The Gulf Conspiracy

THIRTEEN

Steven wiped away the blood coming from the scratches on his face with one hand and brought out his mobile phone with the other. He punched in the emergency number before hurrying over to where D’Arcy lay.

‘Ambulance,’ he snapped. ‘Beach Mansions, Ramsgate, man with serious gunshot wound.’

D’Arcy was unconscious and Steven could see from the puddle on the ground that he had lost a lot of blood but he still had a pulse so, under the gaze of the small huddle of people gathering in the car park, he set about stabilising him as best he could. D’Arcy had failed to drop to the ground in response to his warning shout — most people wouldn’t — but in turning to see where the call had come from, he had moved his body just enough to ensure that the bullet had not hit him full front in the chest. It had entered at a slight angle and travelled upwards to smash his left clavicle before making a large jagged exit wound.

‘I think you might need these,’ said a voice beside him. Steven turned to see an elderly woman, her face framed by a mass of grey hair, crouching down to proffer three rolls of clean white bandaging.

‘Yes, thank you,’ he replied.

‘I was a nurse,’ said the woman. ‘Perhaps I can help?’

‘Maybe you could organise some blankets to keep him warm and get me some light,’ said Steven. ‘I’ve got to stem the blood flow somehow or he’s going to bleed to death.’

‘Of course,’ said the woman. She went back to the small group of onlookers and Steven heard her say, ‘It’s Dr D’Arcy: he’s badly injured. We need blankets and a torch.’ She stemmed a chorus of, ‘What happened?’ by saying, ‘Quickly now!’

Blankets appeared and the nurse covered D’Arcy before directing a powerful torch beam on to the wound. Steven secured the pressure pad he’d fashioned from one of the bandage rolls over the gaping, jagged hole in D’Arcy’s shoulder but the thick white wadding turned red in a matter of seconds.

‘Won’t do,’ said Steven. ‘Pressure alone’s not working.’

‘How about a tourniquet?’ asked the nurse.

‘Nothing to tie it round,’ said Steven. ‘The blood’s not coming from his arm. Quick! I need paperclips and forceps… or tweezers,’ he said. ‘Tweezers would do.’

‘Quickly someone,’ said the nurse to the onlookers. ‘You heard the doctor.’

One of the ground floor residents brought out a box of paperclips and two more appeared with tweezers in their hands. Most of the group turned away in horror as Steven started fishing around inside D’Arcy’s wound with his bare hand. He glanced at the nurse’s face and read the criticism there. ‘If I don’t do this, he’s going to die,’ he muttered.

‘I was actually thinking of you,’ said the nurse quietly. She looked at Steven’s bare hands covered in blood.

Steven found the severed artery. It still spurted blood as he brought it to the surface between thumb and forefinger bringing gasps from the few onlookers who still dared to watch through fingers over their faces.

‘Paperclip,’ said Steven, holding out his palm. The nurse dropped one into it and after several abortive attempts punctuated by muffled curses, he managed to clip the end of the exposed artery. It was a slippery, messy business but the blood stopped spurting and Steven allowed himself a moment to recover before replacing the wadding over the wound and fixing it in place with yet more bandage which the nurse unrolled for him. ‘Thanks, you’re doing a great job,’ he said as a wail of sirens in the distance heralded the imminent and welcome arrival of the emergency services.

Steven knew the police would attend because of the mention of a gunshot wound he’d made. It was inevitable, as was the appearance of an armed response unit, which arrived just after the ambulance and two ordinary patrol cars. Two paramedics took over care of D’Arcy after Steven had briefed them on what he’d done already.

Steven stood up and rubbed the stiffness out of his knees before turning round to see a number of squad officers in full Kevlar armour and carrying automatic weapons clatter out of their van and start deploying round the car park.

‘No point,’ said Steven approaching the officer in charge. ‘The gunman’s gone.’ He held out his ID and said, ‘If you come to the hospital. I’ll tell you as much as I can.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ said the officer, a portly but erect man in his late forties with a small moustache — which only seemed to emphasise the roundness of his face — and an aura of self-importance about him. ‘You’re going nowhere. I don’t care who or what you are. You can’t just swan off from the scene of a serious crime.’

