The Secret (Dr Steven Dunbar 10) (7 page)

‘You know,’ began Tally as they had breakfast together, ‘if you’re right about this person creating a diversion . . . there must have been two of them, one to create the diversion and one to . . . push your friend over.’

‘That’s right,’ Steven agreed.

‘Scary, huh?’

‘Crazy. And all because she was going to bad
-mouth another organisation? I don’t think.’

Tally gave a shrug of resignation and asked, ‘Are you going back to
London this morning?’

‘No, I’ll phone around a bit, see if I can pick up anything more about what happened in the gallery.’

‘Then I might see you later?’

‘Indeed you might,’ said Steven. ‘There’s not much I can do in
London until John talks to Med Sans.’

‘I’ll be off then.’ Tally bent down to kiss Steven on the cheek. ‘You can do the washing up.’

The outside door clicked shut and Steven sat for a few moments in the silence wondering where all this was leading. It was not a good feeling. All he could see ahead was the wall at the end of a blind alley. The silence became oppressive; he got up and turned on the radio before clearing the table. Justin Webb on the Today programme was interviewing a spokesman on behalf of ME sufferers in the wake of the third attack in recent weeks on the home of a scientist working on the problem.

‘Surely you can’t condone this behaviour?’

‘Of course not. We deplore violence in any form but people are angry at not being taken seriously. ME is a very debilitating condition and the public are being encouraged to believe that it isn’t. The government’s continual refusal to fund proper research . . .’

‘What exactly do you mean by proper research?’

‘A properly organised search for the organism responsible for the condition.’

Webb turned to a government spokesman. ‘Well, why don’t you?’

‘Simply because there is no evidence at all that a bacterium or virus is responsible. Many have looked . . .’

‘They’ve played at looking,’ interrupted the ME man.
'A few individual scientists coasting along on the grants gravy train, pretending to search and determined to find nothing that would stop the train rolling along . . .’

‘You can’t seriously suggest that scientists don’t want to find the cause,’ exclaimed Webb.

‘It’s ridiculous,’ agreed the government man. ‘I think it’s more a case of ME sufferers being unwilling to face facts . . .’

‘Which are?’

‘That there is a . . . psychological element to the condition, something that ME sufferers seem dead set against.’

‘Because it’s baloney,’ asserted the ME man. ‘The government want to brand us all as indolent layabouts because it’s a damned sight cheaper than funding proper research.’

‘Gentlemen, I’m afraid the clock has beaten us . . .’

Steven finished putting away the last breakfast plate and turned off the radio before going in search of his briefcase and the Prague
meeting list. He brought back both and sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy the morning sunshine streaming in through the window. A glance at the his watch told him that it was too early to start phoning anyone in academia so he made himself an espresso and set about sorting the participants into new lists. The originals were in alphabetical order: he grouped them using different parameters, the first being nationality, the others based on whether they were scientists or medics and whether they were academics or aid workers, and finally sub grouped for the aid workers under the organisations they worked for. By the time he had entered the information into his laptop it was time to make the first phone call.

‘The what i
nspectorate?’ asked Clive Rollison at the University of Birmingham.

Steven repeated himself
and explained briefly what Sci-Med did. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about the polio eradication meeting in Prague you attended.’

‘I’ve already explained the oversight to the travel grants committee . . .’

‘Nothing like that, doctor. A young woman fell to her death at the meeting.’

‘Yes, Simone
Ricard. Shame; a nice woman.’

‘Were you anywhere near at the time?’

‘What is this? Are you suggesting I had something to do with her death?’

‘Good heavens no, I just wondered if you saw what happened.’

‘I was in the gallery at the time, as it happens, but I didn’t actually see it. There was some kind of kerfuffle about somebody losing a contact lens, then there was a scream and all hell broke loose; people were shouting and crying; several rushed downstairs to see if they could help but there was nothing anyone could do. Her neck was broken; I could see that from the angle she was lying at when I looked over the balustrade.’

‘How high was the balustrade?’

‘Not that high, to be honest. I don’t think they normally allow visitors up there and the floor was a bit uneven. I don’t think Health and Safety would have passed it here. Mind you . . .’

‘Quite. Were you anywhere near the
kerfuffle you mentioned?’

