Outbreak, p.14
Outbreak, page 14
Just before Chessington he turned off the A3 and drove his hire car towards the sedate Surrey market town of Epsom. He had keyed the family’s address into the satnav, he had Classic FM playing on the car stereo, and now that the sun was starting to emerge from behind the clouds it almost felt like spring. It wasn’t until the next turn-off that he started to feel a headache pounding behind his temples. Thinking he could simply be dehydrated, he pulled over at the next corner shop and bought himself two bottles of Highland Spring mineral water. Sitting in the car with the door open, he drank them both in one go. Yet he still felt increasingly unwell. He undid a button on his shirt and checked himself in the mirror above the driver’s seat. Not good. He saw something approaching desperation in the face that stared back at him, and noticed it was shiny with sweat. In March. Something was wrong here.
Dr Chris Coppinger was a cautious man. It was what everyone said had saved him outside that Arctic hut in Svalbard. And now his caution kicked in again. When he noticed a sign across the street for Epsom General Hospital he didn’t hesitate. He started the engine, lurched the car into gear and drove himself straight towards A & E.
41
Vilnius, Lithuania
Friday, 11 March, 1122hrs GMT, 1422hrs local
THE SAFE HOUSE in Vilnius was not what Luke had expected. In training, on the eight-week agent-running induction course down at the Fort, he had been taught the art of discreetly slipping unseen on to a housing estate in Cosham or Fareham on the outskirts of Portsmouth. Or letting himself in through the back door of some rundown Hampshire farmhouse. But training was over long ago and what he was looking at now was a rather smart tourist hotel.
‘Really?’ he remarked to Jenny, as they clambered out of the back of the car, Luke still nursing his bruised left side. ‘The Shakespeare Hotel? It’s a bit obvious, isn’t it? I mean, we might as well be wearing a couple of Union Jacks on our backs.’
Jenny allowed herself a faint smile as she turned to Luke after dismissing the embassy driver and looking up and down the street, checking they were not being observed. Her heels were making loud clicking noises on the cobbles, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if she magicked up a pair of trainers from nowhere.
‘Has anyone ever told you, Luke,’ she said, leading him through a terracotta archway into a tidy cobbled courtyard, ‘that sometimes you need to think outside the box?’
‘Frequently.’
She paused in front of the short flight of steps that led up to the hotel’s reception area. ‘Well, now would be a good time to use your imagination,’ she continued. ‘Security Branch chose this place for us precisely because it’s a boutique tourist hotel. Couples come in and out of here the whole time, all year round.’
‘Couples?’
‘Yes, Luke, couples.’ She threw him a coy look. ‘It’s all right, there’s no need to freak out. They’ve booked us a twin room. Separate beds. The Service is very proper about things like that.’
‘I’m sure they are.’ Luke didn’t give a damn what the Service thought. He was worrying as to what Elise would have to say about this cosy little arrangement. And whether he should tell her now, later or never.
Their room key was one of the old-fashioned ones, complete with a clunky wooden toggle, just in case anyone thought of walking off with it. The young man from Reception insisted on showing them up to their top-floor room and he threw open the door with a flourish. ‘Please,’ he gestured, ‘your superior twin room, the Charles Dickens.’ He bowed and disappeared down the stairs.
The room was delightful. Low, sloping ceiling with two dormer windows, traditional wooden carvings on the walls, soft discreet lighting and a richly patterned crimson rug on the floor. It was the sort of place Elise would have loved to stay and once again he felt a stab of guilt. There was then a brief, awkward moment as he and Jenny tried to move past each other to get into the room at the same time and he suddenly found himself pressed against her in the narrow space between the wall and the bathroom. Their faces were so close that, for an instant, he detected the faint waft of her scent.
‘Sorry.’ He blushed, stepping backwards. ‘You go first.’
