The Chemical Detective

by Fiona Erskine

  Greybeard continued. ‘Camilla Hatton was a scientist supporting the non-proliferation negotiators with technical information. Her PhD was in design of tracers, a smorgasbord of subtly different designer molecules, radionuclides and volatile chemicals present in minute quantities. Selected to be harmless, decaying or dispersing over time, but resistant to destruction by repacking or processing. She started Tyche, a company dedicated to tagging intermediates that might be used to make chemical weapons.’

  A light breeze swished through the trees, bringing with it the smell of fresh pancakes from Madurodam, the miniature model village.

  ‘Tyche invented a tracking device. Have you seen one of their trackers?’

  Not just seen one, but searched for it, recovered it, unlocked it, marvelled at it and then lost it. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Tyche tracker is a hybrid Geiger counter, chromatograph, spectrometer, GPS and information portal. It picks up the signals from detectors at border crossings, motorway tolls, bridges and ferries and converts the data into tables and maps. Everything you need to track a substance from source to destination.’

  A family group were playing a noisy game of hide-and-seek next to the lake. Giggles and whoops of excitement mixed with the quacking of ducks and rustling branches.

  ‘The technical challenges were immense, but Camilla led a superb team. Tyche was a runaway success. All the Western chemical companies agreed to add tracers to the intermediates of interest. Using the Tyche tracker, we could see who was still active. And intervene.’

  Bored with hide-and-seek, a couple of children had armed themselves with sticks and were engaging in a mock battle among purple azaleas. Rat-a-tat-a-tat.

  ‘By 1998, eighty-seven countries had ratified the Chemical Weapons Convention. Tyche expanded in response, developing expertise in decommissioning. Collection and disposal was all done discreetly, safely and efficiently. Tyche won most of the government contracts.’

  They left Westbroekpark and continued towards the sea.

  ‘So, what happened?’ Jaq asked.

  ‘Pauk Polzin was appointed as finance director of Tyche.’

  ‘The Spider.’ Jaq shuddered.

  ‘Business was changing. By 2005 Tyche had dealt with the known stocks of chemical weapons and the board claimed that new blood was needed.’

  Greybeard stopped at a pedestrian crossing, waiting for the lights to change.

  ‘Pauk Polzin had an agenda of his own. Instead of bringing the promised financial discipline, he opened the purse strings wide, allowed the scientists to try anything they wanted. They invested in new technology, bought new equipment, requested isotopes of ruthenium, lutetium and even francium.’

  The wind became stronger as they approached the sea, bringing with it the familiar tangy smell of salt water and seaweed.

  ‘A smokescreen for Pauk to channel money and materials elsewhere. When Camilla found out, she suspended him immediately and initiated criminal charges, but the board overruled her, decided to hush it up. They cut a deal with him to keep quiet. No one realised how bad things were. Pauk brought the company to the brink of ruin. By the time he left, Tyche was already so heavily in debt to Zagrovyl that it was technically insolvent.’

  A train rattled past.

  Things began to fit into place. Tyche bought francium from Zagrovyl. The price was ruinously high, the profit margin astronomical. Frank named a yacht after his windfall from the deal.

  ‘National governments had invested a lot of money. When Zagrovyl offered to buy the company and write off all the debts, the board jumped at the chance. Tyche was quietly subsumed into Zagrovyl.’

  ‘And Camilla?’ Jaq asked.

  ‘Zagrovyl gave her an empty role until she resigned.’

  So, she wasn’t lying. She did work for Zagrovyl, albeit briefly. Director of Change. Was there ever a company less willing to change?

  They crossed the road to the beach, a vast expanse of golden sand disappearing into the pale grey North Sea.

  ‘But she was there, with The Spider. How could she have betrayed everything she had worked for?’

  ‘Camilla was working undercover for OPCW.’

  A wave crashed onto the beach. A sudden slap – worse than a slap – a 1000v electric shock administered through a shower of icy water.

  ‘You mean, you knew about the complex? All this time?’

  The anger began to build. They knew, and yet they let the police arrest her, allowed her to race across Europe on a wild goose chase, left her to the mercy of The Spider and SLYV.