‘I’m going with the patient,’ said Steven. ‘I need to talk to him as soon as he comes round. For your information, three shots were fired, one at the victim two at me then the gunman made off in a blue Range Rover. You’ll find the shell cases in the car park. That’s all you’re going to come up with here.’

‘There are still procedures to be followed,’ said the policeman.

‘Then you follow them,’ said Steven, thinking that the policeman looked like a man who had dedicated his life to following procedures at the expense of imagination.

‘How is he?’ asked Steven, turning his attention back to D’Arcy as the two ambulance men loaded him carefully into the back of their vehicle.

‘Very weak,’ replied the black paramedic who climbed in to continue treating him. ‘By God, you did a good job for a GP.’

Steven smiled as he climbed in and the back doors were closed. ‘I’m not a GP,’ he said. He knew very well that trained paramedics were a lot more use at the scene of an accident than the average doctor although this was not a view the BMA — that most conservative of bodies — liked to encourage.

‘A&E?’ asked the man.

‘Army field medicine,’ said Steven.

‘Bloody hell,’ said the man. ‘This guy’s guardian angel was sure on the ball. What are the chances of a field medic being around when you stop a bullet in the street?’

A nurse set to work on cleaning up Steven’s scratches and abrasions while an A&E team worked on D’Arcy, with the angry inspector who had followed the ambulance to the hospital hovering beside Steven. Steven could appreciate the man’s frustration. Not only had he been unable to provide any description of the gunman, he had not managed to get the registration number of the Range Rover either.

‘You’re a professional. What were you thinking of, man?’ complained the policeman.

‘I was trying to keep my arse in one piece,’ replied Steven through gritted teeth. ‘It was dark and a man with a gun was trying to kill me.’

‘Even though…’ said the policeman.

‘He didn’t finish the job he set out to do,’ interrupted Steven. ‘I’ll need a guard on D’Arcy until we can move him.’

‘What’s this all about?’ growled the policeman. ‘If you think you can turn my patch into the OK corral and ride roughshod over…’

‘Stop right there!’ snapped Steven. ‘I appreciate that you’re pissed off but I know exactly what I can and can’t do and it might be in your interests if you were to find out too. I suggest you check with the Home Office if you’re in any doubt. In the meantime, just arrange an armed guard for D’Arcy and stop belly-aching.’

‘What a bloody circus,’ mumbled the policeman as he withdrew.

‘How’s D’Arcy?’ asked Steven as he saw the doctor in charge step back from the table and strip off his gloves.

‘Stable but not out of the woods by a long way. They’re prepping a theatre for him. He needs quite a bit of surgery,’ replied the A&E consultant. ‘Are you a friend? A relative?’

‘Neither,’ replied Steven.

‘Then what?’

‘Steven showed the man his ID.

‘You’re a doctor. So it was you who applied the paperclip?’

Steven nodded.

‘Well, if he lives, that’ll be the reason. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what this is all about?’

‘I’m not really sure myself,’ said Steven. ‘I was on my way to interview the man when a gunman decided to end the conversation before it had begun. I think it only fair to warn you that there might be another attempt. I’ve asked for a police guard to be mounted.’

‘What is he? Some big-time criminal?’

‘Far from it,’ replied Steven. ‘He’s a gifted scientist who, from what I hear, wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’

‘Why would anyone want to kill him?’

‘I’d like to ask him that when he comes round,’ said Steven. ‘I need to stay with him.’

‘You’re a doctor,’ said the consultant, ‘So I won’t give you the standard spiel about my only interest being the patient’s welfare and then tell you to fuck off out my department like they do on TV but you’ll appreciate just how fragile he is. Go easy.’

‘Thanks,’ said Steven. He left the emergency room and called Sci-Med on his mobile to inform the duty officer what had happened. He kept an eye on what was going on inside through one of the windows in the swing doors while he spoke.

