Outbreak, p.5
Outbreak, page 5
‘Where are you?’
‘Right behind you.’
Luke turned to see a man standing beside the sweet counter waving at him rather obviously, his eyes smiling above his face-mask. He was tall, broad-shouldered and wearing a thick polar jacket. Yet there was something cautious, almost hesitant, about the way he carried himself. Luke took his time before wandering over to join him, then avoided eye contact while pretending to choose a bag of sweets from the display. Basic tradecraft. Even here, you never knew who might be watching.
‘Good to meet you, Kristian,’ he said, absently examining a packet of jelly babies and studying the price tag. ‘So, what do we have on this Patient Zero?’
‘Yevgeny Vasiliev?’ the Scandinavian replied, keeping his voice low as he looked around him. No one was paying them any attention. ‘So very little. But I know a man who may tell us more.’
‘Can we talk to him?’
‘Yes … but he lives out of town.’
‘Okay. Let’s call him.’
Kristian laughed. ‘He has no phone,’ he explained. ‘We must pay him a visit.’
‘Wait,’ said Luke, still holding the unwanted packet of jelly babies, ‘so this guy is your Barentsburg source, yet he doesn’t even own a phone?’
Kristian spread his hands and grinned. ‘This is the Arctic, my friend. People talk to each other up here, face to face. There is not much else to do, apart from hunting and fishing. So …’ Kristian stared out of the window and frowned. It was all still happening out there with the police and the medics. It had started to snow again. ‘I have requested transport from my service,’ Kristian said, with a sigh, ‘so now we must wait until it arrives.’
Luke put a hand inside the breast pocket of his jacket. Yes. It was still there. This wasn’t exactly going to be social distancing, but he would have to take his chance. ‘Don’t worry about transport,’ Luke told him, tossing Kristian the ignition key to the snowmobile. ‘You can drive because you know the way. I’ll jump on the back.’
15
Svalbard
Tuesday, 8 March, 1213hrs GMT, 1313hrs local
IT HAD TO be said that Kristian Berge was not a good driver. In fact, Luke concluded fairly quickly, this Norwegian spy was quite hopeless at it. ‘Mate,’ he called to him, just after the Norwegian had managed to steer them straight into the side of a snowdrift, ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t I drive and you can shout directions?’ It wasn’t a question, Luke was already back on the snowmobile and taking control of the steering handles.
‘Sorry.’ Kristian shrugged. ‘I am from Bergen on the coast. It rains more than it snows there.’
Luke pulled his facemask back up over the bridge of his nose, adjusted his goggles, wiping the fresh snowflakes off them with his gloves as he did so, then gunned the engine. They set off at speed, gliding smoothly over the fresh snow with Kristian tapping his shoulder to go left or right. Luke was concentrating on keeping them upright, reading the contours of the undulating snowscape beneath the snowmobile’s tracks as he drove and making minute adjustments. But he was also taking in the stark beauty of the place, the archipelago historically known as Spitsbergen, a wild, frozen corner of the world, further north than most people will ever travel in their lifetime. ‘A pristine environment’ was how the Norwegians had described it to him. ‘We take nothing away from it,’ Stian the tracker had said, ‘and we leave nothing behind.’ Well, it didn’t feel pristine any more, not now it was home to this invisible pathogen.
Bare, bleak mountainsides rose up on either side of them, encrusted with ice but devoid of life. Once, for a few brief seconds, they caught sight of a herd of indigenous reindeer, with their peculiar, stunted antlers, before they vanished over a ridge. Other than that, they didn’t see a living soul. Tucked inside his breast pocket and studied on the flight over, Luke’s map was marked with the names of long-dead figures from Nordic history. He remembered one in particular: the evocative-sounding ‘King Oskar the Second’. But now the snow was coming in harder, not yet a white-out but enough to slow their speed. They had been travelling for just over forty minutes when the house appeared out of nowhere, looming ahead in a swirl of snowflakes. It was small and isolated, built beside a frozen lake. It had red-painted wooden sides and a chimney from which a coil of smoke curled into the leaden sky. Their arrival set off a spate of raucous barking from the Greenland husky tethered to a fence post, followed by a shout of command from inside. Then the front door opened and a slim, sprightly old man stepped out to meet them.
