by Robin Crumby
“If it can short-cut my investigation, absolutely.”
“Doctor Hardy boasted that the Porton archive chronicles the entire history of chemical and biological weapon development in Britain. If it’s not there, then it probably never happened. They call the librarian Ephesus.”
“Ephesus?”
“Come, come. I took you for an educated man. Surely you’ve heard of the great ancient libraries of Alexandria in Egypt and Ephesus in Turkey? They were said to have stored the largest collections of handwritten books of antiquity. What’s in Ephesus’s head is so sensitive, they say he’ll never be allowed to leave Porton.”
“That sounds more like a prison sentence than a job.”
“He’s lived there most of his life. His work is everything to him. Wife died years ago, no other living family.”
“With someone like Ephesus to work alongside, I could really accelerate my investigation.”
“I’ll make the necessary arrangements. You might want to pack an overnight bag. See you back here at 1500 hours.”
“Thank you, colonel.”
Chapter Fourteen
Zed scanned the skies, listening for any sign of the helicopter. It was already ten minutes late.
The colonel had been the last to arrive. He nodded at Zed and the Porton scientists waiting in the shelter of the hospital building nearest the helipad. There was a steady drizzle that limited visibility. A fine mist settled on everyone and everything, soaking into clothing and equipment. Zed was keeping his distance from Doctor Hardy; he still hadn’t forgiven the doctor for his outburst in yesterday’s meeting.
A grey helicopter with Royal Navy markings roared into view, sweeping low over the hospital before banking hard and coming into a hover, one hundred feet off the ground. Zed could make out the pilot looking down at them, skilfully guiding the aircraft into land.
The arrival of the Royal Navy Merlin confirmed the rumour that had been doing the rounds. The story went that Captain Armstrong had sent an expeditionary party in search of any serviceable aircraft they could salvage from Bournemouth or Southampton Airports. In the end, they made it all the way to the naval base at Culdrose on the Lizard Peninsula in Cornwall and returned with two Merlins loaded with equipment. It meant the allies were no longer dependent on the Chester’s Seahawk for urgent transportation of men and equipment. Zed had overheard one of the staff officers boasting about their new assets.
As soon as the Merlin touched down, the hydraulic ramp at the back lowered to allow the group onboard. Sat either side of the spacious cabin was a squad of Royal Marines wearing helmets and combat gear. As soon as the ramp whirred shut, they lifted off.
Once they were airborne, Zed moved seats so he could see out the window. Gaining altitude, they swept over Cowes and out towards the Solent. Visibility seemed much better the higher they got, and he could make out the American warship at anchor off to his right. In the distance, several smaller vessels were shuttling in and out of Portsmouth Harbour. As the helicopter crossed the five miles of open water, they followed the estuary north towards Southampton docks.
Zed was surprised how empty the container port seemed. Thousands of red and blue rectangles processed one by one, their contents searched and catalogued. As far as the eye could see, acre upon acre of shipping containers were lined up in orderly rows. With no new ships arriving for as long as anyone could remember, and the Maersk Charlotte unloaded of the bulk of its containers, the port looked more like a graveyard than a commercial hub.
Most of the cargo was redundant in a world without power. He noticed what looked like stacks of white kitchen appliances, fridge freezers, ovens, washing machines and tumble driers dumped in irregular pyramids. The reminder of domesticity made him smile.
Among the millions of tonnes of goods, it was also said that they had discovered building materials, tools, equipment, farm machinery, steel, humanitarian aid supplies, and trucks which collectively would accelerate the allies’ reconstruction efforts. Captain Armstrong said they now had everything they needed to realise their plans for Camp Wight.
Leaving behind the suburbs of Totton and Calmore, they banked north-west towards Salisbury and Porton Down, crossing open countryside. The grey strip of the M27 motorway briefly interrupted a lush carpet of green. A bulldozer had cleared a path, pushing the abandoned vehicles to the side of the road, to make way for a convoy of oil tankers, flanked by armed escorts, ferrying fuel from Fawley Refinery.
When there was nothing left to see but field after field, Zed turned back to face his fellow companions. The faces of the scientists were lit up by the grey light from their laptop screens. The soldiers were resting their eyes or playing cards. The colonel sat next to Doctor Hardy, shouting at each other, trying to make themselves heard over the din of the engines. Zed closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep.
He sincerely hoped Ephesus and the Biopreparat expert were even half as good as the colonel had implied. Either one of them could provide the clues he needed.
The pitch of the engines changed, and the Merlin started to lose altitude. Zed peered out of the window, hoping to catch his first sight of Porton Down. The military base looked tiny from a distance, but in reality was a sprawling complex containing a large number of office buildings, labs and warehouses surrounded by farms and villages. As they swept lower over a wooded area, he noticed half a dozen people emerging from the tree line, pointing up into the sky. Several of them broke into a run following their path.
The pilot skimmed low over the newly repaired perimeter fence with the addition of timber supports and rolls of razor wire. The Merlin pirouetted neatly round into a cleared area beyond the staff car park, where a cluster of uniformed men was standing ready, shielding their faces from the down draught. He recognised the base commander, Major Donnelly, among the welcome party sheltering behind three waiting transports.