They dumped their bags on their respective beds and Jenny immediately disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the lock turn the moment she closed the door behind her. Luke went to the nearest of the two dormer windows and looked down on to the quiet street below. He was, he realized, deeply, desperately tired – and injured. All he wanted to do right now was shower, crawl into bed and sleep for twelve hours. He knew that was out of the question: their mission in Lithuania had yet to be completed and his aching head still buzzed with troubling, unanswered questions. What was the link between Kadunov in the factory and the people in the abandoned house in Svalbard? And why had one of those thugs in the police cell last night mentioned Svalbard? Luke rubbed the palms of his hands over his face, as if trying to erase the unpleasant experience he had just been through. Maybe he had misheard him. It was possible, he supposed. And perhaps what was on the flash drive would give them the answers. Impatient now, he wished Jenny would hurry up and get out of the bathroom so they could go through what was on it and report their findings to London.
‘All yours.’ Jenny emerged, her hair pinned back, wearing a tight grey T-shirt and jeans. She smelt wonderfully clean and fresh.
‘I’m all good, thanks,’ he said. ‘Let’s get started on that flash drive. The clock is ticking.’
Jenny sat on her bed, putting on her watch as she did so, and regarded him.
‘Yes, the clock is ticking,’ she replied, ‘and I don’t know how to put this politely, Luke, so I won’t. You smell pretty rank after your night in the cells. So, please, for my sake, go in there,’ she pointed towards the bathroom, ‘have a decent wash, and I’ll have coffees ordered up by the time you come out. Deal?’
‘Deal.’ Luke gave her a smile of thanks. He could find Jenny bloody annoying at times, but he was definitely warming to her. God knew what she must think of him.
Inside the tiny bathroom he switched on his personal phone. Just one missed call: Elise. He scrolled through the settings function to double-check he had location services switched off so no one could casually trace his whereabouts. He sent her a holding text, then switched his phone off again. In front of the mirror, still partially steamed up from Jenny’s shower, he peeled off his clothes and examined the livid purple bruise that had spread down the whole of his left side. His face was a mess, too, with some purpling beneath his left eye. He would have to stay out of trouble for now – he was in no condition to get into any more fights.
Luke turned the water temperature as hot as he could bear it, then stood beneath the shower with his head back and his eyes shut, savouring the cleansing, scalding stream of water as it washed away the grime and corruption of that police cell. He had only just turned off the shower and was standing there, steam coming off his shoulders and towelling himself dry, when there was a knock on the bathroom door. He realized he hadn’t bothered to lock it.
42
Epsom, Surrey
Friday, 11 March, 1147hrs GMT
DR CHRIS COPPINGER never made it to A & E at Epsom General Hospital. In fact, he chose not to. When he paused at the traffic lights he reached up to his neck and touched lightly beneath his ears. It confirmed all his worst fears. Buboes. Swellings. One on either side. It told him all he needed to know. In that precise moment he knew that he was infected with the virus. He felt sadness and a strange calm. Forty-two years old and there was so much he had left unfinished, so much he had still wanted to achieve. His thesis on atmospheric chemistry in the Arctic, his anthology of amateur poetry, his hopes and plans to start a family one day. None of that was going to happen now.
His mind flashed back to the horrific scene in the Arctic hut on Svalbard, to the living corpse on the sofa, his face distorted with pustules, the blood and black vomit down his chest. No way. He wasn’t going out like that. And what of his colleague Sheila Mackenzie? They had given her the best care possible at the Royal Free, but it had turned out to be nothing more than palliative – she had died anyway; nastily, he’d heard. And so much for the clean bill of health they’d given him. This virus must be more agile than they realized: it was clearly capable of hiding itself and lying dormant before re-emerging to ravage its host. No, his time was up, there was no way of ducking it, so now he was going to take control. Chris Coppinger was also a decent man and he knew that if he turned up at A & E he’d infect everyone he came into contact with: doctors, patients, porters and nurses. And he didn’t want that on his conscience.
He knew what he had to do.
