Miasma

Thirteen

‘How was your meeting?’ asked Jane.

‘Less than informative,’ Steven replied.

‘Of course, your lady is still in DRC,’ exclaimed Jane. ‘I’m sorry, I’d forgotten about that. I heard they’d announced a new outbreak just after the previous one had been declared over, what was that all about?’

‘They had to call it a new outbreak because genetic analysis by the lab found it was being caused by a new strain of Ebola.’

‘Does that make it better or worse?’

‘I don’t think anyone knows,’ Steven replied, still feeling frustrated by the lack of information given at the meeting he’d just attended. ‘The new outbreak is in a wild, bandit-infested region of the country where no one really knows what the hell’s going on. You can’t get access to any significant data. At the moment, no one knows how many cases there have been or how many deaths and that situation spreads fear and alarm everywhere else in the country. Frankly, I just want Tally out of there.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘Sorry for being such a pain.’

‘No problem, let’s get some fresh air.’

They left the Houses of Parliament and stepped out into the sunshine of what was a beautiful, clear day to start walking over Westminster Bridge.

Steven looked up at the cloudless sky and said, ‘I feel better already.’

Jane paused at the half way point and leaned on the parapet to take in the view. ‘He was right,’ she said.

‘Sorry?’

‘Wordsworth.’

‘Of course,’ said Steven, ‘Earth hath not anything to show more fair than...’

‘... the view from Westminster Bridge,’ Jane completed.

They continued their walk, exchanging other possible candidates for the best view title. Jane offered having seen the Taj Mahal by moonlight and Steven countered with sunrise on Fujiyama in Japan, when his attention was diverted by the sight of a speeding vehicle entering the bridge. It looked all wrong.

The car, a Range Rover, was not weaving at all, it just seemed to be travelling far too fast. Jane saw it too. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed. ‘What the hell does he think he’s...’

‘Get up on the parapet!’ Steven yelled above the noise of Range Rover engine which was being revved too high in low gear. He himself leapt up on the wall and turned to help Jane who was attempting to do the same, but, in high heels, her leading foot failed to make it and she fell down just as the Range Rover swerved to mount the pavement and its nearside front wheel hit her other leg on its way to scrape along the parapet wall. Jane’s screams filled the air.

The vehicle came to a halt after twenty metres or so, but its engine was still running and Steven suddenly realised that the driver intended to reverse back over Jane’s prostrate body. He took out his pistol and emptied the magazine through the rear window of the vehicle, aiming at where the driver would be although privacy glass prevented him having a clear view of the outcome. Mercifully, the vehicle scraped further into the parapet wall and its engine died.

Steven dropped down on to the pavement to help Jane whose injured limb was lying at a nightmarish angle to her body, crushed and twisted and with bright scarlet blood pumping out from a severed artery. His first thought was to stop the bleeding, he had to stop the bleeding. He threw off his jacket, following up by tearing off his shirt, despite the difficulty of having his shoulder holster in the way. He needed strips of material fast so he tore away at it until he had a useful strip of sleeve to wind around an area high up on Jane’s thigh.

The sound of police sirens grew louder as he fought to get the impromptu tourniquet tight enough to stem the crimson tide. Amazingly, Jane was not unconscious, she was semi-conscious and speaking in garbled fashion as if in the throes of a bad dream, but she was still able to respond with screams to the added pain Steven was causing her by doing what he had to do, STOP THE BLEEDING.

He couldn’t see the exact area where the blood was coming from because of her blood-soaked clothing and there was no time to investigate. The only thing that mattered was getting the tourniquet into place anywhere above the disaster area and he was relieved to see this happen just as he became aware of black-clad, armed and masked police all around them. They were shouting at him, telling him to do things he had no intention of complying with. He was holding the tourniquet, but knew it wasn’t tight enough. He needed something rod-shaped to insert into the weak knot he’d managed, something which would allow him to twist it round and increase the pressure. The repetitive shouting continued and prompted him to start shouting back, yelling who he and Jane were and what he was trying to do, although feeling that it should be bloody obvious. ‘You’ll find ID in my jacket.’

Steven saw his empty pistol lying beside him and realised that the barrel would do for tightening the tourniquet. He picked it up... and one of the policemen shot him.

