by Ken McClure
‘The discrepancy seems to be in something called CCR5,’ said Steven. ‘You give it a double plus while the other lab says double minus.’
Lukas, a tall, Slavic-looking man in his mid-forties, pushed his glasses up on to his forehead while he compared the two documents, holding them both up close to his face and alternating between the two. Steven, who had always got on well with him, thought he looked like an eagle contemplating his dinner as his eyes moved sharply to and fro. He knew that nothing much got past Lukas Neubauer: he was a born scientist who had to know how everything worked and how everything related to everything else.
‘Interesting.’
‘First, can you tell us what CCR5 is?’ asked Macmillan.
‘It’s a co-receptor on the surface of human T4 cells,’ replied Lukas, continuing to read the reports.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Macmillan, implying that he was still waiting for an answer to his question — one he could understand.
‘The important thing from a human point of view is that viruses use it to gain entrance to human T4 cells,’ said Lukas.
‘What would its relevance be in a bone marrow transplant being carried out to help a leukaemia patient?’
‘None at all.’
Steven felt encouraged. That would fit with what Mary Lyons had told him about Louise noticing something but she and Monk agreeing that it wasn’t relevant. But he’d still gone on to kill her because she’d noticed it.
‘I take it the plus signs mean that your lab found CCR5 to be present while the other lab didn’t?’ said Macmillan. ‘A mistake on someone’s part?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Lukas after a few moments of deep thought. ‘I don’t think so at all… You see the two plus signs? It means that we found the donor to have inherited the CCR5 factor from both mother and father. The other lab, however, has reported a double minus, which means that the donor would have no CCR5 at all. They had inherited a lack of this receptor from both their mother and father, not a common occurrence. Homozygous, we call it. There’s actually a name for this negative mutation, by the way. It’s called Delta 32.’
‘Does this lack of CCR5 have drawbacks?’ asked Macmillan.
‘Not as far as we know, but it does have distinct advantages. Delta 32 individuals are immune to certain viruses — the viruses can’t get inside their cells. I don’t suppose it has any relevance here, but there’s also a connection with research into Black Death.’
‘Of course,’ said Steven, suddenly remembering the precis of John Motram’s research he had read in the file Jean Robert had prepared for him at the start of the investigation. ‘It was the Delta 32 mutation that changed in frequency in the European population after Black Death struck.’
Lukas nodded. ‘It seems it was a huge advantage to be Delta 32 at the time.’
‘This was the basis of John Motram’s research,’ said Steven. ‘The fact that Delta 32 made you immune to Black Death suggests that it was caused by a virus and not bubonic plague. He’s an expert on Delta 32.’
‘Which may be why he was invited on to the transplant team in the first place, if what we’re seeing here is anything to go by,’ said Macmillan, seeing another piece fit the puzzle.
‘So’, said Steven, turning to Lukas, ‘if Louise says the donor was Delta 32 and you say he wasn’t… which one of you is right?’
‘Both of us,’ said Lukas.
Steven and Macmillan looked at each other as if struggling to keep up. ‘You can’t both be right,’ said Steven.
‘Yes we can… if the samples came from different people,’ said Lukas. ‘That’s my guess.’
‘Just when I thought we were making progress…’ said Macmillan.
‘But I saw the samples divided up myself,’ said Steven. ‘I watched Louise Avery do it. She kept one set; I brought the other set back for you.’
‘The airport,’ said Macmillan suddenly. ‘The samples were taken from you at Heathrow Airport. They were out of your possession for several hours.’
Steven rubbed his forehead as he thought about that. ‘But if you’re suggesting the samples were swapped before they gave us them back for analysis, it implies they already had samples from someone else… who was also a perfect donor for Patient X…’
‘But didn’t have the Delta 32 mutation,’ said Macmillan.
‘All ready and waiting,’ said Lukas.
