The Gulf Conspiracy

EIGHT

Steven closed down Martin Hendry’s laptop while he waited for the police to arrive. He disconnected the various cables before packing everything away in its leather carry case and taking it out to his car. His thinking was that if the person who had wiped the data had simply deleted the files it might still be possible to recover them although he suspected that they would have known this too and over-written them. Still, as someone — he couldn’t quite remember who — used to say about every idea that was mooted, it was worth a try. With the computer safely concealed in the boot of the Ford he called Sci-Med and spoke to the duty-officer.

‘I want to call a code-red on the Sebring investigation,’ he said.

‘I’ll set things in motion,’ replied the man. ‘Would you like me to inform Mr Macmillan?’

Steven said that he would. Calling a code-red was the way Sci-Med investigators signalled that a situation they had been asked to appraise should now be regarded as an official Sci-Med investigation. It was not something they were encouraged to do lightly and certainly not without being sure that there was some particular aspect of the case that Sci-Med should concern itself with. Once this was agreed, the authorities in all relevant areas would be made aware of the situation and be required to comply with any request for information or assistance that might come their way. In addition to smoothing the way locally, Sci-Med would also provide a full range of back-up services ranging from financial — through the issue of two credit cards — to the supply of a weapon should this be deemed necessary.

As Steven expected he might, John Macmillan phoned him back within the hour, asking for details. Steven explained where he was and of the circumstances that had prompted him to call a code red, in particular the link between the dead journalist and George Sebring.

‘Have you any idea what Sebring told him? asked Macmillan.

‘Only that it concerned the Gulf War.’

‘That in itself does not make it Sci-Med’s concern,’ Macmillan reminded him.

‘I’m pretty sure Sebring’s work at Porton Down comes into it,’ said Steven. He told Macmillan what the Leicester police had discovered about Sebring’s Scottish visitor and of the conversation he’d subsequently had with Maclean in Glasgow.

‘I think Sebring was suffering pangs of conscience about something he’d been involved in at Porton. It’s my bet that he confessed all to Martin Hendry and now they’re both dead.’

‘I see,’ said Macmillan. He said it as if he was already thinking one step ahead. ‘How… unfortunate.’

‘I’m sure they’d agree,’ said Steven, mildly irked by Macmillan’s use of establishment understatement, something he had a particular dislike of.

‘I was actually considering who might have wanted to keep them quiet,’ said Macmillan, leaving Steven wishing that he hadn’t been so hasty. He now saw what Macmillan was getting at. There was only one clear candidate for having a vested interest in the men’s silence and it looked terribly like Her Majesty’s Government.

‘Have the MOD come up with anything yet?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Macmillan. ‘But if you’re intent on calling a code red I’ll speak to the Defence Secretary personally. In fact, in the circumstances, I think I’d better had anyway…’

‘I don’t think you should say anything about Hendry’s death being murder. The police haven’t called it that yet.’ said Steven.

‘Very well. Anything else?’

‘You could ask the secretary about something called the First Field Laboratory Unit,’ said Steven.

‘Ask him what?’ said Macmillan.

‘Does it exist?’ said Steven.

Steven told the police when they finally arrived in the form of an inspector and a sergeant sent up from Perth that Hendry was someone — one of a number of people — he had been seeking to question in connection with an ongoing investigation. He hadn’t known the man personally or anything at all about him, other than the fact that he was a journalist. He’d found him dead on arrival at the cabin and had immediately called the police. He neglected to mention anything about the marks he’d found on Hendry’s wrists. He thought he’d let the police medical examiner do that in his own good time. For the moment, an apparent case of suicide meant that he would get away from the cabin much quicker.

‘Well, Inspector, if you don’t need me any more…’ said Steven, preparing to leave.

‘Why do they do it?’ mused the inspector, a short, portly man, who exuded the air of a park-bench philosopher. He was standing by the bed, reading the label on the empty pill bottle.

Steven shook his head.

‘England daein shite in the World Cup wouldn’t have helped,’ said his sour-faced sergeant. Then looking at Steven, he added, ‘Nae offence like.’

Steven considered staying overnight at the hotel in Blair Atholl but suspected that the only topic of conversation in the bar would be Hendry’s death, something that would quickly become public knowledge if Blair Atholl were like any other village. Instead he drove south to Pitlochry and booked into a small hotel where he felt he could be anonymous. After a few gin and tonics he opted for early bed and spent a restless night, plagued by bad dreams of a man being tied to a chair while whisky and pills were forced down him. He was glad when morning came and he could drive down to Glasgow Airport to catch a flight back to London.

