‘Will I meet her today?’
‘No. She’s in Zimbabwe following one of our stories.’ Geoff pointed at the file. ‘To save time I’d like you to investigate the stuff on Indonesia. From your CV it’s right up your street. There’s been a leak of a weird strain of bacteria from some sort of Mickey Mouse laboratory in East Java. Apparently it’s not natural but manufactured. We know this because a swab of a patient in the Royal Free was sent to the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. I would suggest that’s where you start. Would be a good idea to get a dossier on it and some sort of story before Nathalie returns at the end of the week. I’m sure she will be grateful for any help she can get.’
Geoff Sykes could not have spoken truer words. For at that moment Nathalie was sitting in front of a plain Formica table, behind which was a very large, very imposing African policeman.
‘Before you ask for your lawyer, I’ve lost the number, okay?’
Nathalie stared at him in disbelief. ‘I wasn’t going to ask for my lawyer, I was going to ask for the British Ambassador. What in the hell am I doing in here?’
‘Ah, not a local then. I’m afraid I’ve lost that number too.’ The policeman leant forward menacingly. ‘Name?’
Nathalie’s head was spinning. She was just about to let out her name when she went cold. Name? In the car, where she presumed they’d found her, she was going under the name of Nathalie King. ‘Shit,’ she thought. ‘If they’ve found those documents they must think I’m a militant activist.’
She tried stalling for time. ‘Sorry I feel a bit sick, my head really hurts, can I have a glass of water?’
The policeman sat upright and spoke into the corner; presumably they were being watched and recorded somewhere. ‘A glass of water, now.’
Nathalie used the time to think. It made sense that they had found the papers, why else would they have locked her up? On the other hand, who had shot at them to cause the car crash in the first place? Perhaps she was just a victim of attempted armed robbery. But if she was a victim why was she being treated like this? The glass of water was brought in. She had run out of time so she thought the best thing to do was to tell the truth.
‘Nathalie Thompson, my name is Nathalie Thompson. I’m a British citizen and I would like to see the British Ambassador.’
‘Oh so you have a name. Nathalie Thompson,’ drawled the officer, writing it down on his notepad. ‘And so Nathalie Thompson where is your ID?’
Nathalie could sense a glimmer of hope. He hadn’t challenged her on her name, perhaps they hadn’t found the papers.
‘In the hotel, I left them in the hotel. Silly of me I know, I put all my stuff in the safe. I was told that…’ She paused, she was going to say she was told that Zimbabwe could be a pretty lawless place, but this seemed a bit tactless with the stern face of the law in front of her. ‘Just forgot to take it with me,’ she finished lamely.
‘Take it where?’
Oh Christ, Lloyd. What had happened to him? Had they got him too? And if so what story was he telling. She had seen all this on TV. Split the people up, get them to tell their stories, check out the differences.
‘My friend, is he okay?’
‘Your friend?’
‘Yes my friend, he was driving the car, the one that crashed. Did you get the guys that did it?’
To her shock the policeman laughed.
‘The guys that did it. That’s a good one.’ The policeman put his pencil to his lips and seemed to make a decision.
‘Right, before we go any further I’m going to check out your story. What hotel are you staying at?’
Nathalie felt that the conversation had turned the corner. She was still worried about Lloyd but she had to look after her own skin first. ‘The Holiday Inn, Harare, on Fifth Street. Ask for Manny, he’ll vouch for me and get you my passport.’
The policeman left the room and Nathalie spent the next half-hour praying that the police were too busy to send someone to search her hotel room. She might prove that she was Nathalie Thompson, the problem was that her phone would show her as Nathalie Thompson the television journalist and not Nathalie Thompson the Imunaid worker. Still it would be better to be deported for journalism than life imprisonment for assisting terrorists. Her luck was in. A smiling Manny entered the room with her interrogator and her passport. Just her passport she noted.
‘Can you identify this woman as Nathalie Thompson staying at your hotel?’
‘Yes Sir, that’s her. The British Imunaid worker. I personally hailed a cab to get her to the central hospital this morning.’
