The Gulf Conspiracy

TWELVE

Steven took a taxi from Glasgow Airport to Brandon Street. It was raining and the cab smelt of dampness and stale tobacco. What was worse; the driver believed himself to be the most sensible person in the world.

‘I see Saddam says he’s no’ gonnae let in they weapons inspectors,’ he said.

‘I hadn’t heard,’ said Steven.

‘It’s no’ exactly a surprise,’ said the driver. ‘Would you want the polis in yer hoose wi’ a back room full o’ dodgy videos? Stands tae reason.’

‘I suppose.’

‘They shouldae marked his card last time while they had the chance but no, that wid hae been too easy. The bleedin’ herts hud their way and noo we’re gonna hiv to dae it all o’er again. Makes me sick, an’ see a’ they asylum seekers…’

Steven grunted at appropriate intervals until the journey was over and he stepped out into the wet at the corner of Brandon Street and Dumbarton Road to walk along the row of red sandstone tenement until he found number 21. He mounted the well-worn stone steps to the top flat where Maclean opened the door in his dressing gown.

‘They told me at the hospital you weren’t well,’ said Steven as he followed Maclean through to a sitting room where he indicated that Steven should sit and then collapsed into an armchair, holding his chest as if he’d just run a marathon.

‘A left over from the Gulf War?’ asked Steven.

Maclean nodded and said, ‘It comes; it goes. What can I do for you?’

‘I remember you told me that you went to see George Sebring to try and get him to tell you what he had been working on at Porton.’

‘That’s right.’

‘The police told me you’d tried contacting other people who had worked there. Did you actually talk to any of them?

‘It was bloody difficult. I only ever managed to get addresses for three of them, Sebring, a bloke named Lowry and another guy, called Michael D’Arcy.’

Steven was pleased to hear an unfamiliar name. ‘Did you speak to either of them?’

‘Both,’ said Maclean. ‘Lowry told me to sling my hook or he’d call the police. He still worked at our noble defence establishment at that time. I don’t know if he still does. He was none too chuffed that I’d managed to track him down but I managed to have a talk with D’Arcy. He seemed a decent enough bloke in an English middle class sort of a way but shit scared of saying anything out of line. He just kept repeating that he was subject to the Official Secrets Act until he sounded like a worn-out record.’

‘Who was D’Arcy exactly?’

‘He was a pal of Sebring’s. They worked together in a section headed by a snooty bastard named Crowe. Never was a bloke more aptly named, cold bastard, would have your right eye out and come back for your left. Didn’t have much to do with us squaddies though. I suppose he thought it was beneath him.’

‘I think I’d like to go see this D’Arcy. Do you have an address for him?’

‘It’s been a while,’ said Maclean. ‘A couple of years at least. He lived down in Kent at that time; worked for a pharmaceutical company, Pfizer, I think. Poacher turned gamekeeper you might say.’

Maclean eased himself slowly out of the chair and shuffled over to a bureau where he supported himself with one hand while he foraged through a small mountain of notebooks and papers with the other.

Steven was appalled at how ill the man looked. He seemed to have aged ten years since the last time he saw him. His cheeks had developed cavernous hollows and the veins on his neck were standing out like cords. ‘Just let me know if I can help with anything,’ he said.

‘Here we are,’ said Maclean, holding up a small notebook and keeping the place with his thumb in it until he had sat down again. ‘Dr Michael D’Arcy, Flat 12, Beach Mansions, Ramsgate. I remember now; he worked in Sandwich at the Pfizer plant but preferred to live in Ramsgate because he had fond childhood memories of the place. Apparently his folks used to take him and his sister there on holiday. I kind of warmed to him when he told me that. I used to feel the same way about a place called Rothesay. I was taken there on an annual basis when I was young. We used to get the steamer at Gourock and sail down the Clyde to Rothesay Bay. We went with the Grant family who stayed next door to us in Govan. My mother and Effy Grant were great pals. You’d have thought it was a Caribbean cruise we were going on if you’d seen what my mother packed for the trip.’

