The Gulf Conspiracy

NINETEEN

Steven drove back to London having been assured by Warner that he would call him after he had spoken to James Gardiner later in the day. In the event it was Gardiner himself who called just after six in the evening.

‘I think we should meet.’

‘Just tell me where and when,’ said Steven.

‘My wife and I are in the process of moving house but I’m keeping on the small flat I have in town. Come there at 8?’

Steven wrote down the address and said he’d be there.

Gardiner’s small flat turned out to be twice the size of his own, furnished minimally but expensively and with a location that afforded fine views of the river from a terrace that bordered both south and west aspects. On a balmy evening the doors leading to the terrace were wide open.

‘Drink?’ asked Gardiner.

‘Thanks. Gin and tonic,’ said Steven, moving outside to admire the view while Gardiner fixed the drinks. Gardiner joined him on the terrace and handed him his drink.

‘So you’re tired of London?’ said Steven.

‘And therefore, by implication, tired of life,’ said Gardiner. ‘No, I don’t think so. Alice and I are moving up to our place in Scotland to begin a new one away from… other people.’

‘Sartre was right?’

‘With the greatest of respect to M. Sartre, Hell is not other people; it’s other people being in charge.’

‘I think that’s called democracy,’ said Steven.

‘A much overrated concept,’ said Gardiner.

‘You don’t believe in the will of the people?’ said Steven.

‘The so-called will of the people is all too often a celebration of ignorance and mediocrity,’ said Gardiner. ‘If we were to decide democratically on one single newspaper for the entire country we’d end up with the Sun, simply because it sells more copies than any other so therefore would get more votes and be elected our national paper. Need I say more?’

‘Democracy may have its shortcomings but it’s still better than any other system,’ said Steven.

‘I know,’ said Gardiner, looking out over the river. ‘Maybe that’s what I find so bloody depressing. Warner tells me you think Crowe and Mowbray have been pursuing their own agenda?’

Steven told Gardiner what he knew.

‘So why don’t you arrest them?’

‘We did but they’ve been released. There’s no proof,’ said Steven.

‘You could be wrong, of course?’

‘Everything points to Crowe having continued work on the agent,’ said Steven. ‘The fact that they’ve killed three people in the last few months to keep it a secret says that they intend using it.’

‘What exactly is it you want from me?’ asked Gardiner.

‘I need details of the infrastructure of your organisation,’ said Steven. ‘I think Crowe and Mowbray may be using it.’

‘You want names and addresses?’ said Gardiner doubtfully.

‘If they intend using the agent I have to understand the size and nature of the organisation they have available to them,’ said Steven.

‘Perhaps I could just tell you without having to divulge personal details?’ said Gardiner.

Steven gave him a look that Gardiner had no trouble in interpreting. ‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘But before I even considered such a thing I would need certain assurances from you.’

‘These people have nothing to fear if they have done nothing wrong,’ said Steven. ‘You have my word.’

‘The rule of law is fundamental to all of us,’ said Gardiner.

‘Things might be different now,’ said Steven.

‘These people are not just mindless automatons,’ said Gardiner. ‘They’re people who care what happens to Britain. They can think for themselves.’

‘You’d be amazed at what some otherwise intelligent people are capable of doing when asked if they believe the request has official backing,’ said Steven.

‘I need some kind of firm assurance,’ said Gardiner.

‘That’s not within my power,’ said Steven.

‘Then no deal,’ said Gardiner.

Steven looked towards the setting sun and took a moment to consider his position. He could simply refuse to compromise and issue a series of official threats to Gardiner but he knew well enough that that would get him precisely nowhere. On the other hand he could take a chance and get what he wanted but at some risk to himself in career terms.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘You have my word that I will destroy any information given to me immediately after I’ve taken what I need from it.’

Gardiner turned on his heel and went indoors. He returned with a computer disk, which he handed to Steven. ‘The database,’ he said.