‘Not really, about twenty metres
away I guess. I was looking up at ceiling and then I heard the commotion and turned round. People were getting down on their hands and knees to look for a contact lens while others were saying, “Don’t move, you’ll stand on it.” There was nothing I could do so I went back to admiring the ceiling and then I heard the scream . . . and the thud.’

Steven decided not to call
anyone else for the time being: he was convinced he was just going to hear variations on what he’d already been told. He changed from Mazarek’s list to the official meeting register. Simone and Guy Monfils were the only participants from
Médecins Sans Frontières
; there were five people from WHO, including Thomas Schultz the meeting organiser, three from Children First, the organisation Simone had been concerned about, several Americans concerned with funding – both government and charity sourced – and a range of aid workers from Pakistan and Afghanistan. In addition, there were government observers from Nigeria, Pakistan, Afghanistan and India as well as Tom North and Dan Hausman from the North lab in London.

Neit
her Celia Laing nor Clive Rollison knew who’d lost or claimed to have lost their contact lens but someone had to know. To have been a diversion, the incident would have had to happened close to where Simone was standing, so those nearest her at the time would be most likely to remember who had raised the alarm. Bill Andrews, the American charity administrator, had been nearby; he had been joking with her. He must know.

Steven was looking for contact details
for Andrews when his phone rang: it was John Macmillan. ‘Where are you, Steven?’

‘
Leicester. Have you heard back from Med Sans?’

‘
That’s no longer relevant. I need you back here tomorrow morning. We’ve been summoned to a meeting.’

‘At their place?’

‘At the Foreign Office.’

Steven was taken comp
letely by surprise. ‘Why . . . how . . . ?’

‘I dare say we’ll find out tomorrow. What are you doing right now?’

Steven told him.

‘
Better put your investigation on hold for the time being.’

Steven was sitting wondering what on Earth Macmillan had said to
Médecins Sans Frontières
to attract the attention of the Foreign Office when a text message came in from Tally. She apologised but said she’d have to work late. Steven returned the apology saying he’d been summoned back to London. He’d call when he knew more.

The next day
Steven arrived at the Home Office just before nine o’clock and asked Jean Roberts, who was taking her coat off in the hall at the time, if she knew what was going on.

‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied. ‘
To be honest, I think Sir John is mystified too. It was more of a directive than a request. The pair of you are required to attend at ten a.m. with no indication given of what the meeting’s about.’

‘Someone’s been watching too many episodes of
Spooks
,’ suggested Steven.

Jean appeared to smi
le and frown at the same time, an ability that always amused Steven. Jean was very much of the old school when it came to respect for people and protocol. He had never known her make a derogatory comment about anyone working in Whitehall in all the years he’d known her. Quite a feat, he thought, when she was so spoilt for choice. Macmillan arrived and they had coffee in his office before going over to the Foreign Office.

Steven felt more bemused than ever when they entered the meeting room and saw who was there. He could sense that Macmillan shared his surprise as he acknowledged the presence of the
Foreign Secretary, the head of MI6, the CIA chief of the London station and Guy Monfils from MSF. There were a few other people there whom he didn’t recognise.

Macmillan and he were shown to their places at the table and it immediately became apparent that the meeting had been called for their ‘benefit’. St
even felt as if he were about to be interviewed for a job.

‘Thank you for jo
ining us, gentlemen,’ said the Foreign Secretary with a smile that was intended to lighten the atmosphere. It was not returned by Macmillan or Steven who both remained impassive, thinking they hadn’t had much choice in the matter.

‘I’m led to believe that
in recent weeks Sci-Med have been taking an interest in the tragic death of a
Médecins Sans Frontières
aid worker, Dr Simone Ricard. Is that right?’

‘Simone was a friend,
' said Steven. ‘I’m not entirely convinced her death was accidental.’

The F
oreign Secretary took a deep breath as if this were something he had no wish to hear. He continued, ‘You attended her funeral in France where you asked questions of several people and gave the impression that you might be continuing your inquiries . . . your admittedly unofficial inquiries.’

‘I wanted to know the truth. I still do.’

‘And to that end, Sir John has approached MSF here in the UK?’

‘I wanted to know what they thought before committing to anything officially,’ said Macmillan. ‘Is there a problem?’

