Pandemic (46 page)

‘Certainly,’ Grant said, ‘though I can’t say whether or not he’ll be conscious, or even recognize you if he is.’

‘Even so,’ Westwood said, ‘I’d like to make the effort.’ In fact, he really did have to make the effort – Henry Butcher, no matter what his mental state, was
the only living link to CAIP that Westwood had been able to uncover so far, and he definitely needed to see him, if only to confirm that he couldn’t provide any further information about that
operation from the seventies.

‘Very well. At your convenience, Mr Westwood. We have no set visiting hours for patients who are seriously ill.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be up there this afternoon,’ Westwood said, and rang off.

Kandíra, south-west Crete

As soon as the Merlin touched down, Richter jumped out and headed across to the tents erected beside the road. Though Inspector Lavat wasn’t there, he appeared
within minutes, attracted no doubt by the sound of the helicopter.

‘Mr Richter,’ he said as soon as he saw the Englishman, ‘we meet again.’ He didn’t sound or look surprised.

‘Hullo, Inspector. I’ve got a present for you.’ Richter led the way back towards the helicopter. ‘We’re in a hurry, so I’ll keep this short. We found the
aircraft that Aristides had been diving on, and—’

‘How do you know it was the right aircraft?’ Lavat interrupted.

‘Because of what we found there and what happened after we found it. It was a Learjet, and there were three bodies inside it. There was pretty much nothing else visible after about a
quarter of a century at the bottom of the Mediterranean, but fortunately my diving partner spotted some explosive charges inside.’

‘Old ones?’

Richter stopped as he reached the Merlin. ‘No, brand new. They blew a minute or so after we reached the surface, so there’ll be nothing at all left of the wreck now.’ The door
of the helicopter was open, and Richter pointed inside. ‘We picked up this guy floating in the water right above the aircraft wreckage. He wasn’t killed by the explosion. He was shot
through the back of the head. I’m guessing he was the diver who planted the charges.’

Lavat peered curiously into the helicopter. ‘I presume he was what the Americans would call an expendable asset – just like my police officer,’ he said bitterly.

Richter nodded. ‘He might have been a local man hired for the job, or maybe some low-level operative flown in especially to perform the demolition. Either way, if you can identify him you
might get a lead to the other people involved. Unfortunately,’ Richter added, ‘you certainly won’t be able to use a photofit picture – the bullet that killed him came out
pretty much through his nose, and it took most of his face with it.’

Ten minutes later, leaving the unidentified corpse zipped inside a body bag and awaiting road transport to the mortuary at Irakleío, the Merlin lifted into the air for a short transit
over the mountains back to the
Invincible
.

Outside Petres, Crete

‘Are you OK?’ Stein asked, as he swung the hired Ford around another of the seemingly endless bends on the road between Chóra Sfakia and Vrýses.
They’d covered about half the distance up to the main road running along the north coast of the island, and were now just outside Petres.

Krywald didn’t look at all well. His skin still possessed the greenish pallor that Stein had noticed in the boat, assuming it was just seasickness, and his eyes were bloodshot.

‘Yeah,’ Krywald muttered. ‘Just being in that goddamn boat half the day and then on this fucking road, it’s enough to make anyone feel sick.’

‘You want to stop for a while?’

The other man shook his head. ‘No, let’s get back to the hotel, collect the rest of our stuff and get the hell out of here.’

‘OK.’ Stein changed down and accelerated past a pair of goats that were apparently also heading for Petres. ‘But if you feel you wanna throw up, give me a call ahead of time,
will you?’

Krywald nodded, then sneezed. Two minutes later he sneezed again.

HMS
Invincible
, Sea of Crete

As soon as the marshaller had waved in the deck crew to begin lashing the Merlin to the tie-downs on the deck, Richter climbed out of the aircraft. He waved a brief
acknowledgement to David Crane and Mike O’Reilly, who had agreed to sort out the diving equipment for him. He then hurried across the Flight Deck to the island and let himself in through its
steel watertight door, still carrying his mesh bag containing the pistol and the diving officer’s waterproof board bearing the registration number of the Learjet, and climbed swiftly up the
stairs to Flyco.