Steven slipped the disk into his laptop as soon as he got home before pouring himself a drink and settling down to analyse it. The list comprised some four thousand names entered in database form. It contained details of names, addresses, ages and occupations. It only took Steven a few moments to realise that he had no real idea of what he was looking for. If he had been hoping to see clear evidence of an organised conspiracy he was sadly disappointed. These people were scattered all over the country and in just about every occupation under the sun — well, maybe every middle class occupation under the sun, he corrected. He took a sip of his drink and pondered his next move. The database came with useful analytical tools so he requested average age and came up with the figure 45.

‘Shit,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘These people weren’t revolutionaries. They were representative of the middle class, middle aged, middle income voters of bungalow-land. How could such people be organised to promote social change after an attack using Crowe’s agent? There was just no cohesive factor.

Steven felt a mixture of disappointment and embarrassment. He couldn’t imagine Crowe and Mowbray having formed some other secret organisation capable of supporting such a big venture so that must mean he was wrong about their intention to use the agent. They must have made it to sell.

Despite the fact that it was Sunday and it had gone ten o’ clock he called the duty officer at Sci-Med and asked him to arrange for a full financial scrutiny of both Crowe and Mowbray’s personal accounts. ‘I don’t care who you have to wake,’ he added.

‘What period?’ asked the duty man.

‘Let’s begin with the last two years.’

Steven returned to the names on the database. Just out of interest he asked the search engine for ‘Civil Servants’. A list of almost three hundred names appeared on the screen. Next he asked for ‘Doctors’ and was rewarded with thirty-three names but this gave him an idea. He narrowed the search and asked for ‘Pathologists’: this reduced the list to three. One of them was Dr Melvyn Street, a forensic pathologist attached to Perthshire Police.

‘Well, well, well,’ murmured Steven. ‘Now I understand why you didn’t see the marks on Martin Hendry’s wrists, Doctor.’

It was 1am and Steven tired of searching for patterns in the database. He turned off the computer and switched on the television, flicking through the cable channels for 24 hour news programmes. His attention was taken by the mention of Rupert Everley’s name in an item presented as ‘Tory squabble in Scotland’. The leader of the Scottish Conservatives, David McLetchie, had been engaged in a furious row with property developer and prominent Tory supporter in England, Rupert Everley. McLetchie had been annoyed at Everley’s recent tour of Scottish Conservative Party organisations, and had accused Everley of talking ‘puerile rubbish’ and of attempting to undermine his authority and ingratiate himself with the party faithful through large cash donations. Everley had retaliated by accusing McLetchie of being short-sighted and resistant to change. There was a short film clip of Everley looking earnestly sincere, saying that the time was right for Scottish Conservatives to make a comeback but only if they brought in ‘fresh minds with fresh ideas to turn things around’.

‘Like yours, Rupert?’ murmured Steven. ‘Clown.’

Steven reached for the remote but stopped himself as a thought chilled him. Everley had been in Scotland for the past month according to Rose Roberts. Surely he hadn’t been paving the way for political success on the back of a change to be induced by Crowe’s agent? No, the idea was preposterous, Steven told himself. The Scottish electorate would have to be wired to the mains before they’d vote for anyone like Rupert Everley. They’d be as well putting up Jeffrey Archer or Neil Hamilton. But that did leave the question, why was Everley there in the first place?

Maybe Everley didn’t realise the futility of his mission? Pompous fools never saw themselves as others saw them. That’s why they kept accepting invitations on to game shows on television. They didn’t realise they were there to be made fun of.

But Everley wouldn’t have come up with this notion in the first place, someone must have conned him into thinking it was a good idea — someone like Crowe or Mowbray or both… because… they… needed Everley’s money?… To do what?… To finance a hit on Scotland was the only thing Steven could come up with. They were going to use the agent on a target somewhere in Scotland. But where in Scotland and why?

‘Sweet Jesus,’ murmured Steven, suspecting his imagination was running away with him. ‘Let’s just slow down a bit.’ What would be the point of such a hit if there was no infrastructure in place to take advantage of the situation? It wouldn’t make any sense. Steven felt a sense of relief arrive with this thought. He used it as a brake. Such an attack wouldn’t achieve anything at all, he reasoned… except that you’d find out if it worked.