The Foreign Secretary gave Macmillan a long hard look before replying, ‘Sort of.’

Steven and Macmillan exchanged glances while waiting for the Foreign Secretary to continue.

‘
You have probably established that Dr Ricard was unhappy about the behaviour of certain of her colleagues in the field. She wanted to speak publicly about this at a meeting in Prague but was denied the opportunity. Your suspicion is that she was murdered in order to keep her quiet about her misgivings. Am I right?’

‘Th
ere have been two deaths,’ Steven reminded him.

‘Yes, thank you. Dr
Lagarde. I will come to her later. This meeting has been convened to put you both in the picture. Dr Ricard was right to be concerned about the actions of the Children First team she came across and their apparent lack of expertise. I’m afraid – no, embarrassed - to tell you that they were not an aid team at all apart from one Pakistani doctor. They were a CIA intelligence-gathering unit.’

‘Masquerading as a medical aid team?’ exclaimed Macmillan. ‘That’s outrageous. It’s like using ambulances to cover troop movements. It’s just not on.’

‘I think the CIA has been made aware of the strength of feeling their actions have generated,’ said the Foreign Secretary, turning his head slightly towards the CIA chief.

‘Why do it in the first place?’

‘Abbottabad,’ said the CIA chief, speaking for the first time. ‘We were going after Bin Laden: we knew we were getting close but we had to be sure.’

‘So you put the health of God knows how many children at risk to get to one man,’ said Steven.

‘He wasn’t just one man, dammit,’ snapped the CIA man. ‘He was an icon, a figurehead. While he lived, 9/11 would never be avenged in the eyes of the American people. We had to take him out while we had the chance.’

‘Had the chance?’

‘Intelligence gained by the teams pointed us at the compound at Abbottabad but we still had to be sure Bin Laden was there. One of the vaccination teams gained access to the compound and brought away samples for DNA analysis. They were positive. We sent in the SEALS and the rest . . . you know.’

‘Well, that’s all right then,’ said Steven sourly. ‘Polio will remain endemic in the region and the vaccination teams will not be able to stop it because no one will trust them any more but hey, you got your man. John Wayne would have been very pleased.’

Macmillan put a hand on Steven’s arm to rein him in.

‘I know what we did . . . was perhaps wrong
in a moral sense,’ began the CIA man, ‘but we’ve apologised to all the aid agencies involved and there is to be a major new initiative in the region funded by American sources . . .’

‘To keep everyone quiet,’ said Steven.

‘Look, we’ve put our hands up and apologised. I don’t see what more we can do.’

One of the people from the World Health Organisation decided to breach the ensuing uncomfortable silence. ‘As chance would have it, the international press tended to concentrate on the death of Bin Laden and, of course, the bravery of the military team involved. There was little reported about the use of fake aid teams. For our part, we saw there was nothing to be gained by fo
cusing attention on this aspect so that is why we discouraged Dr Ricard from speaking at the Prague conference. It would have been . . . counter-productive.’

‘Dr
Ricard’s death was an accident,’ said the Foreign Secretary. ‘There was no plot to keep her quiet.’

‘And
Aline Lagarde?’

‘I’m afraid Dr
Lagarde was not all that she seemed. During the course of their investigations the French police have established that she was involved in the transport of heroin from Afghanistan into France. They believe that she grew too ambitious and double-crossed those who were funding her . . . with fatal consequences.’

‘Jesus,’ murmured Steven.

‘Not good news, I’m sure, but I hope we have been able to put your minds at rest with regard to conspiracy theories.’

‘Did we know what the CIA were up to in
Afghanistan?’ Steven asked the MI6 man.

‘Bits and pieces,’ came the guarded reply.

Steven and Macmillan walked back to the Home Office largely in silence, Steven intent on looking at the wet pavement, Macmillan gazing into the distance like a ship’s lookout. It wasn’t until they were in the lift that Macmillan asked, ‘Well, what d’you think?’

‘If
Aline Lagarde was a drug runner, I’m about to be appointed principal ballerina with the Bolshoi Ballet.’

‘A possibility I’d rather not dwell on,’ said Macmillan, ‘but I agree. It did all sound terribly . . . unlikely.’

‘They definitely don’t want us poking around,’ said Steven. ‘So what are they hiding?’