The implausibility of the scenario brought about a silence that lasted until Steven’s face broke into a broad grin and he exclaimed, ‘No, they didn’t. They swapped them for samples taken from the patient. That wouldn’t have been a problem: they already had those. The samples they gave us back came from Patient X. The only difference between him and Michael Kelly was the fact that Kelly was Delta 32 and that’s what they were trying to hide. Louise had analysed the correct donor samples and noticed the difference so she had to go.’
‘Well, we got there in the end,’ sighed Macmillan. ‘Now all we need is for Lukas to tell us why. Can you?’
Lukas smiled. ‘Actually, I can. The Delta 32 mutation is the answer to a scientific riddle,’ he said. ‘For some years scientists have known that certain people were immune to the HIV virus. It didn’t seem to matter how often they were exposed to the virus or what lifestyle they led, they never become HIV positive and as a consequence never developed AIDS. This, of course, is hugely interesting to medical science because there’s no cure on the horizon and not much hope of a vaccine either. It turns out that the HIV virus uses the CCR5 receptor to gain entrance to its victims’ T4 cells and set up the infection. If you don’t have CCR5, the HIV virus can’t get in. It’s as simple as that. If you get Delta 32 from one parent but not the other, you’ll have a reduced risk of infection. If you get Delta 32 from both, you’ll be totally immune.’
‘So Michael Kelly was totally immune to the HIV virus,’ said Macmillan. ‘Why should that matter to a leukaemia patient?’
‘Because the recipient wasn’t a leukaemia patient,’ said Steven, shaking his head as he suddenly realised what the whole affair had been about. Lukas nodded his agreement. He’d seen it too. ‘They were trying to change the HIV status of someone who was HIV positive… someone who was very important… someone who was worth killing several people for.’
Macmillan appeared shocked. ‘Can you do that?’ he asked. ‘Is such a thing possible?’
‘It is just possible,’ said Lukas. ‘A German doctor carried out the procedure in Berlin a couple of years ago. His patient was an HIV positive man, dying from leukaemia: he desperately needed a bone marrow transplant. As an experiment, he was given a transplant from a donor who happened to be Delta 32 from both parents. The patient’s HIV status changed to negative. As far as I know, it has remained that way. There wasn’t too much press coverage about it because the medical establishment made it clear that this kind of procedure could never become the norm.’
‘That would explain the wide search for a donor,’ said Steven. ‘That’s why they had to cast the net so widely, hunt through all the civilian and military records. They weren’t just looking for a perfect match for a marrow transplant: they were looking for a perfect match who was also Delta 32 from both parents.’
‘So now we know,’ murmured Macmillan.
‘It’s still a very risky thing to do,’ said Steven. ‘For this kind of marrow transplant, the patient’s own immune system has to be destroyed by whole body irradiation over many hours.’
‘So it would be a dangerous thing to do to a patient who didn’t have otherwise terminal leukaemia?’ asked Macmillan.
‘Incredibly so,’ agreed Steven.
‘But evidently someone — or some people — thought the risk was justified to do just that to Patient X?’
‘Apparently.’
‘So they brought in the best brains that money could buy, found the best donor and took over the best facilities to carry out the procedure. Well,’ announced Macmillan, ‘they’re not getting away with it. They’ve left a trail of
destruction across the country and by God, they’re going to pay for it. Of all the arrogant…’ Words failed him.
THIRTY-SEVEN
‘So what’s our first move?’ asked Steven.
‘Now that we know what’s behind it all, we use the proof we have that Michael Kelly was infected in St Raphael’s and that his lack of aftercare contributed significantly to his death to call in the Met and force the hospital to reveal the name of Patient X and the names of those responsible for his care — if you can call it that.’
‘We shouldn’t underestimate the strength of the opposition,’ said Steven. ‘They may not be “official” but they’ve shown they have enormous power and influence.’
‘I don’t give a damn,’ said Macmillan. ‘I want them outed, every single last one of them.’
‘If Patient X turns out to be a foreign potentate they may invoke diplomatic immunity or even the Official Secrets Act to neutralise any police inquiry.’
