‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Do you have any evidence for this?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘And you seriously want me to have the PM issue this edict?’
‘Yes.’
Macmillan thought for a long moment before saying, ‘All right... I suppose we can buy an ice cream van between us to make a living.’
‘Thanks, John.’
Steven didn’t want to say any more and neither John nor Jean pressed him: they had seen him like this before and, with a bit of luck, some kind of breakthrough could be expected soon.
Steven went back into isolation to go through the material from Porton again and again until finally his eyes fixed on something else... the words “drift in frequency” — the cause given by Tom Harland for the breakdown in the intercom system. It didn’t sound all that strange when he thought about it. There would be a wireless link-up between the lab and the viewing gallery instead of a cable link. Wireless communication had become very common in recent times, but if either the transmitter or the receiver was to be altered from its allotted frequency, communication would cease.
Although there were lots of reasons for wireless connections to give trouble — he had experienced plenty of them himself — he had never heard of ‘frequency drift’ being one of them. The frequency of a wireless set-up was usually fixed and didn’t vary. Remote controls worked on one set frequency or another, they didn’t drift. He would have to ask Porton about this. He rushed back to the main office to see if John had made the call to the PM’s office.
‘He’s on the phone just now,’ said Jean, nodding to Macmillan’s office.
Steven entered with a perfunctory knock and snatched at the notepad on Macmillan’s desk to jot down the question he wanted Porton to be asked. He slid it under Macmillan’s gaze and was relieved to hear Macmillan say a moment later, ‘Just one more thing, Prime Minister, Steven would like some information about the wireless frequency used for communications in the lab, which their dead electrician, Tom Harland, was called upon to repair... Thank you, thank you so much, Prime Minister... yes, I’m sure he has excellent reasons for making these requests.’ Macmillan put the phone down, letting his hand rest on it while he shook his head slowly.
‘Thanks again, John,’ said Steven, letting his breath out in a long sigh.
‘Have you thought about possible tunes for the ice cream van?’ asked Macmillan.
Macmillan felt the spectre of the ice cream van coming a step closer when the Home Secretary called him; he was in a foul mood, wanting to know ‘just what the hell’ was going on. Somewhat on the back foot through not knowing himself, Macmillan had to listen to how much Porton had been annoyed by Steven’s requests. Who did he think he was, answering their own question by suggesting Steven was ‘some ex-forces medic who wasn’t even a microbiologist.’ Did he imagine that he knew better than the highly qualified staff at Porton Down? ‘What do you have to say?’ the Home Secretary demanded.
Macmillan, who had listened in silence throughout, said, ‘I shall have Steven apologise...’
‘I should think so too...’
‘... the moment Porton tell us all how and why two of their people have died of Marburg disease and another two lie dangerously ill,’ continued Macmillan. ‘As to who Steven thinks he is, he knows full well that he is the chief investigator of the Sci-Med Inspectorate and has my full backing. Perhaps Porton would do well to recognise that there is a difference between being knowledgeable and being bright. I don’t question the knowledge of Porton’s people but knowledge tends to result from book learning while brightness demands imagination, creativity, lateral thinking, ability to improvise and many other skills. Steven is “some ex-army medic” who has all of these qualities in abundance, something the Prime Minister has come to appreciate as illustrated by her giving him her full support or were you unaware that the request to Porton was sanctioned by her?’
The Home Secretary paused and swallowed audibly before saying, ‘Porton led me to believe the request had come directly from Sci-Med.’
‘... it happens., Home Secretary’
‘I’ll clear up any misunderstanding.’
Macmillan looked at the phone and then at Steven as the Home Secretary cut short the call, he looked thoughtful.’
‘I quite like Greensleeves,’ said Steven, which prompted a smile and the opening of Macmillan’s prized sherry cabinet. ‘Jean! Come and join us.’
Seventeen
Steven and John Macmillan decided to wait around to see if anything would come in from Porton, Jean sat with them until half past six when she apologised and said she had to run off to choir practice — Being a member of the Bach Choir was an important part of her life.
Just after seven-thirty, a message arrived saying that the request regarding the isolation of the container and contents from Israel had been complied with. A cursory apology for the ‘misunderstanding’ was also attached. The final part of the message gave a code for accessing a secure computer link, which would give details about the wireless intercom system which was repaired by Tom Harland.
Steven followed the link and found what he was looking for in the first sentence. Wireless links for communication within certain areas within Porton were protected from outside snooping through the use of unusual frequencies instead of the normal, 2.4 GHz or 5 GHz. These frequencies were subject to recurrent change, but could suffer from occasional drift, which was the case when Tom Harland was called in.
‘Unusual frequencies,’ said Steven out loud as if it were death sentence. ‘Oh dear.’
‘That all sounds perfectly sensible to me,’ said Macmillan, ‘I’m guessing it means something more to you?’
Steven shook his head, giving himself time to search for words. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said, turning to face Macmillan, ‘this is all beginning to make some dreadful sense, so awful I don’t want to believe it... the dead English scientists... I know what they were doing.... Simon Pashley, the specialist in tiny wireless motor technology... Martin Field, the expert in implant technology... together with Samuel Petrov, an expert in killer viruses... and all funded by Sergei Malenkov and his rich, Russian, London-based pals... Christ almighty.’
Macmillan who had been waiting patiently for information said, ‘Are you about to tell me that our ice cream van is being put on hold?’
The apparent spell that Steven was under was broken. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s the plastic packing material — the plastic packing material surrounding Petrov’s flask isn’t packing material at all, these little capsules contain Marburg virus.’
‘But it was tested and found to be completely harmless.’
‘It is on the outside, each pellet appears to be a simple little plastic bubble, but, when a certain wireless frequency is transmitted nearby, the capsules rupture and release, not the pain killers that Martin Field was planning on, but any killer virus Petrov chose to put inside.’
‘Who in God’s name would come up with something like that,’ exclaimed Macmillan, ‘and why?’
‘That’s what we’ll still have to work out,’ said Steven, ‘but first, I have to show I’m right and that isn’t going to be easy. We’ll have to ask our friends at Porton for help.’
‘You think?’
‘Without a doubt,’ said Steven, ‘we’ll need maximum security lab conditions and a scenario where it is safe to expose a few of these packing pellets to a range of wireless frequencies to see what happens. If I’m right, they’ll rupture and release what I’m sure will be the Uganda strain of Marburg virus. At that point we’ll need containment. Boy, will we need containment.’