Outbreak, p.18
Outbreak, page 18
Now, riding up in the lift to their flat, he wondered why he’d chosen not to announce his arrival from downstairs. He closed his eyes for a second. He couldn’t say why. A naturally suspicious mind, maybe. Well, now it sounded like it was justified. Standing on the landing outside the door to their flat, he could hear the giggles even before he opened the door. Luke silently inserted his key into the lock, eased open the door and strode into the living room.
‘Babes – you’re back!’ Elise sprang up from the sofa and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him as he dumped his bag on the carpet and squeezed her tight. After the squalor of that Eastern European police cell and the processed fug of a four-hour flight this girl just smelt so good. So good, in fact, that for a moment he forgot about everything else and began nudging them both towards the bedroom. And that was the moment when the spell was broken.
A figure appeared from the kitchen, framed in the doorway, two full glasses of wine in his hands. A figure that was all too familiar to Luke. A short, stocky figure with a thick monobrow, a pink Swiss cotton shirt monogrammed with his initials, ‘HSS’, and double-cuffed sleeves fastened with a pair of personalized gold cufflinks.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Elise said breezily, disentangling herself from Luke. ‘I should have mentioned. Hugo’s come over. We were just watching Love Island, The Sequel.’
Hugo. Bastard. St. John. Squires. His perpetually tedious nemesis. How was it that this irritatingly successful finance type kept turning up at Elise’s side every time Luke was away on a mission?
The buzzer went from downstairs.
‘That will be Deliveroo,’ she said cheerfully. ‘We’ve ordered Thai.’ She buzzed the deliveryman in, telling him to come up in the lift, and waited by the front door for him, leaving Luke and Hugo facing each other awkwardly.
‘Hugo.’ Luke held out his hand and gave him a particularly forceful handshake, gripping him for perhaps a little longer than was necessary as he looked him in the eyes. Elise held open the front door, tipping the driver as he handed over the warm bags of food, and then returned, placing them on the dining table and lifting out their contents. ‘Luke, I hope you’ll join us. Huge – can you fetch another place setting?’
‘Huge’? ‘Hope you’ll join us’? What the hell was this? Luke made no attempt to hide the scowl on his face as he stood there, taking this in. This was all sounding way too familiar for his liking.
‘I thought you were engaged?’ he said to Hugo. ‘To someone else,’ he added icily, as they sat down and Elise divvied up the dinner for two between the three of them. ‘Did that not work out?’
He caught Hugo throwing a knowing glance at Elise.
‘Well,’ Hugo began amiably, ‘after I left the bank and set up a small boutique outfit with a couple of friends we rather went our separate ways. Oh, look, you haven’t got any wine. Let me fetch you some.’ And off he went into the kitchen, Luke and Elise’s kitchen, seemingly oblivious to the hostile vibes Luke was giving off, leaving him and Elise alone together, sitting in silence over the Thai green chicken and fast congealing jasmine rice.
Luke realized he had nothing to say to her.
56
Royal Free Hospital, London
Monday, 14 March, 0533hrs GMT
IT WAS STILL dark when they brought her in. Shiny with perspiration. Feverish. Contagious. Samantha Bradley – ‘Sam’ – had started working at the children’s toy shop in Epsom at the beginning of the year. The pay was minimal, the hours weren’t great, but it was only ever intended to be a means to an end, nothing more, just a way of saving up enough cash for her big South East Asia trip in the summer with her mates. Angkor Wat, Luang Prabang, Hue, they would visit them all. But Sam’s plans were holed below the waterline the moment an off-duty Arctic scientist had walked into that shop and handed her a pink toy dinosaur at the till. When Chris Coppinger tapped his debit card against the contactless machine on that Friday morning, it didn’t register, so instead she took his card to try it on a different machine. And that was when his hand brushed hers and minutes later she touched her face to wipe away a lock of hair. Sam Bradley’s fate was sealed.
She was brought into the Royal Free visibly trembling. Using a special entrance, they transferred her straight upstairs to the High Security Infectious Diseases Unit. She had seen the news, she had heard about the Svalbard outbreak, and she knew that someone had come back here, to this very hospital, and died of the virus. When she thought she might have the symptoms, she went straight to A & E at Epsom General, unlike Chris Coppinger. And that was when they started treating her like a dangerous alien species.
In ordinary times it’s quite possible they might have overlooked it, missed it for what it was. But the alert had gone out to every NHS trust in the country: people were on the lookout for the danger signs, and when Sam presented herself the protocols had kicked in immediately. In the ambulance, on the way up to the Royal Free in north London, a woman had asked her questions from behind her Perspex visor and mask, which Sam found almost as unnerving as the thought of what might be taking over her body right at that moment. Where had she been in the last forty-eight hours? Who had she been in contact with? Did anyone she’d encountered look ill?
In a quiet, frightened voice she had recounted how, yes, on the Friday morning, a man had bought a pink toy dinosaur from the shop where she worked and, no, he hadn’t looked very well at all. The woman had made her repeat this and Sam did as she was told, all the while touching the lumps she could feel swelling beneath her ears.
