Pandemic (48 page)

‘You OK?’ Stein asked, immediately aware of how stupid this question was.

‘Of course I’m not OK,’ Krywald wheezed. ‘Listen to me. If that file ever gets made public, it could destroy the Company.’

‘What?’ Stein inadvertently jerked on the steering wheel, swerving the car across the fortunately empty road. ‘Christ, Krywald, that file’s over thirty years old.
Whatever the Company was doing back then can’t be important today. So what the hell’s in it?’

Krywald shook his head. ‘You have to read it but, believe me, I’m not exaggerating. It could shut down the Agency and maybe even topple the US administration.’ Krywald fell
silent, slumped back in his seat.

Stein wondered if his colleague’s ramblings were some kind of a side effect of whatever he was suffering from. But Krywald had always been outstandingly level-headed, so Stein realized he
was going to have to read the file himself to try to make any kind of sense of what the man was now saying.

‘There must have been some kind of infectious agent inside the case,’ Stein suggested after a few seconds. ‘Something you didn’t even notice – like dust, a liquid,
something?’

‘There was some powder on the cover of the file,’ Krywald said, ‘but I blew it off before I opened it.’

Bingo
, Stein thought, but said nothing further. Eighteen minutes later, having removed the SIG pistol from Krywald’s waistband and the two spare magazines from his pocket, Stein
helped him through the double doors of the hospital and watched helplessly as his partner was rushed away for emergency treatment.

Hammersmith, London

‘Oh, shit,’ Simpson muttered, and tossed the signal flimsy over to the Intelligence Director, who stared at it in incomprehension.

‘What’s the problem?’ the ID asked, having read it through to the end. ‘OK, the signal’s from Richter. He’s explained what happened when he dived on the
wrecked Learjet, he’s acknowledged your instruction to investigate further and he’s confirmed he’ll take care of it, so presumably that’s exactly what he’ll
do.’

‘It’s not what the signal says,’ Simpson snapped, ‘but what it means. I don’t like the way Richter takes care of things. Buildings get destroyed, aircraft get blown
up, and the body count gets higher the more pissed off he becomes. And as somebody’s just detonated a bunch of plastic explosive directly underneath his little rubber boat, I’m guessing
that he’s
very
pissed off right now.’

‘You’re exaggerating.’

‘Yes, I am, but not a lot.’

‘He’s under your orders, so he’ll do what he’s told.’

‘You wish.’ Simpson laughed mirthlessly. ‘He was supposed to be under my orders out in Italy. I instructed him – not once but several times – not to touch Lomas.
Six minutes later Lomas was lying on a gravel drive while two Italian policemen tried to shovel his intestines back inside his abdomen. Don’t talk to me about Richter being under my
orders.’

‘Well,’ the Intelligence Director suggested, ‘if he’s such a loose cannon, then get rid of him. Give him to the Italians. I’m sure they’d be only too happy to
stick him in the
oubliette
, so to speak.’

‘No way.’ Simpson shook his head. ‘For all his faults, Richter’s probably the most useful man I’ve got – and I’ll tell you why. He’s like a
Rottweiler with attitude. Once he gets his teeth into a problem he simply never lets go until he’s fixed it.’

‘But if he won’t follow your orders?’

‘I can live with that, as long as he gets the job done – which he always has up to now. Of course, the day may come when he’ll outlive his usefulness and then I’ll have
to get rid of him, permanently, but until then I’m prepared to cope with the problems he causes.’

‘But what he did to Lomas—’

‘What he did to Lomas,’ Simpson interrupted again, ‘was a hell of a lot less than I’d have done if I’d had the same chance. And Richter was probably right: all the
Italians would do is stick Lomas in a nice comfy safe house for a year or two, give him three square meals a day, and ask him politely if there’s anything he’d like to tell them. From
what we know of that bastard they’d get the square root of sod all out of him. And anything they did get would probably be disinformation that they’d then spend months wasting their
time checking out.

‘In fact, Richter may actually have done us a favour. While Lomas is recuperating and dependent, the Italians are probably more likely to get something useful out of him. They can fiddle
with the drugs, feed him a little sodium pentothal or scopolamine, and give him the third degree while he’s still woozy. All Richter has to worry about is what Lomas will do once he’s
recovered.’