‘Bless you Manny,’ thought Nathalie.
‘The hospital, can they vouch for her?’
‘I don’t know Sir, you will have to ask them Sir.’
The policeman looked first at Nathalie and then back to Manny. He handed Manny his notebook, asked him to write down the name of the hospital and then told him to go.
Nathalie held out her hand for her passport. ‘Can I go now then?’
The policeman put her passport in his pocket and gestured for her to sit down.
‘Not yet Miss Thompson, there are a few things we need to clear up.’
Nathalie inwardly groaned.
‘The guys that did it, as you so colourfully put it, were the personal bodyguards of the president of Zimbabwe.’ He paused awhile waiting for this to sink in.
‘There is a law here, Miss Thompson, that when the presidential cavalcade passes, no matter what side of the road you’re driving on, you are expected to stop. This is by presidential decree and is for security reasons. Anyone failing to do so can be stopped by any means. Any means. You get my drift?’
Nathalie nodded slowly. This sounded a crazy rule but she had heard that crazy rules were the norm here.
‘We have interrogated the driver of the vehicle who claims that he was showing an aid worker the countryside and was heavily engaged in conversation when the cavalcade passed. He also claims by the time he noticed it his foot slipped from the break to the accelerator. All very convenient don’t you think.’
Nathalie tried not to show her relief. Lloyd was alive and, by the sound of it, metaphorically kicking.
‘We are not very convinced by this argument and as a passenger you may also be implicated in the charge.’
Nathalie closed her eyes again. This was not good.
‘However, I have decided to wait for a report from the hospital, just to see how important your work is here. We don’t want to cause yet more friction between our countries do we?’
So her freedom all depended on Nurse Jones. Nathalie hoped that she had made a good impression, and that her promise of financial aid had got through to the right people.
The answer came sooner than she expected. Later she was to hear that the senior health officer was obviously very influential, with friends or perhaps even relatives in high places. The hospital was desperate for the money and had told the police that Imunaid were indispensable. She was a critical part of the outreach team and was scheduled to leave with them in the next few days. Prison and the scandal associated with it was out of the question. Nathalie was asked to fill in a form, verifying her good and fair treatment and told that she could leave. She had been shot at, bullied and practically assaulted but she would forego all of that to just get out of this place. She signed the form subserviently and was shown to the outer office. There, sitting in a corner, was Lloyd. His face was black and blue and a small streak of blood was running from his ear. Yet he greeted her with a smile.
‘Nathalie, good to see you’re all right.’
‘I’m not sure about all right, but it’s good to see you too. Shall we ask to go out of the back door?’
Lloyd leaned over to whisper in her ear. ‘No. We’ll go out the front door together. Make a big show of it.’
She looked at him quizzically.
‘Tell you later.’ He held her hand and together they walked into the sunlight.
Lloyd strolled slowly out
side the entrance to the police station as if looking for a taxi. He asked Nathalie to do the same, making sure that passers-by could see her.
‘News travels fast in Harare, and you’re looking good especially with those bruises.’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Nathalie.
‘Neither will these rubber necks,’ replied Lloyd. ‘It will start a lot of rumours.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Two people, one a white girl, coming out of a police station covered in cuts and bruises. Our little terror group will love it. If they weren’t convinced that you’re a militant activist before they definitely will after this, especially if I can put the word around.’
‘Clever, but what will your paper think.’
‘They’ll just think I’m an arsehole for not stopping for the President’s motorcade. Look here’s a taxi, you take it, go back to your hotel and clean up. I’ll contact you when I’ve remade the meeting. You still want to go through with it don’t you?’
‘Yes of course,’ said Nathalie automatically, getting into the cab. She was so dazed that she didn’t know what she wanted to go through with, it seemed like the right answer at the time.
Manny greeted her at the hotel like a long lost friend. ‘Miss Thompson, what an experience. Let me help you to your room. They told me you were in a car crash and they didn’t know who you were. I’m glad it’s all sorted out now. Is there anything I can get you? Would you like me to call you a doctor?’
