More Harm Than Good

by Andrew Grant

Melissa had given me the security code for the door to the caesium vault, but I had trouble entering the digits because the clumsy gauntlets turned my fingers into bratwursts. Eventually, after three tries, the tiny indicator light switched from red to green and the door swung open. I lumbered through and waited for it to close automatically behind me. For a moment I stood alone, in the dark. Then, one after another, four banks of fluorescent ceiling lights flickered into life and gave me the first glimpse of my new environment.

  Maybe my expectations had been shaped by being in a hospital, where things are supposed to sterile. Or maybe all the talk of exotic chemicals had led me to imagine the kind of pristine laboratories you see on TV. But whatever the reason, I was surprised by what I saw. The room was square, maybe fifty feet by fifty. I was standing in front of the entrance, at the centre of one wall. Another heavy steel door stood out from the rough whitewashed brickwork directly opposite me. There obviously weren’t any windows, but the wall space was busy all the same with safety notices, radiation monitors, fire extinguishers, two large Swiss Railway style clocks, and a bank of round nozzles for supplying oxygen via flexible tubes to the sort of hazmat suits that can be used for extended periods of time. There was also a selection of posters. Two on each wall. But these weren’t framed like the CEO’s had been.

  The rest of the space was divided into four zones, each with an apparently different purpose. Immediately to my right was a work area - two pairs of desks, cluttered with papers and computers and all the other standard office paraphernalia. Diagonally to my right, opposite the desks, was a place to relax - four easy chairs, evenly arranged around the sides of a threadbare rug. Their tweed covers were worn and stained, and a chipped coffee table sat between them. It was complete with unruly piles of newspapers and two dirty mugs. A low cupboard in the corner was home to a kettle, a biscuit tin, and a giant whisky bottle half full of pound coins. The redundant generator Melissa had mentioned completely filled the far left hand corner. Nothing seemed to be attached to it anymore, and as if it were in disgrace for no longer supplying power, it was surrounded by the bars of a metal cage. The final area was fenced off in the same way. Its central section was designed to slide to one side, but it was locked in place. I didn’t have the key, but that wasn’t a problem. I didn’t need to open it. I could see what was inside. There was a metal table, which was bolted to the floor. A clipboard, hanging from a nail on the wall. And one other thing. A metal canister. It was silver. Shiny. Eighteen inches high.

  And marked with the unmistakable, universal symbol for radiation.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I picked the same chair in the meeting room in Thames House the next morning, but the leather was noticeably cooler than the last time I’d sat in it. Melissa was at my side, once again, and her boss - Colin Chaston - was opposite us. Arthur Hardwicke – the Deputy DG – was back in his place at the head of the table, but on this occasion his attention seemed to be focused entirely on a paper clip. He’d pried one end open so that it stuck straight out, and was rolling it up and down between his thumb and index finger, causing the rest of the clip to spin like a tiny propeller. I watched the thin strand of metal relentlessly twirling round, and realised it mimicked the thoughts that had been plaguing me since last night. I was back to trying to solve the problem rather than assign blame. But old habits die hard. And with so much at stake, what else are you supposed to do?

  “So we’re dealing with two supposedly impossible things,” the Deputy DG said, without interrupting the even rotation of the clip. “A canister in a room where there should be no canisters. And caesium in a canister, when all the caesium in the country is apparently accounted for elsewhere. There definitely was caesium in the canister?”

  “Yes, sir,” Melissa said. “The lab’s confirmed it.”

  “Can we assume it was connected to the current threat against the government?” he said.

  “I never like to assume anything,” she said. “But that does seem reasonable.”

  “What have you done about it?”

  “The container was removed for inspection, and the caesium is now under guard at an army facility. A replica was put in its place in the vault, complete with an invisible tracking device, and a wireless surveillance camera has been installed which is independent of the hospital’s joke of a system.”

  “Those are good moves,” Chaston said. “But the room was checked on the night of the robbery. It was definitely empty. Photos were taken. I’ve seen them. There were no canisters. So how could there be one last night?”

  “Someone put it there,” Melissa said.

  “When?”

  “Sometime after the photos were taken.”

  “That’s not helpful.”

  “That’s as specific as we can be, right now.”

  “Why was it put there?”

  “A couple of reasons, I guess. One - can you think of a better place to store radioactive material than a specially designed and secured vault? And two - it’s the last place anyone would think to look.”

  “But you thought to look.”

  “To be fair, Commander Trevellyan did. I thought he was insane, at the time. It never would have occurred to me.”

  “So what happened? Some unidentified group had stolen some caesium, needed somewhere to store it, heard about our break in, and figured the room at St Joseph’s would be free? That’s ridiculous.”

  Melissa shrugged.

  “It is ridiculous,” I said. “And it’s not what happened.”

  “Where did the canister come from, then?” Chaston said.

  “St Joseph’s, itself. It was stolen from the hospital.”

  “No. Four canisters were stolen, and they were all recovered.”

  “That’s what you were meant to think.”

  “It’s true. We have CCTV footage. Scientists’ reports. And hospital documentation. All the material was recovered. It’s a proven fact, Commander.”