When he picked up his e-mail at the flat, Steven learned that Macmillan wanted to see him at two that afternoon ‘should he find it convenient’. He smiled at Macmillan’s turn of phrase — he’d never known the man to be anything other than polite. He phoned Rose Roberts to say he’d be there.

It was such a nice day in London that Steven decided to walk to the Home Office. The pavements were crowded but he was in no hurry and it was good to feel part of summer in the capital for a little while. Scaffolders whistled at pretty girls who self-consciously ignored them while tourists photographed and videoed just about everything in sight. Policemen were in shirt-sleeves and ice cream cones melted in the hands of children.

Steven found John Macmillan looking thoughtful. He waited until Rose had placed a tray with two coffees and a plate of biscuits on his desk before saying, ‘I spoke to the Defence Secretary last night.’

‘And he told you to pull the investigation,’ said Steven. ‘He said it wasn’t in the national interest?’

Macmillan took a moment before saying, ‘I’d ask you what makes you so cynical about our political masters if I didn’t know already,’ said Macmillan. He was referring to a previous Sci-Med investigation in which Steven had been asked to take a look at problems connected with the planting of a genetically modified maize crop. He had succeeded in opening up a can of worms which had brought him into conflict with a dark side of government that he hadn’t even realised existed and it had nearly cost him his life. He survived but the affair had jaundiced his view of the establishment. His previous conviction that he worked for the ‘good guys’ had been seriously questioned.

‘No such request was made,’ said Macmillan. ‘Nor would it have been complied with if it had. Sci-Med is and always has been independent — something maintained at no little cost to myself over the years, I must remind you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Steven and meant it. He knew very well how often Macmillan had gone to war within government to keep Sci-Med free of the influence of other bodies. It was also widely believed to be the reason why he was still plain ‘Mr’ instead of ‘Sir John’.

‘The minister was responding to my earlier request for information,’ said Macmillan. ‘During his time at Porton Down, George Sebring was assigned to a research group who were working on a vaccine against AIDS. Sebring was an expert on the antigenicity of viral proteins, whatever that means.’

‘Antigens stimulate the production of antibodies in the body,’ said Steven. ‘If you can separate out a few key proteins from a virus you can stimulate the production of antibodies against them which in turn will attack the whole virus.’

‘Thank you,’ said Macmillan.

Steven thought for a moment before saying, ‘But Sebring had a nervous breakdown.’

‘What’s your point?’ asked Macmillan, seeing that nothing more was forthcoming.

‘Working on a vaccine against AIDS is going to get you a round of applause in any company,’ said Steven. ‘Possibly even a Blue Peter badge and a front-row seat in heaven. Why on earth should he have a nervous breakdown while he was engaged on something so noble? Why should he suddenly decide he had to up sticks and work elsewhere?’

‘Well, who’s to say,’ said Macmillan, looking down at his desk as if forced to agree but unwilling to acknowledge the fact. ‘There may have been other factors going on in his life at the time, things we don’t know about.’

‘And we can’t ask him now because somebody murdered him to keep his mouth shut,’ said Steven.

‘I don’t believe the Defence Secretary was lying,’ said Macmillan.

‘I’m not suggesting that he was,’ said Steven. ‘But he may have been ‘advised’ wrongly. We both know that cabinet ministers are at the mercy of career civil servants when it comes to getting information. There’s a lot they don’t know and a lot perhaps — when it suits them — they don’t even want to know.’

Macmillan appeared to concede the point. ‘So what do you want to do?’

‘I don’t suppose the minister said who the other members of Sebring’s group at Porton were?’ asked Steven.

‘Only that it was led by a chap named Dr Donald Crowe,’ replied Macmillan. When he saw a slight smile appear on Steven’s face he added, ‘Did I say something amusing?’

Steven said, ‘Crowe turned up at Sebring’s funeral. Sebring’s wife told me he was there to make sure that Sebring hadn’t left anything about his work at Porton lying around.’ He added, ‘I suppose you wouldn’t want any information about a vaccine left lying around…’

‘I think you’ve made your point,’ said Macmillan.

Steven took a sip of his coffee before asking, ‘Did you ask the minister about the 1^st Field Laboratory Unit?’

‘It doesn’t exist,’ said Macmillan.

Steven replaced his cup in the saucer. ‘Really?’ he said.