  ‘We couldn’t have found the complex without you.’ Greybeard put out a hand as if to touch her, withdrawing it as she flinched. ‘We suspected its existence, but we hadn’t been able to pinpoint the location. Could have been Ukraine, Belarus, Moldova or Russia. All the tracking signals went cold near the Chornobyl zone of alienation. Without a definite location, without concrete evidence, we couldn’t get international permission to go in. Russia is particularly sensitive about what they see as Western interference in Ukraine. Dr Hatton tried to use stronger tracers, developed a more sophisticated tracker to obtain proof, but something went wrong.’

  Jaq’s anger evaporated as quickly as it rose. It was her fault that something went wrong. Her interference that had messed up the tracking operation.

  ‘Camilla decided to go undercover, offer her services to SLYV. We advised her against it, told her keep away from Pauk Polzin, all too dangerous, but she insisted.’

  ‘So where is she now?’ Jaq looked around, expecting Camilla to emerge from the sea in a turquoise wetsuit.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jaq, I thought you knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘She didn’t make it out.’ Greybeard dropped his eyes. ‘Camilla Hatton is dead.’

  Friday 5 August, Melrose, Scotland

  Jaq followed the path beside the river until she judged it level with the monastery. The low roar of peaty-brown water, tumbling and foaming, accompanied by a descant of birdsong, drowned out any human noise. Ozone, terpenes, esters – the complex natural scents of the forest – wafted past on a light breeze. She turned away from the river and struck a perpendicular path, climbing steeply through a forest of beech trees. A canopy of lime-green and copper leaves sheltered her from the pitter-patter of light summer rain. A grazing fawn froze at her approach, dark eyes staring deep into her soul, before he skittered away over a carpet of moss. Away from the river, close to the brow of the hill, the music was unmistakable: Bach’s Toccata in D minor. She had absolutely no doubt who was playing the chapel organ.

  As she breasted the hill, the complex lay before her in a secluded valley surrounded by wooded hills. The evening sun dipped under the rain clouds and lit up the stone buildings, rose and gold, nestling on the site of an ancient Cistercian monastery. The super-rich paid extra for bare cells, plain food and total isolation. No internet, no TV, no phones, no press and enhanced security.

  Jaq followed the electric fence until she found a junction box. Pulling the tools from her backpack, she worked swiftly. Once the power was off, it took seconds to scale the fence and jump the barbed-wire ditch. She crouched low and kept to the shadows until she reached the chapel door.

  The cast-iron latch was cold to the touch. It slid back smoothly, and she pushed at the heavy oak door. The creak was drowned out by a furious four-part fugue.

  He had his back to her, white shirtsleeves billowing as his hands moved across the multiple keyboards. His fair hair was longer, curling over his shirt collar to the grey silk of his waistcoat. She waited until the final coda before approaching.

  ‘Hello, Frank.’

  His eyes darted up to the mirror above the keyboards – an organist needed to watch his choir – hard blue eyes that displayed no surprise.

  ‘Jaqueline.’ Frank remained seated. ‘An unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘I’ll take that as overdue thanks for saving your worthless hide.’

  ‘You can take me any way you want.’

/>   He gestured to a chair beside the organ stool. She didn’t move.

  ‘Not a social call, then?’ He leafed through the musical score. ‘I thought not. So, what brings you here?’ He began to work the foot pedals again.

  She leant over and closed the valve for the air pump. The hissing stopped.

  ‘Pauk Polzin,’ she said.

  His eyes glinted in the mirror. For the first time she caught a glimpse of the fire under his icy carapace. There was a man underneath the mask. An angry man.

  ‘The Spider,’ he hissed. ‘That double-crossing bastard.’

  ‘Pot calling the kettle black?’ she said. ‘You are a fine one to talk.’

  This time his smile was almost human.

  ‘Touché, Jaqueline. But I think you will agree, the circumstances were somewhat extreme.’

  ‘Business as usual for you, I would have thought, Frank. Stomping on the necks of others. Isn’t that how you crawled your way to power?’

  ‘Power,’ he said. ‘An interesting concept. And as it transpires, fairly meaningless when you are locked in a deep freeze.’

  ‘I should have left you there,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘In your place I would have done exactly that.’

  He opened a new score and began adjusting the stops on the console, pushing the ivory circles back to their default positions, resetting the instrument.

  Cabrão. ‘What did you do with the Tyche tracker?’

