The Secret

SEVENTEEN

After an hour, Steven’s initial feeling that he was looking at trivial crimes which had nothing to do with Sci-Med started to falter as he picked up on a puzzling feature about the whole ME affair. He paused to make more coffee and was cursing the fact that his Gaggia espresso maker was leaking all over the place when the phone rang. He thought it might be Philippe Le Grice, but it was Tally.

‘Good news, I’ve got an evening off. Can you come up?’

Another guilt attack. ‘Tally, I can’t. I’ve got to get a report ready by tomorrow morning.’

‘What a pity.’

‘I’m already way behind.’

‘Ah me, then my disappointment will probably lead to the appearance of the wicked witch of the west on the wards tomorrow. Think of the children, Steven, think of the poor children…’

Steven couldn’t help smiling as he started to waver.

‘You could always work on your report… afterwards?’

‘I’m on my way. Book us in for dinner somewhere nice.’

Steven found himself sitting at Tally’s kitchen table at two in the morning, wearing T-shirt and boxer shorts, working on his report for Macmillan. The one saving grace was that he did feel perfectly relaxed. Tally was sleeping soundly.

The same feeling of puzzlement he’d felt earlier reappeared as he moved through the file making occasional notes about time and place. Ostensibly, the ME protesters, whoever they were, were objecting to government money's being put into psychiatric evaluation instead of what they regarded as proper research — a hunt for the virus causing the condition… so why on earth were they targeting the very people who were carrying out the sort of research they wanted? Why weren’t they attacking the psychiatrists and psychologists who were getting the grant money? Why weren’t they labelling their efforts as pointless and a waste of time? And who were the people carrying out the attacks? They didn’t seem to have any official voice. Anyone from the ME groups willing to be interviewed seemed to deplore what they saw as crude publicity stunts. The perpetrators always seemed to be people unknown to the official bodies.

The explanation given by them for attacking microbiologists — almost exclusively appearing in the form of graffiti because no one was ever willing to justify their actions in person — was that the scientists weren’t doing their job properly: they couldn’t be if they hadn’t found the virus; they must be deliberately delaying to keep themselves in a job. There seemed to be no appreciation of the fact that if the protesters kept harassing and attacking these people, perhaps forcing them to change fields, there would be no one left looking for a biological cause at all.

Steven shook his head in bemusement. ‘Why, why, why?’ he murmured.

‘Delilah,’ whispered a sleepy voice behind him. Tally put her arms round him. ‘God, I feel so guilty. You’re working through the night and all because of my need for your gorgeous body…’

‘Understandable,’ murmured Steven.

‘Bastard.’

‘Ah, the fickleness of women…’

‘How’s your report going?’

‘I’ve got enough to make Sir John believe I’ve been working my bottom off… which gives me an idea…’ said Steven, getting up and turning to enfold Tally, his hands placed firmly on her buttocks.

‘No, no,’ she giggled. ‘The report… the report…’

John Macmillan sat at his desk, massaging his temples as he thought about what Steven had said. ‘God, nothing is ever straightforward, is it?’ he complained. ‘Let me get this straight. You seem to be suggesting that someone other than the ME sufferers might be behind the attacks on researchers because they want to stop research being carried out on it?’

‘I’m just saying it’s a possibility,’ said Steven. ‘Otherwise the attacks don’t make sense. Why scare people out of doing what you want them to do in the first place?’

‘Mmm.’

Steven had to stifle a yawn behind his hand.

‘Am I boring you?’ snapped Macmillan. He didn’t miss much.

‘Sorry. Insomnia… lot on my mind.’

‘As I recall, you were going to the North lab yesterday?’

Steven took a deep breath. ‘Yes and I’m glad I did. I’m pretty sure I know who killed Simone, and possibly Aline as well.’

Macmillan turned round, his eyes wide. ‘You know?’

‘Mainly thanks to Jean’s work in getting me background info on the people attending the Prague meeting. I think Simone’s death was caused by two of the official participants, one an American aid administrator named Bill Andrews who’s almost certainly CIA, and a Pakistani doctor named Ranjit Khan. He’s almost certainly Pakistani intelligence.’

Steven went on to fill in the details leading to his conclusion, ending with, ‘I’m waiting to hear back from Inspector Le Grice about Khan’s movements.’

Macmillan had returned to his desk. ‘Do you have any thoughts on why they did it?’