  “What if there were two thefts? One covering the other.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Let me show you.”

  I waited until Arthur Hardwicke was watching, then pulled two pound coins out of my pocket and place them on the table.

  “See these coins?” I said. “They’re my containers of caesium. They’re safe in my vault. Now, Melissa, could you pass me a piece of paper, please?”

  Melissa looked dubious, but she did as I asked.

  “This is actually an official hospital document,” I said. “It confirms the total number of coins. It says there are two. OK so far?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Oh no,” I said, sliding the two coins away with my right hand. “Look - the caesium is being stolen. And the CCTV camera in the hospital garden – the one in the garden, notice, not the one outside the vault door - is recording the fact that both coins have been taken.”

  I slid the coins a little further, and covered them with my right hand.

  “Now where could they be?” I said. “No one knows. The thieves have made a clean getaway. But wait. The Security Service intervenes, and brings them both back.”

  I lifted my right hand and slid the coins back to where they’d started.

  “Here they are, safe and sound,” I said, picking up the piece of paper again. “Let’s just check with the records. Yes - both the coins accounted for.”

  I picked one of them up and bit it gently with my front teeth.

  “Now the scientific analysis has been done,” I said. “And they haven’t been tampered with. So, we definitely got back everything that was stolen.”

  I slid them across the table to Chaston.

  “And from now on, we’ll keep them at our back-up site,” I said.

  Chaston looked at me and scowled.

  “What does that prove?” he said.

  “That you were looking in the wrong place,” I said, lifting my left hand and revealing a third coin. “What about this one?”

  “Where did it come fr
om?” he said.

  “I stole it a while ago and kept it with the others. But then, a fireman accidentally took a chunk out of my door with his axe. I knew there’d be an inspection, and I couldn’t risk being caught with the extra when the technicians showed up to do the inventory. So I needed a diversion. And quickly.”

  “OK, stop. You’re theory doesn’t hold water. The third coin couldn’t have stayed there the whole time because we know the raiders completely cleared out the vault. I already told you, we have photos.”

  “I know. But there’s something you didn’t see. While everyone was distracted by the four guys on the tape who carried off the exact amount that was supposed to be there, I put my fifth guy to work. He took the other suit and used it to hide the balance of the caesium - the stuff I’d stolen some time before - until the vault had been checked and photographed. Then he put it back.”

  Chaston was leaning forward now, and I could see he was chewing on his lower lip.

  “How much of this is fact?” he said. “And how much is guesswork?”

  “It’s mainly guesswork,” I said. “But can you think of a more likely explanation?”

  “Not off the top of my head.”

  “I think a more important question is, how did they do it?” Melissa said. “The earlier theft. Assuming there was one.”

  “Well, nothing was physically taken at that time,” I said. “The theft was basically done on paper. They changed the amount of caesium people expected to be there, not the amount that was actually there. So, the key must be the way the records are kept.”

  “OK. So, if someone changed the records, we should be able to trace that.”

  “I would hope so. I’ve had experience with inventory falsification before, and what usually happens is that fraudulent entries are hidden behind real events. You told me St Joseph’s is some kind of hub for other hospitals, where they concentrate the contaminated waste, or am I making that up?”

  “No. That’s right. I told you that.”

  “Which means the most vulnerable moment would probably be when the deliveries were being made. My guess would be, someone didn’t record everything that came in.”

  “How often?”

  “I don’t know. It could have happened once, with a whole batch. Or it could have happened over and over, with a tiny bit skimmed off each time. Although that way, they’d need someone to suit up and transfer it into their extra container, which might complicate things. It would depend on who was cooking the books for them, I suppose, because they’d want as few people involved as possible.”

  “Do you believe the first attack on the vault was unconnected, then, Commander?” Hardwicke said.

  “No sir,” I said. “I don’t believe it was some kind of precursor, as we originally thought. It was the catalyst. It made the second attack necessary. But this in turn was not designed to remove any caesium. It was undertaken to cover up the fact there was too much.”

  “And this excess quantity was acquired through some kind of false accounting?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Of which you’ve had previous experience in unraveling?”

  “Some, sir.”

  “Good. In that case, I’d like you to look at how this strange form of theft was carried out. And more importantly, by whom.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Now Trevellyan, given the other news we uncovered yesterday, and the imminence and scale of the threat, one might expect this task to carry a lower priority. One would be mistaken. You understand why, I take it?”

  “I do, sir. The way in which the second attack was launched reveals not just a knowledge of hospital practice. It requires knowledge of MI5 procedures, as well.”

  “Good man. But wait. There’s more. If your theory is correct, it completely negates our assumption that we have tabs on all the caesium in the country. More could have been stolen through the same method. It could be in terrorists’ hands already. They could be strapping it to a bomb as we speak. So. It’s imperative that we find out who did what, when, and with how much. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Wainwright will help you. Now. Let’s return to the other matter. The threat. This informant stated that the result of the planned attack would be to bring down the government. Is that correct?”

  “Yes sir,” Melissa said.

  “I find that rather strange. To bring down the government. How could they hope to achieve that? Look at 9/11. The London Tube bombs. The Falkland Islands, and so on. Politicians are fairly adept at using such things to gain popularity, not lose it. Why would it be different this time?”

