tomb for three innocent Cretans.
Tyler Hardin opened the street door of Spiros Aristides’s house and stepped outside. Lavat and Gravas headed over towards him, but kept some four feet away from the American to avoid any possibility of physical contact with him or his space suit.
‘That was quick,’ Gravas said.
Hardin shook his head. ‘I haven’t examined the body yet, but I think I know the source of the infection.’
‘What was it?’
‘I don’t know exactly what the agent itself was, but I believe I know what it was inside. I think the two men found a small bottle or flask, which they opened inside there,’ Hardin gestured back towards the small, shabby white house, ‘and whatever was in that container killed them.’
There was silence for a few moments as the two Greeks digested this, then Gravas spoke. ‘So this can’t be Ebola or anything natural like that,’ he said. ‘You’re suggesting we’re dealing with some kind of
Hardin nodded. ‘It could be,’ he replied. ‘Or, possibly, it’s some kind of unknown natural virus that had been collected and stored inside the flask for research purposes. Thousands of laboratories store viruses that way, and some of them are lethal, like smallpox, anthrax and so on. You can even buy them on the Internet, if you know where to look.
‘What worries me is that I still have no idea what could have killed those two men so quickly. Viruses,’ he added, ‘are my business, but even I don’t know of any virus that can kill as quickly and efficiently as this sucker has. It’s more like some sort of chemical agent, but again I don’t know of any capable of producing this kind of result within this short a timescale. Whatever this thing is,’ he concluded, ‘I think it’s entirely new, something that’s never been seen before, and that really worries me.’
‘What about the flask you found?’ Lavat asked. ‘Can’t you identify the agent from the residue left inside it?’
Hardin shook his head. ‘I didn’t say I’d found the flask. I said I’d found the wax and wire that had clearly been used to seal it, but there’s no sign of the container itself. That’s what I came out to tell you. I’ve looked all around the ground floor and if it’s there I haven’t spotted it. Obviously I’ll check upstairs as well, but there’s no particular reason why Spiros would hide the flask, so I’m assuming that it isn’t here. And that means—’
Inspector Lavat interrupted. ‘That means the most likely person to have taken it would be Nico, so it’s probably somewhere in his apartment.’
‘Exactly,’ Hardin said. ‘As soon as I’ve had a good look at Spiros we have to get over there and find it.’
Mike Murphy had achieved rather better time than Krywald’s team, principally because he had managed to make the connection at Heathrow, so he landed at Irakleio just over eight hours behind them. He was in no hurry, because he couldn’t do anything until Nicholson confirmed that Krywald and his team had completed their part of the operation – about which Murphy himself knew nothing – so he took his time.
He collected his single bag from the carousel, queued for about fifteen minutes to collect a pre-booked Peugeot hire car and a map of Crete, then drove out of the airport. He stopped at what looked like quite a reasonable restaurant and had a meal, then drove west along the north-coast road of Crete to Rethymno and checked into his hotel. He inspected the room Nicholson had booked for him, checked the location of the lift, the main stairs and the fire escape – he had saved his own life at least twice in the past by knowing the back way out of a building – then sent Nicholson, who was still using the ‘McCready’ alias, an encrypted email announcing his arrival at Rethymno.
And then, because he would have almost exactly nothing to do for a minimum of twelve hours, Murphy stretched out on the rather hard double bed and went to sleep.
HMS
The sun was sinking steadily towards the horizon as afternoon shaded into evening. The western sky was an incredible artist’s palette of pastel hues and primary colours – pinks, reds, blues, yellows and greens – splashed in slowly changing bands above the horizon. The
The slight tang of salt in the air was overlaid by the unmistakable smell of burnt kerosene from the Merlin’s three Rolls-Royce Turbomeca gas turbines, and the noise of the aircraft – a mix of the whine of the engines and the clattering of the rotor blades as they turned above the bulky shape – drowned out all other sounds on the Flight Deck.
The Merlin sat, turning and burning, on number three spot, its side access door open and a clutch of Flight Deck personnel clustered around it, carrying out a rotors-running refuel. Each rating wore an appropriate coloured jersey, identifying his specialization to anyone who knew the colour code. The ones that stood out most were the fire-fighters, trolley-mounted A-Triple F extinguishers to hand and clad entirely in what looked like heavy silver coats and trousers, but which were actually made of a fire-resistant asbestos fabric.
Paul Richter watched the helicopter from where he was standing on the port side of the island superstructure, ear defenders on his head and a black leather overnight bag sitting on the deck beside him. He was now wearing civilian clothes and the bag contained enough personal stuff to last him for the couple of days he anticipated it might take to find an answer that would satisfy Simpson.
It was the last flight from the ship that evening, a late addition to the flying programme, and its only outbound passenger was to be Richter. The helicopter was planned to fly from the
The Flight Deck Officer was standing in front, and slightly to one side, of the helicopter, watching as the refuelling hose was detached from the inlet at the side of the fuselage. He checked to ensure that the hose was pulled well clear, then waved away the attending firefighters.
Above the deck, in his seat in Flyco – it was a comfortable black padded swivel chair adjustable in almost every direction, which was just as well bearing in mind how long Lieutenant Commander (Flying) or the Air Staff Officer spent sitting in it at a stretch – Roger Black peered downwards through the slanting windows, noted that refuelling had finished and called through to the bridge on the intercom.
‘Officer of the Watch, Flyco. The refuelling’s just finished, so we’ll need launch wind across the deck in a few minutes.’
‘Roger that. Turning starboard and increasing speed.’
On deck, the FDO unconsciously leaned against the heeling of the ship as it began its long turn to starboard and increased its speed, watching the helicopter pilot carefully. He acknowledged a signal from the cockpit, then beckoned to Richter, who picked up his leather bag and headed across the deck to where the FDO stood, stopping in full view of the Merlin’s pilot. The two men waited for a signal, ensuring that the pilot was aware that his passenger was ready to embark, then Richter walked across to the side access door of the helicopter, ducking as he moved under the rotor disk, tossed his bag into the rear compartment of the Merlin and climbed in after it. He strapped himself in and waited for take-off.
The ship steadied on a south-westerly heading and began to pick up speed. Seated in Flyco, Roger Black checked the anemometer readout, waiting for the wind to move within limits for the launch. Although helicopters, and even Sea Harriers, can take off vertically in still wind conditions, they almost never do, simply because the amount of power required means that the payload – what it’s carrying – is too low for the aircraft to achieve anything useful once it’s airborne. Instead, Harriers use vectored thrust and a short take-off run to get airborne, and carrier-borne helicopters rely on wind gusting down the deck to increase the lift generated by the rotor blades.
Black nodded as the wind speed increased to the level he needed, and turned to the rating sitting beside him. ‘Rotary wing – green deck for’rard.’
‘Yes, sir. Rotary wing – green deck for’rard,’ the rating repeated and flicked a switch.
On the Flight Deck, the FDO looked up towards the Bridge, saw the red light change to green and