Steven smiled at Maclean’s obvious fondness for the memory.

‘I took my own lassie there when she was a bairn, ‘watched her play in the same sand I’d done thirty years before. But that’s where it’s all ended. She’ll not be taking any kids of her own there. She never got the chance.’

‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Steven. He looked away while Maclean wiped a tear from his cheek with an embarrassed flick of the back of his hand.

Maclean cleared his throat and continued. ‘Like I say, D’Arcy was okay. He had a bit of heart about him. Mind you, that probably marked him out as a loser.’

Steven looked at him quizzically.

‘Nice people don’t make it to the top,’ said Maclean. ‘Niceness gets in the way. Assholes make it to the top. They trample over everyone in sight and then, when they’ve made it, they pretend they’re nice people.’

‘I’d call that cynicism if I didn’t know it was true,’ said Steven. He got up to go. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Fancy a pint?’ said Maclean.

‘Are you serious?’ said Steven. It was the last thing he expected to hear from a man who appeared so ill.

‘Sure I am. I don’t believe in letting this thing get me down. If you can just hang on till I get some clothes on, we’ll be off. The pub’s just on the corner.’

‘If you’re sure,’ said Steven.

Maclean reappeared wearing a white t-shirt and black Levi jeans, a black leather jacket and tan loafers. He still looked like death but managed to affect a smile at the way Steven was looking at him. ‘You’re buying,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

There were about a dozen people in The Rifleman and Maclean appeared to know all of them. Steven assigned them mentally into two classes, the retired and the unemployed. Several of the older men inquired after Maclean’s health, including the barman who anticipated what he would be drinking and started filling a glass. ‘Same for me,’ said Steven.

They took their drinks to a small table equidistant between a dartboard and a pool table although neither was in use. Steven noted that the pool table had a rip in its green baize.

‘So what makes you think you’ll have any more success with D’Arcy than I did?’ asked Maclean, starting to search in his jacket pockets. Steven thought for one incredible moment that he might be about to bring out cigarettes but instead he brought out an inhaler, tilted his head back and squirted it twice into his mouth.

‘I don’t think that at all,’ said Steven. ‘But I can’t think of anything else to do right now. I’ve managed to establish a connection between the team that Sebring worked for and the vaccines the troops were given but now I’m dependent on one of that team talking, particularly about anything that went wrong.’

‘What sort of connection?’ asked Maclean.

‘Crowe’s team was officially working on a vaccine against AIDS. At some point they were asked to supply something called gene envelopes from the HIV virus to help out with the troop vaccine programme.’

‘What the hell for?’ rasped Maclean.’

‘Apparently the vaccine makers had been using cytokines to elicit an improved immune response in the troops — cutting edge stuff at the time — but they’d run low on supplies. The brains reckoned that HIV gene envelopes would have much the same effect.’

Gus Maclean looked thoughtfully at his beer for a long time. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘There was a time when I thought the bastards had actually used the HIV virus against us.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘The sheer range of illnesses and symptoms affecting the guys,’ said Maclean. ‘Although the government seized on that very fact to scotch any idea of a Gulf War Syndrome and Fatty Soames used it to suggest we were all a bunch of sickly wankers on the make, it seemed to me as if our immune system had been buggered.’

‘Something that would make you highly susceptible to infection.’

‘You got it,’ said Maclean. ‘Once the immune system goes you’re a theme park for the entire microbial world.’

‘Did you ever float that idea in public?’ asked Steven.

‘A couple of times,’ said Maclean with a wry smile. ‘A lot of the guys thought I was going too far. Apart from that they didn’t take too kindly to the suggestion they might have AIDS. Let’s say, no one was exactly comfortable with the idea, and it’s only fair to say that any HIV tests that were done were negative.’

