versus a tree, the tree normally comes out on top.” The police officer smiled as he got to his feet. “You’ll see yourself out?”

  46

  Charlotte watched as the convoy of three SUVs made its way toward the gate for emergency vehicles set into the side of the airfield fence. Their brake lights flared as they drew to a halt, and Charlotte knew that a not inconsiderable amount of money was about to change hands. Not inconsiderable here in Sierra Leone at least, although back in the United Kingdom, it wouldn’t have even bought a decent meal at the type of restaurants that she frequented. Still, Charlotte reflected, better that than having to bother with customs and immigration. Back at Norwich Airport, the same type of arrangement cost significantly more, but seeing as she wasn’t paying for it—George was—Charlotte didn’t care.

  “Right then,” she barked at the steward, who was standing next to her. “Let’s get these containers out.” She glared at him. “Now that we know no-one can see them.”

  The steward, whose name was Simon, had worked on a retainer from the Ascalon Institute for the last year. Not that Charlotte knew or cared, but he had left British Airways when he realised the Institute would pay him three times as much money for half as much work. He turned and unlatched the hold door and, as he did so, the flatbed truck reversed until it was only a few feet away from the aircraft. The driver got out and opened the rear door of the truck, effectively hiding the area between the plane and the truck from sight. There were more unofficial contributions to the wages of the personnel in the airfield tower to discourage any of them from taking too much of an interest in what they were doing.

  Charlotte took a few steps to the side, keen not to get involved in the actual transfer of the containers. She watched as Simon hefted one of the heavy, large green boxes towards the edge of the hold, and the driver took the handles on the other side.

  “On three, okay?” Simon said. The driver nodded in response. “One, two, three.” Charlotte could see the muscles in the driver’s arms bulging at the weight. She knew that the bulk of the eighty kilograms each container weighed was taken up by the mechanical apparatus in the bottom, as she had designed most of it herself. Each of the four boxes had an internal filter system with a series of fans and HEPA filters that filtered the air both in and out of the interior. They were temperature controlled and sensors in the lid ensured the interior pressure was always slightly lower than the ambient air pressure, whatever that might be. Safety mechanisms meant that, even in the event of a rapid decompression of the aircraft, the units would remain hermetically sealed and that nothing, no matter how minute, that was inside would end up outside.

  Charlotte nodded in quiet approval as she watched the two men loading the other containers into the rear of the truck. She wasn’t nodding at the results of the men’s endeavours; she was nodding in satisfaction at the quality of the containers. They had extensively tested them back in Norwich to ensure they did exactly what they were designed to do, which was to act as mobile Level 4 containment facilities. When they got to their destination and the containers were securely stowed away, out of sight, Charlotte would connect her laptop to each in turn and run the diagnostic software that—hopefully—would confirm that they had performed to her exacting specifications.

  Without a word to Simon, who was covering the green containers with a tarpaulin, Charlotte walked to the back of the flatbed truck and climbed into the rear passenger compartment. The driver had left the air conditioning running, and it was blissfully cool inside, but Charlotte hadn’t wanted to leave anything to chance. The truck shifted slightly as Simon and the driver put some crates of food in the back. They could throw those crates around as much as they wanted, Charlotte thought as she opened up her laptop, as long as the containers were looked after properly.

  After her laptop had found the personal hotspot on her iPhone and connected itself, Charlotte composed a quick email to George.

  Have arrived, so far so good. Boxes appear to be fine but will check later. Any news?

  Charlotte glanced at the clock in the top corner of the screen. It was almost seven in the evening, which meant that it was almost six back home, and that was the time George usually checked his e-mails. They had quite a long drive ahead of them, and Charlotte knew she wouldn’t be able to focus on her laptop screen during it. The further from Freetown they got, the worse the roads became. For the last hour of the journey, it would almost be quicker to walk.

  Her computer chimed, and Charlotte saw she had another e-mail from her researcher, Katayama Toshiko. Charlotte swore under her breath when she read that there were no developments in the project. While Claire was sorting out the cohort members tomorrow, Charlotte could go throug
h Katayama’s earlier report in more detail. The answer must be there, somewhere. If it wasn’t, then they had spent an enormous amount of money for nothing.