‘But he concedes that it did,’ continued Macmillan. ‘Apparently it was conceived as long ago as the First World War but was then disbanded until the time of the Gulf War when they re-commissioned it. It comprised a team of forty men who were used in teams of five to monitor the potential use of chemical and biological weapons. They were known officially as “The Secret Team”. Each member was sworn to secrecy under the terms of the Official Secrets Act and it wasn’t and isn’t government policy to acknowledge their existence.’

‘I don’t suppose the minister explained why the government of the day ignored every report the unit ever made?’ asked Steven.

‘Indirectly, I think he did,’ said Macmillan. ‘A great deal of pressure was forthcoming from our American allies at the time. Because of that it was decided that Saddam’s use of CB weapons should be… underplayed, I think was the minister’s word.’

‘Because the Americans had supplied them to him?’

‘Regrettably and embarrassingly, yes.’

‘That fits with what I’ve heard,’ said Steven. ‘Angus Maclean, the Scotsman who called on Sebring before his death, maintains he was a member of the unit although, of course, the MOD denies it.’

‘Well, it was a secret organisation,’ said Macmillan. ‘By rights he could be prosecuted under the act for even revealing that fact.’

‘I think that’s why he keeps telling people,’ said Steven. ‘He wants to be prosecuted so he could say what he has to say in open court. He’s convinced that his wife and daughter are dead because of something that Porton did, something that Sebring was involved in, something that Sebring may even have confessed to Martin Hendry.’

‘I see you’re determined to get your teeth into this,’ said Macmillan.

‘Code red?’ asked Steven.

‘Code green,’ replied Macmillan, giving his assent. ‘Be careful and keep me informed.’

Steven left the Home Office and walked down to the river to enjoy what remained of the afternoon sunshine. He was pleased that he had been given the go-ahead but with Sebring and Hendry both dead it was difficult to see how he should proceed. The only other name he had was that of Donald Crowe, who had been head of Sebring’s group at Porton and who still worked there. It didn’t seem at all likely that Crowe was going to admit to anything illegal, immoral or embarrassing when his sole purpose in attending Sebring’s funeral had been to make sure that nothing had been left lying around.

He supposed it was still possible that Jane Sebring might know more than she’d told him or that Martin Hendry had left a copy of his story or maybe some notes at another location — his home in Manchester, for instance. As for the other members of the group, they might be a better bet than Crowe but they would still be subject to the Official Secrets Act. Apart from that he didn’t know their names and suspected that Crowe might be less than helpful should he request them. Doing that would also alert the establishment to what he was up to and that might be a bad idea in the present circumstances. It occurred to him that Gus Maclean might know who the other group members were. He might even have spoken to them in his personal quest to discover the truth. Maclean would be an unofficial source and he was certainly no friend of the establishment. He settled on the idea of asking Maclean.

Steven decided that he would travel north in stages. First he would pay another call on Jane Sebring: she had already been helpful in putting him on to Martin Hendry. He also had an excuse for doing so because he had promised to keep her informed about how he was getting on. If he didn’t learn any more from her he would go to Manchester to investigate Martin Hendry’s home circumstances. He would ask Sci-Med to find out his address, marital status and so on and get them to arrange with the Manchester police for a search warrant. If he still hadn’t come up with anything after that, he would go back to Glasgow to speak to Gus Maclean again.

A Thames river launch, water creaming from its bow and crowded with laughing tourists, passed by as he paused for a moment to look at the river. Three girls standing near the stern, dressed in summer frocks and straw hats, waved to him and he waved back. It made them giggle and made him think how happy and carefree they looked. He felt envious.

Contentment was a state of mind that had moved beyond his grasp since Lisa’s death and reminders of this had a habit of popping up at odd moments, whether in observing the lives of others or seeing the girls on the boat.

But was it really because of Lisa’s death that he felt this way he wondered as he looked down at the muddy water. If he were being honest he would have to admit to being the type of person who, when he was here, wanted to be there, and when he was there, wanted to be here. His time with Lisa may have provided a respite from this because he had had been truly happy with her, but his restless side had always been present. It had just resurfaced after her death. There was no real fundamental reason for it; it was just the way he was.

Coming close to death on a number of occasions had encouraged him to adopt a live-for-today policy rather than one based on any long-term plans but he’d come to recognise that this had more merit as an excuse than a philosophy. Tomorrow wouldn’t always take care of itself and he had a daughter to consider. He’d done his best to take this responsibility seriously in recent times: he would now think twice before putting himself in dangerous situations, reminding himself that Jenny would benefit more from having a living father than a dead hero to remember.