  ‘Alas.’ He shrugged. ‘Destroyed by The Spider.’

  Liar. ‘How did you survive the crash?’

  ‘Lucky, I guess. Flung out. Some peasant found me in a bog. I offered him money to alert the nearest Zagrovyl outlet. Or so I’m told. I still don’t remember much.’

  She watched him as he shuffled into position. Preparing to play as if nothing had happened.

  She tugged at the heavy wooden lid. He pulled his hands away just before it smashed down, covering the upper keyboard.

  At last she had his full attention. He twisted round to face her. ‘Turns out we’re not so different, you and I.’

  ‘If you exclude decency, morality, honour, empathy . . .’

  ‘We are survivors, Jaqueline. The qualities you describe are simply adaptations of the weak.’

  She brought her face close to his.

  ‘Why didn’t you back me up? Why didn’t you go straight to the police?’

  He shrugged. ‘I made a full statement.’

  ‘Only after Johan—’

  ‘Your mountaineering friend? Yes, I am most grateful to him for his shock treatment. It cured my temporary amnesia.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘A fine specimen of a man. Another lover? You seem to favour the rugged outdoor type.’

  Jaq clenched her teeth. She wasn’t going to rise to the bait.

  ‘You only told part of the story.’

  ‘I told the police everything that mattered. Thanks to me, a dangerous illegal factory has been closed.’

  The arrogant, insufferable prick. ‘We only recovered part of the data.’

  Frank nodded. ‘The important part. Enough to convict the producers and track down buyers of chemical weapons.’

  It was true that there was more than enough evidence to make the arrests. Dawn raids on a beauty spa in Luxembourg, a pet food distributor in Ireland, a currency trader in Switzerland, an organic food wholesaler in Andorra, a specialist travel company in Pakistan. But that was not enough.

  ‘And what about the suppliers?’ she asked. ‘What about Zagrovyl’s part in all of this?’

  ‘Zagrovyl played no part. Except as an innocent victim, caught up in The Spider’s web.’

  Was he telling the truth? Did it matter any more? If nothing else, he was guilty by omission.

  ‘Because of you, Camilla is dead.’

  His mouth tightened. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Because of you, Pauk had time to get away.’

  ‘I’d be more than glad to rectify that.’

  Time to get what she came for. ‘You have a yacht.’

  ‘I do. Berthed in Cannes. Named after the element that made my fortune.’

  Francium. A half-life of twenty-two minutes. Never more than an ounce – a few grams – in existence at any one time in the whole of the earth’s crust. The jewel in the crown of Zagrovyl’s precious metals empire.

  ‘Tell me, what is your interest in Good Ship Frankium?’

  ‘Francium.’ Jaq corrected him. The ephemeral element discovered by a French chemist who named it after her country. ‘Soft for France, not hard for Frank.’

  A flash of irritation erupted through his thin veneer of civility. ‘It is my yacht, and I call it what I like.’

  ‘I need it.’ There, she had said it.

  ‘Indeed.’ Frank raised an eyebrow, his vile snake-like smile back now that he knew she wanted something from him. ‘It’s not for sale. And in any case,’ he looked her up and down, taking in the black leggings, cheap fleece and muddy boots, ‘I doubt you could afford it.’

  ‘I’m going after Pauk.’

  Frank stood and paced over to the stained-glass window. The evening sun threw coloured light onto his pale skin in ruby, emerald and turquoise patches. He rubbed his chin with the back of a hand.

  ‘You know where he is?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But you don’t trust me enough to tell me?’ Frank nodded. ‘Fair enough.’ He drummed his fingernails against the lead moulding. ‘You need a yacht, so he must be by the sea.’

  Jaq said nothing.

  ‘Now you come to mention it, I think Pauk did have a seaside villa. Somewhere hot. Thalassotherapy for his chronic pain. Caribbean? Mediterranean? No, Interpol could get him there and you wouldn’t be bothering me. So, somewhere without an extradition treaty. The other side of that rusty old Iron Curtain. On the Black Sea? Crimea, perhaps?’

  Jaq remained silent.

  ‘Yes, I see now. Hypothetically speaking,’ he said. ‘If I were to lend you my beautiful yacht, would that make us even?’

  ‘Not even close,’ Jaq said.