The view from Westminster Bridge was anything but fair, it was black... jet black.

Steven regained consciousness, but not in a slow, sleepy way. His mind was suddenly full of twisted, broken limbs, scarlet fountains of blood and men in black pointing guns at him. He tried sitting up in alarm but pain in his head suggested that was not a good idea. He was lowered back down by caring hands and a female voice soothed him as he gazed up at a white hospital ceiling.

‘Welcome back,’ said the voice and Steven looked up at a young nurse who was quickly joined by another.

‘I’m alive,’ said Steven, sounding puzzled. ‘The police shot me, but I’m alive.’

‘One policeman shot you,’ said one of the nurses. ‘He was a bit hyped when he saw you pick up a gun. The armed police commander had heard what you had said and had decided against shooting you. When he saw one of the younger officers, fuelled by nerves, tighten his trigger finger he nudged the man’s weapon upwards with the barrel of his own, but a bullet creased the area near your temple.’

‘Jane!’ exclaimed Steven as everything came flooding back. ‘What happened to Jane?’

‘She’s in theatre as we speak. If it was you who applied the tourniquet to her leg, you saved her life.’

‘Her leg...’ said Steven, remembering the dreadful damage.

‘Too early to say.’

‘God, it was a mess.’

The nurse nodded.

The other nurse said, ‘There are lots of people waiting to talk to you when you wake up, but we won’t tell them if you don’t want to see anyone just yet.’

Steven said, ‘Thanks, but I think I should.’

The nurses left the room, leaving the door slightly open, which allowed a variety of hospital sounds to reach him as he relaxed on the pillow looking for any blemish in the smooth white of the ceiling. The musical background sounds of some radio or television programme was interrupted by a dramatic announcement of, ‘yet another terrorist outrage in central London.’

Steven strained to hear more but John Macmillan came into the room and closed the door behind him.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘Just a scratch as they used to say in Western movies,’ Steven replied.

‘A bit more than that I understand,’ said Macmillan, ‘anther half inch and...’

‘I knew someone was bound to point out just how lucky I’d been,’ said Steven. ‘They tell me Jane is in theatre?’

Macmillan nodded. ‘No news as yet.’

‘And the guy who did it?’

‘Dead.’

‘Just the one?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ said Steven bitterly. ‘Terror related or lone wolf as they tend to call nutters these days?’

‘He was Russian.’

‘Ouch,’ said Steven after a short silence. ‘You know, that was the last though I had before the bastard went for us. The car wasn’t weaving; the driver wasn’t interested in killing anyone else, he headed straight for Jane and I. We were his targets.’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Looks like the Prime Minister was right when she suggested enough money will get you a mole in any organisation.’

‘I hope you’re not including Sci-Med in that assertion.’

‘No,’ said Steven. ‘Mind you, if Jean turns up next week driving a Maserati Ghibli and wearing a rock the size of Gibraltar...’

‘Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour,’ said Macmillan. ‘Let’s hope she keeps hers when I tell her what you said...’

‘Jean and I are okay,’ said Steven attempting a smile which hurt his head, causing him to gasp and Macmillan to get to his feet. ‘Take it easy,’ he said.

‘Who else is out there?’ Steven asked.

‘Various senior policemen from a number of different groups, but I and the head of MI6 will head them off: we have the Home Secretary’s approval. I also took the liberty of saying that you would not be making a complaint to the Police Complaints Commission about being shot.’

Steven nodded and said, ‘But maybe they shouldn’t wire them to the mains before sending them out on the streets with automatic weapons.’

‘It’s difficult,’ said Macmillan, ‘They have to believe they’re on the edge of disaster every time they’re called out.’

‘How about the car and the dead Russian?’

‘All gone, never happened, all a misunderstanding blown up by rumours, witnesses are famed for exaggeration; there will be no police or any kind of official confirmation to support what they think they saw happen.’

‘Fake news,’ said Steven.

‘Fake news,’ agreed Macmillan. ‘Time to rest your furrowed brow — no pun intended.’

