Dust to dust sd-8

by Ken McClure

  Bizarrely, his old training sergeant popped up inside his head again. ‘It ain’t over till it’s over, Mr Dunbar.’

  Steven had to admit that what the maxim lacked in literary merit it had more than made up for as a mindset in the past. He would not face death with calm acceptance and dignity, as he had been prepared to do in the ambulance, but as a warrior who had served his country well and was looking for any opportunity to go down fighting right to the bitter end.

  He’d left the torch and the other various bits and pieces up by the fan when he’d thought his task was over, but he still had one of the scalpels. he’d tucked into his watch strap on the inside of his wrist. This would be his only weapon, should he get a chance to use it, a slim steel handle with a painfully thin three-centimetre blade that would shatter on the slightest impact but had an edge so sharp it would cut flesh to the bone before anything was felt.

  Steven knew that he was in no physical condition to take on Monk. Apart from the lingering after-effects of the earlier gassing, his escapade in the trunking had used up just about all the stamina he had. Monk was a borderline psychopath with MI5 training behind him and probably armed, although he wouldn’t want to use bullets if an ‘accident’ was still the plan.

  ‘Come along, Dunbar, don’t take all day,’ came the shout from below as Steven moved closer to the hatch and felt his feet slide into the gap. The voice sounded upper class and amused. Steven felt his throat tighten with apprehension as he started to rotate, pushing himself up on to his elbows and letting his feet dangle above the improvised platform while he looked down for a footing.

  ‘Easy now, we don’t want you falling and hurting yourself.’

  Steven took in that Macmillan and Lukas were sitting on adjacent lab stools, their hands secured behind them, although he couldn’t make out how. He couldn’t see Monk and that was an important factor so he held himself in the gap, using his arms to keep himself suspended while he waited for him to speak again. He needed to know where Monk was so that he could obscure the presence of the scalpel on his descent.

  ‘No use delaying the inevitable, Dunbar,’ came the languid voice from below.

  The sound came from his left.

  Using up what he feared might be perilously close to the last of his remaining strength, Steven moved round the lip of the gap so that the outer aspect of his left arm would be facing Monk as he lowered himself. His feet made contact with the platform of lab furniture and it shook slightly as he steadied himself. Monk was standing some four metres away, looking relaxed and holding a gun in his right hand. Steven, exhausted, naked to the waist, bathed in sweat and covered in grime from the trunking, felt close to capitulation, but that sergeant was still in his ear. It ain’t over…

  He hung his head, appearing totally exhausted but in reality looking for the most secure part of the platform, the bit that would give him most purchase to spring from if he got the chance to play his last gambit.

  Monk took a step closer. ‘They told me you were SAS, Dunbar. Maybe it was the Girl Guides…’

  The step closer was what Steven had been hoping for. Monk had moved into range and it was now or never. In one last, adrenalin-fuelled surge, Steven whipped out the scalpel from the inside of his left wrist, dropped down to the secure part of the platform he’d identified and launched himself headlong at Monk.

  Monk didn’t see it coming. He’d been so completely in charge of events that the remote possibility of the exhausted wreck of the man in front of him turning into fourteen stone of flying avenger had not even appeared on his horizons. He had no time to contemplate his mistake. Steven brought the scalpel blade across his throat and brought his life to a very messy end as they both crashed to the ground.

  Steven had intended nothing else. There had been no question of trying to overpower Monk and turn him over to the machinery of justice. That was for schoolboys’ comics and story books. His one chance of survival had been to kill Monk with one blow and he’d done it, a success that now had him leaning over a lab sink being very sick. When he’d recovered enough, he freed Macmillan and Lukas. He’d no sooner done so than he had to return to the sink.

  He felt an encouraging squeeze on his shoulder and half turned to see Macmillan, who said, ‘I’m glad you can still feel that way,’ and then left him alone with his thoughts and a very empty stomach.

