by Alex Caan
Kate watched Dr Kapoor take her own reading. She showed it to Kate. It was the same.
‘I’ve been trying to talk away my headache. I hate taking tablets for minor complaints. There is a technique, if you chase the head pain you can alleviate it. Close your eyes, focus in on where the pain is, and then ask yourself again, where is the pain and follow it to that point again. You soon pick up the pain is in different places, and that way it diminishes and dissipates.’
‘As a doctor, I thought prescribing medicine would trump what sounds to me like nonsense . . .’
‘Quite the opposite, I see what dependence on drugs can do to people.’
‘And has it worked, Rani? Running around your brain, trying to pin down the pain? Has it disappeared?’
Dr Kapoor looked at the thermometer in her hand, her eyes glazing slightly as she wandered into her own subconscious. She walked over to the laptop, and dialled Professor Gerard.
‘Professor Gerard, I need to report abnormal body temperature and some base symptoms we are both having.’
Kate watched as Dr Kapoor’s mouth moved. She couldn’t take it in. Is this what was happening? Was she infected with something? She looked at the clock. They had about two hours left. Justin Hope’s voice was clear in her mind; she had a four hour window in total to make headway. After that, it was out of his hands. There would have to be a press briefing and Public Health England would start mobilising.
Kate couldn’t let that happen. She knew what people were like. Rioting, looting, the breakdown of morality. It would be survival of the fiercest, the cruellest, the most selfish. Cynicism worthy of Zain Harris, she thought.
‘Professor Gerard, any idea when the tox results are going to come back?’
‘We are testing them in-house, we have the labs and protective equipment set-up, so I am expecting an imminent result. Although, you are aware we are only testing for known pathogens? From what we can observe, the deceased isn’t displaying the signs which would directly link him to one type of pathogen or infection.’
‘You think it’s a mutation?’ said Dr Kapoor.
‘We can’t rule that possibility out. The skin lesions are very much what we would expect in an outbreak of a plague-like virus, and the internal haemorrhaging is consistent with Ebola symptoms. But the brain, what happened there, it’s very unusual.’
‘Professor, something has just occurred to me,’ said Dr Kapoor. ‘The mechanism for delivery of whatever it was. Since the organs were relatively untouched, I’m thinking the brain may have been the primary source of infection?’
There was quiet as the Professor mulled over Dr Kapoor’s words.
‘Let me broaden our search criteria, and start looking for other signs. It might be how this was delivered to the deceased, and might help to work up its life cycle.’
Professor Gerard dropped the call, and Dr Kapoor sat down on one of the chairs they had been provided with. Plastic hospital chairs that could easily be wiped down, and were an anathema to comfortable seating.
‘What exactly are we dealing with Rani?’ asked Kate.
‘I’m not sure. Potentially someone has managed to genetically modify known pathogens to create something new.’
‘How?’
‘These viruses all have genetic make-up. They can be manipulated to behave in certain ways if the right knowledge is applied to them.’
‘You mean someone can potentially make a synthetic version of these diseases if the right knowledge is applied to them. Ebola is an example of a retrovirus, made from ribonucleic acid, or RNA. It means they mutate very quickly. Smallpox has a DNA structure that can be altered.’
‘It’s not quite as simple as that, Kate. But yes, in a way. Someone with the right level of knowledge could potentially create a synthetic version of these diseases and, more than that, could potentially mutate the code to create something else.’
‘So someone has deliberately tampered with the genetic make-up of these Cat A viruses, and infected a top civil servant? That sounds like bioterrorism to me, doctor. Why would they infect him though?’
Dr Kapoor was stroking her hands, self-comforting, bringing herself to the point where she could say what she had to say next.
‘It seems too fantastical to be a coincidence. If what I am saying is true, this isn’t something you could manufacture in your bedroom or even most laboratories around the world. This would have to involve the best minds, plenty of resources and . . .’
Dr Kapoor bit her lip, a sign she was chastising herself before she voiced an opinion she knew she shouldn’t. Kate rubbed at her eyes. She had studied human behaviour, was au fait with the Reid technique, the FBI’s interrogation manual. It was difficult to just switch off and have a normal conversation sometimes, without looking for the silent behavioural clues people gave off.
‘You see, our deceased over there, he can’t be patient zero. He can’t possibly be the test case.’
‘They’ve tried this out on someone else?’
‘How else could they know what its effects might be?’
‘Yes, of course. And the planning, to wait until the night of the protest, to pick the Guido Fawkes mask and the cloak, the perfect disguise. Opportunity to both kill and dispose of the body right under the eyes of the law.’
‘Only, the Cat A viruses we are dealing with, the ones we know about, they don’t work instantaneously. Ebola takes two or three days to show up in terms of symptoms, and thereby in bloods.’
Kate processed this. They wouldn’t know for days if that’s what they had been infected with? Kate would just have to wait to see if she was infected?
‘Same for diseases like smallpox and plague. They incubate inside a host, and slowly they manifest and wreak havoc on the body. The savagery inside this victim was consistent with something that happened quickly. I couldn’t see any haemorrhages that had healed, no past bleeds. They were all happening fairly close together. Whatever took hold of him, it did so within hours and possibly even minutes. The skin, his immune response system, must have gone into a frenetic over drive, forcing antibodies to send warning signs to his brain and body.’
