46
Guerrilla Tactics
“We unwittingly opposed a government project,” whispered May, waiting while the nurse finished attending to Mrs Quinten. “What did you expect to happen?”
“I expected a desire to trace culpability,” snapped his partner, looking around at the sleeping hospital ward.
After a boozy night with his emphatic detectives, Land had agreed to try and have the charges against them temporarily suspended on cognisance of their exemplary records, and their willingness to abide by instructions issued from HO Internal Security. It was nothing more than they expected and demanded, but while they were cooling their heels at home for the remainder of the night, scouring Internet reports for any news of the case, they discovered that the managing director of Theseus Research had already been assigned to another post, this time in Atlanta, Georgia.
“There are others who know, you may be assured of that,” said Bryant, burying himself inside his tweed coat. “Containment on this scale never works. I’ve no doubt both the birth mothers and the remaining fosterers would have their credibility destroyed should any choose to come forward, but there are others who must have seen what they saw.”
“Inadmissible hearsay, not empirical data. How thoroughly has all the proof been destroyed? Our one hope now is that Jackie – ah, Mrs Quinten.” May sat forward in his chair and studied her sleepy eyes. “Not in too much pain, I hope?”
“Some bruising, a few scratches, nothing a child couldn’t handle,” the nurse told them. “But she’ll have a very sore throat for a while. You two shouldn’t be here, you know. The other patients aren’t awake yet.” She adjusted the curtains around them and left.
“I’ve been wondering about Harold Masters,” said Jackie Quinten softly. “I thought I understood him. I can’t imagine why any man would have done what he did. He wasn’t interested in making money.”
“It was less about money than pride,” said Bryant. “The museum had reduced his workload and was in the process of letting him go. He’d worked for the MOD before, and knew how far Theseus would go to cover up a mistake, because at the end of the day that’s all it was. Remember those British volunteers who participated in the anti-inflammatory drugs trial conducted by the German pharmaceutical company TeGenero AG? Their heads swelled up and they nearly died. The drug was designed to treat rheumatoid arthritis, leukaemia and multiple sclerosis. The Theseus drug trial was conducted for an even more altruistic reason: to prevent innocents from dying on the streets of London.”
“They showed us the paperwork,” said Jackie Quinten. “All of the babies had been signed over to the state by their mothers. One was an orphan whose parents had died travelling to Britain from Ethiopia. Another was abandoned in a McDonald’s bag by heroin addicts. Everyone I spoke to at Theseus was committed to helping the children. They told us it would just be one safe short-term drug trial. I saw them every day. Harold Masters saw me with the little Ethiopian boy and said, ‘You could always adopt him when he leaves here.’ But I couldn’t, you see. I’d been turned down before, after some trouble with my stepson. And Jocelyn had faced problems with alcoholism. None of us thought we could truly adopt, not for a minute, but we grabbed at the opportunity to look after the babies during the day, and were paid a little extra.
“It was Carol’s baby that got sick first. He started crying and couldn’t stop, until he could barely draw breath. It all happened so quickly, on the third and fourth days of the test. One after the other they went blue – cyanosis, the doctor said – and their little hearts just stopped. They held a single funeral on the Friday, just hours after the last autopsy. A terrible afternoon. It didn’t stop raining, and the graves couldn’t be filled in because of flooding. We were never told what had gone wrong. We were paid our bonuses, reminded of our loyalties to the company, and that was that.
“But I couldn’t stop thinking about my little boy. I had to talk to someone, and so I called Jocelyn. One time we persuaded Carol and Joanne to join us, and shortly after that we began holding regular meetings in different pubs.”
“It got back to Theseus that you had re-formed your group of friends,” said May. “It looks like Masters sold you out for a contract to fix the security leak.”
“But we wouldn’t have gone to the press,” said Jackie miserably. “We just needed the comfort of conversation, some assurance that we weren’t responsible for what had happened. What I don’t understand is, how could they take such drastic action against us?”