Wings was sitting in his usual seat, watching as Roger Black supervised the shut-down of Spook Two, and he turned as Richter entered Flyco. He glanced at the bag in Richter’s hand and
stood up. ‘Success?’ he asked. ‘You found what you were looking for?’

Richter smiled briefly. ‘I’m not entirely sure. We found the wrecked aircraft and I took a note of its registration number, but we didn’t find a lot else, because somebody
contrived to blow up the wreckage before we had a chance to do a proper survey. I recovered a pistol from the aircraft cabin, and the chopper then picked up a dead body as well. That’s the
short version, but Mike O’Reilly can give you chapter and verse, because he saw everything from the comfort of the Merlin while Crane and I were being tossed around after the explosion.

‘With your permission, sir, I’d like to signal my section in London to start tracing action on the aircraft remains and the pistol, and then I’ll probably have to return to
Crete at fairly short notice. Whoever placed those charges – or rather ordered them to be placed – is almost certainly still somewhere on Crete, and I’m planning on locating him
before this ship leaves the area. Crane and I could very easily have died in that explosion, so I’ve got a score to settle.’

St Mary’s Hospital, Baltimore, Maryland

John Westwood pushed through the double swing doors leading into the hospital reception area. He attracted the immediate attention of the harassed receptionist by the
simple tactic of pushing his way to the head of a line of people and pulling out his CIA identification. Six minutes later he was following George Grant, a short, overweight African-American, down
a long white-painted corridor.

As Dr Grant halted beside a large window set in the left-hand wall and simply pointed through it, Westwood peered into the room beyond and saw a slight, grey-haired figure lying motionless on a
bed. Pipes and wires connected his inert body to an array of monitoring equipment and machines whose purpose Westwood could only guess at.

‘Mr Butcher is comatose,’ Grant explained. ‘That means he’s deeply unconscious almost all the time. He enjoys very occasional and invariably short periods of partial
lucidity, but the prognosis is terminal and he will certainly die within months, perhaps even within days.’

‘What exactly is wrong with him?’

Grant glanced appraisingly at Westwood. ‘As I thought I had explained, Mr Westwood, I cannot divulge any detailed medical information except to members of Mr Butcher’s immediate
family.’

‘Actually, Doctor,’ Westwood produced his CIA identification, ‘I think you can. There’s a possibility that Mr Butcher knows information that can be classified of national
importance. I require to know what is wrong with him – the exact prognosis. If necessary I can obtain a warrant, which will compel you to disclose any and all information relating to Henry
Butcher, but that would take time, so I would far rather you assisted the Agency without my having to resort to legal compulsion.’

‘No need for the big guns, Mr Westwood,’ Grant replied, studying the folder Westwood was holding out to him. ‘Now I know who you are, I’m perfectly happy to help in any
way I can. I don’t suppose you want the full medical diagnosis, so in summary what Mr Butcher is suffering from is a rare form of cancer that primarily affects the central nervous system.
He’s in the terminal stages of that disease now.’

‘How long has he got?’

Grant shook his ample shoulders. ‘God knows,’ he said, ‘and I do mean that literally: only God knows. If I had to provide a forecast I would say anything from six weeks to
three months, but that really is just a guess. He’s breathing by himself, his heart is in reasonably good condition and we’re feeding him intravenously. Eventually the cancer will take
him, but until it does he’s likely to endure.’

Westwood nodded and looked again at the still figure lying on the other side of the glass. ‘What about his family? Do they come to visit him?’

‘His wife is dead, and as far as I know he’s had no visitors at all since he became my patient about five months ago.’ Grant glanced at the information contained on a clipboard
he’d taken from the slot in the door. ‘His next of kin is listed as his brother, but I’ve never seen him here.’

For a few moments Westwood debated arranging to have a police officer or a junior agent stationed outside Henry Butcher’s door, but after another glance through the partition he decided
that would be a complete waste of time. ‘You mentioned some periods of partial lucidity,’ he said. ‘Are these frequent?’

Grant shook his head. ‘If you’re hoping to question him I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. The last time he showed any signs of consciousness was over three weeks ago,
and he was barely aware that he was in a hospital. I would be very surprised if he came round long enough to recognize anyone, so any kind of detailed questioning is almost certainly not going to
be feasible.’