‘This is Ivan,’ Kristian introduced them. ‘He was a friend of my father’s, before he moved to Bergen.’
Close-cropped steel-grey hair, tanned, weather-beaten face, a thick, bristly red check shirt, leather trousers held up with braces. Luke put him at a fit sixty.
‘His father is from Russia, his mother is from Norway,’ Kristian continued, shaking the snow off his jacket and pulling his mask down below his chin.
‘It’s true,’ said Ivan, speaking for the first time. ‘I am – how you say? – a mongrel! Come, please, come inside.’
Beside a crackling log fire, cradling a glass of fiery, homemade akvavit spirit, Luke felt himself involuntarily relaxing. It was always like this when you came into the warm from the bleak outside: the body just gives a big aah and starts to unwind. Well, he wasn’t going to let that happen. He was on a mission and he needed to stay focused. The pleasantries over, it was time to ask questions.
‘Has anything changed here, in Barentsburg, in the last few weeks?’ he began. ‘Have you noticed anything different, anything unusual?’
‘Sure,’ Ivan replied, and Luke leaned closer, eager to catch every word. ‘The price of beer has gone up again!’
Both Ivan and Kristian collapsed into laughter. For fuck’s sake, Luke thought, is this Nordic humour? But he laughed along with them, forcing himself out of politeness.
‘Sorry, what I meant was,’ Luke continued, when they had all got over the joke, ‘have you come across anyone you didn’t recognize in recent days? Seen any activity that made you think, Aha, that’s strange?’
‘Barentsburg is a small place,’ Kristian interjected, answering for him. ‘It’s just a mining colony, really. Less than five hundred people. So I think Ivan would have told us by now if—’
‘Yes.’ Ivan cut him short, his lean face now suddenly serious. ‘As it happens, I have.’
Luke put down his half-finished glass of akvavit. They were past jokes now.
‘It was two, maybe three weeks ago,’ Ivan continued. ‘I was on my rounds on my snowmobile to the east of here.’ He gestured out of the window, where the snow was whipping against the glass pane. ‘You know, checking my traps, monitoring the reindeer, like I always do. Then I noticed that someone had moved into Karlsen’s house, and I thought, That’s strange, because the old bastard died two years ago and he still owes me money.’
‘When you say “moved in”,’ Luke asked, frowning, ‘how do you mean, exactly?’
‘Moving in! Isn’t that what you say in English? Yes, they had packing cases, lots of them, and rolls of plastic. So I drove up to the door. There was this guy standing there, and I said, “Hello, I’m Ivan. I’m kind of like your neighbour, you know?” But this guy, he wasn’t from here, he wasn’t even from Norway. I spoke to him in Russian, he answered me, and he was quite rude actually.’
‘What did he say?’ Kristian this time. Luke noticed he had downed his shot in one.
‘He told me to mind my own business,’ Ivan replied. ‘He said that they had come here for the nature, for the peace and quiet, and they did not wish to be disturbed.’
‘Didn’t that … um,’ Luke said, trying not to sound rude himself, ‘didn’t that sound a little suspicious? Did you report this to anyone?’
Ivan stretched out his lean frame on the chair and folded his arms behind his head before answering. ‘Please understand, Lou—’
‘Luke.’ Immediately he wished he hadn’t said that, because this man was only trying to be helpful. Luke reminded himself that he had just flown through the night from London, driven halfway across Svalbard and watched a man bleed out in front of him. ‘Sorry, I interrupted you,’ he said.
‘Please understand, Luke, that this is Svalbard. If you’re not here for coal or fishing, you’re here for the nature. It’s all we have, mister. So, no, I didn’t report it.’ Ivan turned to Kristian and said something in Norwegian. Luke watched the two men smiling and sharing a joke before Kristian turned to translate it for his benefit.
‘He says the local police chief is a piss-head who couldn’t care less anyway.’
Luke could feel his impatience getting the better of him. It would soon be dark, there was work to be done and time was running out. He rose to his feet, his glass of akvavit left unfinished on the table. ‘So,’ he announced, with some finality, ‘I think we need to check out this Karlsen’s house while there’s still light. Ivan, are you able to take us there?’
