‘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.’