‘If the aim was to kill Julian Leakey, and at the moment I am working on the hypothesis that he was the sole intended victim, because not to is something I can’t yet grasp or comprehend, whoever was responsible would know that this would work. Julian would die within a specified time. So yes, I see, someone else must have been used as a guinea pig, as a test case. How could you mutate viruses like these that take days to work, and make them behave like this?’
Dr Kapoor ran her fingers over her head, and arched her elbows behind it. It was the pose people adopted when subconsciously they were sending the message that they were superior to their audience. In Dr Kapoor’s case it was probably because of the knowledge she had that Kate didn’t; nothing more malicious, Kate hoped.
‘You see, that’s my discussion with Professor Gerard. Viruses, particularly haemorrhaging viruses, take time to work. However, substances known as neurotoxins can have an effect in minutes at the right doses.’
‘What are neurotoxins?’
‘Neurotoxins are complicated.’
Kate looked at the clock, looked at Dr Kapoor.
‘I don’t have time for complicated, Rani. Please, give me enough details for it to make sense, but not so many that we lose precious time.’
‘Neurotoxins are complicated because we need them to function, so some are OK. We also use some to isolate and treat pain in the human body. For example cytotoxins are used regularly in hospitals to treat acute pain such as arthritis. They shut off certain parts of the brain, to prevent it from sending signals to other parts of the body. When you injure yourself, for example, let’s say your foot is cut off. Your foot doesn’t know how to react, except to bleed. It’s the nerves in your body that have the pain signal transmitted to them.’
She looked at Kate to make sure she was following.
‘I understand this, but
I’m guessing you’re about to tell me the other side. When neurotoxins are doing anything but help the human body?’ Kate was hoping to speed up Dr Kapoor’s explanation and alleviate the tension she was feeling.
‘Precisely. Botulinum is the most dangerous neurotoxin. It’s available as Botox of course, for beauty treatments. But botulinum is a horrendous poison. Tetraodontidae, we know them as puffer fish, their liver is home to another neurotoxin. In the right doses neurotoxins can have catastrophic effects. And that’s the essence. Give a neurotoxin in the right dose, and the effects can be immediate.’
‘What do they do? Could they ravage a body like our victim?’
‘Generally no. Ok, sorry, I know you want fast but I have to give you some detail. There’s what we call the blood brain barrier in all of us. The brain needs blood to function, but it also carries compounds in it that aren’t necessarily good for us. So there is a separation of brain and actual blood vessels. And that’s me telling you in layman’s terms here. What neurotoxins do is breach that barrier, and they get into the brain and the nerves and tissue inside it, and they break it down. They cause paralyses, organ failure and quite a painful death as your body closes down.’
‘Haemorrhaging?’
‘Not in the amounts we saw.’
Kate considered what she was hearing, and came to the conclusion before Dr Kapoor started to explain it to her.
‘I think someone has not only mutated these Cat A viruses, but they have worked out how to use a neurotoxin to both deliver and speed up their effects,’ said Dr Kapoor. ‘If this is the way I’m describing it, I think we might be looking at one of the most sophisticated and dangerous bioweapons in existence.’
‘And who would have access to such a thing?’ said Kate, thinking out loud.
‘Exactly.’
Kate sat down on one of the plastic chairs. So what had happened here? Had a foreign government just carried out an assassination on British soil? Or even worse, had our own government done the same? Why would they? What exactly did Julian Leakey know that made him so dangerous that he had to be eliminated like this?
She knew she shouldn’t, but she had made the assumption it was him. She needed Zain to get a confirmation quickly, so they could focus on finding out why he was targeted, before someone else ended up dead.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Zain watched as Anya Fox-Leakey drank her hot tea. She had insisted on black tea with lots of sugar. Zain had followed her into the kitchen-lounge, with its stunning views across the River Thames. Everything was white and silver chrome, neat and sanitised. More than that though, there was the feeling of space. It was probably the floor to ceiling windows that did that.
Zain had asked for coffee. He needed sleep and green pills, but a strong black coffee would do for now. His cup was resting on a side table, while Anya folded her legs underneath her and drank slowly.
‘What exactly did your husband do, Mrs Fox-Leakey?’
‘He was a civil servant.’
Zain bit the inside of his mouth. That much they knew.
‘On a day to day basis? What was he involved in? Did he ever discuss his work with you?’
‘Not really. He was responsible for administering the foreign-aid budgets that we agree to.’
‘We?’
‘We, as in the nation. Whoever the government of the day thinks is a worthy cause, or who may bring us some political kudos if we help out. You know, the lurid headlines that fill the tabloids, the undeserving foreigners who are stealing all our taxpayer’s money in aid. That’s what Julian did, he wrote those cheques.’
‘Had anyone threatened him because of his work?’
‘He’s not the face of DFID. There is a cabinet minister for that, for the hate mail and the threats. The civil servants get on with doing the real work.’
‘I thought you didn’t know much about his job?’
‘I know about the Civil Service though. My father is employed by the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.’
