It was shortly after one a.m. when the vans finally drove off. The lab had been restored to its former pristine state — no mean feat considering the amount of blood that had been around — and the canister containing the spores had been neutralised as instructed. After a short hiatus, the cars that Macmillan had requested to take the three of them home turned up outside. Lukas locked the front doors of the lab and, in an attempt at humour, said, ‘I’m not sure what I’m going to tell my mother-in-law.’
‘I wouldn’t go for the truth,’ said Steven.
Steven knew he wouldn’t sleep so didn’t bother trying. He stayed up, sitting in his seat by the window, looking up at the sky, listening to Miles Davis, drinking gin. He found it hard to analyse his feelings now that he’d had time to consider. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn’t feel good. On the odd occasion he did manage to drift off into shallow sleep, it was to a world full of bad dreams, no place to be; he was glad to be jarred into wakefulness again.
When the first grey light of dawn challenged the orange glow of the city’s street lights, he forced himself to get up and face a new day, starting with a long shower — although he had the feeling of trying to rinse something away that wasn’t going to go — and following that with toast and coffee. He’d been told by Macmillan to be at the Home Office by nine a.m.
‘I’ve asked the commissioner of the Met to join us,’ said Macmillan. ‘We’re going to tell him everything and make it clear that Sci-Med will not be party to any kind of cover-up. We want this whole sorry, misconceived business out in the open regardless of the identity of Patient X.’
‘Good,’ said Steven. He didn’t doubt Macmillan’s sincerity but did wonder about the practicality of what he intended. There had been occasions in the past when Sci-Med had been forced to back off in the ‘public interest’, but to be fair to Macmillan those instances had been few and far between and more than eclipsed by the times the man had stood his ground against some pretty serious pressure from the corridors of power. In his time, Macmillan had presided over the demise of some very influential people who’d imagined themselves above the law. It was common knowledge that this alone had delayed his knighthood for many years.
Steven listened while Macmillan related all that had happened to the police commissioner, adding details when requested, particularly about the treatment of Michael Kelly and the ‘accident’ that had killed Louise Avery. When Macmillan had finished, the commissioner remained silent for a few moments, tapping his pen end over end on the table before finally saying, ‘I knew something was going on. It’s impossible to be in my job and not realise that. Rumours were rife but none of my people could quite get a handle on it. This usually means there’s intelligence service involvement, but that didn’t appear to be the case… at least not officially.’
Steven empathised with the commissioner. He was voicing the sort of frustration that he and Macmillan had felt over the past few weeks.
‘Strikes me the whole thing has been orchestrated by a parcel of rogues,’ said Sir John.
‘But powerful ones,’ said the commissioner.
‘Be that as it may…’ began Macmillan. He launched into a second insistence that there should be no cover-up. When he had finished, the commissioner got up from his chair.
‘I think I should confer with some people and get back to you, say, in two hours, time? Better make that three, as it’s Sunday.’
‘Well, the game’s afoot, Watson,’ murmured Macmillan as he returned from seeing the commissioner out, but there was little humour in it. ‘A drink?’
Steven had no desire to be anywhere near alcohol. ‘Maybe a walk in the park?’ he suggested. ‘Or by the river?’ he said quickly when he realised that seeing joggers in the park was only going to invoke memories of the previous evening. ‘The river,’ said Macmillan, who’d seen the same thing.
They had scarcely started to enjoy the sense of stability that Sunday morning by the Thames was giving them when Macmillan’s phone rang. Steven couldn’t deduce much from his monosyllabic replies. Occasionally, Sir John asked questions but didn’t seem happy with the replies he was getting.
‘That was the commissioner. A meeting’s been called,’ he said, ending the call.
‘Where?’
‘At an MI5 safe house in Kent,’ he said, taking care to enunciate every syllable.
FORTY-ONE
‘What?’ exclaimed Steven. ‘Why on earth…’
‘He told me not to ask any questions. He promised all will be revealed later. The meeting’s been called for eight p.m.’
‘So you don’t know who’s going to be there?’ said Steven, making it more of a statement than a question.
‘No idea,’ said Macmillan. ‘But I do know I don’t like it. I get the feeling HMG are about to ask us to keep our mouths shut. Wouldn’t surprise me if the Foreign Secretary and Minister of Defence show up in person to plead the case for secrecy on behalf of their man.’
‘And if they do?’
‘No deal. You know my feelings.’
‘Bit of an odd venue, though,’ Steven remarked.
Sensing that there was more to Steven’s comment than just a passing remark, Macmillan asked what was on his mind.
‘I just wondered if we’d be coming back from this meeting.’
‘That was the Metropolitan Police Commissioner on the phone,’ protested Macmillan. ‘Not some mafia don.’
‘Who has been speaking to MI5 if we’re going to be using one of their places?’ Steven reminded him. ‘But maybe I’m just too sensitive about accidents happening these days.’
‘Maybe you’re right. We don’t know who we can trust. I’ll put everything we know on an “insurance” disk this afternoon and post it to Jean’s home address with instructions as to what to do if anything should happen to us tonight. There would be no point in harming us with that in the wild.’
‘I take it we’ll be going down together in one of the pool cars?’
‘Actually, no,’ said Macmillan, sounding slightly embarrassed in the light of what they’d just been talking about. ‘The idea is to keep the meeting as discreet as possible, no official cars, no official drivers.’
‘Just us… in a remote country house,’ said Steven, without expression.
This reservations were becoming infectious. ‘Do you think we should call off and suggest an alternative venue?’ Macmillan asked.
‘No, I was just playing devil’s advocate. I can’t wait to see which politicians are wriggling on the end of this particular hook.
Steven picked up Macmillan at the Home Office just before six p.m. and they drove down to Kent, first to Canterbury and then on to the village of Patrixbourne where they started following more detailed directions to Lancing Farmhouse, a converted oasthouse on its outskirts.
‘Peaceful,’ said Steven as they crunched slowly up the drive to park in front of the old red-bricked house beside several other vehicles; two Range Rovers, a Volvo estate and a dark saloon which Steven noted had the Maserati symbol on its grille as he passed. It was eight minutes to eight and they were the last to arrive, the commissioner informed them. ‘No one’s going to be fashionably late then,’ said Steven, sounding surprised.
‘You’re about to see why,’ said the commissioner, leading the way through to an inner room where he paused to usher them inside. ‘None of us here do “fashionably late”.’
Steven had to admit he had a point. The people sitting there were the head of MI5, the head of MI6 and the head of Special Branch.
Macmillan seemed immediately on edge. He looked round the room, acknowledging each man in turn before saying, ‘Well, gentlemen, we make a formidable array of monkeys. Might one ask where our political organ-grinders are?’
‘No politicians will be coming, John,’ said the commissioner. ‘Believe it or not, no politician knows anything at all about this business.’
