Miasma

by Ken McClure

  ‘Well done,’ said John Macmillan, ‘any thoughts on where you go from here?’

  ‘I’m going to talk to Jane Sherman again at MI6.’

  Macmillan raised his eyes.

  ‘There’s a chance she might not know what we’ve just found out so, if I tell her, it might assure her that we are on side with her and redress the balance a little. We’ve been gathering crumbs from the MI6 table lately, let’s throw her a couple.’

  ‘Nice to have Machiavelli on our side,’ said Jean.’

  ‘And then what?’ asked Macmillan.

  ‘So much depends on what was in the flasks that Petrov was sending out,’ said Steven.

  ‘You don’t go along with the synthetic drug theory?’

  ‘On its own, it does sound plausible,’ said Steven although his facial expression said that he was struggling. ‘But everything around it, the murders, the money . . . just doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Nerve agents are very popular these days,’ said Jean.

  ‘And plentiful,’ said Steven dismissing that suggestion too.

  ‘Well, it shouldn’t be long before Porton Down do their stuff,’ said Macmillan, ‘and the guessing games can stop. How is your good lady by the way?’

  ‘She should be coming home soon,’ said Steven. ‘I was worried she might consider staying on but the authorities have recognised that the micro-management system they came up with for Equateur has no chance of working in Kivu Province. It’s a question of circling the vaccination wagons at a distance to contain the virus.’ Actually, Tally asked me to look up something for her . . . I’ll be in the library if you want me.’

  The WHO report on the 2014-16 Ebola outbreak was a little too esoteric for the library to have in hard copy so Steven sat down and used an online computer link to bring it up on the screen in front of him. It didn’t take long to find what Tally was concerned about. The report clearly reported that no deaths had been attributed to use of the experimental vaccine at the time, although several minor side effects had been noted. Steven turned to the summary at the end of the report and found himself mesmerised by the huge numbers. It was impossible not to imagine the sheer horror of the same thing happening in the UK, something that hadn’t happened on such a scale since the post-war pandemic of so-called Spanish Flu in 1918 or the sweep of bubonic plague in the mid seventeenth century. In his mind, he saw the disease spreading out from the site of any major airport in the country – one sick person arriving at the wrong time in the wrong place was all that it needed.

  He turned the page and found the graph recording the spread of Ebola in the 2014 – 16 outbreak, starting with one case in a small rural village and edging ever outwards as people fled in all directions giving rise to a growing Catherine wheel of infection until . . . the epidemic was everywhere.

  Steven turned off the computer link and sat for a few moments in the quiet of the library reflecting on how often Sci-Med had tried persuading successive governments that vaccination of the general population against a range of killer diseases should be undertaken, but, of course, vaccination plans didn’t win votes. He left the library and returned to the office to phone Jane Sherman.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ said Jane when Steven told her about Petrov’s father being sent a couple of containers from Beer Sheva. ‘To our shame, we seem to have assumed that everything was sent to Geneva.’

  ‘I think it suggests that Malenkov turning up in London to see Petrov senior at some risk to himself might have been some kind of important business meeting. Petrov senior could be involved in Malenkov’s project as much as his son.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Jane. ‘Two mining magnates and a microbiologist . . .’

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ said Steven.

  ‘Agreed, but pretty soon we might know what it’s all been about. Porton are going to open the intercepted flask the day after tomorrow. Want to come along?’

  ‘Sure do.’

  ‘I don’t think we can expect anything dramatic, it will probably take them some time to analyse the contents, but maybe they can do some preliminary tests to keep us feeling involved.’

  ‘Is anyone else going from Six?’

  ‘No, just me, I don’t have the details yet but I’ll let you know tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay, but I’ll be attending a small meeting in the morning in Westminster about the latest outbreak of Ebola in the Congo. I don’t suppose you’ll be there?’

  ‘Jane said not but added, ‘I do however, have to speak to some people at Westminster tomorrow, it won’t take long, we could have lunch?’

  They arranged to meet in the hall at noon.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘How was your meeting?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Less than informative,’ Steven replied.

  ‘Of course, your lady is still in DRC,’ exclaimed Jane. ‘I’m sorry, I’d forgotten about that. I heard they’d announced a new outbreak just after the previous one had been declared over, what was that all about?’

  ‘They had to call it a new outbreak because genetic analysis by the lab found it was being caused by a new strain of Ebola.’

  ‘Does that make it better or worse?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone knows,’ Steven replied, still feeling frustrated by the lack of information given at the meeting he’d just attended. ‘The new outbreak is in a wild, bandit-infested region of the country where no one really knows what the hell’s going on. You can’t get access to any significant data. At the moment, no one knows how many cases there have been or how many deaths and that situation spreads fear and alarm everywhere else in the country. Frankly, I just want Tally out of there.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘Sorry for being such a pain.’

  ‘No problem, let’s get some fresh air.’

  They left the Houses of Parliament and stepped out into the sunshine of what was a beautiful, clear day to start walking over Westminster Bridge.

  Steven looked up at the cloudless sky and said, ‘I feel better already.’