  “You ready to go, miss?” the driver said as he opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Just give me a few moments,” Charlotte replied. She was keen to see if George had got anywhere with their latest recruit and was annoyed with the man for not talking to her either last night or today. But there was a limit to how annoyed she could be with the man.

  “No problem, miss.”

  Charlotte sat with her eyes closed for a few moments, the driver in the front knowing better than to disturb her. If he did as instructed, the next words she would hear from him would be when they were at their destination, some four hours away. When her computer chimed again, she opened them to see a new e-mail from George. When she opened it, Charlotte smiled.

  Hook, line, and sinker.

  “Okay, we can leave now,” Charlotte said to the driver as she closed her computer down. Things were really starting to happen if their latest recruit had indeed taken the bait.

  47

  Lizzie sat back in her seat and sighed in frustration as the SUV juddered to a halt. What should have been a relatively straightforward journey—according to Claire—was turning into a nightmare. The first thing that had gone wrong was Jack regurgitating his in-flight meal onto the floor of the vehicle. He didn’t travel well in cars, he’d told Lizzie and Obi after apologising, and when the car was bouncing around on rutted and pot-holed roads, the problem was even more acute. Fortunately, the second time Jack had felt unwell, JoJo got the car to the side of the road in time.

  By the time Jack had felt well enough to continue, a slow-moving storm had rumbled its way across the mouth of Tagrin Bay and churned the water up so much that the boat the Ascalon Institute had chartered wasn’t able to make the short trip from Tagrin to Freetown. That had meant Lizzie, Obi, and Jack had been forced to wait in the car. The alternative, JoJo had told them with a sideways glance at Jack’s pale face, was a four-hour road trip through the countryside.

  Lizzie, who was feeling nauseated herself from the smell in the car, opened the rear door.“I’m going to get some fresh air,” she said. On the other side of Jack, Obi opened his door.

  “Me too. No offence, Jack, but it stinks in here.”

  “Stay near the car, miss,” JoJo said over his shoulder. Lizzie nodded in reply.

  The air outside the SUV wasn’t much better than the air inside, Lizzie realised as she closed the door behind her to keep the cool air—and the smell—inside the vehicle. JoJo had parked a few hundred metres away from the ferry terminal building. There was a brisk breeze blowing from the direction of the harbour, and the stench of rotting fish was only slightly preferable to the smell of vomit. Obi didn’t seem to notice it as he grinned at Lizzie.

  “I can’t believe we’re here,” he said as he leaned back and perched on the bonnet of the car.

  “I know,” Lizzie replied, perching next to him. They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the lightning in the distance. There weren’t any accompanying rumbles of thunder that they could see, but when the lightening flashed, the white tops of the waves in the bay were highlighted for a split second. “What did you do back in England?” she asked him after a while. “For a job, I mean?”

  “I worked in banking,” Obi replied. “Derivative trader. Nice office in Canary Wharf, view of the Thames if I craned my neck enough. Six-figure salary, the works.”

  “A what trader?” Lizzie asked once she had worked out how much a six-figure salary was. She didn’t think Obi was out of his twenties, and yet he earned that much money?

  “Derivatives. They’re financial securities with an underlying benchmark. I specialised in futures contracts.”

  “Okay, that doesn’t mean much to me. Salary sounds nice, though.”

  “Money’s not everything, Lizzie,” Obi said, his smile fading in the darkness. “It meant nothing, my old job. It was all about how much money I could make for the firm.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Lizzie replied. She had never been that bothered about money. If she had enough to do the things she wanted to do, she was happy. “So, you decided to quit the rat race and swap Canary Wharf for Freetown?”

  “Something like that.” Lizzie looked across at Obi and saw he was frowning. She thought he was about to say something else, but when he didn’t, she decided not to press. There was more to Obi’s story than met the eye, Lizzie suspected, but he would tell her if he wanted her to know.

  “How about you? You’re in the air force, right?”

  “I am,” Lizzie replied. “How did you know?” She’d not said anything about her day job to anyone. It was only after his earlier comment when they’d seen the helicopter that she’d realised.

  “Claire mentioned it on the plane. I think you were asleep. What job do you do?”

  “Wet work, mostly,” Lizzie replied, hiding a smile.