‘On top of everything else, you mean. What the combined intelligence services of the
UK and our American cousins are hiding doesn’t bear too much thinking about.’ They’d reached Macmillan’s office. Steven watched while his boss poured two large sherries and handed him one. ‘Once again the fickle finger of fate has put us on a collision course with HMG.’

Steven chose to sip his drink rather than reply.

‘The question is, what do we do now? The bright thing . . . the clever thing . . . the dutiful thing . . . would be to walk away and leave it. After all, what they’re up to in far-off places is hardly a matter for Sci-Med.’

‘I’m still convinced Simone and
Aline Lagarde were murdered for the same reason,’ said Steven.

‘I thought you’d see it that way,’ said Macmillan, sounding less than overjoyed. ‘The odds against
our being able to do anything against the combined opposition of MI6, the CIA, and possibly even the French intelligence services if they were responsible for setting Dr Lagarde up, are overwhelming.’

‘True,’ Steven conceded. ‘But that doesn’t stop us thinking about it, probing where we can,
and working out what they’re up to and why someone thought Simone and Aline had to be killed.’

‘The very first time you ask a question of anyone they’ll know we didn’t bu
y their version of events,’ Macmillan warned him.

‘Yes,’ said Steven flatly.

Macmillan smiled. ‘Have a care,’ he said, ‘and keep me informed.’

Steven left Macmillan’s office and paused to speak to Jean Roberts. He produced a copy of the participant list for the
Prague meeting and asked her to check affiliations.

‘What am I looking for?’

‘Anything that doesn’t match up. Check out the stated university connections. Anyone listed as being attached to a university which turns out to have never heard of them I’d like to know about. Anyone with known connections to the intelligence community . . . anyone known to the police . . . and perhaps more importantly, anyone who looks dodgy to you, Jean.’

Jean smiled, pleased as always to be credited with the capacity to spot pieces that didn’t belong in the jigsaw – a talent developed through many years with
Sci-Med. She’d been with John Macmillan since its inception. ‘Will do. Anything else?’

‘I’d like a contact number for a man named Bill Andrews: he’s on the list as
the man who deals with American charity money.’

Steven was about to leave when Jean reached into her desk drawer and withdrew a f
older which she handed to him. ‘Sir John thought you might like to look this over at your leisure, just to keep you up to speed with what’s going on in the world of ME.’

Steven
accepted the file with a small smile but without comment and went to his office. He was wondering what it would be like right now along the north Pakistan border, an area he knew reasonably well, having visited it on more than one occasion in his Special Forces past. He remembered the feeling at the time that he could have been on the moon, so lonely and desolate was the region. It also had a history of being bad news for any country stupid enough to imagine they could control and bring stability to it – not that that had ever stopped them trying.

The current situation there was worse than ever. The legacy of Bush’s war on terror had left Afghanistan without any credible government save for a bunch of puppets who were being assassinated on a regular basis by the
Taleban, and on the other side of the border the Pakistani government was so corrupt that it made a corkscrew look like a spirit level thanks to an ill-advised release from prison of more than nine thousand crooks in an amnesty in 2007. Against that background, attempting to find out why two young doctors whose only ambition had been to help and protect children had been murdered was not going to be easy, but he would give it his best shot.

His starting hypothesis had to be that Simone and
Aline had come across something other than the fact that one of the aid teams on the ground – probably more – were fake. They were American intelligence-gathering units but in imitation of genuine teams they had a Pakistani element to them. The CIA man at the meeting he’d just attended had mentioned a Pakistani doctor in the team whose work Simone and Aline had come across and there would probably have been an interpreter too.

According to
Aline, the team had come across a village where people were falling ill and children’s polio vaccination schedules hadn’t been completed. This had alarmed Simone . . . wait. What had? He, like the others, had been assuming that it was the problem with the children’s vaccinations that had given her cause for concern, but it could have been the fact that people in the village were ill. What was wrong with them? Had they contracted polio? Simone and Aline would have known if that had been the case, but Aline had just said that people were ill . . . and that she and Simone had taken blood samples!

This could be the break he was looking for.
They had taken blood samples for lab analysis but what had they done with them? Where had they sent them? The lab reports might answer a whole lot of questions.