Devour

by L. A. Larkin

  Yushkov exhales loudly. ‘I do not support terrorism. I do not know Kabir Khan. I just want my sister safe and to keep us alive.’

  They lapse into silence and Yushkov goes back to stripping and cleaning the pistol. Wolfe wants to believe him but, like a mosquito bite, she can’t leave it alone.

  ‘This friend of yours. Perhaps he’s not the man he says he is? Perhaps he’s been radicalised?’

  Yushkov cuts her off with a zip-it gesture and nods at the door.

  In the corridor outside their door, someone gives the all-clear. The protection detail has arrived. More voices: Heatherton’s softened Yorkshire accent is easy to identify. He invites somebody to join him for a drink at the bar later and Sinclair mumbles a ‘No, thank you.’ The door to 204 clicks shut. Through the spy-hole, Wolfe sees a muscular man with close-cropped hair in a cheap suit, seated on a chair facing Sinclair’s door. One finger raised, she indicates to Yushkov there is one agent. He nods. The walls are paper thin: next door, the toilet flushes. The TV is switched on and Sinclair channel-surfs, settling for a news channel.

  She mouths, ‘Are you sure?’

  Yushkov nods, then slips a piece of paper under the door between their two rooms. Its message is brief.

  I need your help. Please open the adjoining door. Kevin would want us to stop this madness.

  It snags when only halfway. Eventually he wriggles it all the way through. Seconds pass, then minutes. Perhaps Sinclair hasn’t seen it? The paper jerks suddenly, then it is gone. If Sinclair betrays them, they are done for.

  There is a click and the adjoining door opens a fraction. Sinclair’s flushed face nervously peers through the opening. His hand shoots up to his mouth in surprise when he sees Wolfe. Her finger raised, she silently tells Sinclair not to speak. Yushkov takes his friend in a bear-hug, the smaller man squashed in the Russian’s embrace until he is steered to the window where they stand in a huddle, as far away from the corridor, and the agent, as possible.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Sinclair whispers.

  Yushkov places his hand on the scientist’s shoulder. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘Everyone’s saying you’re a traitor. It’s all over the news. I don’t believe them.’

  ‘It is lies. I did not take the missing sample . . . ’

  Sinclair blanches. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘ . . . and I do not spy for Russia.’ He pauses a moment to let this sink in. Then he tells Sinclair what Renata’s captives want.

  Sinclair wriggles free from Yushkov’s grip, shaking his shaggy head. ‘But I can’t, you know that. I . . . I . . . you know I can’t.’

  More unkempt than Wolfe has ever seen him, the dark semicircles under Sinclair’s eyes betray his exhaustion. Thinner and gaunter, he smells of sweat that deodorant has failed to mask.

  ‘Listen, my friend,’ says Yushkov. ‘Do not look so worried. I not ask you for Lake Ellsworth bacteria. Not the real thing. You understand?’

  Sinclair’s eyes dart from her face to Yushkov’s and back. ‘No, I don’t. I don’t understand anything. The whole world’s gone crazy.’ His voice is squeaky with panic.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Wolfe says, trying to calm him.

  Wolfe explains their plan to hand over bacteria that can pass off as the real thing. He blinks rapidly.

  ‘Yes, yes, I get that, but you want me to steal from Porton Down! I’ll go to prison. I can’t, I just can’t.’

  ‘It’s the only way to save my sister,’ Yushkov says.

  Sinclair shakes his head furiously. ‘It can’t be. Tell the police. They’ll find her.’

  ‘SVR will stop them. She will die. Toby, I wouldn’t ask if there was any other way.’

  Sinclair rocks himself back and forth in agitation. ‘Oh no, no, no!’ He’s getting louder. ‘I don’t do this sort of thing. Don’t ask me to.’

  ‘Take a look at this,’ Wolfe says, handing Sinclair their mobile with the video of Renata ready to play.

  Sinclair watches it. By the end, he is trembling. ‘Bastards!’

  Yushkov covers his mouth.

  ‘Shush!’

  Sinclair nods and he removes his hand.

  ‘My friend,’ Yushkov whispers. ‘Renata is my sister. My only living relative. They kill her if I do not make them believe I have given them what they want.’

  Sinclair hides his face in his palms. They wait. Then he suddenly jerks his head up.