‘I wanted to have the vaccines that Crowe’s team contributed to analysed by an independent lab,’ said Steven. ‘But it turns out they were all destroyed after the stink you guys created over plans to use them again,’ said Steven.

‘It was a funny business,’ said Maclean. ‘We got an anonymous tip-off that they were planning to use up the old stuff on the boys getting ready for the Gulf at the moment and no one denied it at the MOD when we asked — most unlike them. They usually deny that Tuesday follows Monday until the evidence becomes overwhelming. Then, when we got in touch with the papers about it, we found that they’d had the tip-off too. It was almost as if someone in government wanted the story to get out and wanted there to be a backlash. I remember feeling at the time that they were using us like lab rats to do some kind of a job for them.’

‘Like giving them an excuse to destroy the old stocks,’ said Steven, thinking out loud.

‘Because they had something to hide?’ said Maclean. ‘Devious bastards.’

‘Well, it looks like they got away with it,’ said Steven.

‘They always fucking do,’ said Maclean with feeling.

‘Unless…’ said Steven, as an idea came to him.

Maclean looked at him expectantly.

‘You told me you had carried out microbiological tests on yourself. What exactly did you do?’

‘I carried out every standard test any hospital lab would do to determine cause of illness,’ said Maclean. ‘I took swabs and samples from everywhere. No orifice was left unprobed, you might say.’

‘And you drew a blank?’

‘No pathogens,’ said Maclean.

‘What about non-pathogens?’

‘Well, of course,’ replied Maclean. ‘I found all the usual harmless bugs you find in the human body. I identified each and every one, sub-cultured them, cross-referenced them and stored them, cos that’s the kind of sad bugger I am.’

Steven smiled but he had just heard what he wanted to hear. He leant across the table and said, ‘Correct me if I’m wrong but you have just told me that you have sub-cultures of all the bugs you isolated from yourself over the course of your illness?’

‘That’s right,’ replied Maclean, looking puzzled. ‘But in the end it was just an academic exercise; they’re everyday, harmless beasties that we all carry inside us. I didn’t find any problem bugs.’

‘When judged by any standard microbiological or serological tests,’ said Steven.

Maclean looked at him questioningly. ‘I don’t understand. What are you getting at?’ he asked.

‘I suppose I’m suggesting that all may not be as it seems,’ said Steven. ‘One of the lambs could be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.’

‘Jesus, you’re talking about genetic engineering, aren’t you,’ said Maclean. ‘The introduction of foreign genes.’

‘It’s an idea,’ said Steven. ‘It’s well known that the Russians altered smallpox genetically to make it even more virulent so it’s a fair bet that they weren’t the only kids playing with matches over the past few years.’

‘But you are talking about something more than souping up a bug that’s already a pathogen,’ said Maclean.

‘I am,’ agreed Steven. ‘We’d have to be looking at an everyday sort of bug that had been given new properties. A new personality, you might say.’

‘A pathogen that looked harmless and wouldn’t actually be spotted as a CB weapon? How very British,’ said Maclean sourly. ‘It has that wee trademark touch of hypocrisy the world has come to know and love so well. Well, you’re right about one thing: routine hospital lab tests wouldn’t pick up on anything like that. So, what do you suggest?’

‘I suppose it would have to be DNA testing,’ said Steven.

‘I’m no expert but I do know we’re talking molecular biology here and sequencing the entire genome of a single bug can take years,’ said Maclean. ‘And I’ve got a collection of around three dozen cultures.’

‘You’re right,’ said Steven. ‘I think we’re both out of our depth here. I’d have to get expert advice. Our best bet would be to get Michael D’Arcy to tell us what he and his pals were up to at Porton. That would save us all a whole lot of time and trouble.’

‘What about the bug collection?’

‘What form is it in?’ asked Steven.

‘There are about three-dozen cultures, each in a glass vial containing soft agar. Each vial is about an inch long by a quarter inch in diameter. They all fit into a partitioned box about the size of an A4 notebook and weigh probably less.’