Every time a nurse came in to check his pulse and blood pressure Steven would ask for news of Jane Sherman, only to be told that she was still in surgery. This went on until early evening when he noticed a certain reluctance in the nurse who came in to change his bandage. Sensing bad news, he didn’t ask immediately; he gave the nurse time to prepare her delivery.

‘Your colleague is out of theatre and she is stable...’

‘But?’

‘They couldn’t save her leg, I’m sorry.’

Steven nodded. He had the seen the awful mess her leg had been in, but felt there was no harm in wishing for a miracle.

‘Thanks,’ Steven murmured, ‘when do you think I’ll be able to see her?’

‘Mr Naismith — her surgeon — thinks it would be better to wait until the morning.’

Steven nodded again. ‘Okay.’

Next morning, Steven went through the hospital discharge routines before being allowed to get dressed, wishing that Macmillan might have cut through that red tape as well, but he hadn’t. Forms had to be completed in duplicate and signed by people who weren’t there at the moment but should be around soon. A request to the pharmacy for a supply of painkillers for his headache was being delayed due to lack of staff and his suggestion that he could deal with that himself was met with a rules is rules reply and a bit of tongue biting on his part.

The first thing Steven saw when he opened the door of the room the room was an armed policeman and it gave him a bad moment: he had overlooked the fact that there might be a police guard put on himself and Jane after what had happened. He had come so close to becoming a corpse riddled by ‘friendly fire’. He didn’t react outwardly, nor did he smile at the officer when the man held out his shoulder holster with the Glock in place. ‘Sir John asked that this be returned to you, sir.’

‘Is it loaded?’

‘No, sir, but it’s been cleaned and oiled.’ The officer handed a separate supply of 9mm ammunition. ‘People usually like to do that themselves.’

Steven nodded his agreement and backed into the room to do just that, looking out the window when he’d finished to consider the past twenty-four hours. He had just reloaded the gun that he’d used to kill someone yesterday, a day on which he himself had come so close to dying and, now... it was a brand-new day... and he was about to go see a colleague who had lost one of her legs. What would he say?

He let out a slight involuntary sound when he suddenly thought about the Today programme that he and Tally listened to in the morning. There came a point in the proceedings — Thought for The Day — when someone, usually of a religious persuasion, was invited to contribute their wisdom. ‘Well, sunshine,’ he thought, ‘what would you make of that one?’

As he left the room, the officer said, ‘Harry Thomson.’

Steven gave him an enquiring look.

‘The officer who shot you, he said to say sorry... he’s having counselling.’

Steven thought for a moment before saying, ‘Tell him... these things happen.’

‘Not long,’ said the nurse who held open the door to Jane Sherman’s room.

Steven entered and immediately stopped, unsure of what reaction to expect. Jane was lying with her cheek on the pillow, seemingly peaceful but looking very different to how he’d ever seen her in the past. She had always been the kind of person who gave away very little through facial expression — she didn’t smile much, nor did she tend to show annoyance; she had an invisible barrier between herself and the outside world. People had to wait for words to come, but that had all gone. She looked like the kind of person who was an open book, someone at peace with herself.

Steven supposed that pain-killing medication must be playing a part of all of this, but this wasn’t what he had expected. He approached and said her name softly.

Jane opened her eyes and turned her head slowly. ‘Steven, how are you?’

It seemed such a ridiculous question in the circumstances that Steven shook his head and said, ‘A scratch, but you...’

Jane interrupted with a raise of the hand. ‘Ssh, what’s happened has happened. Let’s not go through it all. Six pays me for my intellect, not running the two hundred metres hurdles...’

‘You are something else, lady,’ said Steven.

‘That’s also why Six pays me,’ said Jane.

‘Yes,’ agreed Steven and he meant it.

‘I don’t remember much after the car hit me, but I have a vague notion of gunfire. You?’

‘Yes.’

‘Islamic terrorist?’

‘A Russian hood, he was after us and no one else.’

‘Nice to know it wasn’t an accident. Did the police get him?’

‘No, I did... I shot him.’

‘Dead?’

‘Very.’

‘Before he could be offered counselling, understanding and an inquiry into his troubled past?’

Steven caught Jane’s mood. He looked at the flat area under the sheets where her left leg would have been and leaned closer. ‘I blew him to Kingdom come,’ he whispered.