  ‘I need to be absolutely clear. I will never give you Psychosillius.’

  ‘Psychosillius?’ Wolfe asks. ‘Is that what you’ve called the Lake Ellsworth bacteria?’

  He nods.

  ‘Why is it at Porton Down?’

  ‘Oh dear me, no. That’s now an official secret. I can’t even talk to my family.’

  ‘Is it germ warfare?’ Wolfe perseveres.

  Sinclair shuts his mouth and shakes his head, like a child trying not to betray a secret.

  ‘Come on, Toby, tell us something. Why do the Russians want it so badly?’

  ‘Because they think they can use it as a weapon.’

  ‘Can they?’ she asks.

  ‘Stop pushing me!’ he says, raising his voice again. ‘I wish to God we’d never found it.’

  ‘You’re scaring me. What does it do?’

  ‘I can’t, I . . . ’ Sinclair is rocking again.

  ‘Stop, Olivia!’ says Yushkov. ‘It does not matter.’ He leans down so his face is at Sinclair’s level. ‘All I need is something to give Grankin.’

  ‘Vitaly, there’s nothing harmless at Porton Down,’ Sinclair says. ‘That’s the point. It’s a godforsaken germ-warfare factory.’

  ‘I have to give him something,’ says Yushkov. ‘Please, Toby?’

  ‘If I do this, you’ll leave me alone?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  He stares at Wolfe. ‘I don’t want you coming anywhere near me again. No phone calls. No questions.’

  ‘Understood,’ she says.

  Sinclair scratches his chin through his messy beard. ‘I could get you a vial of Necrotising Fasciitis.’

  ‘Which is?’ Wolfe asks.

  ‘Flesh-eating disease. It’s a highly aggressive bacterial infection. When it enters the body, the bacteria multiply and release toxins that kill tissue and cut off blood flow. It’s nasty. Limbs and tissue sometimes have to be removed.’

  ‘That’s the least harmful thing you can think of?’ asks Wolfe incredulously.

  ‘Antibiotics and amputation of infected limbs ensures recovery. So, yes.’

  ‘It sounds horrible,’ says Wolfe. ‘We can’t hand that to the SVR.’

  ‘No, no, they already have it. It’s no great secret. There’ve been cases in the US, in Africa and in Eastern Europe. At first glance, though, it looks remarkably similar to Psychosillius.’

  ‘I need it tomorrow,’ says Yushkov.

  ‘Tomorrow? Oh God, that fast? Um, okay, I’ll bring it here.’

  ‘Take this mobile number, but don’t give it to anyone, okay?’ says Wolfe. ‘In case we need to change the meeting place.’

  ‘No need to write it down. I’ll remember,’ Sinclair says, ‘And after this, you leave me alone, you promise?’

  Yushkov nods. ‘We promise, my friend.’

  53

  Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Morocco, 05.04 hours

  The young technician in the main engine room of aircraft carrier, HMS Queen Elizabeth, stands in a narrow space facing a wall of over forty brand-new dials that shine in the harsh fluorescent lighting. Leading Hand Sam Boothby turns a wall-mounted wheel a fraction and watches the dials closely. It’s hot and claustrophobic but Sam takes great pride in his job, knowing that he must open and shut the throttle valves at a certain pace, otherwise the combustion control system, as well as the boiler water feed and water level controls, won’t keep up. Left alone by his supervising officer who is attending to a problem somewhere else, Sam enjoys this moment of solitude: a rare thing on a warship carrying almost fourte
en hundred crew. The new ship creaks and the floors and surfaces shudder and the engines roar but, with ear protectors on, he barely notices.

  A diehard Whovian, he imagines he’s inside his very own Tardis and that the dials, like clocks, enable him to travel backwards and forwards in time and to visit alternative worlds. His favourite Doctor is Matt Smith, maybe because he was one of the youngest in a long line of Doctors, or maybe just because he thinks Smith, like his bow tie, was cool. He starts to hum the theme tune to the programme and doesn’t care if anyone hears. Sam’s nickname is Geronimo, one of the young Doctor’s favourite exclamations, and his obsession is well known on board.