“Well, I’m afraid even we can’t tell you that,” said Bryant, rising to leave. “I’ll call on you again.”
“I’ll be going home in a while,” said Jackie. “If you like, I can cook you a meal and help you answer any other questions you might have.”
“Thank you, no.” Bryant smiled sadly. “Our work is not quite finished.”
♦
“She doesn’t understand how anyone can conceive of killing witnesses to what amounted to a humanitarian defence project,” said May as they left University College Hospital, “because she doesn’t know who commissioned it. Masters said it went all the way to the top. I can guess whose signature was on the order to test the anti-toxin. Did you know Theseus is an Anglo-American operation? There’s a chap called Senator Nathan Maddock who fits the bill very nicely. A hard-line right-winger with the ear of both the President and the Prime Minister, the man who tells British Defence what to do. But I don’t think even he would have agreed to act without Masters’s assurance that the remedy was completely untraceable.”
“What level of panic would induce a company used to handling state defence contracts to hire the services of a mental patient?” Bryant wondered as they walked through falling rain toward May’s car. “Didn’t they stop to consider how many things could go wrong in that scenario?”
“You can look at it this way,” said May. “Theseus survives.”
“Only because we’ll never be allowed to go public with the story. We don’t even have a unit anymore.”
“And we can’t go public, Arthur, because nobody there will ever acknowledge what happened, even if any one person had possession of all the facts.”
“They know, John. And we could let them know that we know. We could get in there.”
“No, no, no.” May shook his head in vehemence. “We have nothing left, Arthur. As of this minute, we have no official status. What are you going to do, kick the door down and blast everyone with a shotgun?”
“You just said we have no official status. We’re off the radar.” Bryant was forced to shout in order to compete with the traffic on Euston Road. “This may require guerrilla tactics.”
“Don’t you think you’re a little too old to be thinking about bringing down the government?” asked May.
“I’ve been thinking about it all my life,” said Bryant with a twinkle in his eye. “Might as well go out with a bang.”
∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧
47
Pandora’s Box
Arthur Bryant passed two six-foot butterflies and a red rubber nurse tottering on platform heels before he started to wonder if he really was hallucinating this time.
On Sunday morning at eight o’clock, the only people on the streets of King’s Cross were backpackers leaving their hostels and thematically dressed denizens of a large nightclub, all of whom looked very much the worse for wear.
The courtyard door leading to the refurbished office complex behind York Way had been left discreetly ajar by the overqualified Polish cleaners who nightly restored workspaces to their functional glory. Slipping inside, Bryant crossed the new cobblestones and once more found himself before the gates of Theseus Research.
What an arrogant name, he thought, peering through the bars at the brushed-steel logo adorning the sea of darkened glass before him. Theseus was both mortal and divine. His father, Poseidon, was the god of the ocean. Appropriate, considering that Dr Peter Jukes had been washed up on shore, a victim of its turbulent current
s.
Bryant had studied the tidal charts and suspected that, as much as he wanted to blame Theseus, suicide could not be ruled out. He supposed no-one would ever get to the absolute truth surrounding Jukes’s death. Such is the path of vigilance, he thought. Each single mystery precipitates a dozen more. Then again, Theseus was thrown off a cliff after losing his popularity, so perhaps the company directors might find it best not to behave too much like gods.
Mandume, the Namibian guard, was in his usual place. Providing twenty-four-hour security for Theseus Research required three men, but Bryant had calculated the shifts correctly. His obvious respect for the security officer and his performance of general doddery politeness stood him in good stead. Mandume saw him and smiled, happy to approach. He even opened the gate slightly to chat.
“Hi there. Any luck with your walking club?”
“We’ve decided to reroute our tour through another part of town, but thank you for asking. I missed you yesterday, when I came to visit my grandson.”
“My day off,” the guard told him. “I went to visit my little boy. He lives with his mother.”
