of the field. He maintained a crouching, scrambling run until he reckoned he was far enough away from the scene of the accident to stand up and take his bearings. There was a farm house about a quarter of a mile away and, between him and it, what looked like a minor road. He made for the road and a track he could see leading up to the farm, hoping that there might be some sign there. There was. It said, ‘Moorfields Farm’. Steven looked about him, taking in that the land round here was hilly but there was a relatively flat field about half a mile south of the farm house. He brought out his mobile phone and called Sci-Med. This was going to test Condition Red to the limit.
‘I need a helicopter to pick me up as fast as possible. I’ll be in a field about half a mile south of Moorfields Farm house to the east of the M1, travelling south from Leicester.’
‘Taking you to where?’ asked the calm voice of the duty officer.
‘London.’
‘Anything else?’
‘A car to meet me at the other end to bring me to the Home Office. I also need you to alert Sir John, please.’
‘Will do. I’ll call you back with an ETA for the ’copter.’
Steven closed his phone. Not for the first occasion in his time with Sci-Med he had cause to give thanks for the way Macmillan had set up the organisation. When it came to support for investigators in the field, everything ran like clockwork. Sci-Med’s administrative brief was to provide support for front-line people, not, as in the case of so many other government organisations, treat them as a source and supply of information for them to make reports and fill in forms of their own making.
Macmillan recruited the best for his investigators. He trusted their judgement implicitly and what they asked for they got. In the case of ‘Condition Red’ people, the rider ‘without question’ was applied. Recriminations, should there be any, would come later, not in the middle of an investigation.
Steven left the road and hid himself in a copse of trees at the southernmost edge of the field to wait. He used the time to reflect on what had happened and inspect his body for cuts and bruises. He had been remarkably lucky, he concluded — not even a sprained ankle from an incident he felt sure he would revisit in bad dreams throughout his life to come. He managed a wry smile when he thought it would have to take its turn among all the rest but the smile turned to feelings of bitterness when he started wondering who exactly his enemies were on this occasion. He’d been in similar circumstances before, waiting for pick-up from either a jungle or a desert rendezvous, when he’d known exactly who the enemy were but he’d never found himself doing it in the heart of the English countryside.
His phone rang and he flipped it open.
‘Air sea rescue helicopter flying in from Hunstanton; estimated ETA, thirty-five minutes.’
‘Roger that,’ said Steven.
‘Sir John will await your arrival.’
Steven whiled away the time, lying on his back watching the clouds pass over. He thought of Tally and Jenny, separately and together… together and separately… pleasant daydreams of family life, outings, picnics, Christmas time, holidays in the sun… Christ! thought Steven, suddenly fully alert and rolling over on to his stomach, Tally could be in danger. He steeled himself to think logically. The two hit men in the Jag had known he was staying in Leicester last night and where
… but they were now both dead. The chances were that they had been following him and had no interest at all in Tally but a nagging doubt persisted. If the opposition, whoever they were, suspected that he had told Tally anything that might concern them… she could be at risk. He would have to arrange protection for her until he’d worked out what was going on. The sound of rotor blades broke his train of thought and he ran out into the open to signal as he saw the helicopter appear.
‘I’m grateful to you,’ said Steven as he was pulled on board.
‘Our pleasure, Doctor,’ said the winchman, closing the door. ‘Makes a pleasant change from waiting for some clown to set to sea in a plastic dinghy.’ The man looked at the state of Steven and opened his medical kit. ‘Maybe we can do something about cleaning you up,’ he said.
With his cuts and bruises cleaned and dressed where necessary and with a rescue service anorak taking the place of his torn jacket, Steven jumped down from the helicopter, crouching from the downdraught, and running somewhat unsteadily in service boots a size too large for him, which the winchman had also come up with, to the waiting car. He turned and waved an acknowledgement to the helicopter crew who waved back before lifting off and leaning heavily over to port as they climbed away.
Macmillan’s first words when Steven appeared in his office were, ‘This had better be good.’
‘Good is not a word that’s going to come into this,’ said Steven. ‘Before we go any further I need a police guard put on Dr Natalie Simmons in Leicester — a discreet guard. I don’t want her to know. At this stage, it’s just a precaution.’
‘Address?’ asked Macmillan, picking up the phone.
Steven gave him details of Tally’s work and home addresses.
With that done, Macmillan looked to Steven. ‘Now?’
Steven told Macmillan everything leading up to the attempt on his life, watching him become more and more disturbed.
‘Over a hundred children injected with something that looks like it could kill them all?’ he exclaimed as if unwilling or unable to believe it.
‘Something that St Clair Genomics designed and two people have already been murdered to keep it quiet. It was going to be three until I got lucky… They do say it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, only in my case it was the calm that did the trick.’
‘I think we can do without gallows humour. How could they have known where you were last night? We didn’t.’
Steven shook his head. ‘I can’t work it out. I didn’t know myself until…’ Steven paused in mid-sentence. ‘It was the car,’ he exclaimed. ‘They knew where the car was, not me.’
Macmillan looked blank.
‘The Porsche was fitted with a tracker device in case it got stolen. ‘May I?’ Steven used Macmillan’s phone to dial the emergency number of the tracker service. He said who he was and gave details of his car when asked.
‘Everything all right now?’ came the reply.
‘In what way?’ asked Steven cautiously.
‘You reported your car as being stolen and then when we told you where it was you said everything was okay: it was a misunderstanding.’
‘Yes… thank you, fine… I just thought I’d call and apologise for the trouble I caused.’
‘No problem, sir. All in a day’s work.’
‘It was the car,’ said Steven to Macmillan. ‘They, whoever they are, reported it stolen. The tracker service told them where it was.’
Macmillan nodded. ‘If I remember rightly, that kind of device saved your life once when the police used it to track you down.’
Steven smiled. ‘Well, at least we know the how… all we need now is the who and the why.’
‘I’m going to call a meeting at the highest level,’ said Macmillan. ‘No more pussy-footing around. Someone has some explaining to do. In the meantime we’ll have to square things with the police up in Leicester and see if we can get some ID on your attackers.’
‘And if they should turn out to be MI5 doing HMG’s bidding?’ asked Steven.
‘That doesn’t bear thinking about,’ said Macmillan.
‘Personally, I can think of little else.’
‘You should be armed. Ask Jean to fix it. Keep a low profile for the time being. I’ll let you know when the meeting is set up.’
Steven got up to go.
‘About the police guard on Dr Simmons?’
‘Maybe keep it on until we know a bit more about what happened and why?’
‘Very well. By the way, Jean mentioned something about having something for you,’ said Macmillan as Steven opened the door.
In the outer office Jean Roberts said, ‘This came in for you this morning. It’s the update on the green sticker
