‘It’s being typed right now,’ Cross replied. ‘We’ve been formally requested to assist by the Cretan health ministry, but the contact list is real short. It’s just one man – Dr Theodore Gravas – and he’s actually now on the scene at this village called Kandíra.’
‘What else have you done so far?’ Hardin asked.
‘I’ve faxed the Cretan health guys the standard list of instructions and warnings. I’ve got people making airline bookings right now, and others recalling the staff you’ll need with you. And I paged you, of course. Good response time, by the way.’
‘Thanks,’ Hardin grunted, abstractedly.
Kandíra, south-west Crete
It had taken Inspector Lavat some three hours to set up the cordon, and would have taken a lot longer if the village hadn’t sat almost on the edge of the cliff. Therefore the seaward side fortunately required no action, but summoning the men he needed from Chaniá and Irakleío had taken time, and even then they were too thinly spread for his liking around the hastily created perimeter.
Gravas had been adamant: nobody was entering or leaving Kandíra until he said so. And that would not occur until he knew for sure exactly what had killed Aristides. The big problem was that he couldn’t perform the diagnosis himself. He and his men would need expert help and specialist equipment, not least biological space suits, just to go anywhere near Aristides’s body again.
When he had telephoned the Cretan Ministry of Health, requesting they contact the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention for urgent assistance, the officials there hadn’t argued for long. Most health professionals would know about Ebola, and the consequences of any kind of a filovirus outbreak erupting in a highly populated tourist destination like Crete simply didn’t bear thinking about. And even that might be the least of their worries. If tourists, returning home to America, Britain and Europe, began incubating any filovirus with a lethality similar to Ebola, they could soon spread an uncontrollable plague that would make the Black Death seem like an attack of head colds.
With the Ministry of Health informed, and the wheels set in motion, Gravas had turned his attention back to his more immediate problem – Kandíra and the people who called the small isolated community home.
There were now several problems he had to address. First, he had to ensure that anyone who had already stepped inside Aristides’s house was fully quarantined. He realized this could be overkill, because Ebola and Marburg are normally spread by body-fluid exchange from an infected victim. But there was a third, little-known, Ebola variant called Ebola Reston, which was lethal to monkeys but for some reason appeared not to affect human beings, and was believed to be transmitted by airborne particles. So it was better not to take any chances.
He also needed, urgently, to find out where exactly the Greek had been, and who he had been with, over the last few days – especially the previous day. Those who had last seen him could provide valuable clues to his physical appearance, which might give Gravas some pointers indicating how fast the disease had progressed. And of course there was the real possibility that some of the people who had been in Aristides’s company were now also incubating the virus, in which case there would be more deaths, possibly a lot more, over the next few days.
His final problem was the biggest: he had to find out exactly how and where Aristides had become infected by the virus that had killed him. And, as he looked up and down the dusty street, baking in the afternoon sunshine, Gravas had no idea how he was going to determine that.
Irakleío, Crete
The faxed message from the Centers for Disease Control to the Cretan Ministry of Health was in English and ran to some eight pages of single-spaced typing, but what it said could be condensed into a simple five-word instruction: ‘Touch nothing. Wait for us.’
It also contained a request for two large chest freezers, and if necessary a generator to power them, to be shipped to the site of the outbreak if such facilities weren’t already available there. The duty officer at the Ministry made two telephone calls, got no sense out of either party, shrugged, and then made another two calls. The first went to a domestic appliance supplier in Irakleío, the second to an industrial equipment company.
Within thirty minutes of the telephone call received from Dr Gravas, an urgent meeting had been convened to decide on necessary action before the CDC team arrived. It was short and fairly acrimonious. The Minister of Tourism, concerned primarily with the island’s image as a holiday resort, had opposed almost everything pending confirmation of exactly what had happened in Kandíra, but had been over-ruled every step of the way.
Fifteen minutes after stepping out of the conference room, the Minister of Health issued a series of instructions that only reinforced the isolation of Kandíra. An hour after that, he finally issued a short statement to a handful of waiting pressmen, but refused to answer any of their questions.
