It had today. Horribly.
‘You never meant to kill those kids, we know that.’
No. But Jews, yes. He had meant to kill them. Wanted them dead. Wanted his London cleaned of the ZOG.
‘So . . . Tell us about it. Get it off your chest.’
Stephanie looked down at the lumpen, deflated figure in front of her. She found his nakedness and his spew-smeared thighs revolting. The broad shoulders were fleshy rather than muscular and had dark hairs sprouting from them. He’d been a turn-on once, according to the woman in the kitchen who’d loved him. Cocky, confident and well paid. Now the sullen cropped head with its putty nose looked as if it had come straight off the hooligan end of a football ground. A thug. A creature from the arse-end of humanity. He lifted his face to look her coldly in the eye and she knew there was no soft spot in this man. She turned away and nodded to the detective from Southall. All yours, she indicated.
‘You know, Rob, your girlfriend says you’ve lost it,’ the man goaded, his mouth twisting with frustration. ‘Says that limp apology for a sex organ that you’re hiding between your thighs – you can’t get it up any more. Not with her, anyway.’ He paused to let the insult take effect. ‘Going with fellers now, are you?’
Petrie flinched. The extent of Sandra’s betrayal of him was something he would never have imagined possible. Only days ago she’d told him she loved him and would support him through thick and thin.
‘Hitler was a fairy, you know,’ the detective sneered. ‘That what you’re trying to be? Fucking Adolf Hitler?’
Petrie smiled. If only . . .
The detective snorted in disgust.
‘Know what happens in prison to toerags like you? They’ll give you a cell with a nigger. He’ll have a knob as big as a baseball bat and fists the size of frozen chickens. You’ll be all shit and blood before you’ve had your first slop out. Your own mother won’t recognise you. Not that a bastard like you’s ever had a mother.’
Rob felt a ripple of fear. He’d never thought about what prison would be like.
Suddenly the CID man turned to the uniformed officer guarding the door.
‘Get a track suit on him for fuck’s sake and take him out of here. The smell’s getting to me.’
Stephanie had stepped back to her position behind the wizard at the computer. She folded her arms as Petrie was led from the room.
‘Waste of fucking breath,’ the Southall man fumed, after Petrie was gone.
‘Yes, but everything we need’s on that hard drive,’ Stephanie told him.
‘Open and shut,’ the DCI agreed.
‘However, I would like a blackout on the arrest,’ she told him firmly.
The Southall man got to his feet, hands on hips. He had an Asian community to pacify. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because if we tell the whole world we’ve nailed the bomber, we’ll never hear from Peter again. Leave it twenty-four hours and there’s a chance of another e-mail.’
‘Why bother? We’ve more than enough for a conviction,’ the detective insisted, sourly. This was his investigation. To him Special Branch were snooty elitists.
‘Sure. Petrie will go down,’ Stephanie agreed, ‘but what about the bloke who’s pulling the strings? He’s the one we’ve got to nail.’
‘What makes you think he’ll send another message?’
‘Because Petrie’s owed one. You’ve read the e-mail he sent last night?’
‘Moaning about how his girlfriend’s become suspicious of him?’
‘That’s the one.’
The detective scratched his chin. ‘Odd show of weakness, don’t you think? Why would he tell Peter about it?’
Stephanie pushed a hand through her straight brown hair, then retrieved the relevant message from the sheaf of printouts next to the PC. She re-read it, trying to think of a sensible answer. There was something almost plaintive about it. Don’t know what’s come over her . . . Always been loyal before . . . As if she’s got wind of it . . . Can’t think how . . . Never given any hint . . . Almost as if seeking guidance from his mentor.
‘I suppose Peter was the only bloke in the world he could talk to about it,’ she concluded. ‘His only friend. And even a loner needs one sometimes.’