He phoned his daughter twice a week to be updated with what she was doing and tried to get up to Scotland as often as he could to take her out and about. But despite this, he knew in his heart that she had come to regard his sister-in-law, Sue, and her husband, Richard, as her real parents. This was no bad thing for Jenny because she was obviously a perfectly happy little girl but it had left him with feelings of regret over what might have been.

Steven had had enough of self-analysis. What he wanted right now was a beer. He would have a pint of Guinness at a riverside pub and start thinking about more practical matters.

‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ said Donald Crowe. ‘It’s almost midnight.’

‘Just taking precautions,’ replied Cecil Mowbray. ‘It’s probably just professional paranoia but I thought I was being followed when I left the flat.’

Crowe looked alarmed but Mowbray waved away his concern. ‘I’ve been in the business too long,’ he said. ‘I like to err on the side of caution. I moved back and forth across the city changing taxis until I was quite sure there wasn’t a problem.’

‘Why should anyone want to follow you?’ asked Crowe.

‘No reason at all,’ replied Mowbray, looking Crowe in the eye. ‘Unless of course, you know different?’

‘I haven’t said anything to anyone,’ said Crowe, hearing accusation in what Mowbray had said.

‘But?’ asked Mowbray, thinking he detected a slight hesitation in Crowe’s voice.

‘A man named Steven Dunbar turned up at George Sebring’s funeral,’ said Crowe. ‘He steered clear of me but I knew him. He’s an investigator with the Sci-Med Inspectorate. He’s sent stuff to Porton for analysis in the past and even asked for advice on occasion although not from me personally.’

‘I don’t think we should read too much into it,’ said Mowbray. ‘Sci-Med’s computer would have picked up on the fact that Sebring had been murdered and that he’d worked at Porton Down at one time in his career. Actually, that murder verdict was down to a bit of bad luck: any other pathologist would have been happy to put it down as suicide.’

‘What about Sebring talking to that journalist?’ said Crowe.

‘I don’t think Sci-Med know anything about that,’ said Mowbray.

‘How did you find out about it?’ said Crowe.

‘His phone,’ said Mowbray. ‘We’ve been keeping tabs on all the Beta team since the papers broke the story about government plans to use up the old vaccine.’

‘Sci-Med asked the MOD about Sebring’s work at Porton,’ said Crowe. ‘The MOD got on to our director and he asked me to respond.’

‘As it should be,’ smiled Mowbray. ‘I take it you told him he was working on a vaccine against AIDS?’

Crowe nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘No need to worry then,’ said Mowbray. ‘I had lunch with Everley yesterday. He’s getting restless: thinks we’re not keeping him in the picture.’

‘He makes me nervous,’ said Crowe. ‘I’m still not sure asking him was a good idea.’

‘We needed his money,’ said Mowbray. ‘But I know what you mean. I don’t see him as a problem. He’s a type. He’s made a mint in business and then discovered money wasn’t enough; he wants power; he wants public recognition. He’s deeply in love with himself and wants others to share his fascination. He’d give his eye teeth to become an MP and probably his balls to become a minister. He sees us as his best chance.’

‘Why do you think he failed before? A three time loser isn’t he?’

‘The party kept putting him up for seats he couldn’t possibly win,’ said Mowbray. ‘I think they had reservations about him too but like us, they saw the attraction of his cash.’

‘He’s going to expect a return on his investment this time,’ said Crowe.

‘True,’ agreed Mowbray. ‘I’ve done my best to convince him that he’s going to finish up as the honourable member for somewhere or other but if he starts being a problem he has more skeletons in the cupboard than a medical school — and I’ve got the negatives.’

‘You have a file on him?’

‘Are you serious?’ said Mowbray. ‘A multi-millionaire businessman with political ambitions? We’ve got a small novel.’

‘Well, you seem to have thought of everything,’ said Crowe.

‘How are things with you?’

‘I’ve been in touch with a few names on the group database and they’ve given me the information I need to make final plans. It’s looking good.’

‘Excellent.’

‘I don’t suppose you caught Newsnight?’ asked Crowe.

‘I was in a taxi,’ Mowbray reminded him. ‘Why?’

‘The government have given in to demands that old military vaccine stocks should be destroyed. The troops will be given all new stuff.’

‘Only right,’ smiled Mowbray.