Aeroporto di Brindisi, Papola-Casale, Puglia, Italy
Looking pink and well fed, Simpson returned to the squadron building just after four in the afternoon, and noted the two empty sandwich wrappers and a paper cup – evidence of Richter’s rather less than gourmet lunch – with a certain amount of dissatisfaction.
‘Why don’t you ever eat properly?’ he demanded.
‘Unlike you,’ Richter retorted, ‘I don’t have an unlimited expense account. And food is just food: protein, carbohydrate, starch and fat. As long as you get enough of it inside you, it doesn’t much matter what the source of it is.’
‘God, you’re a Philistine, and a scruffy one at that.’ Simpson glared at Richter’s faded jeans and T-shirt.
‘These are the clothes you brought out for me,’ Richter observed.
‘Yes, but you’re the one wearing them, and they were pretty much all we could find usable in your flat.’
‘I prefer jeans, and T-shirts are comfortable.’ Richter was tiring of the subject. ‘I take it you had a good lunch? Largely liquid, perhaps?’
‘None of your business,’ Simpson replied sharply.
The door opened behind him, and Giancarlo Perini entered the briefing-room. He carried a large plastic bag which he placed on the table only after Richter had removed the debris he had left there.
‘What’s this?’ Simpson asked.
‘A Kevlar jacket,’ Perini replied. ‘We have no idea if Lomas – if it is him – will be armed, though we’re assuming he will be. I want everyone who gets close to him to be protected – including Mr Richter here.’ Richter himself thought this was an excellent idea. ‘You, Mr Simpson, will presumably not be at the scene yourself?’
Simpson shook his head firmly. He was an organizer, not an operative. ‘When do we leave?’ he asked.
‘In half an hour or so,’ Perini replied, and gestured out of the window at the sleekly pointed shape of the Agusta 109 helicopter squatting outside on the tarmac. ‘We’ll fly to a location a mile or so from the villa, and meet the DCPP officers there.’
The SISDE, like Britain’s Security Service, has no law enforcement powers, and relies on a division of the police force – the Direzione Centrale Polizia di Prevenzione – to carry out arrests on its behalf. In the United Kingdom, the Metropolitan Police Special Branch fulfils the same function for MI5.
‘How many men are you using?’ Richter asked.
‘Ten including the drivers,’ Perini said. ‘They’ll all be armed with automatic weapons and side-arms, and wearing body armour.’
That was pretty much what Richter had expected, so he didn’t foresee too much trouble.
Simpson nodded approval. ‘That should be enough for getting just one man.’
‘More than enough,’ Richter said, though he was agreeing with what Simpson had said, rather than what he meant.
Fifteen minutes later Richter pulled on the Kevlar vest and secured it around his torso. The vest was, in fact, a bonus that Richter hadn’t anticipated. He’d expected that the DCPP officers themselves would enter the property to arrest Lomas, then call
him in later to carry out the identification, but it now looked as if he would actually be on the scene when they first entered the villa, which might make things a lot easier for him.
Richter and Simpson headed out of the building towards the Agusta 109, following Perini. The pilot was strapped in and running through his pre-take-off checks. A ground marshaller and fireman stood in front of the helicopter waiting for engine start. Richter increased his stride to fall into step beside Perini. ‘Could I ask a favour?’ he said.
‘Of course, Mr Richter, what is it?’
‘It seems a long time since I’ve flown in a helicopter. Could I ride in the front seat?’
Perini had no objection to this seating arrangement. ‘That’s fine by me.’
‘Thanks.’
The right-hand-side rear sliding door on the Agusta was already open for them, so Simpson and Perini climbed aboard and strapped themselves in. Richter opened the much smaller door of the cockpit and manoeuvred himself into the right-hand seat. The Kevlar vest, being heavy and bulky, made his movements slightly awkward. He strapped in too, then put on the headset.