‘Do you keep them at the hospital?’ asked Steven.

‘In a lab fridge,’ replied Maclean.

‘Let’s leave them where they are for the moment,’ said Steven. ‘At least until I’ve talked to some people. I take it you have an inventory of what they all are?’

‘All numbered and catalogued and identified according to Bergey’s Manual of Determinative Bacteriology, complete with details of when and from where they were isolated. I’ve got a copy in the flat if you want one.’

Steven agreed that might be useful. He accompanied Maclean back to his flat where it took some time for him to climb the stairs. He paused at every landing, holding on to the banister with one hand while resting the other on his knee, looking down at the steps unseeingly until he got his breath back. Steven’s offer of an arm was dismissed out of hand. ‘It’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.’

Maclean sat down for a few minutes when he got in before returning to the bureau and the pile of papers. This time however, he opened a small drawer and removed a floppy disk from a manila envelope. He handed it to Steven saying, ‘There you go, a complete list of the flora and fauna of Angus Maclean. David Attenborough eat your heart out.’

Steven smiled and slipped the disk into his pocket. ‘I hope you feel better soon,’ he said.

‘I will,’ said Maclean. ‘A couple of days and I’ll be back at work and that’ll be it until the next time. That’s the way it goes. It’s the way it’s been for the past twelve years.’

Steven took a taxi back to the airport and called Jane while he waited for a shuttle flight. ‘What are you up to?’ he asked.

‘Preparing classwork for next week,’ replied Jane. ‘It’s start of term. Where are you?’

‘Glasgow Airport. I talked to Gus Maclean this morning.’

‘Useful?’

‘He gave me a name, Michael D’Arcy; mean anything?’

‘As a matter of fact it does,’ said Jane. ‘He was an old friend of George’s. He always sent us a Christmas card although I don’t think I ever met him.’

‘He and George worked together at Porton,’ said Steven. ‘From what Gus told me, I think they worked on the same team.’

‘No need to ask where you’ll be going next,’ said Jane.

‘Give that lady a prize. I’ll stop off at the flat when I get back to London and pick up the car. With a bit of luck I should manage down to see D’Arcy this evening, assuming he’s still at the same address.’

‘You’re just going to turn up on his door step?’

‘Best that way,’ replied Steven. ‘Doesn’t give him any time to start phoning anyone to ask if seeing me is a good idea.’

‘Well, I learn something new every day,’ said Jane. ‘When will I see you again?’

‘I have to go in to the Home Office tomorrow morning. After that, I could drive up to Leicester or maybe you could come to London? Whatever suits?’

‘You come up,’ said Jane. ‘I’ve got a pile of stuff to get through for school on Monday so I could use the time.’

Steven said that he would come up late in the afternoon and suggested that they go out to dinner.

‘That’d be nice,’ said Jane.

‘See you tomorrow,’ said Steven. His flight was called for boarding as he switched off the phone.

The evening sun was bathing Canterbury Cathedral in pale orange light as Steven drove across Kent and down to the seaside town of Ramsgate. The Glasgow flight had been on time and he’d had no problems in getting in to the city. He’d showered and changed at the flat and been on his way again in seemingly no time — but getting round the M25 orbital had been a nightmare. Roadwork had reduced the speed of travel to a snail’s pace and caused him to give up all hope of missing the evening rush hour traffic on the roads leading to the south coast. It was nearly eight o’clock when he entered the outskirts of Ramsgate and stopped to ask for directions to Beach Mansions. The first two people turned out to be holiday makers who had no idea; the third, a local, gave him directions which turned out to be wrong but brought him close enough to find someone who actually did know where the building was.