  Jane paused at the half way point and leaned on the parapet to take in the view. ‘He was right,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Wordsworth.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Steven, ‘Earth hath not anything to show more fair than . . .’

  ‘the view from Westminster Bridge,’ Jane completed.

  They continued their walk, exchanging other possible candidates for the best view title. Jane offered having seen the Taj Mahal by moonlight and Steven countered with sunrise on Fujiyama in Japan, when his attention was diverted by the sight of a speeding vehicle entering the bridge. It looked all wrong.

  The car, a Range Rover, was not weaving at all, it just seemed to be travelling far too fast. Jane saw it too. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed. ‘What the hell does he think he’s . . .’

  ‘Get up on the parapet!’ Steven yelled above the noise of Range Rover engine which was being revved too high in low gear. He himself leapt up on the wall and turned to help Jane who was attempting to do the same, but, in high heels, her leading foot failed to make it and she fell down just as the Range Rover swerved to mount the pavement and its nearside front wheel hit her other leg on its way to scrape along the parapet wall. Jane’s screams filled the air.

  The vehicle came to a halt after twenty metres or so, but its engine was still running and Steven suddenly realised that the driver intended to reverse back over Jane’s prostrate body. He took out his pistol and emptied the magazine through the rear window of the vehicle, aiming at where the driver would be although privacy glass prevented him having a clear view of the outcome. Mercifully, the vehicle scraped further into the parapet wall and its engine died.

  Steven dropped down on to the pavement to help Jane whose injured limb was lying at a nightmarish angle to her body, crushed and twisted and with bright scarlet blood pumping out from a severed artery. His first thought was to stop the bleeding, he had to stop the bleeding. He threw off his jacket, following up by tearing
off his shirt, despite the difficulty of having his shoulder holster in the way. He needed strips of material fast so he tore away at it until he had a useful strip of sleeve to wind around an area high up on Jane’s thigh.

  The sound of police sirens grew louder as he fought to get the impromptu tourniquet tight enough to stem the crimson tide. Amazingly, Jane was not unconscious, she was semi-conscious and speaking in garbled fashion as if in the throes of a bad dream, but she was still able to respond with screams to the added pain Steven was causing her by doing what he had to do, STOP THE BLEEDING.

  He couldn’t see the exact area where the blood was coming from because of her blood-soaked clothing and there was no time to investigate. The only thing that mattered was getting the tourniquet into place anywhere above the disaster area and he was relieved to see this happen just as he became aware of black-clad, armed and masked police all around them. They were shouting at him, telling him to do things he had no intention of complying with. He was holding the tourniquet, but knew it wasn’t tight enough. He needed something rod-shaped to insert into the weak knot he’d managed, something which would allow him to twist it round and increase the pressure. The repetitive shouting continued and prompted him to start shouting back, yelling who he and Jane were and what he was trying to do, although feeling that it should be bloody obvious. ‘You’ll find ID in my jacket.’

  Steven saw his empty pistol lying beside him and realised that the barrel would do for tightening the tourniquet. He picked it up . . . and one of the policemen shot him.

  The view from Westminster Bridge was anything but fair, it was black . . . jet black.

  Steven regained consciousness, but not in a slow, sleepy way. His mind was suddenly full of twisted, broken limbs, scarlet fountains of blood and men in black pointing guns at him. He tried sitting up in alarm but pain in his head suggested that was not a good idea. He was lowered back down by caring hands and a female voice soothed him as he gazed up at a white hospital ceiling.

  ‘Welcome back,’ said the voice and Steven looked up at a young nurse who was quickly joined by another.

  ‘I’m alive,’ said Steven, sounding puzzled. ‘The police shot me, but I’m alive.’

  ‘One policeman shot you,’ said one of the nurses. ‘He was a bit hyped when he saw you pick up a gun. The armed police commander had heard what you had said and had decided against shooting you. When he saw one of the younger officers, fuelled by nerves, tighten his trigger finger he nudged the man’s weapon upwards with the barrel of his own, but a bullet creased the area near your temple.’

  ‘Jane!’ exclaimed Steven as everything came flooding back. ‘What happened to Jane?’

  ‘She’s in theatre as we speak. If it was you who applied the tourniquet to her leg, you saved her life.’

  ‘Her leg . . .’ said Steven, remembering the dreadful damage.

  ‘Too early to say.’

  ‘God, it was a mess.’

  The nurse nodded.

  The other nurse said, ‘There are lots of people waiting to talk to you when you wake up, but we won’t tell them if you don’t want to see anyone just yet.’

  Steven said, ‘Thanks, but I think I should.’

  The nurses left the room, leaving the door slightly open, which allowed a variety of hospital sounds to reach him as he relaxed on the pillow looking for any blemish in the smooth white of the ceiling. The musical background sounds of some radio or television programme was interrupted by a dramatic announcement of, ‘yet another terrorist outrage in central London.’

  Steven strained to hear more but John Macmillan came into the room and closed the door behind him.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘Just a scratch as they used to say in Western movies,’ Steven replied.

  ‘A bit more than that I understand,’ said Macmillan, ‘anther half inch and . . .’

  ‘I knew someone was bound to point out just how lucky I’d been,’ said Steven. ‘They tell me Jane is in theatre?’