‘No, I’m fine Manny, thanks for bringing my passport. Did you notice my phone in the room?’
‘All safe and sound Miss.’ He winked at her. ‘I didn’t think you would have liked the police rummaging through your personal messages. They can get so misinterpreted sometimes.’
‘You’re an angel Manny. Just send a mug of hot chocolate up to my room. What I need now is a long warm bath.’
He called the elevator for her and rushed off to the kitchen. Nathalie entered her room and started to run a bath. She checked the safe for her phone and found it just as Manny had said but with a couple of new messages on it. One was from the hospital saying that they would have great pleasure in taking her on the next outreach visit in two days’ time. The other was from Geoff asking her to call. She dialled his number.
‘Hi Nathalie. How’s things.’
Nathalie decided not to tell him about the afternoon’s events. That could wait for later. ‘Fine Geoff, just got a note saying they’re up for me going on the immunisation outreach programme. I mooted the fact that we might be able to video it and they seem keen on the idea. Sneaky way of getting our film crew into the country.’
‘Great news. I was just going to update you on this end. Your new researcher, Tom, started today. Seems very keen. I’ve put him onto the Java story. He’s got an appointment with the School of Tropical Medicine tomorrow. Hopefully we’ll have something for you when you get back. How’s Lloyd’s contacts working out?’
‘Looking promising. I’ve met Lloyd, he seems to know what he’s doing. Should be able to get a meeting with these guys soon.’
‘Okay, be careful, it can be rough out there.’
‘Tell me about it,’ thought Nathalie, rubbing her bruised thigh.
‘Anything else Geoff? My bath is about to run over.’
‘No I don’t think so…oh yes, one thing. That woman with memory loss who came into our office.’
‘What about her?’
‘Your doctor friend has just rung to say that she regained a little of her memory. Seems that she was on some sort of drug trial.’
‘What drug trial?’
‘No one knows. Apparently she just walked out of the unit this morning.’
Five
The Portland stone art deco building known as the London School of Tropical Medicine and Hygiene stood a few blocks away from the British Museum. Tom had passed it many times on his way to Goodge Street Tube station. This time he paused and stood at the main entrance looking up at the ornate carving above the doorway.
‘Apollo and Artemis riding a chariot,’ came a voice beside him.
Startled, Tom looked around to find a bearded man carrying a slim tan briefcase. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Apollo and Artemis. You know, two of Zeus’s kids.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sorry, I’m Doctor Goodfellow.’ The man looked at his watch. ‘I recognised you from your Facebook page. You have a meeting with me in five minutes.’
‘Oh,’ said Tom relieved and putting out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you Sir.’
His hand was taken warmly. ‘Philip will do. Come in. It’s a nice day, we can sit in the courtyard.’ He tapped his briefcase. ‘I read your e-mail and have pulled out a few papers for you. The doctor gestured for him to enter. ‘After you. It’s the school’s logo by the way.’
The courtyard was a contrast to the stripped classical facade. It was hemmed by a seven-floor glass building set within a vast atrium. Philip Goodfellow noticed Tom staring up in wonder. ‘A good use of the space and very practical don’t you think?’ He gestured for Tom to sit down at a small table at the foot of the structure. ‘You know this place is Shakespeare’s loss and world medicine’s gain don’t you?’
Tom was becoming used to this man’s eccentric manner and decided to play along. ‘It’s built on an old site of the Globe or something?’
‘Good guess but not quite. In 1913 the National Theatre Committee purchased the land to build a Shakespearean theatre on it. Fortunately for us, about ten years later the Rockefeller Foundation put up two million quid to build the school. Best money they ever spent.’ He waved his hand towards the glass building. ‘We’ve been making improvements ever since.’
Tom shuffled in his chair wondering how to get around to the topic of bioterrorism. He was used to talking to professors, but this had normally been in tutorials as an undergraduate; now he had to appear as a hard-bitten journalist. He needn’t have worried, Doctor Goodfellow noticing his unease opened the subject for him.