It was already plugged into the intercom system, but before Richter introduced himself to the pilot he could hear Perini gabbling away in what Simpson would probably describe as ‘high-speed foreign’. When he finally stopped, Richter addressed the pilot. ‘Hi, I’m Richter,’ he said. ‘Do you speak English?’
In many ways it was a silly question, for English is the international language of aviation, and all commercial pilots can be guaranteed to speak at least some English.
‘Of course.’ The pilot extended a hand across the cockpit. ‘Vento. Mario Vento. Signor Perini tells me that you are a qualified Sea Harrier pilot.’
‘That’s right,’ Richter replied, ‘but this is all new to me.’ He settled back in his seat as Vento made a twirling motion with his right forefinger to the maintainer – the signal for engine start. He looked with interest around the cockpit as the Italian started the two Pratt & Whitney 206C engines in sequence.
The Agusta was very different to any helicopters Richter had previously flown in. Quite apart from the long ‘bonnet’ sloping sexily away from the cockpit windshield, the A109 Power model has full LCD instrumentation, meaning that the dials found in a conventional helicopter cockpit are replaced by a pair of computer screens. This reduces the cockpit workload considerably, as the screens only display what the flight control system computer deems to be relevant.
When computerized cockpits were first introduced, there was both resistance and suspicion on the part of the pilots. In fact, shortly after its introduction into service, one of the most common remarks made by pilots on the flight deck of the Boeing 757 aircraft, one of the first to possess a semi-computerized cockpit, was: ‘What’s it doing now?’
Time and technology have marched on, and nowadays on most commercial airliners and a large proportion of military aircraft the cockpits almost entirely lack the traditional engine and navigation instruments. And there are some, particularly the new generation of American air-superiority fighters, which are inherently aerodynamically unstable, and literally impossible to fly if the computers fail.
‘This is fitted with the FADEC system,’ Vento explained, as the noise from the engines increased to a dull whistling roar. The Full Authority Digital Engine Control system applies a level of digital control to the twin engines, and has been responsible for both reducing the fuel consumption and increasing the helicopter’s range and payload.
‘That,’ Vento added, releasing the rotor brake and watching as the main blades began turning slowly, ‘and the better aerodynamics, have given us a range of over nine hundred kilometres, a top speed of one hundred and fifty knots, and a service ceiling of six thousand metres. It’s a truly delightful aircraft to fly.’
Vento then called Brindisi Tower and obtained taxi and take-off clearance. The ground marshaller watched as the helicopter lifted into the air and turned to the west, accelerating as it crossed over the main runway. The Italian retracted the undercarriage as they cleared the airfield and climbed up to two thousand feet for their transit to Matera.
It was late afternoon, but the sun was still high in the sky as the Agusta flew swiftly across the fairly flat terrain lying to the north of Taranto. Vento pointed out the villages, towns and roads as they passed near them; San Michele Salentino; Villa Castelli; Montemesola; the sprawl of Taranto itself looming to the south; Crispiano beneath the autostrada that runs from Bari down to Massafra skirting Taranto; then Palagiano and Laterza.
A couple of minutes after they’d flown past Laterza, Vento descended the Agusta to one thousand feet. ‘That’s Matera,’ he said. ‘Right one o’clock at about five kilometres.’ Richter peered forward, as did Simpson and Perini. ‘We’ll be landing a couple of miles outside the town. There’s a convenient field right alongside the road, and that’s where the cars will be waiting.’
Vento dropped the undercarriage as he descended the helicopter further and, as he brought the Agusta in to land, Richter could see four dark-coloured vehicles parked nose-to-tail in a lay-by immediately adjacent to a small and level field. Three minutes later they were on the ground, and walking towards the gateway by the road.
Kandíra, south-west Crete
Gravas and his assistants had carefully stripped off their white overalls and overshoes, and had placed them beside a wall right across the street from Aristides’s house. Gravas also issued orders that nobody was to approach the clothing, except to add to the pile.
