The Aurora Conspiracies- Volume One

by Sam Nash

  “I have an idea.” Mary said, leaning over and grasping Connie’s hands in her own. “Will you permit me to enter your thoughts and dig around until I find the name of the company on the vans?”

  Connie’s expression transformed from docile and compliant to panic. “What would that achieve?”

  Mary did not anticipate such resistance. “If we can give the police or Yelena a company name, she may be able to track down an address for Alexi.”

  Connie shrugged Mary’s hands off and leaned away from her, clutching her elbows defiantly. “I think it is safe to assume that Alexi has tampered with the filtration system. I don’t think that tinkering inside my mind would yield any fresh or useful information.”

  “But isn’t worth a try?”

  “Alexi is not stupid. You can guarantee that he would have covered his tracks. Stay out of my head, Mary.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Connie’s snippy tone, the look of terror and the closed body language, startled Mary. What had prompted such a guarded response? What was she hiding?

  The crackles on the police radios turned into a loud and echoing woman’s voice, distorted by the low-tech transmission. The device bleeped a second time and the constable confirmed that he understood the instruction, which was more than Mary had.

  “They are waiting for us at the top of the steps. You need to come with us now, ma’am.” The older constable hooked his hand beneath Mary’s arm, pulling her up from the seat and almost dragging her to the foot of the steps. Connie sat for a moment longer, weighing her options, before scurrying along after them.

  “Who exactly is waiting for us?” A sudden moment of fear gripped her, manifesting in a dragging of her feet and a flush of heat undulating through her torso. Perhaps the Defence Minister had over-ridden Yelena’s orders. Were his men waiting at the top of these concrete steps?

  “All I know is that I am to hand you into the custody of agents on route from Vauxhall Bridge, ma’am.”

  By the fourth tread in the stairs, Mary looked up to see Yelena striking a pose, hip jutted to one side, a silken clad appendage flung out to the other. Every category of emotion tangled into a flux of confusion. Mary had never been so relieved to see her, yet she found her stomach muscles tensing with distrust. How could she relate to someone who had exhibited so many different faces?

  Mary took the remaining steps calmly, using the time to decipher her feelings towards a once admired friend and confidant. Yelena’s immovable stance mirrored her expression. This was her business face. A cool, calculated agent of twenty or more years. Behind her, a bulky man, who would look more at home in a boxing gym, and Jasper Flynn, Yelena’s technical specialist.

  “It is a good job that Flynn located you, is it not?” Yelena attempted a grin, but it presented as scorn.

  Mary frowned. All the replies to that statement sounded glib inside her head. Why hadn’t she taken a taxi from Connie’s house directly to the airport? All this could have been avoided if she had not chosen to conserve her funds and taken the tube. She could be thirty-five thousand feet in the air by now. Mary gave Yelena a tight-lipped smile in response.

  When Mary’s entourage reached the top of the stairs, the policemen were thanked and re-directed to crowd control. In a strange way, Mary felt their loss. Those men were the first to protect her without any motives of their own. Traditional, gallant British bobbies, maintaining peace and order through the strength of their wits alone. No guns, tasers or water jets, just the simple power of reason.

  “Come, we will retreat to the MoD building opposite Horse Guards Parade. It’s not far, but it is safer to drive there. Our car is waiting.” Yelena hurried towards the kerbside. She glanced back to Connie. “You are free to leave, Ms Cadot. I don’t think that British Intelligence requires your services.”

  Before Connie could complain, Mary piped up. “We can’t leave. We need to tell the quarantine team that it is not a virus. Isolating people will just make them drink whatever water is available, compounding the problem.”

  Yelena frowned. “I don’t understand. If it is not a virus, then what ails them?”

  Mary took a breath, and then said, “Connie warned you that she saw Alexi leaving an ancillary building at Parliament. We assumed incorrectly that he was planting a bomb. What if he tampered with their new water filtration system instead?”