‘He’ll go after Richter, you mean?’

‘Like a shot. Richter, of course, is looking forward to that. He doesn’t like unfinished business.’

HMS
Invincible
, Sea of Crete

‘
Invincible
,
Invincible
, this is Fob Watch, over.’

‘Fob Watch,
Invincible
, you’re loud and clear. Go ahead.’

‘
Invincible
, this is Fob Watch with a transport request, and a message for Lieutenant Commander Richter. Ready to copy? Over.’

‘Ready to copy.’

‘Roger. Message reads as follows. “From Tyler Hardin, CDC, to Lieutenant Commander Richter, HMS
Invincible
. Third suspected case reported within last few minutes. Subject is
surname Curtis, first name Roger. Nationality, American. Profession, reporter. Status, emergency admission to Chaniá hospital. Request helicopter transport from Kandíra to
Chaniá ASAP. Suggest Richter accompanies.” Message ends.’

‘Fob Watch,
Invincible
, all copied. Listen out this frequency for aircraft callsign and estimate for Kandíra. Out.’

The communications rating pulled off his headset, read over what he’d written, then handed it to the duty Communications Officer who scanned it quickly. ‘Three copies,’ the
officer said crisply. ‘One for Air Operations, one for Commander Richter, and file the other.’

Just over thirty minutes later an 814 Squadron Merlin was sitting on two spot, rotors turning and waiting for the ship to steady on a flying course. Richter, back in civilian clothes, was the
only passenger. Beside him was his leather overnight bag, in the inside pocket of his jacket was an Enigma T301 mobile phone, and tucked in the rear waistband of his trousers was a Browning 9mm
semi-automatic pistol.

Friday
Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

Westwood had just arrived back in his office when his outside line rang.

‘Mr Westwood? It’s George Grant, from Baltimore.’

‘Dr Grant. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Has something happened?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid Mr Butcher died about an hour ago,’ the doctor replied.

Westwood realized immediately that his last possible straw had just vanished. ‘Isn’t that rather sooner than you were expecting?’

‘Frankly, yes,’ Grant said, ‘but, as I told you, in these cases our expectations are only very rarely accurate. Some patients last a lot longer than we anticipate, others die
much sooner than expected. I said as much to his brother too.’

‘His brother?’ Westwood asked.

‘Yes, John Butcher came to visit just a couple of hours after you left, and his brother Henry slipped away soon after he had gone. And before you ask me, Mr Westwood, I did confirm his
identification. I checked his driver’s licence, and I had the ward nurse keep an eye on him all the time he was in the room with our patient.’

Despite Grant’s reassurances, Westwood immediately recognized the lethal hand of Mr X, tying up yet another loose end. ‘Can you describe this John Butcher, please?’ he
asked.

‘Certainly. He’s a big man, around two hundred pounds, red-brown hair and a full beard.’

‘Thank you.’ Westwood jotted down the brief description, which was probably that of a man wearing a simple disguise. ‘One other thing, Dr Grant. Can you please arrange for an
autopsy on Henry Butcher? And as soon as possible?’

‘I
can
,’ Grant said, surprise evident in his voice, ‘but it’s most unusual in any case where there’s no doubt about the diagnosis. May I ask why?’

‘Yes, you may. I have good reason to believe that Henry Butcher may have been murdered, most likely poisoned.’

There was a brief stunned silence across the line as Grant absorbed the implications. ‘That’s absolutely unbelievable,’ he replied finally. ‘This patient was comatose and
terminally ill. What would be the point in murdering a dying man? And who did it? His own
brother
?’ His voice rose the better part of an octave on the last word.

‘All that’s classified information, Dr Grant, but I’d be very surprised if the man who identified himself as John Butcher was any relation to your patient.’

‘Very well. I’ll contact you when I get the results.’

As soon as he put the phone down, Westwood pressed buttons on his computer keyboard and brought up Henry Butcher’s personnel file, accessing details of his family. Butcher’s wife had
died some years earlier, and his next of kin was listed as his brother – John James Butcher – with an address in Idaho. Westwood noted down the telephone number and then dialled it. His
call was answered almost immediately.

‘Mr Butcher?’

‘That’s me. Who’s calling?’

‘My name’s Westwood, Mr Butcher, from your brother’s old company.’