‘What, now?’ Ivan shook his head. ‘Sorry, mister. I have Ilse coming round with that sick puppy of hers. I said I’d take a look at him for her. But, hey, you can find it easily enough. I’ll give Kristian the directions.’ He walked over to the window and shook his head. ‘But that’s quite a snowstorm building out there, just like the one we had yesterday. You sure you want to go ahead in this?’
Luke looked at Kristian, his partner from the Norwegian Intelligence Service, and saw the dubious look on his face. ‘Absolutely,’ said Luke. ‘We’re doing this.’
16
High Security Infectious Diseases Unit,
Royal Free Hospital, Hampstead
Tuesday, 8 March, 1440hrs GMT
TWO POLICE OUTRIDERS on motorbikes led the convoy of vehicles racing the seventy miles from RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire. They were heading for one of several destinations where patients with a suspected highly dangerous infection were taken. Coming off the A406 at Brent Cross in north London, then turning sharply right into Hendon Way, blue lights flashing, the convoy sped down Finchley Road until it braked to a stop outside a large, eye-wateringly ugly, multi-storey concrete building.
Sandwiched between London Zoo and Hampstead Heath, the Royal Free Hospital has a venerable past. It was awarded its royal title in 1837, the year Queen Victoria ascended the throne, in recognition of all the work it had done with cholera patients. Today it plays a no less vital role. Until Covid-19 came along it was, along with the Royal Victoria High Security Infectious Diseases Unit in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, one of only two hospitals in Britain capable of handling in isolation a patient infected with a deadly pathogen. A few lessons have been learned since then. Back in 2006 the former Russian KGB officer and defector Alexander Litvinenko would have been taken there if only they had known what was wrong with him from the start. By the time the nuclear scientists at Aldermaston’s Atomic Weapons Establishment had detected the lethally high levels of radioactive Polonium-210 poison in his urine it was already too late to save him. He died three miles to the south, at University College London Hospital.
If Dr Sheila Mackenzie had been awake and conscious she might have been relieved to see she was being taken straight to a hospital and not, as she had feared, to the experimental labs at Porton Down. But inside the specially adapted ambulance she lay in a medically induced coma, seeing and hearing nothing. Her elaborate transfer from plane to ambulance at Brize Norton had had to be explained away to those watching on the base as ‘a snap CBRN exercise’, one of many held periodically around the country to test Britain’s response to a chemical, biological, radiological or nuclear incident. Which was exactly what this was. Since the advent of Covid-19 the sight of medics in all-encompassing PPE gear raised fewer eyebrows than it used to, but still, the same cover story was given now as Dr Mackenzie was rushed through a side door next to A & E, along a corridor, into a lift and finally up into the isolation chamber. Nurses, doctors and several microbiologists stood at a state of alert, wearing full PPE, ready to receive the patient. As the gurney was brought in, with painstaking care, one of them stepped forward.
‘Bring her round,’ he ordered. ‘We need her awake.’
When Sheila Mackenzie opened her eyes, she initially thought she was still in a dream – or, rather, a nightmare. The mask that had been placed on her face in Svalbard had been removed, but she was still restrained on her bed, like a violent prisoner. She could see there were tubes coming out of her arms, an ECG monitor on her chest, and the glassy, unblinking eye of a closed-circuit camera watching her from directly above the bed. She was in an isolation tent, that much she could see, but there appeared to be no one else around. And something else was absent too: the terrible headache that had been building before they loaded her on to the plane in Svalbard and put her to sleep. That at least had subsided. Then a disembodied voice spoke to her and she struggled to tell where it was coming from.
‘Good afternoon, Dr Mackenzie … Please nod your head if you can hear me.’
She nodded.
‘Good. So you will know by now that you have unfortunately been infected with an unidentified pathogen. As a doctor yourself you will appreciate that we urgently need to establish what that is. That’s why in the next few minutes we will need to take live samples from you and expedite them over to Porton Down for diagnostics. In the meantime, until we know its precise structure, we have begun treating you with a broad-spectrum antibiotic.’
