Miasma

by Ken McClure

  Steven kept the conversation confined to Jane’s condition and what the plans were for future treatment mainly because he didn’t want to say anything about any upcoming events at Porton. Jane had not mentioned anything about the person who had leaked information about their movements being identified and he didn’t ask. Six would deal with it and, in intelligence matters there were always things it was better not to know. He did learn however, that Jane was considering herself ‘lucky’ because the surgeons had told her that there had been enough healthy tissue left on her leg for them to make a decent stump; this would be important when it came to fitting a prosthesis. Small mercies, Steven thought.

  Steven left and made for the elevator, only to find that there was a sign on one of them saying it was being serviced – the company apologised for the inconvenience. The other one of the two seemed to be taking a long time on the top floor so he opted for the stairs. As he descended, he found himself humming Greensleeves.

  When he reached the ground floor he paused, thinking he had heard someone groaning.

  ‘Hello,’ he called out, ‘is anyone there?’ He heard another groan in reply and pinpointed it as coming from the steps leading down to the basement. Half way down he found enough light for him to see a man’s trousered leg sticking out from the turn at the foot of the flight. The angle of his shoe suggested he was lying on his face. ‘Hang on there, I’m coming,’ he called out.

  Steven turned the corner and found a policeman lying on his face, but his attention was immediately diverted by the silenced weapon pointing at his face. It was being held by the Russian heavy who had already tried to kill him, his face a picture of loathing.

  The Russian kept up a stream of invective as he gestured that Steven turn and face the wall. The anger in the man’s voice was puzzling and unusual in a professional, Steven thought, guessing that the man he’d shot in the Westminster Bridge attack might have been a friend of his.

  Steven’s pistol was removed and dropped, his cheek slammed hard against the wall and the silencer pushed into his throat. The Russian rant went on, giving Steven a few precious seconds to search desperately for anything in the situation he might use to his advantage. He knew two words of Russian and opted for one of them. ‘Niet, niet, niet,’ he said loudly as if in protest. The Russian stopped ranting, taken by surprise at Steven apparently speaking Russian: Steven could see that it would be much more satisfying for his attacker if he understood the abuse that was coming at him. The Russian appeared to ask a question.

  As his attacker waited for a reply, Steven, who by now had remembered that his would-be killer would still be suffering from injured ribs after being hit by the car he’d been driving at the time, slammed his right elbow back into the man’s ribs, causing him to let out a yelp of pain. Steven had been counting on the man feeling so much pain that his hands would automatically and immediately fly to the area of impact. They did and Steven played his trump card by slamming the point of his other elbow into the man’s ribs on the other side to be rewarded by welcome cracking sounds as several ribs gave way and he slumped to his knees. Steven took a step backwards and shot out the heel of his right foot in a vicious kick into his opponent’s already agonised chest, knowing that the sharp edges of his broken ribs would probably puncture his lungs and render them useless. They did.

  Steven collected both weapons from the floor, replacing the Glock in its holster and separating the silencer from the Russian’s gun to make it easier to carry. He examined the policeman, expecting the worst but finding that he was still breathing and had a strong pulse. He was unconscious from what looked like a single blunt wound applied to his head. He called the Sci-Med emergency number and gave details of what had happened, requesting medical assistance for the policeman and an intelligence service ‘clean-up’ for the Russian who had finally stopped making hissing and gurgling noises and was lying motionless, unseeing, with eyes wide open.

  ‘I’ll stay with the policeman until help comes. There is no need for an armed response unit, repeat, no need.’

  As he waited, Steven reflected on how close he had come to death. There was no way the Russian could have known he was coming to the hospital today, he had only decided that himself after breakfast. This meant that he must have waited here every day for several days, gambling that he would come back to see Jane again. Steven hadn’t considered that possibility and it had damned nearly cost him his life. It was only good fortune that the Russian had lost his cool while he had managed to keep his long enough to figure out a weakness in his opponent, one, which, in the end, had saved his life. He felt slightly ill . . . perhaps more than slightly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Macmillan asked when Steven appeared in the Home Office.

  Steven genuinely didn’t know what to say. He made a face implying resignation and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Right now, I wish I was Roger Moore playing Bond: I could make some pithy joke about killing somebody and move on with a raised eyebrow and a cheeky smile.’

  ‘This is real life,’ said Macmillan. ‘All that adrenalin has gone and you’re feeling like a burst balloon lying in the dirt. Are you injured?’

  Steven shook his head. ‘How’s the policeman?’

  ‘Concussion, he’ll be fine.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Actually, things might have been worse, but for MI5, they stopped three Russian tourists from entering the country at Heathrow; they had a tip-off they were hitmen coming here to carry out an assignment.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Possibly, you seem to be coming awfully close to finding out what they’re up to.’

  ‘Which brings us to Porton. How did you get on?’

  ‘They are keen to help in any way they can,’ said Macmillan, ‘but maybe you should take a few days off, clear your mind, get your breath back . . .’