  Macmillan nodded. ‘No news as yet.’

  ‘And the guy who did it?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Just the one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ said Steven bitterly. ‘Terror related or lone wolf as they tend to call nutters these days?’

  ‘He was Russian.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said Steven after a short silence. ‘You know, that was the last though I had before the bastard went for us. The car wasn’t weaving; the driver wasn’t interested in killing anyone else, he headed straight for Jane and I. We were his targets.’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘Looks like the Prime Minister was right when she suggested enough money will get you a mole in any organisation.’

  ‘I hope you’re not including Sci-Med in that assertion.’

  ‘’No,’ said Steven. ‘Mind you, if Jean turns up next week driving a Maserati Ghibli and wearing a rock the size of Gibraltar . . .’

  ‘Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour,’ said Macmillan. ‘Let’s hope she keeps hers when I tell her what you said . . .’

  ‘Jean and I are okay,’ said Steven attempting a smile which hurt his head, causing him to gasp and Macmillan to get to his feet. ‘Take it easy,’ he said.

  ‘Who else is out there? Steven asked.

  ‘Various senior policemen from a number of different groups, but I and the head of MI6 will head them off: we have the Home Secretary’s approval. I also took the liberty of saying that you would not be making a complaint to the Police Complaints Commission about being shot.’

  Steven nodded and said, ‘But maybe they shouldn’t wire them to the mains before sending them out on the streets with automatic weapons.’

  ‘It’s difficult,’ said Macmillan, ‘They have to believe they’re on the edge of disaster every time they’re called out.’

  ‘How about the car and the dead Russian?’

  ‘All gone, never happened, all a misunderstanding blown up by rumours, witnesses are famed for exaggeration; there will be no police or any kind of official confirmation to support what they think they saw happen.’

  ‘Fake news,’ said Steven.

  ‘Fake news,’ agreed Macmillan. ‘Time to rest your furrowed brow – no pun intended.’

  Every time a nurse came in to check his pulse and blood pressure Steven would ask for news of Jane Sherman, only to be told that she was still in surgery. This went on until early evening when he noticed a certain reluctance in the nurse who came in to change his bandage. Sensing bad news, he didn’t ask immediately; he gave the nurse time to prepare her delivery.

  ‘Your colleague is out of theatre and she is stable . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘They couldn’t save her leg, I’m sorry.’

  Steven nodded. He had the seen the awful mess her leg had been in, but felt there was no harm in wishing for a miracle.

  ‘Thanks,’ Steven murmured, ‘when do you think I’ll be able to see her?’

  ‘Mr Naismith – her surgeon – thinks it would be better to wait until the morning.

  Steven nodded again. ‘Okay.’

  Next morning, Steven went through the hospital discharge routines before being allowed to get dressed, wishing that Macmillan might have cut through that red tape as well, but he hadn’t. Forms had to be completed in duplicate and signed by people who weren’t there at the moment but should be around soon. A request to the pharmacy for a supply of painkillers for his headache was being delayed due to lack of staff and his suggestion that he could deal with that himself was met with a rules is rules reply and a bit of tongue biting on his part.

  The first thing Steven saw when he opened the door of the room the room was an armed policeman and it gave him a bad moment: he had overlooked the fact that there might be a police guard put on himself and Jane after what had happened. He had come so close to becoming a corpse riddled by ‘friendly fire’. He didn’t react outwardly, nor did he smile at the officer w
hen the man held out his shoulder holster with the Glock in place. ‘Sir John asked that this be returned to you, sir.’

  ‘Is it loaded?’

  ‘No, sir, but it’s been cleaned and oiled.’ The officer handed a separate supply of 9mm ammunition. ‘People usually like to do that themselves.’

  Steven nodded his agreement and backed into the room to do just that, looking out the window when he’d finished to consider the past twenty-four hours. He had just reloaded the gun that he’d used to kill someone yesterday, a day on which he himself had come so close to dying and, now . . . it was a brand-new day . . . and he was about to go see a colleague who had lost one of her legs. What would he say?

  He let out a slight involuntary sound when he suddenly thought about the Today programme that he and Tally listened to in the morning. There came a point in the proceedings – Thought for The Day – when someone, usually of a religious persuasion, was invited to contribute their wisdom. ‘Well, sunshine,’ he thought, ‘what would you make of that one?

  As he left the room, the officer said, ‘Harry Thomson.’

  Steven gave him an enquiring look.

  ‘The officer who shot you, he said to say sorry . . . he’s having counselling.’

  ‘Steven thought for a moment before saying, ‘Tell him . . . these things happen.’

  ‘Not long,’ said the nurse who held open the door to Jane Sherman’s room.’

  Steven entered and immediately stopped, unsure of what reaction to expect. Jane was lying with her cheek on the pillow, seemingly peaceful but looking very different to how he’d ever seen her in the past. She had always been the kind of person who gave away very little through facial expression – she didn’t smile much, nor did she tend to show annoyance; she had an invisible barrier between herself and the outside world. People had to wait for words to come, but that had all gone. She looked like the kind of person who was an open book, someone at peace with herself.