  Macmillan took control of the situation. He busied himself making phone calls and invoking Home Office authority to see that a clean-up operation avoiding the usual channels was put in motion while Steven and Lukas, now out of the lab and sitting in the Lundborg staffroom, sought a return to normality.

  Lukas was in a state of shock. He’d scarcely said anything in the past ten minutes, choosing instead to stare down at the floor, apparently deep in thought but in truth transfixed by what he’d witnessed. Steven sought temporary escape through noting the trappings of everyday life around him, the What Car magazines, postcards from sunny places pinned on the wall, a row of coffee mugs with names of cartoon characters on them, the cash box for extra cups of tea and coffee. These were the things normal people had in their lives, people who didn’t do what he’d just done… had to do, he reminded himself, had to do. But he feared that that judgement was destined to be questioned again and again, probably in the wee small hours of those nights when self-doubt came to call.

  FORTY

  Macmillan joined them. ‘They’ll be here soon and then we can all go home and get some rest. Steven, I’ve asked for a bio-hazard team as well as the cleaners. Perhaps you can fill them in about the location of the spores and how best to remove them?’

  Steven nodded.

  ‘You did well,’ said Macmillan. ‘I know you’re not feeling at your best right now but you did what you had to do. If it weren’t for you, none of us would be alive right now. It sounds very inadequate, but thank you.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Steven,’ added Lukas, managing the semblance of a smile. ‘On behalf of my wife and children, thank you very much. I never thought lab work could be so…’ He failed to find the word.

  Steven acknowledged their thanks with a nod but really didn’t want to hear any more about it. The horror of what he’d done — had to do — was still too fresh in his mind. ‘Did Monk tell you any more about what’s been going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Macmillan. ‘Arrogant, cold as ice and far too clever to engage in gloating or boasting. I’ve come across his type before. He would have killed us all without batting an eyelid. When he discovered you’d disabled his set-up in the ventilation system, there was no display of temper: he just took it in his stride and moved on to Plan B. Nothing was going to stop him achieving his objective.’

  Steven closed his eyes and saw Monk pushing Louise Avery over a Solway cliff to her death. ‘And that objective was to keep us all quiet about an operation to change some rich bastard’s HIV status,’ he said.

  ‘I agree,’ said Macmillan, picking up on the nuance in Steven’s voice. ‘It’s beyond belief.’

  Two black, unlettered vans arrived in the car park outside and two teams of technicians, eight in all, clad in white cover-all suits, began the business of cleaning up the aftermath of Dunbar vs Monk, after being briefed by Macmillan. The first thing they did was to zip Monk’s body into a body bag and remove it. There would be no police involvement, no forensic examination, no photographs, no bagging of samples and ultimately no need to call on the Crown Prosecution Service because there would be no court case. Monk had lived outside the law: that’s where he would stay.

  Two of the technicians were seconded to Steven to receive instructions for the removal of the spores. One of them insisted on calling him ‘guv’. Their first question was whether or not they’d need full bio-hazard gear. Steven assured them that that wouldn’t be necessary: the container hadn’t been breached. One of them already had a plan of the building ventilation system so Steven was able to pinpoint the location for them. ‘It was inserted from below so it shou
ld come out the same way,’ he said. ‘It’s pressurised, so be careful.’

  ‘Right, guv.’

  ‘Immerse it in disinfectant fluid as soon as it comes out.’

  It was shortly after one a.m. when the vans finally drove off. The lab had been restored to its former pristine state — no mean feat considering the amount of blood that had been around — and the canister containing the spores had been neutralised as instructed. After a short hiatus, the cars that Macmillan had requested to take the three of them home turned up outside. Lukas locked the front doors of the lab and, in an attempt at humour, said, ‘I’m not sure what I’m going to tell my mother-in-law.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go for the truth,’ said Steven.