‘Do you want me to wake Mr Macmillan?’ asked the duty man.

‘Yes,’ replied Steven flatly.

Macmillan called back within five minutes. ‘Is he still alive?’

‘Touch and go,’ replied Steven. ‘I’m going to stay with him but I’d like him moved as soon as it becomes possible.’

‘You think they may try again?’

‘Common sense says so.’

‘They may think he’d dead of course,’ said Macmillan.

‘Too many people at the flats knew he was still alive when the ambulance took him away.’

‘Right, I’ll arrange it. We have to speak. I have some news.’

‘As soon as D’Arcy’s safe,’ said Steven.

It was three in the morning before D’Arcy was brought from the operating theatre to the Intensive Care Unit. Steven spoke to the surgeon while D’Arcy was connected to the monitoring equipment. ‘What d’you think?’

‘He was in a right mess — I’d take a guess at a soft-nosed bullet judging by the state of the exit wound — but, providing there are no complications, he should get back to something approaching normality unless he happened to be a left-arm spin bowler, in which case he’s just retired.’

‘He wasn’t,’ Steven assured him with a smile.

‘A&E sent up the paperclip. He may want it to show his grandchildren one day,’ said the surgeon turning to look up at the clock. ‘The charge nurse has it.’

‘Any idea when he might come round?’ asked Steven.

‘He’ll be out for at least three hours,’ said the surgeon. ‘Maybe longer. You look as if you could do with some rest yourself.’

Steven satisfied himself that the two, armed officers outside the entrance to ICU understood that no one was to be allowed in without his say so before settling down in a chair beside D’Arcy’s bed and allowing himself to cat nap. The stifling warmth of the unit and the soft muted lighting from the consoles made it easy.

Steven was lazing on a sunny beach. Jane was tricking a handful of sand on to his back while Jenny played happily among nearby rocks when something touched his arm and the dream vanished in an instant. The speed of his recovery to full wakefulness alarmed the nurse who’d touched him and she took a startled step backwards and put her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you,’ she said. ‘I just thought you should know Dr D’Arcy is showing signs of coming round.’

Steven was equally apologetic. There had been occasions in the past when such a response to any strange sound or touch when asleep might have saved his life and old habits died hard.

D’Arcy was asking all the usual questions of a nurse who was used to answering them. Her soft gentle voice assured him that he was warm and safe in hospital and there was no cause for him to worry about anything.

‘Want to know…’ murmured D’Arcy.

‘All in good time,’ soothed the nurse. ‘You must rest.’

‘You were shot, old son,’ said Steven, attracting a critical look from the nurse. ‘You’ve undergone surgery but you’re going to be all right.’

‘Shot? But who?…’

Steven gave the nurse what he hoped was a reassuring look to signify that he would not overtax D’Arcy and she withdrew with a less than convinced expression on her face.

Steven told D’Arcy who he was and waited for a response.

‘Sci-Med… I know Sci-Med.’

‘Good. I know that you are going to find this all a bit much to take in, old son, but I have to make you understand what’s been going on.’

D’Arcy grunted his understanding.

‘A few weeks ago an old colleague of yours, George Sebring was murdered by the same people who tried to kill you last night. They wanted to stop you talking about something that happened many years ago when you were both working at Porton Down.’

‘That’s… crazy…’

‘Something happened,’ said Steven. ‘Something that was kept secret, something that not even the government were told about.’

‘Dr Crowe… told them.’

‘No, he didn’t,’ said Steven. ‘They were never informed. It was a problem with a vaccine, wasn’t it?’

D’Arcy gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘They wanted HIV gene envelopes… George made… a mistake.’

Steven felt a sense of excitement well up inside him. He had to concentrate on keeping his voice calm as his throat tightened. ‘What kind of mistake, Michael?’

‘He gave them an early version of the agent we were working on,’ said D’Arcy.

‘What agent was that?’

There was a long pause, which strained Steven’s nerves to the limit, before D’Arcy said, ‘Special project; we were to design a new biological agent…’

‘Not a vaccine against AIDS,’ said Steven.