‘Your office tell me that you are looking for background information for a documentary film you’re making. Sounds fascinating. Well I think you might have come to the right place. We’ve been making more tests on that bacterial sample I told your Mr Sykes about. Extraordinary results. What do you know about gyrase inhibitors?’ Once more Doctor Goodfellow had thrown Tom another question from left-field.
‘Gyrase inhibitors? I’ve heard about them, sadly didn’t revise that part of the syllabus.’
‘Syllabus?’
‘I did microbiology at Imperial, but don’t remember that part of the module.’
‘Shame, an important destructive mechanism in the reproductive process of bacteria you know.’
Tom felt the interview was getting away from him; he hadn’t come here to retake his exams. ‘Doctor Goodfellow, I don’t want to appear rude but…’
‘But you haven’t come here for a lecture on bacteriology.’
‘I didn’t mean…’
‘No, I know you didn’t, but if you’re going to make a film on bioterrorism and use our laboratory work as a story then I’m afraid you might have to listen to one.’
‘Okay,’ replied Tom, lengthening the ‘kay’ part of his answer.
Doctor Goodfellow clapped his hands. ‘Right, here goes. The bacteria that we found in the sample is unique. Never come across it before. It reproduces using an enzyme called DNA gyrase.’ He paused. ‘You know what an enzyme is don’t you?’ Seeing Tom’s expression he continued. ‘Of course you do. This enzyme helps a bacteria reproduce. It relieves the strain while double strand DNA is being unwound.’
Tom nodded recalling an image from the back of his mind. ‘Yes that’s right. Something called helicase does the unwinding doesn’t it? The two strands have got to be separated so the bacteria can reproduce. Then they are coiled up again. I seem to remember we twisted the coils of our phone chargers to bunch them up to demonstrate how they can get inside their
tiny casings.’
‘Exactly, I use the same analogy with my students. To get to the point, that’s not an abnormal process, what’s strange here is the speed with which our sample replicates. The helicases look like they’re on speed. Incredible rate of bacterial duplication. We’ve broken the enzyme down and there’s nothing like it in nature. Could be synthetic. And if it is, someone’s made it. This bacteria is pretty unpleasant and so if there is some laboratory out there producing it then they’re up to no good.’
‘An agent for bioterrorism?’
‘Possibly. We’ve traced the patient’s background. Of course I can’t divulge any of this to you.’ Philip Goodfellow placed an open folder onto the table between them. ‘And I’m afraid the police aren’t interested, however it would be good if someone followed it up wouldn’t it? Fancy a cup of coffee? The machine is just around the corner; terrible stuff but hot and wet, you know.’ Goodfellow got up and strolled out of the courtyard.
Tom stared at the folder in front of him. By twisting his neck around he could see a name and laboratory address typed on one of the sheets. An Indonesian name and an address in eastern Java. He wasn’t sure if this was legal but he took his phone out of his jeans’ pocket and took a quick photograph.
The sun blazed through the blinds creating stripes across the room. One of them danced across Nathalie’s face. She woke, turned over in the bed and then groaned. She had spent all of yesterday in the same bed but her bruises still hurt like hell. Still, she could thank her lucky stars that she wasn’t resting in that cell. If it wasn’t for Manny. She propped herself up on the pillows and reached for the hotel telephone.
‘Room service? Orange juice, buttered toast and a very large cup of coffee please. That’s right, room 361.’
The day in bed hadn’t been wasted. She had contacted the Central Hospital and they had been more than helpful with the arrangements. The promise of charitable funding had obviously worked. A minibus with some of the nurses would pick her up from her hotel and take her to the nearest local immunisation depot. There, after a brief overnight stay they would relocate into the outreach Land Rover with its refrigerated trailer. Then bingo! One of the outreach locations was in a kraal village near Shurugwi. Nathalie could hardly believe her ears. As soon as they put the phone down she had rung Lloyd. Could their meeting with WEXA be arranged to coincide? He said he would do his best. That was twenty-four hours ago. Not a peep out of him since. She took her breakfast tray from Manny and removed the pretentious little cardboard covering from the orange juice. Her mobile beside her began to flash. The number looked familiar.
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