  Steven shook his head, thinking that Macmillan meant well, but was a million miles wide of the mark. The last thing he needed was time to dwell on all that had happened. More than anything, he wanted this whole business to be over, he wanted the Russians to be exposed and brought to justice, he wanted Tally safe home and he wanted his life back. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, ‘the sooner we get down there the better.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Macmillan. ‘We are not taking any more chances with the opposition. I’ve arranged for a police protective convoy to take us down. Armed Response will be in one of the vehicles.’

  Subconsciously, Steven touched his head. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Time?’

  ‘I’ll set things up for a 3 p.m. pick-up and warn Porton. That’ll give us time for lunch at my club?’

  Steven didn’t quite know what to say, he found the distance between being seconds away from death at the hands of a Russian hit man and having lunch at a London gentlemen’s club . . . a bit of a surreal stretch. ‘Fine.’

  The police provided a four-vehicle convoy for the journey to Porton Down, Steven and Macmillan were ushered into the second vehicle – a black Range Rover, which Steven guessed might be armoured, judging by the way the doors swung: they were obviously very heavy.

  ‘You are probably thinking this is a bit over the top,’ said Macmillan.

  Steven put his head back and smiled before saying, ‘I’m thinking this is just fine.’ He relaxed and resorted to people-watching through the privacy glass before the population thinned out and they picked up speed.

  Three people at Porton had been detailed to greet them when they arrived, two were senior scientists and the third was the pleasant administrator who had acted as guide for Steven and Scott Jamieson when the Petrov flask was opened. With introductions complete, all of them moved into a room that seemed a little different from last time Steven thought, more board room than staff room.

  ‘Sorry again about the misunderstanding,’ said the scientist who had introduced herself as Dr Mary Penrose, ‘we weren’t aware of the background.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Macmillan. ‘It did seem rather an odd request to make, however,
my chief investigator, Dr Steven Dunbar, will tell you exactly why he made it.’

  Steven went through the step by step thinking and reasoning that had led to him coming to the conclusion he had. He was pleased to see the looks of dismay appearing on the faces of his audience.

  ‘My God,’ said Mary Penrose.

  ‘Wow,’ added her colleague, Dr Norman Burns.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ offered the former guide.

  ‘It’s still a theory,’ said Steven, ‘that’s why we’re here. We need proof.’

  ‘And proof positive will involve rupturing a few of these proposed killer capsules and releasing Marburg virus,’ said Mary Penrose, thinking and speaking at the same time.

  ‘Maybe an X-ray might be a good first step,’ Burns suggested.

  ‘I did wonder about that,’ said Steven, ‘but we can’t be sure how the pellets will respond to X-rays.’

  ‘I think we could set up a secure containment facility,’ said Mary Penrose. ‘If X-rays don’t rupture the capsules, they might well tell us if they are indeed more sophisticated objects than we thought and we can proceed from there. If we go directly to looking for a rupture frequency, we will definitely be releasing Marburg virus.’

  ‘Good point,’ Steven agreed. ‘I’m happy to go along with an X-ray.’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ said Burns getting up from his chair. ‘Won’t take long.’

  ‘Coffee?’ asked the guide.

  With Burns out of the room arranging for an X-ray of the capsules, the conversation turned to what it could all be about.

  ‘Why on Earth would anyone want to design something like this – if this is what they turn out to be?” asked Mary Penrose. ‘They’re useless as an offensive weapon.’

  ‘Whatever the reason,’ said Macmillan, ‘it wasn’t some kind of academic exercise. An awful lot of money has been poured into it, and some of the finest minds employed to create it.’

  ‘No disrespect, Doctor,’ said Mary Penrose addressing Steven, ‘but I find myself hoping that you are completely wrong.’

  ‘Frankly, Doctor, I hope exactly the same thing,’ Steven replied.

  ‘Amen to that,’ added Macmillan.

  ‘This is absolutely incredible,’ announced Norman Burns,’ on his return. ‘Look at them!’

  Several X-rays were slid around the table by Burns simulating the role of a casino dealer, all of them ruling out any possibility that Steven had been wrong. Vain hopes reluctantly gave way to grudging admiration as the intricate interior details of the capsules were revealed. Tiny chambers and even tinier motor technology were highlighted in hushed tones. Eventually, Mary Penrose, sounding sad and reluctant, said, ‘I suppose this means we move on to the final test of your theory, Dr Dunbar.’

  Steven didn’t reply and it was left to Norman Burns to break the ensuing silence. He said, ‘When I saw the X-rays, I took the liberty of alerting the bio-safety team we put on stand-by.’

  Mary Penrose nodded. ‘We had better brief them.’ She turned to Steven and asked, ‘Do we know anything about the wireless frequency we’re looking for?’

  Steven said not. ‘I’m supposing Tom Harland would have started his search at the extreme of the range and worked backwards until he found the matching frequency for the intercom he was fixing. He must have hit the trigger for the capsules by accident.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Burns. ‘but it would have to be an extreme frequency that no one would use otherwise the capsules would rupture all the time.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Mary Penrose, ‘we should disable all wireless intercoms in the building until we’ve carried out the experiment.’