  He hears a loud clank, as if someone has dropped a spanner, and peers down the passageway into semi-darkness. There’s not much down there, save for the valve above the sea chest: perhaps somebody is checking it? As a boy, he imagined a sea chest was where pirates hid their treasure, but now he knows that beneath the valve is a vast chamber filled with water, providing direct access to the sea beyond the ship’s hull. There are several around the ship. Sam hears a loud crack from the same direction, and then a popping sound. He removes his ear protection. The steel floor shudders as if some giant beast is trying to break through the steel floor. Has he lost his mind? Stumbling backwards, he breaks out in a sweat. A new ship shouldn’t make noises like this. As Sam fumbles for the intercom, the floor beneath him rips apart and sea water shoots up, hurling him into the low roof with such force his skull splits like a watermelon sliced with a machete. His limp body falls back to the flooding deck, staining the water red. Barely conscious, the last sound Sam hears is the valve, all fifty tonnes of steel, blow off the entrance to the sea chest, like a cannon firing.

  07.11 hours

  ‘Circle the ship but don’t land. I’ll contact you when I’m ready to leave,’ Casburn orders the helicopter pilot.

  As he is lowered in a harness from the hovering Merlin chopper on to the ship’s brightly lit runway, he feels sick to the stomach, like the worst hangover. Not because he’s seasick - he’s been on carriers many times when he was in the SAS - but because this is his nightmare come true. A terrorist attack on the pride of the Royal Navy. An attack he should have prevented. With him is Professor Matthews and a team of disease control and quarantine experts. Matthews will be winched aboard after him, followed by the others. Free of the harness, the detective from Counter Terrorism Command is led off the aircraft carrier’s runway, where he awaits Matthews.

  It is barely controlled chaos on board.

  Two hours ago, Commodore James Stirling issued a mayday signal and set a course from West Africa back to Portsmouth Harbour. The vastness of the ship rules out closer ports - there are few deep enough to handle her size. Shadowing her is the destroyer, HMS Dauntless. But Dauntless has been ordered to stand by and not to attempt to board the aircraft carrier.

  The runway is frenetic. In an attempt to save the aircraft, the entire on-board fleet is being scrambled to nearby NATO air force bases in Portugal. Casburn and Matthews hasten to the navigation bridge on the forward island. This new breed of aircraft carrier has two control centres rather than the traditional one, both forward and aft islands protruding from the deck like stacked grey shipping containers. Once on the bridge, they find the white-haired commodore huddled with his officers, staring at the ship’s instruments.

  ‘Commodore?’ he says, striding up to Stirling. Casburn introduces himself and Professor Matthews.

  ‘Detective, do you mind telling me what you are doing here?’

  ‘We believe this may be a terrorist attack.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say, sir.’

  The Commodore takes a deep breath, his white eyebrows so deeply furrowed they almost touch. ‘For God’s sake, Casburn. Don’t be obtuse. My ship is sinking and I want to know why.’

  ‘Sir, that’s what we’re here to find out.’

  They are interrupted by the Captain. ‘Sir, we’ve been refused entry to Portsmouth Harbour and rescue ships have been ordered to stay away.’

  The Commodore glares at Casburn. ‘What the hell is going on, Casburn?’

  ‘It’s a security issue, sir.’

  ‘What in the blazes does that mean?’

  ‘It means that whatever agent has been used to attack your ship, it must not be allowed to reach land.’

  Stirling and the Captain exchange wide-eyed, incredulous looks.

  ‘You mean some kind of biological weapon?’ asks Stirling.

  ‘It’s a possibility, yes. Professor Matthews and his team need to act quickly to establish the cause. Is she in immediate danger of sinking?’

  ‘The lowest deck is flooded but she’s designed to withstand that. She’ll float as long as the next level isn’t breached.’

  ‘Where did the problem start?’ asks Casburn.

  ‘Front engine room. Ruled out a torpedo attack. My next thought was a bomb, but nothing indicates an explosion. She has heavy side armour, built to withstand air, sea and torpedo attacks, with thousands of watertight spaces so we can isolate sections of the ship, should she take on water. But something or someone is destroying the hull from the inside.’

  ‘Can you be more specific, sir?’

  The Commodore directs Casburn and Matthews to a sweep of polished wood beneath the bridge’s windows. On display there are several pieces of metal that look as if they’ve come from the wreck of a car accident. The edges are jagged, the metal full of holes. It is not warped and blackened by a bomb blast, nor has it rusted or discoloured as if chemically corroded.

