‘Talk me through what happened to Tom Harland and the others.’
‘Tom cut his hand while he was working in the lab and looked around for something to stem the blood with. He ended up using some of the pellets the scientists had left lying in a dish on the bench. At some point, when he was playing around with wireless frequencies to restore the intercom system, he hit upon the trigger for the pellets. They ruptured and infected him through his cut.’
‘Of all the rotten luck...’ said Macmillan. ‘And the others?’
‘They thought they were coming into a safe lab environment to clear up any mess left over from Tom cutting his hand. They weren’t to know that the bloody pellets he’d dropped in a bin were heavily contaminated with Marburg virus. Not only that, the pellets still lying in the dish on the bench would have ruptured too and they would also be covered in Marburg. The cleaners and the technician infected themselves by coming into contact with them.’
‘Absolutely tragic,’ said Macmillan. ‘I’ll get in touch with Porton and tell them we need their help and expertise. The only other question now is how many people should be brought into the loop? The Home Secretary? The Prime Minister’s Office, MI6?’
‘The fewer the better,’ said Steven. ‘If I’m wrong, it’ll take me months to get the egg off my face and if I’m right, we don’t want it being leaked before we’ve figured out a whole lot more, I vote we tell no one.’
‘So, we approach Porton directly?’
‘Yes,’ said Steven, ‘tell them “some ex-army medic” would like to speak to them in confidence.’
‘Maybe not,’ smiled Macmillan, ‘but I’ll contact them. Maybe they’ll just assume this time the PM has given her backing.’
Steven decided to visit Jane Sherman in the morning, presuming that it would take time for Macmillan to arrange something with Porton. Unsure of what to take, after deciding that she was probably sick of the sight of flowers, he bought some expensive Belgian chocolates and, as an afterthought, two miniatures of Scotch malt whisky. He wasn’t sure if she drank alcohol, but if she did, she might be pleased, although she’d have to hide them from the staff — well, keeping secrets was what she did.
Jane was clearly pleased to see him and he thanked her for having Six come up with the information about the flaw in the lip of Petrov’s flask. He handed her the chocolates and got an appreciative response, ‘Good, I’m fed up eating roses,’ she said, looking around at the flowers. Steven got the joke. ‘I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about... these,’ he said, surreptitiously showing her one of the miniatures.
‘Dunbar, I think I’m falling in love,’ she said, sneaking it under her pillow before Steven brought out the other one. ‘Now, I definitely am.’
‘Good, I’ll know what to bring next time.’
Steven kept the conversation confined to Jane’s condition and what the plans were for future treatment mainly because he didn’t want to say anything about any upcoming events at Porton. Jane had not mentioned anything about the person who had leaked information about their movements being identified and he didn’t ask. Six would deal with it and, in intelligence matters there were always things it was better not to know. He did learn however, that Jane was considering herself ‘lucky’ because the surgeons had told her that there had been enough healthy tissue left on her leg for them to make a decent stump; this would be important when it came to fitting a prosthesis. Small mercies, Steven thought.
Steven left and made for the elevator, only to find that there was a sign on one of them saying it was being serviced — the company apologised for the inconvenience. The other one of the two seemed to be taking a long time on the top floor so he opted for the stairs. As he descended, he found himself humming Greensleeves.
When he reached the ground floor he paused, thinking he had heard someone groaning.
‘Hello,’ he called out, ‘is anyone there?’ He heard another groan in reply and pinpointed it as coming from the steps leading down to the basement. Half way down he found enough light for him to see a man’s trousered leg sticking out from the turn at the foot of the flight. The angle of his shoe suggested he was lying on his face. ‘Hang on there, I’m coming,’ he called out.
Steven turned the corner and found a policeman lying on his face, but his attention was immediately diverted by the silenced weapon pointing at his face. It was being held by the Russian heavy who had already tried to kill him, his face a picture of loathing.
The Russian kept up a stream of invective as he gestured that Steven turn and face the wall. The anger in the man’s voice was puzzling and unusual in a professional, Steven thought, guessing that the man he’d shot in the Westminster Bridge attack might have been a friend of his.
Steven’s pistol was removed and dropped, his cheek slammed hard against the wall and the silencer pushed into his throat. The Russian rant went on, giving Steven a few precious seconds to search desperately for anything in the situation he might use to his advantage. He knew two words of Russian and opted for one of them. ‘Niet, niet, niet,’ he said loudly as if in protest. The Russian stopped ranting, taken by surprise at Steven apparently speaking Russian: Steven could see that it would be much more satisfying for his attacker if he understood the abuse that was coming at him. The Russian appeared to ask a question.
As his attacker waited for a reply, Steven, who by now had remembered that his would-be killer would still be suffering from injured ribs after being hit by the car he’d been driving at the time, slammed his right elbow back into the man’s ribs, causing him to let out a yelp of pain. Steven had been counting on the man feeling so much pain that his hands would automatically and immediately fly to the area of impact. They did and Steven played his trump card by slamming the point of his other elbow into the man’s ribs on the other side to be rewarded by welcome cracking sounds as several ribs gave way and he slumped to his knees. Steven took a step backwards and shot out the heel of his right foot in a vicious kick into his opponent’s already agonised chest, knowing that the sharp edges of his broken ribs would probably puncture his lungs and render them useless. They did.
Steven collected both weapons from the floor, replacing the Glock in its holster and separating the silencer from the Russian’s gun to make it easier to carry. He examined the policeman, expecting the worst but finding that he was still breathing and had a strong pulse. He was unconscious from what looked like a single blunt wound applied to his head. He called the Sci-Med emergency number and gave details of what had happened, requesting medical assistance for the policeman and an intelligence service ‘clean-up’ for the Russian who had finally stopped making hissing and gurgling noises and was lying motionless, unseeing, with eyes wide open.
‘I’ll stay with the policeman until help comes. There is no need for an armed response unit, repeat, no need.’
As he waited, Steven reflected on how close he had come to death. There was no way the Russian could have known he was coming to the hospital today, he had only decided that himself after breakfast. This meant that he must have waited here every day for several days, gambling that he would come back to see Jane again. Steven hadn’t considered that possibility and it had damned nearly cost him his life. It was only good fortune that the Russian had lost his cool while he had managed to keep his long enough to figure out a weakness in his opponent, one, which, in the end, had saved his life. He felt slightly ill... perhaps more than slightly.
‘Are you all right?’ Macmillan asked when Steven appeared in the Home Office.