  No one spoke for over a minute, and in the silence all eyes were drawn to Hardwicke’s relentlessly spinning paperclip.

  “What if the government was known to be aware of a threat?” Jones said, eventually. “But did nothing to avoid it. Or responded in such an incompetent way they lost the public’s sympathy?”

  “But we haven’t received any threats,” Melissa said.

  “No,” Hardwicke said. “Not yet. But there’s still time.”

  “Time?” Jones said. “Let’s approach things from that angle, instead. The timescale. Three days, yes?”

  “That’s what the informer told me yesterday,” Melissa said.

  “So, two days now,” Jones said. “What’s happening over the next two days?”

  “Oh,” Chaston said. “Wait a minute. Melissa, let me ask you something. Is there any way the informer could have said ‘close down,’ rather than, ‘bring down?’”

  “No,” Melissa said. “Definitely not. I heard him say ‘bring down.’”

  “But what kind of state was he in?” Chaston said. “He was in the process of betraying his comrades, wasn’t he?”

  “He was,” Melissa said. “And he’d just been shot at, so you could say he was under a fair bit of stress.”

  “He hadn’t only been shot at,” Chaston said. “In fact, he was bleeding to death. And what about his language skills? Was he a native English speaker?”

  “I don’t know,” Melissa said. “I don’t know his full background. But it sounded like English might not have been his first language. I couldn’t be sure.”

  “Where are you going with this?” Hardwicke said.

  “Well, sir, if you take two days and add it to ‘close down’ the government, do you know what you get?” Chaston said.

  Hardwicke stopped the paperclip’s motion dead.

  “The State Opening of Parliament,” Chaston said. “The beginning of the new Parliamentary year. All the MPs. The Lords. The bishops. The most senior judges. Not to mention Her Majesty. All together, in the same place, an iconic location, up to their necks in pomp and ceremony. Can’t you just hear the terrorists drooling?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Deputy DG had said he wanted Melissa and me to get to the bottom of how the caesium had been stolen as a matter of urgency. He’d made that very clear, so I expected us to head straight over to the hospital when the meeting finally wrapped up and start digging. But Melissa had other ideas. She thought she could turn more up from the office, via the computer and the phone. And this time, she didn’t invite me to sit with her.

  There was nothing inherently suspicious about that. Plowing two furrows in parallel can be an effective strategy. But when someone’s behaviour unexpectedly changes, it makes me wary. And when I added that to her unexplained absence after our last meeting at Thames House, my sixth sense went into overdrive. So I may have agreed to go to St Joseph’s right away on my own and start the groundwork, but I didn’t actually leave the building. I set myself up in an empty meeting room diagonally opposite the office Melissa shared with Jones. I jammed the door open a tiny crack, just wide enough that I could see out but no one could see in. And I settled down to watch.

  Jones came into the corridor three times in the next hour. Twice he returned. Once with coffee. Once with an armful of red folders. And while he was gone the final tim
e, Melissa appeared. She was wearing a coat, but didn’t turn right, towards the exit. She went further into the building and then through an unmarked door, which I knew led to a set of stairs. If she went down, she’d end up in the basement. And in the basement, she’d have access to any of the vehicles in the car pool.

  I hailed a cab directly outside, on Millbank, and had the driver loop round into Thorney Street and stop where I could see the exit from Thames House’s garage. A pair of Fords pulled out almost immediately, followed by a Jaguar, but all three were driven by men. An unmarked van was the next to leave. I couldn’t see who was inside it, but my gut told me to ignore it. I was beginning to wonder if I’d made the right choice – and the cab driver was becoming increasingly anxious, but for a different reason – when a bottle green Land Rover Discovery cautiously nosed out into the street ahead of us. It sped up once it reached the top of the ramp, but I had enough time to confirm it was Melissa behind the wheel.

  We followed as she turned right onto Horseferry Road, then left onto Millbank and along towards the Houses of Parliament. The traffic was light so we had no trouble keeping up as she crossed into Whitehall, and only fell four cars back as she skirted Nelson’s column and started up the east side of Trafalgar Square. My driver was taken by surprise, though, when she lurched without warning into the mouth of William IV Street and came to a sudden stop. I told him to keep going for another hundred yards, and then made my back down the other side of Charing Cross Road on foot.

  A gaggle of people had formed outside the box office for the Garrick Theatre, so I joined in the middle of them and kept an eye on the Land Rover. Melissa was still in the driver’s seat. She was sitting completely still, looking to her right, back the way she’d come. I had no idea what she was watching for, though. She could have been checking for a tail. Observing a suspect. Waiting for a contact. Or just getting away from the office for a nervous breakdown. Nothing in the pattern of people or vehicles in the vicinity gave me any clue. I was still none the wiser fifteen minutes later when she climbed down from the vehicle. She made a show of locking the door, but I knew she was really scanning for anyone paying her too much attention. Then she walked across to a broad glass cylinder that sprouted from the pavement – the modern entrance to the ancient crypt of St Martin-in-the-Fields church – and disappeared through the door.