Westwood heard a wheezing chuckle. ‘Spare me the covert crap, Mr Westwood. I know Henry was a spook. Now, what can I do for you?’

‘I’ve some bad news, I’m afraid, Mr Butcher. Your brother Henry died today in his Baltimore hospital.’

There was a short pause before John Butcher replied. ‘Well, that’s a relief, I guess. He had no quality of life left. Not for a while, really.’

‘When did you last see your brother, Mr Butcher?’ Westwood asked.

‘Oh, ’bout six months ago, I reckon. Didn’t seem too much point to go on visiting him. He never even knew I was there.’

Two minutes later Westwood replaced the receiver. He’d been fairly sure before he’d made that call, but now there was no possible doubt. Somebody still working at Langley was making
sure that all the details of CAIP, and any possible witnesses, would be dead and buried for ever.

Merlin ‘Whisky Tango’

The crew of the Merlin had been pre-briefed earlier in the day for the sortie. They hadn’t known exactly when they were due to fly to Kandíra but, as the duty
HDS crew, they had expected to make that journey at least once. The aircraft had been kept fully fuelled and waiting on two spot, so the crew were being strapped in and ready for engine start less
than ten minutes after the message had been received from Fob Watch.

The short delay had been caused by Richter himself. As soon as he’d read the message from Tyler Hardin, he’d guessed that the ‘sick journalist’ mentioned was almost
certainly one of the men who had entered the two properties in Kandíra. As far as could be deduced, the sole source of the infection that killed the two Greeks had been carried in a
container that had been removed from Nico Aristides’s property by the two intruders. The only way anyone else could become infected was by immediate access to that container. Therefore this
supposed ‘journalist’ had to be one of the intruders.

Richter had quickly done three things before walking across the Flight Deck and climbing into the back of the Merlin. First, he’d drawn the Enigma phone from the CommCen – the T301
uses high-level encryption to provide secure communications with other users of the equipment on normal GSM networks, and Richter knew his section had several handsets available.

Next he’d signalled Simpson, giving him the mobile number and requesting encrypted facilities be enabled at Hammersmith. He also asked for the assistance of a Secret Intelligence Service
asset on Crete, and specified a recognition procedure. He’d classified the signal ‘Secret’ and gave it the precedence ‘Military Flash’, thus guaranteeing that Simpson
would receive it within the hour.

SIS maintains a fairly large team at Irakleío, mainly employed in monitoring radio transmissions from the Middle East and nations of the former USSR. Richter knew there had been at least
two men posing as CDC officers in Kandíra, but there could easily be a whole opposition team involved, so he wanted back-up.

The last thing he’d done, therefore, was to draw the pistol and thirty rounds of ammunition from the
Invincible
’s armoury.

Réthymno, Crete

Richard Stein was a desperately worried man. He’d seen the state of the bodies of Spiros and Nico Aristides, and he’d just spent a couple of hours sitting in a
closed car next to Roger Krywald while his partner coughed up blood as his condition steadily worsened. The unknown biological agent that had killed the two Greeks was probably now going to kill
Krywald, and Stein knew for certain that it was sitting – silent, lethal and invisible – in that case in the back of the hire car.

But its location wasn’t his problem. His anxiety was that maybe it was all around him right now, in the air, in Krywald’s blood smears on his jacket lapels – maybe even on the
adjacent seat his partner had been sitting in. To say that he was terrified it might attack him too was considerably understating the case.

As soon as he’d propelled Krywald through the doors of the Chaniá hospital, Stein had pulled off his blood-stained jacket and tossed it into the back of the Ford. He climbed back
into the car and gunned the engine, ignoring the speed limits as he headed east for Réthymno and the illusory sanctuary of the hotel. He stopped twice on the way back: once to buy petrol and
the second time to purchase a pack of large black trash bags.

The moment he arrived at the hotel, Stein locked the car carefully, leaving the case that Krywald had been guarding so assiduously inside it. He grabbed the room key from the desk clerk,
virtually ran up the stairs to his room and locked the door behind him. He tore off all his clothes and dumped them unceremoniously into one of the trash bags. He tied the neck of it with a double
knot, then stuck the bag inside another one and secured that as well. After that he walked straight into the bathroom and under the shower.