When they installed her in ‘the tent’, in the heart of the Infectious Diseases Unit, the hospital director came to see her personally. He asked her the same questions, promised they would take good care of her, and left. He went straight to his office and phoned Brendan Holmes. Britain now had another patient infected with Agent X. Everyone she had been in contact with had to be traced, isolated and tested. Now it was definite: they were going to need extra beds on standby.
57
MI6 Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross
Monday, 14 March, 0748hrs GMT
LUKE HAD NOT slept well. To say that Hugo Squires had outstayed his welcome last night would have been an understatement. Luke thought he would never leave and even Elise seemed quite embarrassed by the end. He had drunk his way single-handed through a whole bottle of claret and was making noises about opening another, his face growing shinier with each glass. Christ, the man was as thick-skinned as a rhino – could he not take a hint? Squires had also started making obnoxious, sweeping generalizations about the state of the country, the people in it and what needed to be done to put things right. Finally, it took Luke standing up and clapping his hands together to draw the evening to a close, and call a cab for their guest.
Alone together beneath the duvet, Elise had announced she was all in and turned her back on him, seemingly fast asleep in seconds. Luke’s eyes were still wide open, staring at the beautiful curve of her neck that he had kissed so often, and he was left wondering what had gone wrong between them.
When his alarm went off a few hours later he was glad of the excuse to get up and out of there into work. And now here he was, suited and booted, standing outside the door of the Chief’s outer office, waiting to be summoned in. Angela had gone over several heads to request this urgent meeting for Luke to present his findings in person and it was a mark of how much confidence the Chief had in him that he had got his 0745 appointment. Some eyebrows would be raised at this in the 0900 directors’ meeting. But now, as the minutes ticked by, Luke began to question whether he should have done this differently. What he was about to tell the head of MI6 was going to have major diplomatic and political consequences. Should he have run it by Sid Khan first? Or the Counter-Proliferation people? No. Luke trusted Angela to spare him from getting all bogged down by Service protocol.
‘Would you like to come in? He’s ready for you now.’ The Chief’s PA: an indomitable battleaxe of a woman who had seen a succession of Cs come and go in her time. Grey hair cut short, spectacles on a chain and a dress sense that made few concessions to the twenty-first century. Brenda was something of a legend within the Service. What secrets have you been privy to? Luke thought, as he followed her through to the Chief’s office. The first thing he saw was that the Chief was not alone. Sitting demurely on the couch, ankles crossed, hands on her lap, was Jenny Li. Luke was not surprised to see her – Lithuania had been their joint deployment – but this was no place for an effusive greeting. Next to her sat Angela. Both women gave him warm smiles, but kept silent. Sir Adam Keeling was still sitting behind his desk, reading something intently, and at first he didn’t look up. This was his last year in the job, everybody here knew that. Retirement from government service beckoned, along with a generous pension and probably a comfortable non-executive directorship at one of the big City firms in Canary Wharf where they would expect to take full advantage of his trusted contacts. Sir Adam would hardly want to rock the boat at this stage of his life. Which made Luke’s task doubly tricky.
‘Come.’ The Chief gestured to the chair nearest his desk, but still he didn’t look up. Luke watched him sign something in the famous green ink. There are many things about the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, that have changed beyond recognition as it drags itself into the twenty-first-century world of cyber, ISIS and lawyers needing to be in on the ground floor of every operation. But some things haven’t changed. The head of the Service is still called ‘the Chief’, or simply ‘C’, and he still signs letters – yes, letters – in green ink.
Sir Adam Keeling put down his pen, looked up sharply and gave them his full attention. ‘So,’ he began, folding his hands and looking from one to another across his desk. ‘You’re both back from Lithuania. That was good work, you and Jenny getting the flash drive. It’s brought us a valuable piece of the jigsaw.’ Even as he was saying this, Luke suspected that any congratulations would be short-lived. And he was right.
‘But I have to say,’ Sir Adam continued, ‘that I’m deeply concerned by what you, Luke, have relayed to Angela.’ He paused, frowning, looking down for a moment. This didn’t seem to Luke to be a good moment to interrupt.
‘All our analysis,’ the Chief went on, looking directly at Luke, ‘points to Moscow being behind the Svalbard outbreak. And by Moscow, I mean the Kremlin. So I’d like to hear, in your own words, Luke, how exactly you think Earl Grey’s product fits into that analysis?’
Luke adjusted his position on the chair and returned the Chief’s stare. He knew this was a make-or-break moment for him. Get this wrong and his career at MI6 might never recover. But he didn’t hesitate. He was ready for this. ‘That’s just the point, C. It isn’t the Kremlin per se.’
‘What d’you mean, “it isn’t the Kremlin”?’ Sir Adam’s voice bore a distinct note of irritation as he said this. ‘Every single lead on this case goes back to Moscow. Everything we’ve been pulling in, from our Oslo and Moscow station heads, from GCHQ, from Norway’s NIS, it all points clearly and unequivocally to this being a GRU operation. That’s what we’ve given the Joint Intelligence Committee and that’s what the data supports. And you’re now asking me to throw all that out of the window and tell them there’s a non-state actor to blame?’