  Yelena’s cold stare broke with a slow blink. Her way of decelerating the conversation, allowing her time to assimilate the new data while maintaining the upper hand. “If you are suggesting that Alexi removed the filters, those inside would receive the same dose as everyone else. It would not poison them.”

  “Alexi appears to have unlimited resources and connections in high places.” Mary paused to emphasise her awareness of Yelena’s ties to the terrorist. “Is it possible that he got hold of a concentrated form of the chemical? It was manufactured and disseminated by a private company. I dare say security at Phlaxo is not as tight as the MoD.”

  Was that a blush spreading across Yelena’s cheeks? Had Mary stumbled upon information that the great MI6 agent had failed to acquire, even with one silken foot in both camps? Mary suppressed a self-congratulatory grin. It was clear that all the manipulations and behind the scenes puppetry was no match for the rogue soviet spy. Alexi had severed his ties with her.

  “Look…” Mary persisted. “The longer you take to act, the more people will suffer. You don’t need me to handle this situation. I’ll catch a cab, while you call the Defence Secretary to clear this matter up.”

  Hot-footed, Yelena turned on Mary snarling. “And how long do you think you would survive without Flynn and I to watch over you? To protect you from the team sent to neutralise the problem? No, you stay with us. You were the cause of this whole debacle, you have to be part of the solution.”

  Mary listened to the promises of protection but heard only threats. Yelena’s solution included offering her up as a sacrificial lamb. A future in the dark and grim world of counter-intelligence, locked in an underground bunker, at the heart of a little-known government base in Buckinghamshire.

  Slamming the car door closed, Yelena growled her orders to her team. The henchman scuttled ahead of them, clearing a path through the masses to the security gate of Westminster Palace compound. Flynn brought up the rear, herding Connie and Mary along with outstretched arms.

  Yelena glanced back at Flynn. “Get me a secure line to Porton Down.” She cut a swathe through the crowds in her noisy heels, her copper bob wafting with each step. Connie scampered along with renewed vigour, her journalistic imperative driving her to the centre of a juicy story.

  At the gate, Flynn produced his identification and waved the group through the barrier and into the grounds of the Houses of Parliament. They overtook the queue of ambulances and drivers waiting for instructions and then past a series of large trucks. Yelena poked her head through the open side door of the first and peered around. It was empty, as was the second. As they approached the inflatable quarantine tent, three figures in hazard suits ran to intercept them, yelling for them to keep back.

  Yelena produced her credentials and delivered a few well-worn expletives for their efforts. As they backed off, Yelena drew close to the transparent plastic window of the tent, shouting; “Hey you! Get me the person in charge.” She pressed her ID to the window and waited for an indication of compliance.

  Flynn tapped her on the shoulder. “I have the project manager at Porton Down for you now, ma’am.”

  Yelena snatched the mobile telephone from Flynn. “Who am I talking to?”

  Mary could not hear the response, but she could guess that the person on the other end was the brain-child of the water suppressant at GCHQ Porton Down, the site of all chemical and biological weapons research in Britain. Yelena wandered away, encircling a grassy patch, out of earshot.

  Mary watched the agent at work, ranting on the phone one minute and issuing orders the next, Yelena’s formidable presence girding the troops into
action. Drawing close to the inflatable window, Mary saw the podded gurneys lined up inside, each one supporting the lives of a stricken staffer. Their leathery faces covered with oxygen masks, tubes carrying essential fluids jabbed into their arms. Some were writhing in agony, crying out for their loved ones, while others retched into sealable bags.

  A massive man in an even larger hazard suit loomed in front of her. “I’m the person in charge. What do you want?” He shouted, through the many layers of polythene. Mary signalled to Yelena, then stepped back from the window.

  Yelena flashed her ID once more, and then tried to conduct a three-way conversation, at volume, between the Porton Down expert on the telephone and the giant in the Hazard suit. Connie tapped an icon on her smart phone, establishing a clear recording of their shouted communications.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous. Come out here and speak to this man on the phone immediately.” Yelena screeched, her implacable calm degenerating every second.

  “Cant. I’d need a chemical shower to decontaminate the suit before I can leave the tent.”