‘No… that was just the team’s cover story… The Government wanted an agent that wouldn’t kill… but weaken and demoralise… infectious but not detectable… also had to be curable.’

‘And that’s what went into the vaccine?’ said Steven, trying to sound matter of fact but feeling shocked.

‘Yes…’ said D’Arcy. ‘But Crowe thought it wouldn’t be… a problem.’

‘Not a problem,’ Steven repeated, unable to stop himself as he thought about the war veterans. He wanted to ask D’Arcy where the hell he thought Gulf War Syndrome had come from, but from what Maclean had said about D’Arcy he suspected that the man would have accepted the official view of things without question.’

‘Did you continue working on this agent after the accident?’ he asked quietly.

D’Arcy gave a little shake of the head. ‘No, all work on it was stopped. I left Porton after that.’

‘The agent you were working on, it involved genetic engineering, didn’t it?’

A nod. ‘Yes.’

‘What did you do exactly?’

‘Tired…’ said D’Arcy. ‘Very tired…’

‘I know, Michael,’ said Steven. ‘Just tell me which genes were involved and then you can sleep.’

‘M…’

The nurse appeared as if by magic at Steven’s shoulder and said, ‘That’s enough. He has to rest and I think you know that.’

Steven accepted the rebuke. The nurse was right. He was a doctor and he knew very well. But by God, he had come so close to getting out of D’Arcy what he needed to know. He couldn’t resist the single expletive that whispered across his lips as he left the room to call Sci-Med to ask about arrangements for D’Arcy’s transfer.

‘We’ve been restricted by intensive care requirements,’ said the duty man. ‘The safe houses have been ruled out so Mr Macmillan’s arranged for private facilities in St Thomas’s Hospital without anyone being told who he is. When do you want him moved?’

‘Not my call,’ said Steven. ‘But I should think we’ll be given the okay around lunch time.’

‘We’ll send an ambulance and an escort?’

‘I’d like to keep things as low key as possible,’ said Steven. ‘Plain clothes armed escort, unmarked police cars.’

The surgeon who had operated on D’Arcy finished his examination and gave the all clear for the move just after eleven o’clock. He’d been assured by Steven that IC facilities would be available at the new location without his actually telling him where that would be. The man handed over D’Arcy’s case notes. ‘Can’t say I’m that sorry to be seeing the back of you all,’ he said, glancing at the armed policemen by the door.

‘Can’t say I blame you,’ said Steven. ‘Thanks for all you did for him.’

‘I still came second to a paperclip,’ smiled the surgeon. ’Good luck.’

D’Arcy was transferred to St Thomas’s Hospital in London without incident. Steven thought he would take the opportunity to go to the Home Office and speak with Macmillan while D’Arcy was settled in to his new environment and was still under sedation. First, he called Jane in Leicester to say that he wouldn’t be coming up after all. He told her what had happened.

‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘This is a nightmare. Are you still down in Kent?’

‘No, we didn’t think it was safe to leave him there. We’ve moved him as Mr Jones to a private room in St Thomas’s Hospital in London.’

‘Has he come round at all?’ asked Jane.

‘He was able to tell me quite a lot last night but not quite everything. I’m hoping to talk to him again after I’ve seen Macmillan.

‘But you managed to get an idea of what they were working on at Porton?’ said Jane.

‘The AIDS vaccine story was a cover,’ said Steven. ‘They were designing a new biological agent that would disable and demoralise rather than kill.’

‘Why?’

‘Social control I suppose,’ said Steven. ‘But that’s only half the story. A prototype version of it found its way into the troop vaccines by mistake. I gather George was to blame.’

‘God almighty,’ said Jane. ‘No wonder he was so alarmed about plans to use the old vaccines again.’

‘Quite,’ said Steven. ‘It seems that neither the government of the day nor the present one has any record of this ever happening. If they did they couldn’t possibly have considered using it again.’

‘But now you can tell them?’ said Jane.

‘I need D’Arcy to tell me more about the agent and how it was constructed. Part of their brief was to make it undetectable.’