He parked up beside the road, took out his phone, his hands shaking slightly, and dialled the number of an old friend who worked at the Marsden in London. They had both studied biochemistry at university, then gone their separate ways, Chris into atmospheric chemistry, his friend Mike into oncology medicine. Mike answered on the second ring.
‘Chris! Good, I heard you were back. You jammy bugger, you dodged a bullet there, didn’t you? Poor old Sheila Mackenzie, though. What a way to go, eh? Let’s hope they sort this virus out before we all get put into lockdown again. I don’t think my marriage could take it!’ He broke off to laugh, part of the gallows humour that surfaces at the sharp end of the medical profession. Chris Coppinger waited for him to finish. He decided he would spare him the full truth, just tell him what needed to be known.
‘Listen, Mike …’
‘Yes. Lunch. Is that what you were going to say? Because we’re long overdue. There’s a new place down the Fulham Road you’ll love—’
‘No. Listen. This virus … It’s … it’s even more dangerous than they thought. It hides itself. It’s not showing up on any of the tests. So, look, I need you to speak to the crisis team at the Royal Free and also to the National Institute for Health Protection. Joint Biosecurity Centre will need to know about this. Tell them they need to double-screen – no, triple-screen – everyone who might have come into contact with it.’
His friend at the Marsden laughed, but this time it was a nervous laugh. ‘What are you saying exactly, Chris? And shouldn’t you be making these calls?’
‘Yes, Mike, I should, but I’m afraid I have to be somewhere right now. I’m sorry, I have to run.’
Chris Coppinger ended the call and switched off his phone, knowing Mike would ring back for answers he wasn’t prepared to give. He rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands. His head was pounding and his hands came away slick with sweat. He knew he shouldn’t be driving, he had to get off the road, but his mind was made up. He was thinking now about a place not far from here, on the way to Malden Rushett, a place with a lake. On a Friday lunchtime in March he doubted there would be anyone around. Twelve minutes later he found the spot he was looking for and it was deserted. From the top of the slight rise he could see there was a clear run straight down to the water. He closed his eyes, said a silent prayer, then lowered all four of the car’s windows, checked his seatbelt was fastened, put the car into gear and accelerated towards the inky blackness of the water.
43
GRU Headquarters, Moscow
Friday, 11 March, 1248hrs GMT, 1548hrs local
THE HEADQUARTERS OF the GRU, the main directorate of Russia’s Armed Forces, is a modern, plate-glass-and-steel building at No. 3 Grizodubovoy Street in Moscow. The nine-billion-rouble edifice has a state-of-the-art shooting range, a gym, a pool, a café and even a winter garden with its own fountain. Vladimir Putin once famously landed on its roof by helicopter to begin his tour of inspection, pacing over the GRU’s sinister black bat emblem on the floor. It is not a building that welcomes outsiders.
Colonel Arkady Petrov was no outsider. A clinical virologist by training, he had been ‘encouraged’ to transfer his skills at an early stage of his career from civilian medical research into the branch of the military that oversaw Russia’s vast chemical and biological warfare stockpiles, inherited in the 1990s from the now-defunct Soviet Union. Inside this man’s head there were countless dark secrets. Among the many qualifications that had propelled him to the senior ranks of the GRU was a surprisingly detailed knowledge of what went on inside Britain’s top-secret laboratory at Porton Down. He had gleaned it in large part from the GRU’s own network of agents in Britain before they were unceremoniously expelled in the wake of the Salisbury Novichok attack in 2018.