“It’s difficult to know where to take the kids sometimes, isn’t it?” said Bryant, as if he had any clue at all about children and divorced parents.
“He likes dinosaurs, so we went to the Natural History Museum. You know that place?”
“Certainly, I’ve been there many times. I daresay they shall put me there when I retire. A joke.” The guard had looked blank, but now smiled. “Why don’t you bring your boy here to see where his father works? I’m sure he’d be interested.”
Mandume’s smile vanished. “No, no, not here.”
He’s heard something, thought Bryant. Secrets have a way of escaping. “When I came here yesterday I stupidly forgot to leave my grandson’s christening gift. His wife gave birth to a baby boy. I wonder, could I go and leave it on his desk? It would only take a moment.”
“Where is your grandson today? Could you not give it to him yourself?”
“No, he has to visit his wife in hospital, and they’re not allowed to use cell phones inside, so I can’t call him.” The lies, he thought, they trip from the tongue so easily I’m almost ashamed of myself.
“Or if I can’t leave it on his desk, perhaps you could. I’d be very grateful. No child’s birth should go uncelebrated in the eyes of Our Lord, don’t you agree?” For a fleeting moment, Bryant wondered if he was overdoing it.
Mandume looked so uncomfortable that Bryant felt bad about pushing him. “I could leave it behind reception, in the janitor’s room…”
“But he may not get it then. He goes straight up to his desk from the car park. You know how things can go missing in a building this size.” Time to show that you’ve got more front than Selfridge’s, thought Bryant. “Look, I know you’re not allowed to go to the laboratories. They are underground, aren’t they, and require security passes. But I’m also a government employee, and I’ll be happy to sign responsibility for the package myself.” He gave Mandume a fleeting glimpse of his police pass. “You see, I’m actually a policeman. So surely you could go up to the second-floor reception desk and leave it there.”
The guard glanced back at the building nervously. Bryant knew it was bristling with cameras. “Sure, I am allowed up there. I can go wherever I want.”
“Thank you, it’s a small thing but he’ll be so very pleased.” He passed the small, ribbon-tied box and card through the gate.
“Hey, no problem. You take care of yourself.”
He trusts me, Bryant thought guiltily as he turned away.
Paradoxically, the idea had come from Harold Masters himself, and his revelation at the beginning of the week that a crystal vial containing the blood of Christ was liable to hold germs that would be dangerous in a modern environment. It had set Bryant thinking, and reminded him that they were employing a man with connections in such a field.
Dan Banbury had done a brilliant job at short notice. If he ever goes to the bad we’ll all be in danger; the lad has a terrible knack for such things, Bryant thought, eyeing the innocent package.
Going to the press about Theseus would require leaving a trail back to the PCU, so Dan had suggested that an appropriate way to deal with the company was to send them a message showing that their secret was out. Inside the chocolate box was a soluble membrane filled with a colourless, odourless fluid. Banbury had whipped it up in Kershaw’s lab from ordinary household ingredients, using a recipe detailed on an anarchists’ Web site.
It would take approximately five hours for the membrane to dissolve at room temperature, releasing the chemical through the slotted plastic base of the box. As it evaporated, the exposed oily particles would be drawn into the working ventilation system and would cling to every surface inside the building.
The chemical components would induce mild nausea and vomiting, but would have no lasting effect. However, the offices would need to be evacuated and quarantined while everything was cleaned. In a nice touch, Banbury had thought to include the photographs of the four women who had died because of what they knew. Resignations would no doubt be tendered, questions would be asked and new brooms would discreetly sweep clean, but ultimately the company would survive.
As he walked away, it occurred to Bryant that the only person to get hurt by his actions would be the guard. They’ll fire Mandume and remove his security status, he thought gloomily.
∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧
48
The Last Farewell
On the following Wednesday morning, Arthur Bryant stood motionless in the rain on Gray’s Inn Road, watching the iridescent carapaces of black taxis chug past King’s Cross station.