‘My line will be that defence of the realm involves defending its citizens, not maiming and killing them,’ said Macmillan. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Steven. He enjoyed seeing his boss on his high horse. ‘I just think we should both be aware of what we could be up against when things turn really nasty. It’s not just those who’ve been calling in favours who’ll be after our blood, it’ll be those who granted them too. The guys at Rorke’s Drift probably faced better odds than us.’
‘Doing the right thing is never easy, Steven,’ said Macmillan. He let out a long sigh. ‘It’s been a long day. Can I offer you gentlemen a drink at my club?’
‘Make mine a large one,’ said Steven.
‘My mother-in-law is staying with us at the moment,’ said Lukas. Steven and Macmillan looked at him to see what this piece of information would translate into. ‘A drink sounds good.’
The three men left the Home Office and started the ten-minute walk over to Macmillan’s club. ‘Have you heard if Dr Motram’s making any improvement?’ he asked Steven.
‘I phoned his wife a couple of nights ago,’ said Steven. ‘The hospital is being very conservative with its prognosis but Cassie thinks he may have recognised her the last time she visited. The problem is that no one’s certain about the long-term effects of the toxin. It could still prove to be a false dawn. Even if it isn’t, it’s going to be a long process.’
‘Poor woman,’ said Macmillan. ‘One day you’re married to one of the brightest scientists in the country, next you’re wondering how you’re going to teach him to read and write.’
As they entered the park, Steven stepped in front of the other two so that they wouldn’t be walking three abreast and taking up too much room on the path while there were joggers about. Many seemed to be more concerned with looking at some instrument on their wrists than looking where they were going.
‘At least they’re not on bloody bicycles,’ growled Macmillan, who seldom missed an opportunity to have a go at what he saw as a particularly self-righteous section of society, hell-bent on impeding his progress through the city.
One jogger, coming towards them, threw his empty plastic water bottle into the bushes in front of them and let out a great, hacking cough as he passed.
‘Typical,’ snapped Macmillan. ‘Whatever happened to…’
He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he collapsed to the ground and was unconscious by the time Steven got down on his knees beside him, frantically seeking a pulse. ‘Call an ambulance, Lukas, would you? He must be having a heart attack.’
The ambulance was there within three minutes and two green-clad paramedics took over from Steven, who answered Lukas Neubauer’s question as he got up with a simple, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. There were no warning signs: he didn’t complain of any chest pain or even feeling unwell. He just seemed to go out like a light. The sooner they get him to hospital the better.’
Macmillan’s unconscious body was loaded gently into the back of the vehicle and the driver held the door while Steven got in. Lukas seemed hesitant and had just started to say that he didn’t think he would come along when the other paramedic jumped down from the vehicle. ‘It may be swine flu, sir,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘You’ll need to come along and be given protection.’ He more or less pushed Lukas inside and slammed the doors shut.
This strange behaviour, followed by the realisation that neither of the paramedics was in the back of the vehicle as it took off from the kerb, filled Steven with alarm. Something was wrong. Other signs came thick and fast. He saw that the front and rear sections of the ambulance had been strengthened with steel tubing and wire mesh: there were no internal door handles. They were effectively being held in a steel cage. The fact that the vehicle was not using its siren also registered when he heard another ambulance in the distance — the one they’d actually called for.
‘It’s a set-up,’ he growled as he started tending to Macmillan — no easy task in the fast-moving vehicle. It was obvious now that the two men in the front had been lying in wait for them, all set to ensure their ‘ambulance’ arrived before the real one. Macmillan’s collapse had been induced by something other than natural causes. Something had happened to him in the park and Steven needed to find out what.
The answer proved to be a small dart. Steven found it in the back of Macmillan’s thigh. He removed it carefully. It wasn’t big like the sort vets used to tranquillise animals; this one was much smaller. He hadn’t seen anyone with a blowpipe in the park so he guessed it had been fired from a small air weapon, maybe a. 177 calibre pistol. The dart had been modified to deliver a small volume of liquid — one millilitre at most, thought Steven. He thought back to the jogger who had distracted them in the park by throwing away a plastic bottle in front of them and then given a loud cough as he passed… it would have covered the sound of an air pistol being discharged. Too late, it was all too obvious, but Steven didn’t have long to contemplate it. A gas canister was leaking its contents into the back of the vehicle.