  Steven knew he wouldn’t sleep so didn’t bother trying. He stayed up, sitting in his seat by the window, looking up at the sky, listening to Miles Davis, drinking gin. He found it hard to analyse his feelings now that he’d had time to consider. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn’t feel good. On the odd occasion he did manage to drift off into shallow sleep, it was to a world full of bad dreams, no place to be; he was glad to be jarred into wakefulness again.

  When the first grey light of dawn challenged the orange glow of the city’s street lights, he forced himself to get up and face a new day, starting with a long shower — although he had the feeling of trying to rinse something away that wasn’t going to go — and following that with toast and coffee. He’d been told by Macmillan to be at the Home Office by nine a.m.

  ‘I’ve asked the commissioner of the Met to join us,’ said Macmillan. ‘We’re going to tell him everything and make it clear that Sci-Med will not be party to any kind of cover-up. We want this whole sorry, misconceived business out in the open regardless of the identity of Patient X.’

  ‘Good,’ said Steven. He didn’t doubt Macmillan’s sincerity but did wonder about the practicality of what he intended. There had been occasions in the past when Sci-Med had been forced to back off in the ‘public interest’, but to be fair to Macmillan those instances had been few and far between and more than eclipsed by the times the man had stood his ground against some pretty serious pressure from the corridors of power. In his time, Macmillan had presided over the demise of some very influential people who’d imagined themselves above the law. It was common knowledge that this alone had delayed his knighthood for many years.

  Steven listened while Macmillan related all that had happened to the police commissioner, adding details when requested, particularly about the treatment of Michael Kelly and the ‘accident’ that had killed Louise Avery. When Macmillan had finished, the commissioner remained silent for a few moments, tapping his pen end over end on the table before finally saying, ‘I knew something was going on. It’s impossible to be in my job and not realise that. Rumours were rife but none of my people could quite get a handle on it. This usually means there’s intelligence service involvement, but that didn’t appear to be the case… at least not officially.’

  Steven empathised with the commissioner. He was voicing the sort of frustration that he and Macmillan had felt over the past few weeks.

  ‘Strikes me the whole thing has been orchestrated by a parcel of rogues,’ said Sir John.

  ‘But powerful ones,’ said the commissioner.

  ‘Be that as it may…’ began Macmillan. He launched into a second insistence that there should be no cover-up. When he had finished, the commissioner got up from his chair.

  ‘I think I should confer with some people and get back to you, say, in two hours, time? Better make that three, as it’s Sunday.’

  ‘Well, the game’s afoot, Watson,’ murmured Macmillan as he returned from seeing the commissioner out, but there was little humour in it. ‘A drink?’

  Steven had no desire to be anywhere near alcohol. ‘Maybe a walk in the park?’ he suggested. ‘Or by the river?’ he said quickly when he realised that seeing joggers in the park was only going to invoke memories of the previous evening. ‘The river,’ said Macmillan, who’d seen the same thing.

  They had scarcely started to enjoy the sense of stability that Sunday morning by the Thames was giving them when Macmillan’s phone rang. Steven couldn’t deduce much from his monosyllabic replies. Occasionally, Sir John asked questions but didn’t seem happy with the replies he was getting.

  ‘That was the commissioner. A meeting’s been called,’ he said, ending the call.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At an MI5 safe house in Kent,’ he said, taking care to enunciate every syllable.

  FORTY-ONE

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Steven. ‘Why on earth…’

  ‘He told me not to ask any questions. He promised all will be revealed later. The meeting’s been called for eight p.m.’

  ‘So you don’t know who’s going to be there?’ said Steven, making it more of a statement than a question.

  ‘No idea,’ said Macmillan. ‘But I do know I don’t like it. I get the feeling HMG are about to ask us to keep our mouths shut. Wouldn’t surprise me if the Foreign Secretary and Minister of Defence show up in person to plead the case for secrecy on behalf of their man.’

  ‘And if they do?’

  ‘No deal. You know my feelings.’

  ‘Bit of an odd venue, though,’ Steven remarked.