Beyond the railway tracks, cranes were moving girders with regal slowness, replacing the demolished Victorian housing blocks with vast glass boxes. London is becoming an alien place to me, he thought, polyglot, splintered and patchwork. But I think I’m actually learning to like it this way. Perhaps we can finally be whoever we want to be.
Once there were recognisable London types, ranks as distinct and separate as bird families were to twitchers. They had been replaced by fluctuating, instinctive tribes. Now, the occupants seemed united by tension and velocity.
We’ve traded away something precious, he realised. This is no longer a city in which you can ever relax. I remember –
He remembered empty wet streets where the sound of clinking milk bottles acted as alarm clocks, where the clop of a carthorse was a call to bring out unwanted furniture. He remembered so much that the weight of it all made him tired.
A faint nightscape of stars like sugar grains in the smoky dusk above London Fields.
Ragged children running after a Bentley driven slowly through Bethnal Green, the same children who danced behind the trucks that sprayed water on roads during August scorchers.
The rickety Embankment tree-walk, illuminated with Chinese lanterns made of coloured paper.
Raucous chimps’ tea parties at the London Zoological Gardens.
His mother swimming in the Thames, sunbathing on the sickly yellow artificial beach at Tower Bridge.
Thomas and Jack, his uncles, mending beehives behind Southwark Bridge, delivering sacks of root vegetables for illegal sale in the side streets of Bermondsey.
His crazy half sister Alice playing the untuneable piano in her dive bar in the basement of the Borough Corn Exchange, the same bar that had the channel of a forgotten underground river sluicing through the back of its Gents’ toilet.
Too much to remember. Time to let it go, he told himself.
Nothing had yet appeared in print about the contamination of a defence ministry outsource agency, but two days ago he had received notification from Leslie Faraday that the PCU had been officially disbanded owing to public-spending cuts.
The offices above Mornington Crescent tube station had already been filled by a new department specialising in some kind of electronic fraud. Nobody had been told who comprised the new tea
m, or what exactly they did. The old locks had already been replaced with a swipe-card system, and white shutters had been lowered over the arched windows. At least we stayed true to ourselves, he thought with a smile, even if it did involve poisoning a government building in an act of revenge. A small subversion, perhaps, but a necessary one.
The tall blue shape flapping through the downpour toward him coalesced into the figure of John May. “Arthur, what are you doing here?” he demanded to know. “I thought we were going to meet on Waterloo Bridge as usual. You’ll catch your death of cold.”
“I wanted to be somewhere different today,” said Bryant. “I’m very wet.”
“Is there a decent pub around here?”
The elderly detective swivelled himself about, checking in either direction. “That way,” he pointed, peeping out above his scarf.
They went to The Water Rats on Gray’s Inn Road. “I know this place,” said May, pushing open the door. “Bob Dylan performed here in 1962. Oasis too but we won’t hold that against them.”
“I suppose they’re a pop group of some sort,” said Bryant, hauling himself onto a bar stool.
“More of a Beatles tribute band. I thought you were going to stay up-to-date with popular culture,” May admonished.
“Oh, I tried, but it was so boring, just affairs and divorces and who’s snubbing who. Like the 1950s, only more vulgar. I don’t understand why the young admire celebrities who possess the charm of intestinal parasites. I saw that soccer player’s wife in the paper, the very thin singer with a face like a shaved monkey, complaining about how she hated to be recognised. In the accompanying photograph she had chosen to reveal a substantial portion of her pubic bone below a black leather corset. Within ten seconds of finishing the article I had already forgotten her name.”
“I thought you had got your memory back.”
“Mrs Mandeville’s techniques worked wonders, I must say. I still tend to favour remembrance of the arcane over the irrelevant, but that’s more to do with personal taste.” He held up his pint, waiting impatiently for it to settle. “For example, do you know why this pub is associated with music, and how it got its name?”
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