Zain wondered if it was the actual FCO or a cover for a role in MI6. He was always suspicious because of his own stint with GCHQ when he met members of the FCO who were spies.
‘Has your husband been concerned about anything of late in terms of his work? Any particular patterns of behaviour you notice might have changed? For example was he spending more time at his club than usual?’
‘No, not that I can think of.’
‘Forgive me, Mrs Fox-Leakey, but you seem to be taking the possible murder of your husband with a lot of calm. How was your marriage?’
Anya sipped her tea, and her eyes narrowed as she stared at Zain.
‘Hope, DS Harris.’
At first Zain thought she meant Justin Hope. Was she one of his pals? What the hell?
‘I’m not going to believe it’s Julian, not until I see the body myself. So there is hope that this is some sort of nightmare, mistaken identity, whatever you wish to call it. It is not my husband. And for the record, because I know this is going to be put on a record somewhere, we are very happily married. I’ve known Julian for over twenty-five years, since we met at Cambridge. And we’ve been married for coming up to fifteen years now. I love my husband and to think . . .’
Anya stopped, as the teacup in her hand started to clatter against the saucer it was in. Zain got up, and took it from her. Her hands were still shaking as she wrapped them around herself. He wondered if it was just a show for his benefit, or if it was all sinking in and she was finally realising the enormity of the situation.
Zain checked his phone, to give Anya time to compose herself. Still nothing from Kate. He was waiting for the 3D scan of the face that might belong to Julian Leakey. There was a message from Michelle; she had attached a new comms app that would hopefully be more secure. Zain downloaded it onto his phone.
‘Sorry, I just need to call my colleague,’ he said, stepping out of the lounge, onto a balcony that faced towards Westminster. He could see the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, the wind whipping his face and probably distorting his voice as he checked in with Michelle. He could make calls using the app, but until she gave him a unique user ID and password, he wouldn’t be able to send messages.
‘How are things?’ she asked.
‘Not good. The wife barely reacted. And she hasn’t told me anything I didn’t know already. Apparently they’re all happy clappy and no issues. Sort of people that make me sick.’
‘Don’t be jealous, or bitter.’
‘I’m clearly both, and I don’t give a shit to be honest. Anyway, I have no idea why anyone would want to kill her husband.’
‘You sure it’s him?’
‘Unless things are more twisted than we thought.’
‘Did you tell her how he died?’
‘No. PCC Hope wants details like that on lockdown, until the moratorium, or whatever bullshit he calls it, is over.’
‘We’ve got about two hours left before we lose our hold on this.’
‘And I think I’m done with Anya Fox-Leakey. I need to speak to his work colleagues. There has to be some dirt on him, otherwise why would anyone do this?’
Zain saw that a message had come through from Kate. It was the 3D remodelling of what they thought the face of the dead man would look like. Zain walked back into the lounge, where Anya was still seated, scrunched up tissues in her hands.
Zain showed her the picture he had just been sent.
‘Mrs Fox-Leakey, is that your husband?’
She looked at the picture, and then looked at Zain.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Zain raced through the streets of London, his blue lights flashing. He hated using them, but he had no choice now. Time was not on their side, and unless he got some answers quickly they would be forced to give up the investigation. He had no doubt MI5 and SO15 were itching to get their hands on this. Kate had called him as he was leaving the Leakey residence, letting him know her concerns about it being a possible bioweapon attack.
&
nbsp; ‘Fuck, OK, well that means MI5 are probably all over it already. Why are we being allowed to lead on this?’
‘PCC Hope asked.’
‘Simple as that? But that’s mental! I still don’t get how that man commands so much power.’
‘We don’t have long. I think they will keep us as the face of this investigation, no matter what. MI5 are hardly going to start broadcasting their involvement or doing press conferences with their agents. Anyway, I thought with your history you might relish the thought of working alongside your former colleagues?’
‘I’m not being someone’s bitch again, pardon my phraseology, boss. We lead on this, that’s all there is to it. And since when did you seek permission from anyone, boss?’
*
The DFID offices were in Whitehall, part of the beating heart of the nation’s governance. The PCC headquarters weren’t too far from them, and, despite itching for a change of clothes and a shower, Zain didn’t have the time to stop and check in. He drove straight there, parking in Whitehall, displaying his PCC permit in the window in case anyone tried to tow him or fine him.
The DFID offices were built in the same limestone as the other Whitehall buildings, grey yellow, with windows covered by thick net curtains. Zain had to wait at the entrance while security dialled Julian Leakey’s office. It took a good ten minutes before anyone came down to see him, another ten minutes from the window PCC Hope had given them. Zain was pacing, checking his phone, with security looking at him surreptitiously. He’d be clocking himself as well if he were one of them.
The man that came to find him was Simon Wells, who introduced himself as Julian Leakey’s executive assistant. He was in his mid twenties probably, blond with light facial hair. He was dressed in trousers and a jumper. All a bit casual for the Civil Service, thought Zain.
‘Apologies for keeping you. Mr Leakey isn’t here yet, but I’m sure he would be happy to assist with any police business, Detective. If you follow me you can wait for him upstairs?’