  Sensing that there was more to Steven’s comment than just a passing remark, Macmillan asked what was on his mind.

  ‘I just wondered if we’d be coming back from this meeting.’

  ‘That was the Metropolitan Police Commissioner on the phone,’ protested Macmillan. ‘Not some mafia don.’

  ‘Who has been speaking to MI5 if we’re going to be using one of their places?’ Steven reminded him. ‘But maybe I’m just too sensitive about accidents happening these days.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. We don’t know who we can trust. I’ll put everything we know on an “insurance” disk this afternoon and post it to Jean’s home address with instructions as to what to do if anything should happen to us tonight. There would be no point in harming us with that in the wild.’

  ‘I take it we’ll be going down together in one of the pool cars?’

  ‘Actually, no,’ said Macmillan, sounding slightly embarrassed in the light of what they’d just been talking about. ‘The idea is to keep the meeting as discreet as possible, no official cars, no official drivers.’

  ‘Just us… in a remote country house,’ said Steven, without expression.

  This reservations were becoming infectious. ‘Do you think we should call off and suggest an alternative venue?’ Macmillan asked.

  ‘No, I was just playing devil’s advocate. I can’t wait to see which politicians are wriggling on the end of this particular hook.

  Steven picked up Macmillan at the Home Office just before six p.m. and they drove down to Kent, first to Canterbury and then on to the village of Patrixbourne where they started following more detailed directions to Lancing Farmhouse, a converted oasthouse on its outskirts.

  ‘Peaceful,’ said Steven as they crunched slowly up the drive to park in front of the old red-bricked house beside several other vehicles; two Range Rovers, a Volvo estate and a dark saloon which Steven noted had the Maserati symbol on its grille as he passed. It was eight minutes to eight and they were the last to arrive, the commissioner informed them. ‘No one’s going to be fashionably late then,’ said Steven, sounding surprised.

  ‘You’re about to see why,’ said the commissioner, leading the way through to an inner room where he paused to usher them inside. ‘None of us here do “fashionably late”.’

  Steven had to admit he had a point. The people sitting there were the head of MI5, the head of MI6 and the head of Special Branch.

  Macmillan seemed immediately on edge. He looked round the room, acknowledging each man in turn before saying, ‘Well, gentlemen, we make a formidable array of monkeys. Might one ask where our political organ-grinders are?’

  ‘No politicians will be coming, John,’ said the c
ommissioner. ‘Believe it or not, no politician knows anything at all about this business.’

  Macmillan looked doubtful but restricted himself to saying only, ‘Do go on.’

  The commissioner addressed the heads of the intelligence services. ‘All of us have been aware that something’s been going on over the past few weeks but none of us has been able to nail it down. We knew bits of it but not the whole story. When I spoke to John and Steven this morning, it became apparent that Sci-Med had filled in most of the blanks and well done to them, but after conferring with the rest of you I can now fill in one of the blanks for them, the most important blank of all.’ He turned to Macmillan. ‘John, Steven’s investigations have led Sci-Med to conclude that the operation carried out at St Raphael’s was to reverse the HIV status of a patient and was done as a high-level political favour for a big player in either oil or Middle Eastern politics. You came here this evening to demand that the whole affair be made public.’

  Macmillan remained impassive.

  ‘You’re right about one thing, wrong about the other. George can tell us more.’

  George Meacher, the head of MI5, cleared his throat. ‘When the commissioner called me earlier and told me what Sci-Med had come up with, something we’d been working on suddenly started to make sense. Just over a week ago, Sir Malcolm Shand, one of our ex-ambassadors to the USSR that was, had a nervous breakdown and was taken into hospital. Our interest was aroused when it came to our ears that he was insisting his life was in danger and that someone called Monk had been detailed to kill him. Monk’s name has been cropping up quite a lot recently and we, of course, knew well enough who he was. Martin here became involved because of Shand’s past connections in the old Soviet bloc. We both wanted to know what Shand had been up to.’