A smile appeared on Jane’s lips. ‘Someone has to go after the bad guys, Steven.’ She closed her eyes and Steven nodded to the nurse who had appeared in the doorway.

John Macmillan tried to argue Steven out of going to Porton Down to witness the opening of Petrov’s flask. ‘You should take it easy for a couple of days, you never know with head wounds.’

‘I’m fine, really I am,’ Steven insisted, ‘but I could do with a smaller dressing. This thing is too dramatic.’ He touched the white bandage that had been wrapped round his head, just in his opinion, to keep a smaller square dressing in place.

‘I’ll fetch the first-aid box,’ said Jean.

Steven picked what he needed and went off to find a mirror. He returned with a small dressing, taped in place over his wound.

‘Good job,’ said Jean, ‘attracts less attention.’

‘And questions,’ said Steven.

‘I don’t want you going alone,’ said John Macmillan. He said it as if this wasn’t a sudden thought.

‘I don’t need a baby sitter,’ said Steven.

‘No, you don’t,’ Macmillan agreed, ‘but you’ve become a target for a bunch of powerful Russian criminals. I’ve asked Scott Jamieson to go with you... on the ground that the only thing better than an armed Sci-Med agent is two, armed Sci-Med agents. He’s on his way up from Kent. The Home Secretary is alerting Porton to the change in personnel.’

Steven smiled and said, ‘He’s already made a big contribution to the investigation and there’s no one I’d rather have guarding my back.’

‘That’s settled then, although Jamieson did make one condition... There’s no way on Earth he’s going to travel in that open-top Porsche of yours.’

‘The man has no taste...’

‘I’m taking no chances, I’ve arranged helicopter travel for the pair of you.’

Later, the two men drove to the designated helipad in Scott Jamieson’s Jaguar saloon.

‘Sounds like the old man’s being ultra-cautious,’ said Scott, ‘You must have upset someone real bad.’

‘Or MI6 did,’ said Steven.

‘So, what do you think is in this flask?’ Jamieson asked.

‘The best guess at the moment is that it’s some new synthetic drug, so addictive it will entrap an entire new generation.’

‘Aren’t heroin and crack cocaine good enough?’

‘With synthetics, all you need is a laboratory. There’s nothing to be grown and harvested, nothing to transport half way across the world, an end to the struggle of avoiding police and customs and coast guards and the like when it’s on the move,’ said Steven.

‘I guess,’ said Scott. ‘Put that way, you could have pop-up drug labs all over the place — very fashionable.’

‘Trust you to see a business opportunity.’

‘Are you on board with the drug theory?’

‘Not entirely,’ said Steven after some thought. ‘There are pieces that don’t fit and I don’t like that.’

‘If you smell a rat... there’s usually one not very far away.’

Both men looked down at the seven-thousand-acre science campus of Porton Down as it appeared below them.

‘So many years, so many secrets,’ said Scott.

‘And some better not to know.’

After ID checks and being relieved of their weapons both men were informed that the flask was to be removed from its travel container and opened under full bio-safety conditions, no chances were to be taken. Even although they personally were not going to be in the high security lab itself, but viewing from a gallery above, they were required to do don boots and protective clothing, which they did without question.

Their guide led the way through a series of check point doors, saying what each one was as they went until they reached a final door.

‘There are no windows of course, in the lab we’re using and the entire area is kept under negative pressure so that nothing airborne can escape. Air can only be released from the lab after passing through several filters and a decontamination process we won’t go into. This lab has seen some of the most dangerous organisms on the face of the Earth pass through it — organisms that are capable of putting an end to mankind.’

‘A sobering thought,’ said Steven. ‘It makes an addictive drug seem almost desirable, never thought I’d say that.’

‘You and me both,’ said Scott.

‘We’re going up here,’ said their guide leading the way through a side door. They mounted a short flight of steps leading to a viewing gallery fronted with armoured glass and took their seats. Their guide checked his watch. ‘They’ll be here in five minutes or so. There’s a standard procedure where the operators have to remove their outdoor clothes, shower and don full protective gear before passing through a final airlock into the lab.’