Sheila Mackenzie listened to this while a dozen thoughts went through her head. Live samples? This was every bit as bad as she’d feared. What would they show? What were her chances now?
And what about Coppinger and Skeet? Where were they? Had anyone told her family she was here? But all these questions went unanswered, because right now she felt too weak to speak.
‘You’re probably wondering where you are,’ the voice went on. ‘You’re at the Royal Free in London. I want to assure you that you will be given the best possible treatment while we conduct the necessary tests.’
The voice ended abruptly. No goodbyes, no get-well-soons. Silence filled the isolation tent. Then Sheila Mackenzie felt something on her upper lip, something warm and wet, trickling down to her lips. She flicked out her tongue and tasted it. It was metallic, like licking the back of a spoon, and in her groggy state it took her a few seconds to realize it was blood. Her own blood. It was coming from both her nostrils.
17
Svalbard
Tuesday, 8 March, 1444hrs GMT, 1544hrs local
THEY STOOD OUTSIDE the front door of Ivan’s house as the wind snatched at their clothes and the argument blew back and forth between them.
‘This,’ pleaded Kristian, ‘is sheer madness!’ He gestured up at the darkening sky and the snow that fell from it, sticking to their eyelids and lips as they spoke. ‘It is better by far we call it in for tomorrow. Then we can go into the house with a full team. I will file my report to Oslo and they can make the arrangements. Yes,’ he nodded at the logic of his idea, ‘this is best.’ He started to pull out his mobile phone, but Luke reached out and gently but firmly restrained him.
‘Look, Kristian,’ he reasoned, ‘in normal times I’d agree with you. And this is your territory, I respect that. But we don’t have time to piss around like this. The trail is already going cold. This time tomorrow there could be journalists crawling all over this island. And we both know somebody’s been doing something very, very bad up here. Now it’s my job – and yours – to find out what the hell is going on and who’s behind this outbreak. Can we agree on that?’
From inside the house came the noise of a toilet flushing and for a moment neither spoke. He looked at Kristian’s pale, furrowed features and he could see the doubt written all over them.
‘All right, look,’ said Luke, in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone, ‘if you don’t fancy coming with me to check out the house, that’s okay. I’ll get the directions myself, then find my own way there. But don’t blame me if MI6 end up taking the credit for solving this and your NIS service doesn’t even get a mention …’
They rode straight into the wind, Luke in front, Kristian clinging on behind, with the snowmobile’s 800cc engine whining in protest as they lurched over the crests and unseen bumps. If the going had been hard before, it was worse now. As the wind-borne snow stung their cheeks, even Luke began to wonder if he had made the right decision. Svalbard felt right now like the remotest place on Earth, and he had known some pretty inhospitable corners of the planet. Hell, at least on the Norwegian mainland they had trees …
Once again, the house they sought appeared to rear out of the gloom right at the last minute so that Luke had to brake quite suddenly, causing his passenger to bump up hard against him. They parked up in a spot behind a slight rise and just out of the wind, then dismounted. With the snow swirling and the light fading fast it was hard to tell, but the place certainly looked deserted. Instinctively, Luke patted his right hip and then the side of his thigh, looking for the pistol that wasn’t there. Damn. Once more he was finding himself compromised, heading unarmed into an uncertain situation with the clock running against him.
He beckoned Kristian closer and cupped his hand as he spoke into his ear above the noise of the wind. ‘Are you carrying?’ he asked the Norwegian.
‘Again, please?’
Luke removed his glove and held his hand across his chest, finger pointing, thumb cocked. ‘I said, are you carrying a weapon? Are you armed?’
Kristian shook his head sadly. ‘Only this.’ He produced what looked to Luke like a car fob.
‘What’s that, then?’
‘It’s a beeper. To contact my office in Oslo. In emergency.’ Kristian looked down at the fob. ‘But I think it’s not working.’
‘All right,’ Luke said, speaking directly into his ear as they stood against the outside wall, just to one side of the front door. ‘We split into two. The light’s going, so we’ll cover more ground that way. You go in through the front.’ Luke pointed at the door. ‘I’m going to check out round the back. Then I’ll join you inside. Shout if you run into trouble.’