New Scotland Yard
19.55 hrs
Two hours later, Stephanie Watson sat in the Fraud Squad’s Computer Crime Unit at Scotland Yard, watching while the hard disk from Rob Petrie’s PC was examined file by file. As she’d expected, there’d been a certain amount of pornography scattered across it, the random pickings of a man who’d let his curiosity have its way on the World Wide Web. Petrie had a catholic taste, she’d noted. There’d been a selection of well-hung erect males amongst the heterosexual and girl-on-girl images.
Slowly, item by item, the specialists in this section of SO6 would build up a detailed history of Rob Petrie’s obsession with white supremacy. Already they’d identified half a dozen white power sites that he’d frequented. The analyst working on the drive was the same bespectacled civilian who’d made the initial exploration of the computer at the Stepney flat. He’d volunteered to work through the night in an effort to find a clue to Peter’s identity.
Stephanie realised there was little she could do except wait for the results of the analysis. As soon as anything significant turned up she would get a call.
As she made her way back to the sixteenth floor, it was an earlier phone conversation that kept going round in her head. Sam had called. He was back in England, but on his way to some place that he couldn’t talk about. He’d explained how little Miss Jackman had made up for her earlier misbehaviour, and then sketched out his suspicion of a link between Harry Jackman’s so-called ‘red mercury’ and the Brussels virus. It worried her that he seemed to have little firm evidence for his suspicion.
The conversation had done two things for Stephanie. It had reminded her how pig ignorant she was about viruses in general and it had made her intensely curious to have another look at Julie Jackman.
As soon as she reached her office she put in a call to the St Michael’s Hospital virology centre which she knew was working round the clock.
St Michael’s Hospital
20.45 hrs
Julie Jackman was alone in the laboratory, continuing the tests begun by her colleagues earlier in the day when the latest blood serum, stool and saliva samples had arrived from Brussels. She’d volunteered to carry on until midnight, despite feeling numb and exhausted after Vienna. The near certainty that the virus could only be passed on through broken skin meant that work on the samples could be done at a low level of containment. No need for the plastic suits with hoods and respirators and sealed Level 4 cabinets with their remote handling mechanisms.
Laboratories in four European countries were co-operating in the race to isolate the virus and to develop an antidote. She sat at her bench, a white coat over her slacks and shirt, injecting enzymes into tubes containing serum and viral antigen. Research would accelerate if one of the patients died, yielding up brain tissue packed with the virus.
Julie was glad to be back at the lab, needing the distraction of it. The discovery of the way her father had used her was still eating at her soul. Sam’s lovemaking had brought her back from the brink, but the feeling of worthlessness that Max’s revelations had filled her with could best be countered with work, she’d decided.
There’d been two letters waiting in Acton when she’d got back to the flat at midday, both from tabloids offering five-figure sums for her story. She’d lit a match and burned them. Later in the afternoon when she arrived at the lab, Ailsa Mackinley had handed her a sheaf of phone messages. Most were from the media, which Julie had dumped in the bin, but one was from her St John’s Wood confidante Rosemary. Yes, she wanted to talk to her again, but not for a few days. She needed to get her head straight first.
Sam had told her he would ring. That they would see each other again. And in her heart she badly wanted that. Since making love, her longing fo
r him was strong, but her head was still full of uncertainties. She wanted a soul mate, not just a lover. Someone to be open with. Sam had a life boxed into compartments, most of which would stay closed to her.
She kept telling herself to stop thinking about him. That the chances were he wouldn’t even contact her again. But she hoped he would, and very soon. Because there was something she needed to tell him. Something about what she’d seen in that hotel room of his in Vienna.
Suddenly she sensed she wasn’t alone any more. She looked up. Professor Norton was watching from the doorway. He pulled a tense smile and walked over to the bench, clasping and unclasping his hands.
‘There’s someone here,’ he told her. ‘She wants to talk to you.’
Julie tensed, suspecting some media type had broken through the professor’s defences.
‘From Special Branch,’ he explained. ‘A Detective Chief Inspector Watson. She says you know her.’
Julie guessed it was the woman who’d questioned her at Paddington Green along with Denise Corby.
‘I’m in the middle of this assay at the moment,’ she protested.
‘Then it can wait until you’ve finished pipetting. I’ll tell her.’