  “Then do it quickly, doctor. Lives are at stake and you are wasting precious time.” Yelena turned and snatched the phone from Connie and then passed it to Flynn. “Wipe whatever she has on there, Kit-kat, and escort Ms Cadot out of the compound.”

  Mary watched Yelena stride off around the rear side of the marquee to wait at the exit from the decontamination truck, before peering at Flynn. “Kit-kat?”

  Flynn held up his hand, the smallest finger conspicuous by its absence. “A nickname from my weapons training days. I only have four fingers.” Yelena’s henchman snickered audibly. It was still the subject of mirth for some.

  With Yelena occupied and out of sight, Mary sidled towards the security gate behind Connie and Flynn. As she drew close, journalists hollered for her attention, shouting her name through the railings and offering to pay for an exclusive interview.

  The noise alerted Yelena’s henchman. “Don’t make me come after you.” His voice just above a growl and with a decisive hand gesture, he beckoned her to his side. With reluctance, she shuffled back down the slip road. Mary waved at Connie, tracking her progress through the mob of press. She spotted a familiar gentleman, loitering at the railings. His stiff-spine, the three-piece suit, starched collar and narrow pinstripes, all confirming her recognition. The thin man approached Connie, shook her hand in a formal greeting, before turning and dissolving into the cluster of journalists and pilgrims. Mary observed Connie slowly open her right hand, looking down to analyse the contents. Her head jerked upwards, straining to see the mysterious delivery man. What did he pass to Connie? Does he know her as well as Grampy? Mary’s thoughts were interrupted by Flynn, calling her to heel like a dog.

  “Watch yourself, Kitkat, or you’ll find yourself singed and smelling of burned bacon.” Mary had not forgotten his involvement in the Alaskan affair, his staunch allegiance to the Secretary for Defence that led to so many deaths. Flynn may be an expert in technological espionage, but his loyalties were at best, suspect. She stomped down the service road towards the decontamination tent, a permanent glower fixed across her face. If she had to be a part of this lethal team, she was determined not to be subordinate to the likes of him.

  Doors to Parliament swung open once more, allowing another six podded gurneys to leave the building and swell the numbers of gravely ill inside the marquee. Edging closer, Mary scanned the pods as they passed by. Those over-sized pearls spattered with blood and regurgitated material, the Chanel suit and thick grey cropped hairstyle framing her bronzed face. The Prime Minister was among the most serious casualties.

  A confluence of feelings clashed inside Mary’s mind. An understandable mixture of empathy and spite, for the woman who publicly decried her as mentally unstable. The one who informed the nation that Mary should be pitied for her delusions. Did she deserve it? Perhaps, perhaps not.

  The fragility of the most powerful woman in Britain was laid bare for all to see. Telescopic lenses teetered on long tripods, capturing blurry images as the decontamination team wheeled her into the tent. Mary could just imagine the headlines proliferating online, speculating as to the condition that beleaguered the nations politicians.

  Flynn scowled at Mary. “You’d better be right about this.”

  “Just look up medical conditions that have a bronzing of the skin as a symptom. This is not a disease, they have been poisoned.”

  Flynn typed one handed into the floating keyboard on his tablet screen. Lists of possible diagnoses juddered into place from the search. “Adrenal hyperplasia, biliary cirrhosis, chronic renal failure, haemochromatosis and malnutrition. What’s haemochromatosis?”

  “Iron overload. I’m willing to bet that the water suppressant has a predominantly ferrous base.” The irony was not lost on her. The same element used to treat Parth’s condition, albeit in a carefully controlled dose, was now causing untold damage in thousands of others.

  “But we need iron in our bodies, don’t we? All those adverts promoting spinach and red meats as a source of iron, the supplements industry and such. They even put iron filings into cornflakes.”

  “We only require iron in tiny amounts. Imagine if you are already eating a healthy diet, rich in vitamins and minerals, then you add in supplements, just in case. On top of that, you drink tap water because the government assure you that it is safe. It doesn’t take much to tip you over the limit into toxic overload.”