Steven liked the look of Beach Mansions. He guessed that the building itself had been built around the end of the nineteenth century because of the styling and the fact that it was stone-built, but it had obviously been well looked after and exuded an air of solidity and middle class respectability. The long low building, interrupted in the middle by an arch giving access to an inner courtyard, occupied an elevated position where front-facing flats had uninterrupted views from their bay-windowed rooms out to sea. He noted that at least two of them had telescopes that would allow the residents to watch the comings and goings of cross channel ferries.

Steven parked in one of the white-lined parking bays marked ‘visitors’ and got out to approach the half of the building to the right of the arch, having been directed by a signboard pointing to numbers 18 to 36. The uniformed man behind the desk looked up from his paper and said, ‘Yes?’

‘I’m calling on Dr Michael D’Arcy,’ said Steven. ‘Number 21.’

The man carefully folded his paper before lifting a handset and pressing a button on a board on his desk. Several moments passed before he said, ‘Dr D’Arcy’s not in.’

‘Any idea when he might be back?’ asked Steven.

‘He often works late.’

‘Maybe I’ll hang around for a while,’ said Steven. ‘See if he comes home. What kind of car does he drive?’

‘Green Toyota like my son, Gordon. It’s got a dent in the back. Some old dear along in Sandwich went right into him last Monday at traffic lights.’

‘Gordon or Dr D’Arcy?’

‘Dr D’Arcy,’ replied the man, looking as if it were a stupid question. ‘Gordon works in Newcastle.’

The daylight had all but gone as Steven paused to look down at the lights of the town before getting back into his car and turning on the radio. Half a dozen cars were to come and go in the next hour before Steven saw a green Toyota enter the car park. As it turned to park in a bay opposite he saw the damage to its rear end. He got out but had to delay crossing because another vehicle was coming into the car park. The car, a dark blue Range Rover, slowed to a crawl and Steven could see that its driver was watching the Toyota. His first assumption was that the driver must be a neighbour of D’Arcy’s waiting to say something to him when he got out — a view reinforced when Steven saw the driver’s window of the Range Rover slide down — but then he saw the gun appear in the driver’s hand.

Everything seemed to happen at once. D’Arcy who was now out of his car and locking his door, turned to face the Range Rover just as its driver raised his weapon to fire. Steven yelled out, ‘D’Arcy, get down!’

The silenced gun fired and D’Arcy was thrown over backwards from the impact of the bullet and lay spread-eagled on the ground as the Range Rover driver turned his attention to Steven whom he obviously hadn’t realised was there. Steven, now in a desperately vulnerable position, sprinted across the car park to throw himself into the shrubbery: it was the only cover available. He was conscious of another two dull plops coming from the gun. One resulted in wood splintering from a nearby branch while the other sent up shards of tarmac in front of him. A piece hit him on the left cheek and opened up a cut.

Steven rolled over and over until he came to a halt under a holly bush and turned to look back just as the Range Rover driver turned his headlights on to full beam and revved his engine. Steven felt like he was on some hellish floodlit stage as the Range Rover’s tyres squealed and its rear end twitched as the driver sent it hurtling across the car park directly at him. As he struggled to his feet there was only one decision to be made, whether to jump left or right. It was six of one, half a dozen of the other, he decided. Timing was going to be everything. He had to wait until the very last moment so that the driver would not have time to alter course. The blinding lights raced towards him as he stood there like a capeless matador until the moment of truth came and he threw himself to the left.

The Range Rover careered past him into the shrubbery and the pain of a thousand berberis thorns raked Steven’s face and hands as he landed in a dense clump of it. The right rear wheel of the Range Rover just caught the sleeve of his jacket as it hurtled past, ripping it away from his shoulder and reminding him how close he’d come to death. Now fuelled by panic, Steven struggled to free himself from the bush before the driver, who was now reversing the vehicle, could take another pot at him. The commotion, however, had caused lights to go on all over the building and people were coming outside to see what all the fuss was about. It was this that made the driver decide not to try again. Steven sank to his knees in exhaustion as he saw the Range Rover squeal round in a circle on the tarmac and head for the exit to disappear into the night.