Westwood nodded. ‘I understand that, but two things, Dr Grant. First, please don’t allow Mr Butcher any visitors apart from his immediate family and next of kin. If anyone else
attempts to enter his room, please have them detained on my authority. Secondly, just as a precaution, could you arrange to have a tape recorder positioned by his bed. If he recovers consciousness,
no matter how briefly, get someone to record anything he says and then let me have the tape.’ Westwood was clutching the smallest of all possible straws.

Grant nodded. ‘Is there anything special we should be listening for?’

‘No, just record everything. Right, thank you, Dr Grant. It was worth the journey here just in the hope I could have talked with him. I’ll give you my direct line number at the
Agency and if by any chance he should come round or his condition changes for the better, please contact me immediately.’

‘I can almost promise you he won’t improve,’ Grant replied, taking Westwood’s card, ‘but I’ll certainly advise you of any change in his condition.’

HMS
Invincible
, Sea of Crete

Richter was in his cabin on Two Deck drying his hair after taking a shower when there was a knock on his door. He slid it open to find a Communications rating standing
there with a buff envelope stamped ‘SECRET’, and with Richter’s name printed on it.

‘Sign here if you would, sir.’

‘Thanks. Could you wait a moment, please?’ Richter scrawled his signature on the form attached to the clipboard. He ripped open the envelope and extracted the signal that had been
sent from Hammersmith via the Secret Intelligence Service. The message was brief and to the point.

Richter put the message back in its envelope and watched as the rating re-sealed it. ‘Destroy it, please,’ he instructed, and slid his cabin door closed.

For Simpson to approve further investigation was one thing, but Richter had no clear idea about what to do next. Because of the weapon found inside the wrecked Learjet’s cabin, and the
duplicated aircraft registration, it was a reasonable guess that the jet had once been a CIA asset. What he didn’t know was what it had been doing over the eastern Mediterranean, or where it
had been before that, where it was going to or what it had been carrying. Nor did he yet know what had killed Spiros Aristides and his nephew, or why somebody now believed the mere existence of the
wreck was so dangerous that it had to be completely destroyed.

Richter had just finished dressing as he heard his name called over the tannoy system. ‘Lieutenant Commander Richter is requested to report to the Commander.’ Three minutes later he
knocked on a door, waited for the gruff command to enter, then stepped inside the cabin.

The Commander on a Royal Navy aircraft carrier is the Executive Officer, the most senior Commander on board, second in command and responsible for discipline and for the smooth running of the
ship. He didn’t, Richter noticed, look too pleased with life, and he didn’t ask his visitor to sit down.

‘Richter,’ he began flatly, ‘I’m not happy about your conduct on board this ship. Since you arrived you’ve flouted the rules on more than one occasion. I understand
that your so-called diversion to the Italian airfield was nothing more than a ruse to get you ashore overnight, but this last incident is intolerable. This ship isn’t here just for your
personal convenience. We could have lost a very expensive Merlin helicopter, not to mention an even more expensive crew, through your unauthorized activities.’

Richter just stared at him. ‘Is that it?’ he asked after a few seconds.

The Commander spluttered. ‘Are you being insubordinate?’

‘Almost certainly,’ Richter said, ‘but I’ve got better things to do than stand here and listen to you waffling on. You need to get a grasp on the facts of life. I’m
not a member of this ship’s company – in fact, I’m no longer even a serving naval officer – and I take my orders from another organization.’

‘I’m fully aware of that,’ the Commander said, his normally russet face darkening a couple of shades, ‘but while you’re on board this ship you’re still
subject to naval discipline and you will obey orders and accord proper respect to senior officers.’

‘I will do whatever I have to do,’ Richter retorted, ‘to complete tasks set for me by my section. If that means I have to flout naval discipline and ignore orders that you or
anybody else on this ship issues, then that’s what I’ll do. If you don’t like it, that’s tough. If you feel like taking the risk, clap me in irons, but until then,
I’ve got work to do. I’d like to do so with your cooperation, but if you want to make an issue of it I can probably get a very specific directive from their lordships at the Admiralty
telling you exactly what to do. Your choice.’