Julie blinked. ‘D’you know what she wants?’
‘To understand more about viruses, she says.’
‘You’re the expert, professor.’
‘I’ve filled her in on the basics, but she’s asked to see how the tests are done.’
Julie shrugged. ‘Well, all right.’
‘I’ll bring her along in a few minutes. I’ve told her not to touch anything.’
Julie bent her head back to her work, loading and injecting the multi-pipette until all the tubes were full. As she dropped the last of the used nozzles into the wastebin, the policewoman walked in.
Julie pulled off her thin rubber gloves and discarded them, deliberately ignoring her. She wasn’t ready to forget the hard time the two women had given her at Paddington Green.
‘Hello again.’ Stephanie reached out a hand, then withdrew it, remembering the warning not to touch. ‘I’m sorry to disturb your work.’
Julie noted the humbler tone this time, but wasn’t reassured. ‘What is it you want?’ she asked.
‘First, to say that I’m aware of what you went through in Vienna, Julie. I’ve spoken with Sam.’
‘Oh.’ Julie was taken aback. She felt herself colouring, wondering exactly how much Sam had revealed.
‘Secondly, I wanted to say that as an investigating officer on this case we’re very grateful for the help you gave the authorities in Vienna.’
Authorities . . . Yes, she realised. That’s what Sam was. ‘Yes, well . . .’ Julie felt utterly wrong-footed. She’d expected a slap on the face and was getting a pat on the back.
‘And apart from that,’ Steph continued, ‘I’m keen to understand the processes you go through to track down a virus.’
‘Yes. Well I suppose it’s a little like detective work,’ Julie gabbled, relieved to be getting away from personal matters. ‘How much do you know about viruses already?’
‘The professor’s been blinding me with science,’ Stephanie smiled. ‘But it’d be best if you imagined you were explaining things to a four-year-old.’
‘Okay. Well . . . viruses are extremely small, that’s the first problem. One hundredth the size of bacteria. Some are visible on the electron microscope, but many are too small even for that. And they come in different shapes. So, when we start our search for a virus whose effects we don’t recognise, it’s worse than a needle in a haystack, because we don’t even know what the needle looks like.’
A sparkle had come into Julie’s eyes which made Steph understand exactly why Sam had gone for her. From her coy reaction when she’d mentioned his name she guessed that they’d slept together.
‘In a case like this,’ Julie went on, ‘we start by studying the defences the body puts up to fight the infection. That way we hope to narrow it down to a particular family of viruses. There are various tests we can do . . .’ She indicated the array of tiny tubes which she’d just filled. ‘These I’ve just started on. Excuse me a moment.’ She pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, picked up the samples, placed them in a covered tray and set it on the vortexer so the contents would mix. After a few seconds she removed it and pushed it into a temperature-controlled cabinet. ‘The assays are kept at body heat and in a couple of hours we’ll have a set of results which may or may not get us any closer to the mystery.’
‘Professor Norton mentioned something about growing the virus.’
‘That’s right. On tissue samples from rhesus monkey kidneys or human embryos. Aborted foetuses, in other words.’
Stephanie recoiled.
‘I know. It’s not a nice thought to be working with jars full of dead babies, but you get used to it.’
‘You’d have to,’ Stephanie murmured. ‘So, if you manage to grow the virus, you can identify it under the microscope? Oh, no. You said some are too small.’
‘That’s right. We look under the light microscope for any changes to the cells. That shows us the virus is there, even if we can’t see the virus itself. We isolate its nucleic acid and use PCR – polymerase chain reaction – to multiply it.’
‘I’m sorry. You’ve lost me.’
‘I’ll go back a step. Viruses are tiny pieces of genetic material – DNA or RNA – that are programmed to do one thing and one thing only, which is to replicate themselves. They can only do that inside the cells of plants or animals. And each different type of virus is programmed to seek out a different type of cell in which to multiply. As I said, the shapes vary. Some are round with knobs on, others are like tiny threads. The rhabdoviruses – and that’s what we think this is – are normally rod shaped. Like little bullets. The problem with the Brussels virus is that it seems to have been modified. It behaves like rabies, but may look very different.’