The brakes were off again. Crowe and Mowbray could be considering some kind of trial run of their agent on a target in Scotland. But why?… To impress a prospective buyer, that was why! He was there. It was a terrifying prospect but it all made sense… at three in the morning.

Steven wondered if he should sleep on it but then decided that he couldn’t take the chance. He called the duty man at Sci-Med and called a code, double red.

‘You got it,’ said the man. ‘First time I’ve ever had one of these.’

Steven knew that emergency calls would now be made to a team of expert advisors whose expertise was available to Sci-Med in times of emergency. They would be brought in to the Home Office from their homes all over the city and beyond just as fast as they could dress and a police car could get them there.

Steven himself was there within fifteen minutes. John Macmillan joined him five minutes later. Steven had never seen him unshaven before. He briefed him while they waited for the others.

‘It’s either brilliant or ridiculous,’ said Macmillan when he’d finished.

‘And no way of picking the favourite,’ said Steven. ‘I just felt I couldn’t take the chance.’

‘You were right,’ said Macmillan. ‘Where does Rose keep the coffee round here?’

Steven looked in a couple of cupboards and found a plastic bag of ground coffee sealed with a metal clip. He handed it to Macmillan and between them they set up the coffee machine so that people arriving over the next forty minutes could at least have coffee to help keep them awake.

John Hamilton, a computer expert, was the last to arrive at twenty past four, having come furthest. He took his seat at the table and Steven was invited by Macmillan to tell the five experts — four men and one woman — why they had been called in. When he’d finished he was met with a shocked silence for a few moments before Hamilton said, ‘Can I just summarise to make sure I’ve got this right — you think that a biological attack is about to be made on a target in Scotland?’

Steven nodded and sipped his coffee.

‘But you don’t know where and you don’t know when?’

‘Correct,’ said Steven.

‘But you do know what the agent being used is?’

‘We think we do,’ said Steven.

‘But you don’t know how the attack will be launched?’

‘’Fraid not,’ agreed Steven.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Hamilton. ‘I think it’s a clairvoyant we need here.’

‘If the attack is to be carried out by a small group of people, strange to the area — as seems likely here,’ said Dorothy Jordan, a specialist in medical microbiology, ‘they’re probably restricted to using aerosols for a small target or contaminating water supplies for a bigger one.’

‘Good,’ said Macmillan. ‘That’s what we need,’ he said with a sideways at glance at Hamilton. ‘Good positive input.’

‘If it’s to be an aerosol attack we would be probably looking at a confined space like an air conditioned building or a subway station.’

‘Why air conditioned?’ asked Macmillan.

‘The windows would be kept closed,’ replied Jordan.

‘What’s your gut feeling?’ asked Macmillan.

‘Personally I’d go for water supplies,’ said Jordan. ‘It would be easier. Reservoirs are generally much more accessible than targets in towns.’

‘Drawbacks?’

‘Large dilution effects if you’re thinking about hitting a reservoir with bacteria or viruses,’ said Jordan. ‘Strong poisons would be a better bet. You are sure they’re going to use bugs?’

‘Yes,’ said Steven.

‘Then they’d need a hell of a lot,’ said Jordan, putting down her pen on top of her notepad to indicate that she thought her contribution might be over.

‘No clues about people involved?’ asked Charles Bristow, a clinical psychologist and profiler.

Steven held up the disk Gardiner had given him. ‘Four thousand names,’ he said. ‘Among them might be a few people called upon to help but probably without knowing the big picture.’

‘Let’s have a look,’ said Hamilton. ‘Why don’t you and I go through this?’ he said to the psychologist.

‘Do we know why they are they doing this?’ asked Alan Deans, a Home Office expert on counter-terrorism.

‘It’s not political,’ said Steven. ‘I think they are out to demonstrate the agent’s potential to a prospective buyer.’

‘Commercial not political,’ smiled Deans. ‘Now there’s a new one.’