  “We need to tell Yelena…” Flynn hurried to the top edge of the marquee just as Yelena turned the corner.

  “The man at Porton Down is instructing the team here on how to test for…”

  “Iron concentration.” Flynn said, back tracking his steps.

  “How did you…?”

  “Mary worked it out from the colour changes of the skin.”

  Yelena approached Mary. The deep-set wrinkles in her brow indicated her suspicion. “You have been using your abilities again, snooping on my telephone conversations?”

  “No, I didn’t need to. I considered the impact of metal contaminants in my epigenetics thesis. Some of my research led me to the effects on the body. Excessive iron can lead to Haemosiderosis, or an accumulation of iron in organs, tissues and glands. I suspect that the intention was to allow a build-up in the pineal gland, thus reducing its function. The bronzing of skin occurs when the pancreas is damaged.”

  “Is there a cure, can the effects be reversed?” Yelena said, her suspicion shifting to concern.

  “For those with the strongest health, yes. I think there is a drug that acts as chelating agent.” Mary caught signs of their incomprehension and elucidated. “A compound that clumps the iron together allowing it to be excreted. Before that, I believe blood-letting was the favoured method.”

  Spurred into action, Yelena yelled at Flynn to contact St Thomas’ Hospital on the other side of Westminster Bridge and demand that they send a team and supplies of the drug. Next, she strutted around the tent once more, with Mary trailing after her.

  “We need to get this ridiculous quarantine lifted.” Yelena grumbled, trying to gain access to the marquee through the decontamination truck exit. Climbing the steps, she hammered on the door. “Let me in. We have a working theory and a potential solution. This is NOT a virus. Do you hear me?”

  Eventually, the door swung open and the giant in charge allowed Mary and Yelena to enter. “Tests were positive. A rudimentary assessment suggests that the cause is an iron contamination.” He sat against a cramped desk, squinting at a small tube of brown sludge. “Frankly, I am shocked that they did not notice the difference. At this strength, there would have been quite a bitter metallic after taste.”

  “You have no idea how strong they brew the coffee at Westminster. I swear that sometimes it requires chewing.” Yelena added, with a dash of sarcasm.

  “A couple more tests, to fully confirm the root cause, and then I can authorise a lifting of the quarantine.”

  “Good…ah…no, wa
it.” Yelena said, pondering the ramifications. “Leave it in place. We cannot have the journalists picking up on the water issues. If that leaks out, there will be national outrage. The official story needs to be contained.” Yelena pressed an earbud device, issuing orders to Flynn outside the truck in little more than a mumble.

  Mary’s shoulders sagged. Of course, the cabinet ministers would be protected from prosecution. Why blame the guilty when you can spin the story to deflect attention? Wretched and despondent, Mary left Yelena and the giant to conjure a convincing tale to tell and descended the truck steps outside.

  Flynn was wandering about the service road, his tablet perched on one outstretched hand, his mobile phone glued to his head with the other. From his tone, and the frequency with which he terminated calls with a single “Fuck!”, Mary deduced that he was having troubles securing the cure.

  Scanning the press pack clinging to the railings on the outside of the security gate, Mary could see no sign of Connie. Whatever the Thin Man had given her, had sent her scampering away from the scene of an enormous story.

  Yelena’s henchman loomed into view, reminding her of the impossibility of escape. Hemmed in on all sides, Mary sat on the truck steps, balancing her head in her hands.

  “Dan, can you hear me?” Her internal intercom to her brother as automatic as speaking.

  “Hey Mary, how’s tricks?” Came his expedited reply.

  “Not good. How’s your mum?”

  “She’s on the mend, finally. They injected her with some drug, Deferox…something, every few hours and that seems to be helping. What’s happening your end?”

  “Connie has disappeared, the Prime Minister and a whole lot of other people have the same symptoms as your mum, and I am trapped in the grounds of Parliament with my very own minder.”

  “At least they cannot blame all this on you. This is entirely their own doing. Hang in there, little sister. You may yet triumph.”