  Nods of agreement were followed by Steven adding, ‘We have to make sure the bulk of the capsules are safely out of range too, otherwise there could be a massive release of Marburg virus.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Mary Penrose, ‘we can’t take any chances. I’ll have the original container secured and taken out of the building.’ She went on to outline the plan for the test. ‘I thought we’d use the high security lab that was used the first time. That way we can use the same wireless intercom that Tom Harland worked on. In the lab, six capsules will be placed in a glass container by our bio-safety crew and sealed. A small camera will be trained on it so we can see what happens on CCTV up in the viewing gallery and then the safety people will leave the lab – I don’t want them in there.’

  Norman Burns took over. ‘When we’re ready, an audio technician with us in the gallery will access the audio transmitter and start changing the frequency. If the capsules rupture, Dr Dunbar will be proved right and the experiment will be over. Our bio-safety people will enter the lab to carry out decontamination . . . and the day will be done, any comments?’

  There were none.

  ‘Let’s do it.’

  Mary Penrose nodded to the audio technician who threw a switch gently with thumb and forefinger and started turning a dial slowly. The four others in the gallery sat, eyes glued to the six little capsules on the TV screen, not daring to blink and suffering growing tightness of their stomach muscles.

  Steven was hyper aware of the seconds ticking by, knowing that the technician must have moved away from one extreme on the dial and was probably drifting through the more normal frequencies. He sneaked a look at his fingers, but couldn’t tell anything. He could sense however, that the others were beginning to move in their seats.

  The silence was broken by the audio technician saying, ‘That’s it all the way, do you want me to try again?’

  ‘What do you think, Steven?’ asked Mary Penrose.

  Steven wondered whether an end to formality had been prompted by the stress they had all been under or her taking pleasure in thinking he had been wrong. ‘Not sure,’ he replied, ‘give me a minute.’

  The others exchanged glances while Steven appeared to stare unseeingly at the window in front of him. At length, he said, ‘The people who made these capsules were brilliant; I’m sure they thought of everything, including the dangers of the capsules being triggered accidentally in a world full of wireless signals. When Tom Harland triggered them, he was holding a handful over a cut in his hand . . . and he was working with the transmitter, possibly in his other hand.’

  ‘You mean there was no glass container between the signal and the capsules?’ said Mary.

  ‘Exactly, for safety’s sake, the capsules would not only require a signal at a very unusual frequency . . . the signal would have to have a clear path.’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ said Macmillan.

  ‘Well, doing the experiment with the capsules in the open presents certain problems,’ said Burns, ‘we can’t release Marburg into the air so it will have to be carried out in an inoculation hood.’

  For Macmillan’s benefit, Burns explained that this was a glass-fronted chamber with an extractor fan attached to its roof to ensure that air could be drawn into the chamber but none could flow out. The extracted air would be filtered for decontamination. There were two armholes in the front to enable the operator to work with dangerous material inside, but, in this case, the plan would be to use one of the armholes to allow unimpeded sound access to the capsules.

  ‘I could rig up a frequency generator,’ suggested the audio-technician, ‘it would be more accurate than playing around with the lab intercom and we could identify the exact frequency.’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Mary, before turning to the others and saying, ‘All this is going to take a bit of time to set up. I suggest we go downstairs and wait somewhere a little more comfortable.’

  EIGHTEEN

  They rose and stretched their limbs. Steven looked down into the lab as his attention was caught by one of the bio-safety people coming in to disconnect the CCTV camera and deal with the glass capsule container. He was wearing boots and protective overalls, but had taken off his hood and visor. He looked up at the gallery, unable to communicate because there was no intercom; he was looking for guidance as to where the capsules should
be taken. He pointed at the glass container and Mary signed to him with five fingers, which Steven presumed was a lab number. The man held up his hand to confirm the direction.

  Unfortunately, he was holding a handful of cable in that hand and it caught the edge of the glass capsule container, knocking it clean off the bench. It hit the floor and smashed into several pieces, causing him to throw up his hands in dismay. He looked up at the gallery, making a gesture of apology and Mary held up hers, wearing an expression somewhere between resignation and reassurance. The man bent down to recover the capsules and start clearing up . . . before recoiling in horror and attempting to leap backwards – unsuccessfully as it turned out because of the boots he was wearing. He tumbled to the floor and was left sitting there, making signs repeatedly to indicate that things had burst open.

  ‘The capsules have ruptured!’ exclaimed Steven.

  Burns turned away immediately and smashed the glass over an alarm button on the wall, using the small hammer attached and filling the air with whooping sounds.

  ‘How in God’s name did that happen?’ demanded Mary to no one in particular.

  Steven looked to the audio technician who had turned pale and he stammered, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t switch it off . . . I’d finished going through the whole range of frequencies and nothing had happened so I thought it was all over and done with. I didn’t bother switching the transmitter off completely because I thought I would be re-setting the intercom: it would still be transmitting at the highest possible frequency in the range.’

  ‘We all thought it was over and done with,’ said Macmillan reassuringly to the man who was obviously stricken with guilt.

  ‘Can you get on with restoring the intercom?’ Mary asked. ‘I have to talk to the man down there.

  ‘Sure,’ said the technician, who immediately got to work, still muttering about how sorry he was. He had communications up and running within a matter of minutes.