Everything any one of them had been wearing was possibly or probably contaminated, so should really have been placed in a sealed bag for destruction in a furnace. But they possessed no bag big enough to hold everything, and Gravas had decided that simply getting out of the clothes was probably the best they could do in the circumstances. Originally they had anticipated investigating a murder scene, which had dictated the equipment carried in their vehicle. Some lethal and invisible virus was a very different situation.
The last items to be removed were their gloves and masks, though Gravas ordered them to don fresh ones immediately. He also told Inspector Lavat to remove his uniform jacket, his trousers and shoes, and provided him instead with a white overall and a pair of rubber boots from the back of the van. The two Greek women, as Gravas had silently predicted, were more difficult to sway.
‘This is for your own safety,’ Gravas insisted, for at least the third time, while Christina Polessos stood in front of him, hands on hips and rock-like in her defiance. ‘We believe that house has been contaminated with some kind of deadly virus, a germ that killed him and might kill both of you too.’
Christina snorted. ‘Call yourself a doctor? We saw Aristides and he was covered in blood. Somebody killed him, with a knife or a club or a gun. It wasn’t some germ – germs just give you a cold.’
Maria Coulouris, still tearful, added her contribution. ‘And we are respectable women. We cannot disrobe here in public, out in the street.’
‘Not even if it kills you?’ asked Gravas, in exasperation.
This blunt remark stunned both women into a momentary silence.
‘But we didn’t touch him,’ Christina insisted. ‘We never even went near him.’
Gravas shook his head. ‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘The virus I mentioned could be anywhere in that house: on the floor, the walls, the door handles, or just floating in the air. And now it could be somewhere on your clothes, so if you breathe it in, you could end up like Aristides.’
The two village women looked at each other, then back at Gravas. ‘And if we do take off our clothes?’ Christina was the natural spokeswoman of the two.
Gravas shrugged. ‘I can give no guarantees, but the risk would be much less.’
Again the women exchanged glances. ‘Very well,’ Christina said, ‘but you must erect a proper screen, and provide us with something decent to wear.’
Gravas rapidly gave instructions for his assistants to rig u
p a temporary screen using waterproof tarpaulins from the back of the van, behind which the women could decently undress. The older one, Christina Polessos, could just about fit into a set of his one-size white overalls, but the younger, Maria Coulouris, had an ample girth and spectacular breasts, so would have to be content with a large blanket.
Gravas walked back over to Lavat, who stood waiting.
‘What now?’ the inspector asked.
‘Now it’s over to you,’ Gravas replied. ‘It’s time for your detective work. We have to find out exactly what this Aristides did yesterday. We have to identify and locate everybody he met or talked to. It might be worth starting with those two women, once they’ve sorted themselves out.’
Outskirts of Matera, Puglia, Italy
Perini asked Richter and Simpson to wait by the gate while he went forward to check that the senior DCPP officer and his men were ready. Then he returned and motioned them to get into the last of the four Alfa Romeo saloons parked in the lay-by.
‘Everything is prepared,’ he said, sitting in the passenger seat and turning round to look at them. Behind him they could see the paramilitary police officers, looking to Richter something like a group of Special Air Service troopers, climbing into the other three cars.
As the last car door slammed shut, the leading vehicle indicated briefly then pulled swiftly out of the lay-by and onto the road, the others following promptly. It was only a short drive because the helicopter had landed no more than a couple of miles from the villa itself. The lead car indicated again – something Richter had previously believed Italian drivers never did – and pulled off the road onto some waste ground, the driver turning his vehicle to face towards the road.
The other drivers followed suit, but this time when the men emerged from the cars they were obviously taking care to be quiet, so Richter realized they must be fairly close to the villa where Lomas was believed to be hiding. The officers checked their weapons – they were carrying Spectre 9mm sub-machine-guns and Beretta Model 92 pistols in holsters – each man inserting a magazine, working the action to chamber a round, and then setting the safety catch. The Italian-made Spectre is the only double-action sub-machine-gun in the world, and is also unusual in having a magazine containing four columns of cartridges, thus allowing fifty rounds to be carried in a magazine that is vertically smaller than the thirty-round units fitted to most similar weapons.
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