‘Like a terrorist dressed as a nun,’ Steph suggested.
‘Exactly. The disguise carries it swiftly to the target cells in the brain, then it sheds its outer shell before dividing and multiplying and finding more cells to take over.’
‘Sounds like viruses want to conquer the world.’
‘That’s the nightmare. That one day some new virus will emerge, cross from animals into human beings and rip through an unprotected population.’
‘Like Marburg and Ebola might have done if they hadn’t been contained.’
‘Precisely.’ Julie shuddered at the thought that her own father and the man who’d been her lover for the past twelve months might have been involved in such horrors.
Stephanie watched Julie’s face closely. She was coming across very differently from the silly, out-of-her-depth creature she’d interviewed three days ago. And her calm explanations had given no hint of the horrors she’d been through twenty-four hours earlier. Steph noted the swelling to her lip.
‘How’re you feeling?’ she asked, gently. ‘I mean, inside.’
Suddenly Julie became tearful. The dreadfulness of what had happened twenty-four hours ago came back in a rush. She shook her head and looked down.
‘I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have asked.’ Steph touched her arm. ‘You’re a brave girl.’
‘You’d better wash,’ Julie whispered quickly. She pointed to the sink by the door. ‘The risk of picking anything up from my coat is minimal, but the professor would kill me if I didn’t make you do it.’
Stephanie crossed to the basin and washed her hands with soap.
Julie went with her. ‘I’d better get on. There’s a lot more I have to do.’
‘Of course.’ Stephanie dried her hands. She sensed Julie wanted to ask her something. ‘You’ve been so helpful. Is there anything I can do for you?’ she checked.
Julie shook the hair back from her face. ‘You said you’d spoken to Sam . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s here in London?’
‘I don’t know where he is. It w
as on the phone.’
‘Ah.’
Steph saw the disappointment on her face and guessed it was because Sam hadn’t rung her. ‘You wanted to talk to him again?’
‘There’s something I need to tell him. Quite urgently.’
Steph had a good idea what it was. She wondered whether to warn the girl about her old friend. To tell her that plenty of other women had fallen for the rogue, then been ditched for the sin of trying to get too close to him.
None of her business, she decided.
‘Will you be talking to him again soon?’ Julie asked.
‘Quite possibly. If I do, I’ll ask him to call you.’
‘Thanks. It is quite important.’
Love always is, thought Steph, stepping back into the corridor.
On board RAF C130 Papa Victor Zulu Golf
There was a smell of hot oil inside the back of the Hercules, which was doing nothing for Sam’s stomach. The aircraft had dropped below the cloud layer, flying a thousand feet above the ink-black water and descending steadily, hammering through the turbulent air like a jeep over potholes.
They had their full kit on, ready for the drop. The headphoned dispatcher, a blonde woman in shapeless overalls but passably good looking, held up a hand with fingers for five minutes. The voice in her ears said the cockpit had contact with HMS Truculent. Lieutenant Willie Phipps sat next to Sam on the webbing seats along the edge of the huge cargo space, part of which was taken up with extra fuel tanks so the aircraft could return to the UK without landing. Phipps turned and mouthed ‘All right?’ Sam nodded, grim-jawed, glad of the deafening noise, which prevented the possibility of speech. He was as nervous as a kitten.
When the dispatcher signalled two minutes, the rear ramp clunked its latches and began to open, swirling cold air into the cavernous cabin. Sam and the marines stood up. Two crewmen released the tie-downs on the pallets holding the marines’ kit, then the drop team lined up behind the gear. Sam clipped his parachute release line onto the overhead wire and clamped on his nose clip. As he sucked in air through his mouth, he tried to close his mind to what was about to happen. There were men in front to follow and men behind to push him if he froze. The plane bucked and wallowed, threatening to knock them all off their feet. Phipps gestured for them to crouch.
The Lucifer Network Page 33