And today Colonel Petrov was a worried man. He found himself facing a problem he did not know how to fix. At lunchtime he had been ordered to an unscheduled meeting across town at the Kremlin. He had expected it to be about the forthcoming annual military manoeuvres in southern Russia. But instead he had been asked to explain what exactly his department was up to in the Norwegian Arctic, and why he had not informed his superiors through the proper channels about the testing of a new biological weapon. It seemed the Russian ambassador to London had been summoned to the Foreign Office that very morning and been forced to issue a blanket denial. The ambassador had then got straight on the phone to Moscow to seek an explanation. Yet Colonel Petrov was at a loss to explain events in the Norwegian Arctic. And now the British were claiming a phone number had been traced from the scene in Svalbard back to his headquarters. Well, that proved nothing. It could have been made by a third party using a proxy dial-in. The British might have made a mistake – they could be making it up. Hell, there were any number of explanations for that.
But now, as he returned to his office in the dying light of the late afternoon, stepping past the piles of dirty grey slush that spelled the tail-end of a Moscow winter, Petrov had a gnawing feeling of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. What if it were true? What if a rogue actor was indeed operating from within his own command? He knew only too well what was coming if he didn’t get to the bottom of this in double-quick time. Those goons from the FSB – the Federal Security Service, the successors to the KGB – would be crawling all over his department, going into their computers, hauling his people in for questioning, making life impossible. No. He couldn’t have that. Not on his watch. Colonel Arkady Petrov had to move fast if he was to have any hope of saving his career.
44
Porton Down Laboratory, Wiltshire
Friday, 11 March, 1330hrs GMT
IN THE SPRAWLING high-security government science complex outside Salisbury, the news of Sheila Mackenzie’s death from the pathogen they were calling ‘Agent X’ had come as a real blow. Not totally unexpected, but still a setback. The Defence Science and Technology Laboratory had had little more than forty-eight hours to work on the samples rushed over from the Royal Free, but already the pressure was intense. Big Pharma would combine forces to take on the task of trying to find a vaccine, just as they had with Coronavirus. It was a process expected to take months. Porton Down’s mission was to ascertain the origin of the virus and to come up with an early and effective therapy.
On the director’s orders, a large digital clock had been installed on the wall of the lobby in the main administration block, counting the minutes and hours since the virus had first erupted in Svalbard, just to keep everyone on their toes. To add to the pressure, TV crews and reporters had started to turn up outside the main entrance. RT, Russia’s Kremlin-backed satellite news channel, was taking a particularly keen interest.
In a side room on the second floor an emergency meeting was under way. The SSAs – the senior scientific advisers – sat hunched over their laptops alongside experts drafted in from around the country, a delegate from Norway and another from the WHO in Geneva. Hannah Blane and Colin Masters, the two virologists who had identified the genome sequence, were resting upstairs, after working straight fifteen-hour shifts. With Dr Clarissa Gall still up in London, it was left to her fellow scientist Gareth Banks to bring everyone up to speed.
‘In just under an hour,’ he told them, ‘this is going to be declared a “public health event of international concern” – something we all know as a PHEIC. What does that mean for us?’ He was standing up to address them, but resting the knuckles of his hands on the surface of the table, like a brooding silverback mountain gorilla, as he gazed around the room. ‘It means that whatever we discover here, in our own laboratories, we’re going to have to share it. Not just with our Five Eyes partners – the US, Canada and so on – but also with the GHSI, the Global Health Security Initiative.’
‘Hang on,’ interrupted one of the senior scientists, a notoriously prickly individual. ‘You mean we’re now sharing our findings with the Mexicans? Along with half the world? That means it’ll be with Moscow inside a day!’
‘We don’t know that, do we, Kevin?’ admonished Banks. ‘And we can only follow protocol here. These are international health regulations and that Health Security Initiative has been up and running since just after the 9/11 attacks and the anthrax packages in 2001. So I think we should give them some credit, don’t you? Given that they’ve spent the best part of twenty years working on responses to just such an outbreak as this.’
But the prickly scientist wasn’t giving up. ‘Right,’ he replied sarcastically, looking around the room for support. ‘So what this is really all about is testing our bureaucracy to see if it works, isn’t it? You don’t think it’s a bit late for that?’
He didn’t find the support he was after. In fact, a number of people were tut-tutting.