Steven nodded. He couldn’t help but think of the volunteer medics and nurses in DRC. They had protective gear, but no hi-tech lab to walk into. They would be faced with desperately ill patients on simple pallet beds in huts, some demented, all bleeding.

Three white ‘ghosts’, their faces obscured by visors, entered the lab carrying a tubular container about two feet long by one foot in diameter, which they placed on a cleared bench area next to some equipment.

‘Hello John, can you hear me?’ asked their guide.

There was no response from the lab.

The guide unhooked a secondary microphone from below the glass screen and tried again.

Still no response.

The ghosts looked up and made gestures indicating they had no sound. One of them appeared as if he was trying to speak loudly but the guide just had to shake his head and accept the situation.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said to Steven and Scott. ‘We won’t have a running commentary.’

The ghosts unscrewed the lid.

‘We know the Israelis opened the container,’ said the guide, and we know they didn’t open the flask, but we don’t know if they removed it from the container. The guys will check first to see if the flask is attached to anything inside.

‘You mean like a booby trap?’ asked Scott.

The guide shrugged.

One of the ghosts reached his gloved hands into the plastic packing material surrounding the flask and cautiously felt around it.

‘Plenty packaging,’ said Scott.

‘A bit like Amazon,’ said the guide causing smiles.

Satisfied that the flask was not secured in any way, the ghost removed a handful of the packing material and lifted it out to place it on the bench; he wiped away odd bits of packing clinging to it. One of his colleagues took over and held it steady while the third ran a scalpel blade around the seal holding the cap on and removed it.

‘They’ll do a few preliminary tests to see if the fluid contains nucleic acids or any other biological material,’ said the guide, ‘if not they’ll run a couple of spectrometer tests to see if they can identify any chemical substances present.’

Steven noticed the ghosts looking at each other as if acknowledging a problem, but the safety gear they were wearing made it difficult to discern what it might be. They seemed to repeat the first test before taking a sample from the flask to charge one of the spectrometers and set it running.

Steven leaned to the side to see if he could catch a glimpse of the screen on the instrument, hoping to see the spikes rise from the graph’s base line, but he couldn’t quite manage.

‘Anything?’ asked Scott.

‘Can’t see.’

More looks were exchanged between the ghosts before another sample was taken from the flask with a Gilson pipette and used to charge a second machine, which did its thing until the end of its cycle was signalled by the attached printer spewing out a short tongue of paper. The three ghosts gathered round the flask to read the data like witches discussing a new batch of toads. Eventually one of the ghosts raised his hand and made a cutting gesture across his throat to indicate they were finished.

The cap was replaced on the flask and it was left beside the container it came in. The cuvettes used to hold samples for the spectrometers were dropped from forceps into a beaker of what Steven assumed would be powerful disinfectant.

Their guide apologised for the failure in the communication equipment, but suggested that this would at least enable them to have coffee while they waited to be told what progress had been made. Steven and Scott were led from the gallery to a pleasant staff room where they were given coffee and engaged in small talk while waiting for the ghosts to appear in human form, something they did some ten minutes later, their hair giving away recent shower activity — two men and a woman smiled and shook hands with them, each giving their first name.

‘How did it go?’ asked the guide.

‘Well, we know exactly what it is,’ answered one of the men.

‘Wow,’ said Steven, ‘you folk have some fancy machines.’

‘We drew lots for who should have the honour of telling you and Jenny here won.’

Jenny, the female ghost, smiled and said after a small dramatic pause, ‘The fluid contains sodium chloride at a concentration of 0.85 %. It is physiological saline... it’s salt water, nothing else.’

Steven felt a mixture of bemusement and embarrassment. All this hassle for a small jug of salt water? It was beyond belief. People avoided looking at each other. Scott looked down at the floor; the ghosts seemed mildly amused, exchanging the briefest of eye contact with each other, and their guide was wearing a neutral, nothing-to-do-with-me expression. A joke? Could it be some awful joke, but who would have thought it funny? Petrov? Had he died laughing at the thought of the intelligence services of three countries transporting salt water across the globe? No, no, no, it made no sense. If the opposition felt so threatened, why had they tried to kill him and an MI6 officer yesterday? Why ruin their own joke?

After an agonising silence, Steven said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.’