Luke felt the change in the atmosphere of the room even as the Chief was speaking. He started to answer when Angela cut in, speaking from the couch to his left, over by the window. ‘C, I think what Luke is trying to say is that this may not be quite as straightforward as we thought.’
Thanks, Angela, I knew I could count on you for support, Luke thought, but I’d best mount my own defence here. ‘I know it looks like GRU,’ he said. ‘That’s what they want everyone to think. But this is a false-flag operation made to appear as if the Russian state is behind it. And based on everything Earl Grey has divulged, this doesn’t point to the Kremlin.’
‘So who in heaven’s name do you suppose it is, then?’ Sir Adam exclaimed. He was leaning forward in his chair now, eyes glaring at Luke from behind his huge desk. Luke knew there was absolutely no time for hesitation.
‘It’s far-right extremists. It’s this group calling themselves WaffenKrieg90. They’ve got the resources, they’ve got the contacts and, most importantly …’ Luke paused for emphasis, hoping to ram home his point ‘… they’ve got the scientific know-how to produce a bio-weapon, and they’re planning to release it, right here, in the UK. Think neo-Nazi ideology grafted on to a state-level capacity in bio-terrorism.’
For a long moment the Chief said nothing. He just stared at Luke, eyes still blazing. Inside his head, Luke counted to ten. By the time I finish counting, he thought, I will either be believed or I’ll be looking for a new job.
Then, very quietly, the Chief spoke. ‘I take it you’ve done the source validation on Earl Grey?’
‘We have, C.’ This time it was Jenny who spoke. She had been silent till now. ‘I can concur with what Luke has just said.’
Sir Adam sat back in his chair, then buzzed his intercom and spoke to his PA. ‘Cancel my eight-fifteen, reschedule my call with Riyadh station. In fact, hold all my calls, will you? And get Sid Khan in here immediately.’
The Chief seemed suddenly to have aged about ten years.
58
Braintree, Essex
Monday, 14 March, 0821hrs GMT
THEY LEFT IT nearly three days before they returned to the bunker to check on the results. Not without taking full precautions, of course. In addition to the original three who had gone there on the Friday, two more men carried a large bundle between them, containing full chemical PPE. Before Covid they might have had some difficulty in accessing that sort of specialized protective gear without raising suspicions. Now they had had no difficulty at all.
In the limited shelter of the hawthorn hedge, staying well clear of the sharp thorns, two of the group pulled on their PPE, checking each other’s fastenings and seals, making sure the respirators were fully functioning. A third went forward, as last time, to check the coast was clear. When he gave them the thumbs-up they trudged forward, moving like astronauts on the surface of the moon, their rubber overboots making heavy progress in the cloying Essex soil.
It had been agreed which of them would open the heavy door to the bunker. They all knew that what they were about to see was not going to be pretty. But they had all accepted that this was just a necessary stepping stone on the path to progress. It was simply a job that had to be done. With a grinding scrape of its rusty hinges, the door heaved open and first one, then the other, stepped gingerly inside. The man in front had come prepared. He carried a camera and a torch, which he now shone ahead of him as he made his way through the first room. Even though he was in full protective gear he subconsciously held his breath as he stepped into the inner chamber. Silence greeted him. Well, that was to be expected. He played the torch beam from one side of the room to the other and then froze. There was the chain, still attached at one end to the table leg, just as they had left it on Friday. But at the other end there was nothing.
The rhesus macaque had vanished.
59
MI6 Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross
Monday, 14 March, 0908hrs GMT
‘LET ME SPELL this out so we’re all crystal clear where we stand,’ said the Chief, his voice as deep and as grave as Luke had ever heard it. ‘We aren’t just talking about a distant outbreak of an unknown pathogen in some distant Arctic archipelago. No. This threat is, right here and right now, in this country.’ He jabbed the index finger of his right hand vertically downwards, several times, on to the table-top for emphasis. ‘We are talking about an extremist, transnational terrorist organization with sociopathic intent. An organization previously unknown to us and one we have almost no chance of getting anybody upstream inside within the time frame.’
Luke looked around him. They were in the Crisis Room on the ground floor. On his left sat the D-GRAT, the director of Global Risks and Threats, the rather grandiose title of the MI6 division that dealt with serious threats from Russia and China. To his right was Sid Khan, director of International Counter-Terrorism, across the table was the Chief and next to him was the director of Internal Security. Beside him was some tech wizard from Counter-Proliferation, a tall, sharp-faced woman with red-rimmed glasses, whom Luke had seen before, scurrying around the building, always in a hurry, always clutching some file or other. The soft blue-upholstered armchairs reserved for more informal occasions had been pushed to one side. Everyone was sitting bolt upright on stiff-backed functional chairs. Last to arrive, slightly out of breath, was Jenny Li, bearing a laptop which she took out from a slim black leather case.