  Frank twisted his mouth into a rueful smile. ‘I thought you might say that.’

  This was a mistake. ‘Forget it, I shouldn’t have bothered coming.’ Jaq spun on her heel and strode towards the door.

  ‘The answer is yes.’

  Jaq stopped. ‘Yes to what?’

  Frank returned to his stool. Flinging the lid open, he set up his music above the keyboard before flicking the air switch. The hissing resumed, snaking round the little chapel.

  ‘You can take my yacht to go after The Spider. I ask only one thing in return.’

  ‘You are in no position to—’

  ‘Bring him back alive,’ Frank snarled. ‘We have unfinished business.’

  Thursday 1 September, Crimea, Ukraine

  Waves foamed against the sleek composite hull and the laminate sails flapped as Jaq gybed and luffed onto the new course. The water shimmered blue-green and inviting in the early-morning sunlight, the Black Sea far from black today. The Crimean cliffs were almost visible with the naked eye. Getting closer. Binocular distance. Time to conceal identity and purpose.

  She had peeled the misspelt name of the yacht from the hull before they set sail, and now she let the halyard fly. The ripstop-nylon spinnaker pooled and slithered across the polished wooden deck, concealing the giveaway elemental symbol emblazoned in orange across the billowing yellow: 87 – Fr – 223.

  Francium. An element waiting to be found for hundreds of years. A hole in the periodic table, the missing alkali metal, claimed first by the Soviets as russium, then by English chemists as alkalinium, by the Americans as virginium, by a Romanian as moldavium and by others as eka-caesium. They were all trumped by French scientist Marguerite Perey, who finally proved its existence beyond doubt: francium, the ephemeral element.

  Giovanni, the skipper, emerged from the galley. Dressed in crisp white cotton shorts and a short-sleeved dark blue linen shirt, he hummed as he
set out her breakfast. Perfectly poached eggs, thick hollandaise sauce and emerald-green spinach on proper English muffins. Nice.

  He inspected the spinnaker bag. ‘Good work.’ He took the helm while she ate. ‘You’ll put me out of a job soon.’

  Jaq smiled and waved her fork. ‘I’ll be captain if you’ll stay on as cook.’

  ‘I could live with that.’ He appraised her, eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted, white teeth gleaming.

  Jaq turned away to hide her hunger, a warm flush rising through her body. Behave. Not now. Work to do. A Spider to snare.

  The yacht rounded the westerly cliff, and Giovanni dropped anchor. When the sun was directly overhead, Jaq stripped off and dived over the side of the yacht. She rounded the promontory and swam freestyle, long, smooth strokes, parallel to the shore. Stopping to get her bearings, she lay on her back and let the sea swell lift her up and down as she surveyed the Crimean Riviera. Mountains rose sharply from the sea, white limestone sparkling in the sunlight, winding roads visible from the lines of tall dark green cypress trees. On top of the promontory, the Swallows’ Nest dominated the skyline, a fairy-tale clifftop castle, a twentieth-century folly, a temple to oil money.

  Gliding through the water, cool silk on her skin, Jaq changed to a smooth underwater breaststroke as she stole into the hidden cove. Holding her breath, she located the underwater jetty, the mooring rings shiny with recent use. She came up for breath and trod water until she located the villa, hidden behind mature umbrella pines.

  Giovanni was waiting, pacing, his plimsolls squeaking on the wooden deck. He extended a hand as she mounted the polished steel ladder, his palm hot against her sea-cold wrist. ‘Che gelida manina,’ he sang.

  A boy who knew his Puccini. Nice voice. Se la lasci riscaldar? Later. She grinned at him. ‘I found it.’

  Giovanni handed her a towel. ‘I never doubted you.’

  She dried her hair before wrapping the towel around her hips. ‘The Spider’s lair,’ Jaq said. ‘A deep cove and an underwater pier. Perfect.’

  Riccardo and Lorenzo reported for duty.

  Jaq surveyed her crew. A hand-picked team. Johan had recommended Giovanni – a climbing buddy who skippered yachts for a living – and Giovanni had found the muscle: former GOI – Gruppo Operativo Incursori – elite commando frogmen of the Italian navy, now private military contractors. Men for hire. But this time, she was calling the shots. She unpacked the explosives and gave them instructions.