  ‘See these holes?’ says the Commodore. ‘Never seen anything like it.’ The holes are circular and perfectly formed, as if something has eaten into the steel. The rest is covered in blisters, like a person suffering from smallpox.

  Stirling points at the steel bubbles. His finger is too close. Matthews speaks up. ‘Don’t touch it.’

  Stirling jerks his hand back as if he’s touched a hot pan.

  ‘They’re all over my ship, working up from the lowest levels. It’s like acid eating through her. What do you make of this?’ he says, giving Casburn a hard stare.

  The detective has seen such holes before: at Porton Down: but in a controlled environment. Not in a 65,000-tonne warship as long as twenty-eight London buses, threatening the lives of 1,397 men and women. Fourteen casualties have been confirmed. Thirty-seven dead. So far.

  ‘Professor Matthews?’ Casburn says.

  ‘I’d say it’s Psychosillius all right, but I can’t be certain until I’ve done some tests. Where can I set up?’ Matthews asks the Commodore.

  Matthews places the samples in a sealed container and follows an officer to a room behind the bridge.

  Casburn clears his throat. ‘Commodore, Psychosillius must not be allowed to reach land. Therefore, I need you to hold your position and to cease immediately all flight operations. Any aircraft attempting to land on foreign or British soil will be shot down.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘No, sir, I’m deadly serious.’

  ‘You’re asking me to sit by and watch the pride of the Royal Navy disintegrate? Do you have any idea how many billions it cost to build her, let alone the aircraft?’

  The furious captain can’t keep quiet any longer. ‘The Commodore is the authority here. You have none.’

  Casburn ignores him and addresses Stirling. ‘A quarantine ship will be here within the hour. If we establish Psychosillius is the cause of the breach, the ship must be abandoned and every person aboard this carrier will go through decontamination.’

  ‘I’m doing no such thing—’

  ‘Sir?’ The Lieutenant Commander interrupts Stirling, holding up a phone. ‘The Admiral. He wants to speak to you.’

  Stirling blinks twice, then takes the phone. The exchange is brief. ‘Yes, Admiral,’ concludes Stirling. When he turns to face his officers, his complexion is almost as pale as his hair.

  ‘If the scie
ntists confirm Psychosillius is aboard, we abandon ship in an orderly fashion. Everything, I repeat everything, must be left behind. We leave only with the clothes we’re wearing.’

  Stirling turns his back on his officers and places his hands on a console for support, shoulders hunched and head hung.

  54

  Wolfe is jolted from her sleep by men’s voices. She is out of bed in seconds. The angry red numbers on the nineties-style digital clock radio tell her it’s 7.11; their wake-up alarm hasn’t gone off. She shakes Yushkov. His eyelids spring open as fast as a flick knife.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen,’ she whispers.

  The man is outside their door. ‘Hurley! Lewis!’ he calls. She imagines him pointing at them. ‘Don’t let them out of your sight, not even when they take a piss. You got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Hurley and Lewis say in unison.

  ‘Get on with it then.’

  Doors are knocked upon, then opened. Sinclair leaves his room quietly but Heatherton demands to know how long they will be kept ‘like prisoners’, while Price refuses to leave her room until she speaks to her husband and kids. The man in charge pacifies her, promising her he’ll see what he can do. Matthews tries to keep the peace as they all head to the restaurant for breakfast.

  ‘You and you, come with me.’ Two other agents. ‘I want this hotel scoured. Top to bottom. I want the names of every guest. I want every door opened.’

  ‘Wake everyone up, guv?’

  ‘I don’t care if we wake the dead! Now get on with it! You do level one, and you, take this floor.’

  Wolfe and Yushkov dress quickly, in silence. If Sinclair had turned them in, their door would have been kicked in by now, but something has spooked the spooks. Have they been spotted? The window is their only escape route. Locking the adjoining door to Sinclair’s room, Wolfe helps Yushkov strip the bed and tie two sheets together, which he then loops around the radiator beneath the casement window. The rest of the makeshift rope hangs down the exterior wall, falling short of the rear car park by about six feet.

  ‘Will it hold?’