When Steven came round, he immediately wished he hadn’t: his head felt as if he’d head-butted a train and the state of his throat suggested he’d vacuumed up a small desert with it. Looking on the bright side — not easy in his present state — he reasoned that, if he felt this bad, he must at least be alive. He tried rolling over on to his side but had to postpone the operation for the time being at his head’s insistence.
The last thing he remembered before passing out was thinking that his life was over. There was no way to avoid breathing in the gas that was filling the back of the ambulance and the smell hadn’t given him any clue as to what it was or how dangerous it might be. It had robbed him of his senses but it had been quite a slow process, and now he felt pleased that he had not lost his dignity and given in to beseeching some non-existent deity to save him. How he faced death was important to him. Macmillan had been unconscious throughout and Lukas had used his final conscious moments to bang his fists on the insides of the vehicle demanding release, but he had curled up on the floor to think about Lisa and Jenny and Tally… and the good times.
He opened one eye and tried to focus on what was above him. He was indoors; he could make out a strip light on the ceiling above him. Its diffuse, bright light made him turn his head slightly to one side where he saw… furniture? White furniture? Maybe kitchen cupboards? It didn’t smell like a kitchen though, he thought as he closed his eyes again for a moment, unless they had been using a particularly strong chemical cleaner. A groan came from somewhere in the room and concentrated Steven’s mind. ‘Who’s there?’ He was unpleasantly surprised at the gravelly sound of his voice.
‘Is that you, Steven?’ came the equally throaty reply.
‘Lukas?’
‘Yes. What the hell are we doing here?’
Steven, found that a strange reply. ‘Where’s here?’ he asked, and swallowed, trying to clear his throat.
‘My lab.’
‘Your lab?’ exclaimed Steven. ‘They’ve
brought us to your lab?’ He had now managed to roll over on to his side and prop himself up on one elbow. He could see he was lying on the floor between two laboratory benches. ‘Are you tied up?’ he asked, slightly puzzled at his freedom of movement after having been kidnapped.
‘No,’ came the reply from the other side of the bench to his left. ‘You?’
‘No. Is Sir John with you?’
‘Can’t see him. Hang on, I’ll have a look around… on my knees. Jesus, what was that stuff…’
Steven didn’t reply. He was concentrating on pulling himself upright. He found that he still had to keep the palms of both hands on the bench to support his weight when he finally achieved it.
‘He’s up here,’ said Lukas’s voice from the top of the lab. ‘He’s coming round.’
Steven joined them. He suggested that they might all benefit from a drink of water and asked if the supply in the lab was safe to drink.
‘It’s mains,’ replied Lukas. ‘I’ll get some beakers.’ He rose to his feet slowly and supported himself with one hand on the bench while he slid back the glass door of a wall cupboard to take out three small, sterile glass beakers. Steven managed to prop Macmillan up in a sitting position with his back against a floor cupboard, and got up to take one of the filled beakers from Lukas and give it to him before taking one for himself. Water had never tasted so good. He could see that the others agreed.
‘It’s like that scene from Ice Cold in Alex,’ said Macmillan, managing a half smile. ‘Where are we?’
‘The Lundborg labs,’ replied Lukas, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and bemusement.
‘Your labs?’ exclaimed Macmillan. ‘Ye gods, someone’s going to have to fill me in on what’s been happening.’
Steven filled in the blanks for him, ending with, ‘And when we came round, we were here in Lukas’s place.’
‘They brought us here?’ exclaimed Macmillan. ‘How would they get in?’
‘They must have used my electronic key,’ said Lukas. ‘It was in my wallet.’ He searched through his pockets and was surprised to find his wallet there. He pulled out his key and said with amazement, ‘They put it back.’ After another check, he added, ‘But they took my phone.’