  “What’s that?” Obi asked. She looked at him and saw from his genuine expression that he’d not heard of the phrase.

  “Sorry, that was a joke. I’m a medic.”

  “Now that’s what I mean, Lizzie. That job means something. Why d’you quit?”

  “I didn’t quit, I just took a sabbatical.”

  “Any reason?”

  She looked at him, thinking briefly about telling him why, but decided against it. Maybe later. “Change of scenery, I guess.”

  Obi seemed content with her reply. He shivered before rubbing his hands up and down his arms. The breeze coming in from the bay was decidedly cooler than it had been, but it was still warm.

  “I’m going back in the car,” he said. “It’s getting nippy.”

  Lizzie laughed. She was still perspiring slightly in the heat. “If you say so, Obi,” she replied with a smile. “I’m staying here, though.”

  As she watched the storm slowly crawl away from the bay, Lizzie thought about home. She had checked her phone numerous times since getting off the plane, but had no signal at all. JoJo, whose role seemed to be general fixer as well as driver and security guard, had said that he would get them all local sim cards in the morning. Lizzie had protested, telling him she would get one herself, but JoJo had laughed in response.

  “And you’ll be charged ten times the usual amount,” he had said. “I can get them for the black man’s price, not the white woman’s price.”

  Lizzie’s thoughts turned to Adams, and she wondered what he was up to. She checked the time. It was about twenty to ten back home, so he would probably be sitting in his lounge, a can of beer in his hand, waiting for the football to come on. She smiled at the mental image, and then smiled at several more that didn’t involve beer or football but one of his other favourite pastimes. One which she was enjoying more than she ever had before when she’d left.

  Still smiling, Lizzie turned to get back into the car. There was some activity down at the ferry terminal, so perhaps the storm had now abated enough. As she turned, she was startled by the sight of someone standing next to her.

  “Oh, my God!” Lizzie said as she saw Claire less than a foot away from her. “I never heard you creep up. Bloody made me jump, you did.” Lizzie started laughing, but it was short-lived. Claire’s hand shot out and grabbed Lizzie’s forearm. The next thing Lizzie knew, Claire’s fingernails were digging into the fleshy part of her arm.

  “I saw you talking to her on the plane,” Claire hissed through gritted teeth. “I saw you looking at her. Leave. Her. Alone. Do you understand?”

  Lizzie frowned, wondering what Claire was talking about. Talking to whom?

  “Claire, I think there’s something that you need to understand.”

  “What?” Claire shot back.

  “If you don’t let go of my arm,” Lizzie replied, her voice calm, measured, and full of intent, “I will break your fucking nose.”

  48

  “Hannah, I’m sorry,” Adams said for
what must have been the tenth time since they’d left the Murderers. They were standing by a taxi rank on St Stephens Street, waiting for a cab that seemed to him to be taking forever to arrive. “I thought you knew about Lizzie.”

  “Seriously?” Hannah replied. “Do you seriously think I would have asked you back to my flat if I’d known?” She was shivering in the cool evening and had her arms wrapped around herself.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t think that was going to happen.”

  When Hannah had kissed Adams in the corner of the pub, for a fleeting moment, he’d kissed her back. He tried to tell himself it was more out of instinct than anything else, but he realised two things in the few seconds their lips had been touching. The first was that he badly wanted to go to bed with this woman. The second, and far more pressing, was that he should never have got himself into the situation he was in. Adams had broken away from the kiss, and when Hannah had looked at him with an inquiring expression, he’d said the first of many apologies.

  “Look at it from my point of view,” Hannah said, glaring at him. “There’s a bloke who I’ve liked for bloody ages who suddenly sends me a text saying I’m lonely. Let’s get pissed. Then we do just that and it turns out that the reason he’s lonely is because his girlfriend’s just left the country and he wants to take his mind off it.”

  “I’m sorry, Hannah.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, would you stop apologising,” Hannah said. “I just feel stupid, that’s all. Totally misread it.”

  “Look, I never meant to give you the wrong impression.”

  “No, tell you what,” Hannah said, her face softening. “How about I apologise for presuming that you would just jump into bed with me?”

  “You don’t need to apologise for anything. I’d love to jump into bed with you, but I can’t.”