Once the helicopter touched down, Zed grabbed his rucksack from beneath the seat and stood waiting with the others for the ramp to be lowered. The Royal Marines exited first, making straight for the truck where one of the base personnel was beckoning them over.
“Welcome back, colonel,” said the major, saluting his superior officer.
“You can dispense with the pleasantries, major. Did you get my message?”
“I did. We were under the impression that Doctor Hardy already had everything he needed.”
“So did I. It seems that, for the time being at least, your facility is not entirely redundant.”
As the helicopter powered down, Zed became aware of the unmistakable sounds of a large crowd approaching the fence behind them. He turned in surprise to see almost a hundred men and women surging towards the landing area, running from every direction, shouting and gesticulating. The Porton guards unholstered their side arms and shepherded the new arrivals towards the safety of the vehicles.
“That bloody helicopter never fails to draw a crowd.”
“Is the compound secure, major?”
“It is now, yes. We had to repair several sections of fencing after the last attack. The team of engineers from 12th Armoured laid razor wire this week and built those guard towers you see over there. There’s no way in, but let’s not stick around to test that theory.”
The major’s second in command added: “Sir, they wouldn’t dare attack in daylight hours after what happened last time. They sustained heavy losses.”
“How many men did the 12th Armoured send you?”
“Three platoons. I suggest we talk once we’re inside. The crowd have a habit of throwing stones if we linger too long,” said the major, gesturing towards the lead vehicle. The driver was already holding open the rear doors for the passengers.
“Mr Samuels, why don’t you tag along with us?” suggested the colonel to the apparent displeasure of Major Donnelly.
****
The five-minute journey from one side of the compound to the other revealed a base in much better shape than the last time they had been here.
“How are your food supplies holding up? I’d imagine the addition of the men from Bulford and Tidworth isn’t helping?”
“We’re managing. The 12th Armoured brought two lorry-loads of dry stores. Three thousand ration packs. It won’t last forever, but it at least buys us some time.”
“What about vehicles?”
“Just what they arrived here with. A couple of trucks, two armoured personnel carriers, oh, and a Scimitar.”
“What’s that?” asked Zed.
“It’s an armoured reconnaissance vehicle equipped with a thirty-millimetre cannon.”
“That should give the locals something to think about.” Zed smiled to himself. A tank? Now that he would like to see.
“They don’t scare easily. They’re a persistent bunch. There’s normally someone nosing around, keeping an eye on us. Particularly when anyone arrives or leaves. They know we have food and weapons here.”
“Well, if they’re anything like the survivor groups near us, they won’t give up. Desperate people will resort to desperate measures, especially if they see lorry-loads of food and supplies arriving here.”
Major Donnelly turned to face the colonel. “Sir, now that we’re in private, may I ask why Mr Samuels is back here again? Am I to assume that his investigation is ongoing?”
“You may.”
“I thought we had given him everything he asked for.”
“You did but, unfortunately, some of the drives were damaged in the ambush. Mr Samuels is going to need full access to the archive.”
Major Donnelly hesitated, unsure how to respond. “May I remind you, sir,” as if deference required a special effort, “that access to the archive is restricted to military personnel with ‘Top Secret’ clearance only.”
“I’m aware of that, major.”
“I am only authorised to grant access with the written approval of the Minister of Defence himself.”
“Well, in his absence, I’m giving Mr Samuels authorisation,” replied the colonel, somewhat tersely.
“As the commanding officer responsible for this facility…”
“Do I really need to spell it out to you again?” he spat, before relenting slightly. “With all due respect, major, if you’re concerned about Mr Samuels putting his snout in where it’s not wanted, I suggest you assign a chaperone. Make sure he doesn’t go wandering around helping himself to state secrets. I’m not sure what you’re afraid of. It’s not as if you have the Loch Ness Monster in here.”
“Sir, the archive contains a complete record of every chemical and biological warfare experiment since the First World War.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
“If you can let me know the focus of your investigation, perhaps I can—”
Zed was about to launch into an answer when the colonel cut him short.
“Mr Samuels reports directly to me. I’ll brief you as soon as circumstances permit. In the meantime, your team will afford him every assistance, extend every courtesy. I expect Ephesus himself to be made available.”
Major Donnelly inclined his head reluctantly. Their vehicle slowed to a halt outside the entrance to the main building leading to the subterranean levels. Two armed guards stirred from their seats and held the door open for the new arrivals. The major turned to address one of his staff.
“Can you let Ephesus know that we have visitors from St Mary’s? I expect you’ll find him in the library.”
The orderly hurried off towards the stairwell. The Porton scientists followed Doctor Hardy towards a maze of passageways that led to the underground laboratories where it was said they undertook all the more hazardous research into deadly pathogens.
