Pandemic

bunch of initials – the CIA, like most large organizations, is more or less governed by acronyms – but when the brief entry suddenly appeared on the screen, Westwood didn’t, for a moment, recognize it because it was something he’d never seen before within the CIA. When he did recognize the acronym, he whistled softly and sat back in his seat. In that instant he knew the file was going to stay sealed, no matter what he or anyone else tried to do about it.

The other thing he could try was quite simple. He called up the directory listing for the CAIP file and requested details. This displayed additional information that included the date each file was created, and last modified, and crucially its size. He scanned down this list until he reached ‘CAIP’, read the figure beside the name and noted it down. He changed directories and repeated the process with the ‘N17677’ file. He then made a short telephone call to the IT section, just to confirm what he already knew.

Westwood still didn’t know the significance of any of this, but at least he had a little more to go on. It looked as if, the moment the wreckage of the Learjet had been found, somebody had begun taking steps to ensure the permanent silence of all the former senior CIA agents involved in CAIP. There were six names on his list and he knew already that two of them were dead: he obviously had to take immediate action to check on the others.

Westwood dialled the Registry and asked for the personnel files on Henry Butcher, George Cassells, William Penn and Roger Stanford. He also, more or less as an after-thought, requested any files relating to CAIP and to the Learjet registration N17677, though he very much doubted if the Registry Archive staff would find anything there.

ASW Merlin callsign ‘Spook Two’, between Gavdopoula and Gavdos, Eastern Mediterranean

‘I presume that was what kept you?’ Richter asked, gesturing towards the body lying on the floor of the Merlin.

O’Reilly nodded. ‘I spotted the body in the water as we approached the site of the explosion, and ordered the aircraft to reverse course so we could carry out a rescue. Turned out we were a little too late for this guy though. And while we were sorting him out, we had the chopper facing away from where you two were bobbing around, so we didn’t see you.’

Richter nodded and stepped over to the corpse. He looked down for a few moments at the shattered face, then lifted and turned the head slightly before lowering it. He bent down to pick up the wetsuit hood from the floor where O’Reilly had dropped it, and examined it carefully. ‘You were definitely too late,’ he said. ‘This man’s been shot in the back of the head with a large calibre pistol or maybe a rifle. It looks to me like there might be some powder burns on the wetsuit hood, which would suggest a pistol, but it’s hard to tell on the neoprene.’

‘Has he been dead long?’ O’Reilly’s experience of dead bodies was extremely limited: the corpse on the floor was the first he had ever seen in the flesh, so to speak.

Richter shook his head. ‘Not long,’ he decided. ‘The body’s limp and still warm, which means rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet. Something’s been feeding on what’s left of his face but if he’d been in the water for long he’d be in a much worse mess. My guess is he was alive just a few hours ago, certainly this morning.’

O’Reilly shuddered slightly. ‘Any idea who he was?’

‘I’ve never seen him before,’ Richter replied, ‘but I can make a guess. I think he was the diver who placed the explosives that have just blown the remains of the Learjet into a million pieces. Presumably there was a falling-out among the team members, or maybe they just figured he was expendable. Either way, I suppose you could say the body’s evidence, so we’d better get it ashore and let the Cretan police sort things out.’

O’Reilly nodded somewhat abstractedly, then turned and gave instructions to the pilot. Seconds later the Merlin began to climb out of the hover and moved forward, heading towards the southern coast of Crete.

‘Where should we take him?’ O’Reilly asked. ‘Irakleio?’

Richter shook his head. ‘No, go to Kandira. I’ve already spoken to a police inspector there called Lavat about this wreck, and I think he’s more or less in charge of the investigation from the Cretan end. Whoever that diver was,’ Richter jerked a thumb towards the rear of the aircraft, ‘it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that he was probably one of the bad guys responsible for killing the policeman at Kandira, so I guess Lavat would be only too pleased to get him, dead or alive.’

‘OK,’ O’Reilly said, and instructed the Merlin pilot to make for Kandira. As the helicopter changed course slightly for the western end of the island, Richter and Crane finally began pulling off their wetsuits.

‘What’s in there?’ Crane pointed at the string bag containing the encrusted debris Richter had found in the wrecked aircraft.

‘I’ll show you.’ Richter pulled it out and laid it on the floor of the cabin. He took his diving knife and rapped at it sharply with the back of the blade. The encrustation fell away, coming off in chunks like the shell of a walnut, to reveal a stainless-steel Colt revolver.

‘I found this inside the Learjet,’ Richter said. ‘Remember, guns, like cars and aircraft, carry serial numbers, and through that number you can trace at least the first registered owner. I’m guessing, but I think that the Learjet and the Colt will both turn out to have been owned by the American Central Intelligence Agency, which will kind of add a new dimension to the cause of this little epidemic we have here on Crete.’

Chapter 19

Friday

Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

As Westwood had expected, the Registry Archives came up with two ‘no trace’ responses to his request for files relating to CAIP and the crashed Learjet, but they had no trouble finding the personnel records for Henry Butcher, George Cassells, William Penn and Roger Stanford respectively.

It took Westwood under three minutes to learn that Cassells, Penn and Stanford were all dead: Penn in an automobile accident and the other two of fully documented natural causes. Henry Butcher, though, was still alive, but only just. According to a note in his file, he lay in a coma in a hospital in Baltimore, Maryland. Helpfully, the same note also listed the hospital telephone number and the name of the doctor – George Grant – who was treating him.

Westwood got through to Grant almost immediately, which was something of a surprise. He decided to use his real name rather than some pseudonym that he might subsequently forget at a crucial moment. ‘My name’s John Westwood,’ he began. ‘I believe you’re treating a former colleague of mine called Henry Butcher?’

‘That’s right,’ Grant replied.

‘May I ask how he is?’

‘You’ll appreciate, Mr Westwood, that I can’t disclose confidential medical information over the telephone. All I can tell you is that Mr Butcher is very ill.’

‘I understand that,’ Westwood replied. ‘Would it be possible for me to visit with Henry at the hospital?’

‘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.

Kandira, 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.