There was a knock on the door and the duty officer came in carrying several sheets of paper. ‘The financial details on the two you asked for,’ he said to Steven. ‘Incidentally,’ continued the duty man. ‘The people who came up with them said that asking for bank statements in the middle of the night was, in their opinion, bureaucracy gone mad.’

‘Thank you for that,’ said Steven equably.

In reply to Macmillan’s questioning look, Steven said, ‘Crowe and Mowbray’s bank statements. I hoped we might get some idea about who they might be doing business with if they really are selling the agent.’

‘A good thought,’ murmured Macmillan. ‘Maybe I should make some more coffee…’

Steven ran through Mowbray’s details first. There had been a number of payments in to his accounts over the past two years that did not have a source that meant anything to Steven but they did not seem to have anything in common so he turned to Crowe’s statements. As with Mowbray’s he started with the most recent and worked his way back. Almost immediately he noticed a quarterly payment coming in to his account that had undergone a currency conversion. The sterling equivalent was just over five thousand pounds. The only source details were given as W. Corp 5771.

‘A retainer,’ exclaimed Steven, picking up the internal phone and calling the duty officer. ‘Get these bank people back on the phone, will you? Quick as you can.’

‘They’re going to love this…’ muttered the man.

‘Got something?’ asked Macmillan.

‘Looks like Crowe was on some sort of retainer,’ said Steven. ‘Twenty grand a year. Not bad.’

‘Could be a consultancy,’ said Macmillan.

‘Or a lucky break,’ said Steven. ‘C’mon, c’mon,’ he murmured, looking at the silent telephone. It was another ten minutes before the bank rang. Macmillan smiled as he heard Steven say, ‘Yes I am sure that this is absolutely necessary, now will you please get me the details of a quarterly payment into the account of Dr Donald Crowe, account number 00449547288. It’s listed as coming from W. Corp 5771 and required a currency conversion.’

Macmillan and Dorothy Jordan watched Steven scribble down details before hanging up the phone with a smile on his face.

‘The payments came from an American company called the Wallenberg Corporation. The currency conversion was necessary because the payment was made in US dollars.’

‘What do we know about the Wallenberg Corporation?’ asked Macmillan.

‘I’ve heard of them said Dorothy. I think they’re a biotech company.’

‘Dr Hamilton, I think we need you,’ said Macmillan to Hamilton who was still engaged on analysing Gardiner’s disk. ‘See if you can come up with something on the Wallenberg Corporation in the USA will you?’

‘You got it,’ said Hamilton. ‘Charles will fill you in on what we have come up with.’

Charles Bristow joined the others at the table with his notes. ‘Not a lot, I’m afraid,’ as he sat down. ‘We tried separating out those with Scottish addresses but there are over four hundred and they’re scattered all over. We’ve done various break-down analyses of the four hundred in Scotland, looking for those with potentially useful skills or information to people mounting an attack but no clear favourites have emerged as yet.’

Steven nodded and said, ‘As I said, I don’t think any of these people will have any direct involvement in any attack. That makes it doubly difficult.’

‘Eureka!’ exclaimed Hamilton from his seat at the computer. The others went over to join him.

‘Dorothy was right. Wallenberg are a biotech company. They’re big and have close US government links. Rumours of involvement in US biological weapons programmes abound and best of all, listen to this. Back in 1997 the corporation was fined heavily for carrying out an experiment on the streets of Chicago. Apparently they wanted to assess the potential spread of an agent in a big city. They used a harmless bug but the authorities took a dim view of things and warned of serious repercussions should they ever try anything like that again.’

‘Bingo,’ said Steven.

‘So it’s the Americans who want this agent,’ said Macmillan. ‘Makes sense; the agent would be much more useful to an invading army than a small terrorist group.’

‘Have our closest allies any plans to invade anywhere?’ asked Hamilton.

‘It would have been useful in Afghanistan,’ said Steven. ‘And Iraq could well be next by all accounts.’

‘Well done people,’ said Macmillan. ‘I think we’ve found our customer.’

‘And why they can’t carry out their own field trials,’ added Hamilton.

‘Good point,’ said Steven. ‘All we need now is to find out when and where.’