Zed tuned out of the conversation between the major and the colonel, suddenly anxious about meeting this so-called “Sage of Porton Down”. Could it be possible that all his questions might finally be answered? Besides Doctor Hardy, Ephesus might be the only person in the country who knew the truth. The sound of footsteps on the metal stairwell jolted him back to the present.
“Ephesus will see you now. Gentlemen, will you follow me?”
Chapter Fifteen
Terra left Briggs snoring late into the morning in their new bed. She washed quickly in a handbasin filled with cold water and finished her hair and make-up in front of an antique Venetian-style mirror that must have belonged to the headmaster’s wife.
Their living quarters at Walhampton School were modest but comfortable, supplemented by antique furniture salvaged from nearby houses and shops. It wasn’t what she would have chosen for herself, but it was passable.
She ran her fingers along a rail of more than three dozen designer dresses and haute-couture outfits liberated to order from Southampton’s finest fashion outlets. Tilting her head and posing in front of the floor-length mirror she chose a knee-length Vivienne Westwood dress matched with a pure cashmere sweater. The alterations she had requested were amateurish, the stitching crude in places. This was the dress Briggs said “turned heads”.
She spent the next hour exploring all the different former classrooms, dormitories and sports facilities. People stopped what they were doing when she entered, taking off their hats, or awkwardly curtseying like she was some lady of the manor.
There was a smell about the school that was so evocative. It took a moment for her to place it. Somehow it reminded Terra of her mother. Dusty books, disinfectant, spilt milk and burned toast. Her mother had always been so disapproving. Nothing had ever been good enough. That same bile and bad humour had eventually driven her father away. Terra had never forgiven her for that.
On the top floor, she discovered stunning views across the fields back towards the sea. Below were two additional levels of dormitories crammed with single iron-framed beds in neat rows, set out for the many workers who called this place their home. They were split up by function with kitchen staff occupying one, housekeeping, security and administration in the rooms next door.
Surveying the magnificent grounds and generous accommodation, she now understood why Victor had chosen the school for their displaced group. It was far more practical than a medieval castle.
Out of the second-floor window, she followed the progress of a small convoy of vehicles approaching the school along the drive from the main road. Bouncing over the speed bumps was a convoy of school-liveried minibuses followed by an Audi estate.
As the minibus slowed to navigate through the car park, the dirty faces of several men pressed excitedly against the windows as they pointed up towards the grand building. The convoy continued straight past without stopping, towards the sports hall and theatre beyond.
Before it disappeared out of sight, one of the forlorn occupants seemed to rush to the back window, banging his fists against the glass. The image was frozen in her mind. It was hard to tell from this distance but she half-recognised his face. Dark hair, handsome, deep-set eyes, olive skin, and a heavy beard in urgent need of a trim.
She took the stairs two at a time. On the landing, she barged into the back of Victor, almost knocking him over.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?”
“Sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I was trying to catch the minibus. Do you know where they’re taking them?”
“Who? The last group from Carisbrooke?”
“I thought we were the last group?”
“The men from the Santana came separately.”
Suddenly it all made sense. The Santana. She had first seen the crew from the tanker when they were marched across the castle courtyard, hands secured tightly behind their backs, imprisoned in the old dungeon beneath Carisbrooke. She remembered the truck that brought them to the castle. The tanker was found by the allies with its engines disabled, drifting helplessly off the Needles in the storm.
“Why bring them here?”
“Peterson wanted them dead. Briggs is convinced they know something.”
Terra remembered Briggs’s laugh at the mafia phrase the American had used. Somet
hing about “concrete boots”.
“Have they been interrogated yet?”
“We’ve tried, but they only speak Spanish. We’re waiting for the translator to arrive.”
“I could have a go?” offered Terra. “I’m a bit rusty, but…”
“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish. Anyway, they’ve already found someone. King knew a teacher from Lymington. He’ll be here later.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“It might be useful to have you there. We don’t know if this translator can be trusted. I won’t tell him you speak the language.”
****
Near the old stables, a solitary figure stood guard outside the locked storeroom where the Santana crew was being held. As Victor and the rest of the group approached, the guard removed a bunch of keys from his coat pocket and made to unlock the door. On the third attempt, he wrestled the padlock open, levering the door wide enough to reveal a darkened room.
Terra followed closely behind Victor and the translator. Inside, the stench was overpowering. She was suddenly self-conscious in her designer clothes.
The group hesitated near the door, waiting for the guard to find his torch. The beam of light arced around the room, picking out the recumbent shapes of the Santana men stirring back to life. The man closest to them looked barely able to stand. The others stared back at the rectangle of light that framed Terra.
“Eres un ángel?” she heard one of the men say.
“What did he say?” asked Victor.
“He thinks she’s an angel,” scoffed the translator.
Terra smiled, covering her mouth with the perfumed scarf she wore, trying to mask the stench of sweat and piss. The guard’s torch flicked from one face to the next until he found the person he was looking for. He kicked at the man’s legs until he got unsteadily to his feet.
“This is the guy I was telling you about.”
“Mateo, find out what this man knows,” said Victor, gesturing to the translator.
“What do you want me to say?” Mateo replied in lightly accented English.