‘What a world,’ said Jane. ‘No wonder George kept having nightmares. He deserved to!’

‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ said Steven. ‘People tend to accept anything that has official approval without question. George probably believed that he was just doing his job at the time. If every soldier was to stop and consider the implications of his actions every time an officer yelled, ‘Fire!’ we wouldn’t have an army. Most just pull the trigger and get on with their lives.’

‘I suppose,’ agreed Jane reluctantly. ‘Call me when you can.’

Macmillan was sitting at his desk, his head slightly to one side, fingers steepled under his chin and looking very worried when Steven entered. ‘How’s D’Arcy?’ he asked.

‘The medics think he’ll pull through. He suffered no ill effects from the transfer, which was my big worry. He should surface from the sedation in a couple of hours and I’ll be able to talk to him again.’

‘What a mess,’ sighed Macmillan. ‘What a bloody mess.’

‘You said you had some news?’ said Steven.

Macmillan looked at him thoughtfully and Steven saw in his eyes that he was in need of sleep.

‘After our last conversation I asked a friend in high places about special project teams at Porton,’ said Macmillan.

‘And now you wish you hadn’t?’

‘Something like that,’ said Macmillan. ‘You were right. It goes back a long way — to the days of the Second World War, in fact — when a group of scientists was asked to investigate the possibility of infecting cattle feed with anthrax. The idea was to drop it on German fields. They were called the Beta team and a special budget that by-passed the normal reporting and accounting procedures was assigned to it. In the end the stuff wasn’t used but the infrastructure supporting the team was never completely dismantled…’

Steven could see that there was more to come. ‘Go on,’ he said quietly.

‘My informant tells me that at some point in the eighties the Beta team appears to have been re-activated. Accounts were rendered for its support using the old procedures and paid without question.’

‘You mean Porton fancied a bit of extra money?’ said Steven.

‘Not quite that simple,’ said Macmillan. ‘Porton — in terms of its director and administrators — appears to have known nothing at all about it.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Steven.

‘My informant is continuing to pick away at it but it looks as if someone who knew about the existence of the Beta Team budget decided to recruit for it at Porton and have the team work on something the others knew nothing at all about.’

‘The agent D’Arcy told me about last night,’ said Steven. ‘Crowe’s team was the Beta Team of its day.’

Macmillan nodded. ‘Which raises several awkward questions…’

‘Not least, did the government know about this project at the time?’ said Steven. ‘Maybe they even instigated it?’

‘A can of worms on its own,’ said Macmillan.’

‘But it looks as if the accident at Porton was kept secret from them otherwise they wouldn’t have contemplated using up the old vaccine stocks,’ said Steven.

‘On the other hand there have been several changes of government in the last twelve years,’ said Macmillan. ‘We can’t overlook simple cock-ups.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Steven.

‘Happily we are not alone in this. My man in high places — who must remain nameless — is equally worried. He’ll get back to me when he’s established whether or not he thinks it was a government-of-the-day initiative or whether it was some kind of… private enterprise?’

‘I’m not sure which of these would be the more comforting,’ said Steven with a rueful shrug. ‘In the meantime I’ll try and get as much as I can out of D’Arcy.’

Macmillan’s phone rang and he snapped into it that he had asked not to be disturbed.

Steven heard the faint, soothing tones of explanation being given by Rose Roberts.

‘Put him on,’ said Macmillan.

Steven watched Macmillan’s face turn ashen as he listened. He appeared to age before his eyes before he said, ‘Thank you for letting me know.’

‘It’s D’Arcy,’ said Macmillan. ‘He’s dead.’

Steven felt a hollow open up in his stomach. ‘But how?’ he asked. ‘He was quite stable and in an IC unit, for God’s sake.’

‘A “doctor” whom the hospital’s people believed to be one of ours and whom our people believed to be one of theirs gained access to D’Arcy and administered a lethal injection. He was dead within seconds.’

Steven felt a mixture of anger and shock. ‘How could they possibly have known where he was?’

‘What a good question,’ said Macmillan.