Steven shook his head. ‘I’m convinced there’s some kind of two-tier cover-up going on. Some of the big players — maybe even our own government — believe they’re conspiring with the Americans to keep the use of fake teams by the CIA hunting for Bin Laden a secret. It’s not that they approve of it: they simply don’t want to damage the polio eradication initiative beyond repair. But that’s not all they’re doing. They’re unwittingly helping to cover up something else.’

‘Which is?’

‘I don’t know.’

Macmillan looked thoughtful, almost trance-like, as he considered what Steven had told him. It was a look Steven recognised and respected: he waited patiently for the outcome.

‘Difficult,’ began Macmillan. ‘We’re short of friends. The involvement of MI6, the CIA, Pakistani intelligence and God knows who else means that we can’t look for help in either working out what’s going on or in seeking justice for your friend. The only vulnerable point would appear to be Dr Hausman. Before Jean’s painstaking work there was a chance that he might just have sent on the samples on to Porton because he’d been told to, but in the light of Jean’s findings about him and the supposed pharmaceutical company sponsoring him that must be deemed unlikely. He must know what’s going on.’

Steven couldn’t fault Macmillan’s logic. ‘Unfortunately, we don’t have a pretext for arresting or even questioning him. He’s done nothing wrong.’

Macmillan went into thoughtful mode again before coming up with, ‘If what you say is true about there being a two-tier cover-up… perhaps we could jolt the well-meaning cover-upper into asking some embarrassing questions of their colleagues.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Exposing Dr Hausman’s Fort Detrick background and CIA connections along with the questionable credentials of his sponsor pharmaceutical company, Reeman Losch. People might then start to wonder what else the CIA have been up to.’

‘Divide and conquer.’

‘I can’t see us doing much conquering,’ countered Macmillan. ‘But a bit of a rift might be a start.’

‘How will you do it?’ asked Steven.

Macmillan glanced at his watch. ‘I’m having lunch with the director of MI5 today. I’ll ask openly about Hausman and Reeman Losch. No doubt he’ll… mention our interest.’

‘Light blue touch paper and retire immediately,’ said Steven, remembering the old firework warning.

‘In the meantime,’ said Macmillan, looking thoughtful, ‘I’m going to take you off the ME thing and pass it over to one of your colleagues. If what you’ve worked out about this two-tier cover-up business proves correct, you’ve got enough on your plate. All right with you?’

‘Absolutely. Who’s the lucky boy?’

‘I think I’ll give it to Scott Jamieson. He’s done a good job in uncovering the hospital supplies scam up in Manchester. It’s time to hand that one over to the police. He’ll welcome a new challenge.’

‘He’s a good bloke,’ said Steven.

‘All right to brief him with your thoughts on the subject?’

‘Of course.’

Steven returned to his office, pausing to thank Jean Roberts for the excellent work she’d done on screening the people at the Prague meeting.

‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘Can I get you some coffee?’

Steven was sipping his coffee and thinking about Tally when his phone went. It was Philippe Le Grice in Paris.

‘I have some news for you.’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Very. You were right in your suspicions. Dr Khan did not return to Pakistan immediately after the Prague meeting. He was a passenger on board a flight from Prague to Paris the day before Simone Ricard’s funeral.’

‘So he was in Paris when Aline was killed?’

‘There’s no doubt about it. He left France the morning after Aline Lagarde’s murder.’

‘He’s your man, Philippe.’

‘Thank you, Steven. I only hope we can prove it and restore Dr Lagarde’s reputation, but I suspect it won’t be that easy. A DNA match might do it, but as you might expect from a hotel room, we have DNA profiles for a number of unidentified individuals. I just hope we get the chance to compare them with Khan’s.’

‘It might be a good idea to make sure the samples you have are kept in a secure place considering third party involvement in the case,’ suggested Steven.

‘Quite so.’

Steven thanked Le Grice for his valuable help. Now that he had proof that Andrews had been lying about Khan, not only about knowing him but about his movements after the Prague meeting, he was certain in his own mind that Andrews and Khan were responsible for the murders of Simone and Aline Lagarde. Or should that be the CIA and Pakistani intelligence?

‘There’s one more thing,’ said Le Grice. ‘When Khan left France he didn’t fly to Pakistan.’

‘No?’

‘He boarded a flight to London.’