Authors: Ken McClure
‘Perhaps you’d care to expand on that assertion?’
‘Swine flu wasn’t a real pandemic. It was a bad cold,’ said Steven dismissively.
‘People died from it.’
‘People who would normally have died from ordinary flu because they had underlying medical conditions.’
‘Not all.’
‘All right, there were a few who died without having
underlying
conditions, but they were very few and far between, and their deaths were built up to justify the hype and create a totally wrong impression. It was a mess from the start. Advice was conflicting. Doctors squabbled over payment. Tamiflu was handed out to anyone who phoned a surgery – including the worried well – and anyone who was ill was told to stay away from hospitals and surgeries, the end result being that we have no real idea how many people actually caught swine flu. When I asked how many people went down with ordinary seasonal flu, they couldn’t tell me because all cases of flu were being recorded as swine flu. We ended up with a mountain of Tamiflu, to the delight of shareholders in the company who make it. Frankly, a box of tissues and a hot toddy would have been a damn sight more use. What we learned from swine flu is how
not
to go about handling a pandemic. If swine flu had been smallpox we’d all be dead.’
The silence in the room seemed to go on for ever.
The cabinet secretary looked first to the health officials and then to the Home Secretary but failed to find anyone keen to put up a defence. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘The only defence against a virus attack is to vaccinate people beforehand. Once they’re infected it’ll be too late. We were
actually
better prepared to deal with outbreaks of infectious disease in the the first half of the twentieth century when we had
hospitals
specifically for that purpose and nurses trained to look after such cases. Now we have half a dozen fancy isolation beds in our big hospitals in case someone comes off a flight with a problem. Unless we’re protected beforehand, we’ll simply be overwhelmed. Sending in emergency service personnel wearing biohazard suits in vehicles with lights blazing and sirens blaring isn’t going to help. It’s a PR exercise. We’d be as well sending in morris dancers.’
Another awkward silence was broken by Travis. ‘I think I must agree with much of what Dr Dunbar has said. The only real defence against biological attack is vaccination, but, as was pointed out earlier, if we don’t know what is going to be used against us we will be forced into second-guessing the
opposition
. Not ideal. Apart from that, we are still painfully short of vaccines, although we hope this will change in the near future when Merryman Pharmaceuticals are fully up to speed.’
‘So what do we do in the face of an imminent attack?’ asked the deputy PM. ‘Wait and see?’
‘I think a gas attack is more likely than anything biological,’ said a spokesman from the Ministry of Defence. ‘Sarin, or some such agent. That sort of attack is a damned sight easier to mount than trying to infect a whole population and, of course, you get the all-important immediate terror factor.’
‘Not sure I’m with you,’ said someone.
‘If you let off a sarin bomb in a shopping centre or on a tube train, you get an instant effect. People die; there is widespread panic. Press and TV gather round the incident. It’s a big story. If you attempt to infect people by sending anthrax spores through the post, or spraying a virus into the air, there is no instant effect. Things take time to develop; people will spread out and fall ill in their own time. It will not even be clear to the man in the street that an attack has taken place, so the terrorists lose out in the propaganda stakes and we get more time to deal with it.’
‘Makes sense,’ said the deputy PM. ‘Let’s hope the terrorists see it that way too. I take it we are well prepared to deal with a gas attack wherever it happens?’
The question was directed at the Home Secretary, who assured him that contingency plans were in place in all UK cities.
The cabinet secretary turned to the head of MI5 and asked, ‘Is there still a chance you might be able to stop this attack happening?’
‘My people are working round the clock.’
‘Are you absolutely sure that the attack is coming from within?’ asked the Met commissioner.
‘Eighty per cent.’
‘So there is still reason for heightened security at entry points around the UK?’
‘I think we must go for increased vigilance all round,’ said the deputy PM.
Steven saw Travis whisper something in the new health secretary’s ear. The minister nodded and said, ‘With everyone’s agreement, we’ll approach Merryman Pharmaceuticals and – without giving details about why – ask them to step up all their vaccine production schedules to maximum?’
No one dissented.
‘It won’t take rocket science to work out what that’s all about,’ said one of the men in uniform – a colonel in the army.
‘Indeed,’ agreed the Home Secretary. ‘But at least they won’t know that we have no better idea than them about which ones will be needed.’
‘Food for thought, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the deputy PM, indicating that the meeting was at an end with a hand gesture that involved making a steeple with his fingers and then opening them.
Steven went over to the Home Office and found Jean Roberts looking expectant. She was too professional to ask directly what the meeting had been about but clearly hoped Steven would say something.
‘A threatened gas or biological attack,’ said Steven. ‘Thought to be imminent.’
‘Well, the warnings have been around for long enough,’ said Jean. ‘A case of when rather than if, as Sir John said more than once. Any idea what we have to look forward to?’
Steven shook his head. ‘That’s not known.’
‘You know, I often wonder what aliens must think if they’re observing our planet. The things we do to each other … Unbelievable.’
Steven nodded. ‘How are the health department people getting on?’
‘You can get the report from the horse’s mouth. They’re upstairs in room 211.’
Steven went upstairs and found a team of ten people hard at work going through the case notes of College Hospital patients. ‘Hello, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Steven Dunbar.’
People smiled, and one woman got up and came towards him. ‘Sophie Thornton.’ She was in her mid forties, round-shouldered, with frizzy hair that seemed determined to escape from its bindings of several pins and a hair band. She swept a wayward strand from her eyes as she said, ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Any joy?’ asked Steven.
‘I think yes, but it’s not straightforward.’ She led the way over to two piles of files which had been weeded out from the rest and rested a hand on one of them. ‘These people all fall into the categories Miss Roberts outlined – long-term sick, those over seventy years of age, people suffering from untreatable conditions – and all of them died within a year of being treated, either at College Hospital or in the surrounding area.’
‘But?’
‘Post-mortems were carried out on some of them, but there was no suggestion of suspicious circumstances in any of them.’
‘Right,’ said Steven thoughtfully. She’d confirmed what Mary Cunningham had told him. It has been the case with Tolkien’s patients too. People who were costing the NHS a lot of money conveniently died once the Northern Health Scheme came into play, but there were no suspicious circumstances. ‘Thank you, that’s exactly what I’m looking for. How far are you into the examination?’
‘About a third of the way.’
Steven looked to the two piles of records and made a mental calculation. ‘So we could be looking at two hundred deaths, maybe two fifty?’
‘Thereabouts.’
Steven nodded, then changed the subject. ‘The election must have brought about big changes in your department. How are they affecting you?’
‘Too soon to say, I suppose. There’s not been enough time, but two ruling parties are going to make things … interesting.’
‘I’ll bet. I’ve just come from a meeting with some of the new people at Health. I thought Norman Travis was impressive.’
‘He does seem to know what he’s doing,’ agreed Sophie. ‘Unlike many, he actually has a particular interest in health matters and knows what he’s talking about.’
‘While others have health thrust upon them?’
Sophie smiled. ‘I suppose it’s to be expected when people have to move quickly from one ministry to the next.’
‘Or from no ministry at all, as with the current situation. Rookies, the lot of them.’
‘A bit like a Chinese curse,’ said Sophie.
Steven saw what she meant. ‘May you live in interesting times.’
He returned downstairs, deciding to use John Macmillan’s office to have a quiet think about the day. Not one of his best. The progress he was making with his investigation was completely overshadowed by the prospect of a bio-terrorism attack. He had a particular loathing of the employment of microbes as weapons, seeing their use as the very epitome of evil. He thought about what Jean had said about alien observers and found himself agreeing. Human behaviour could be quite beyond comprehension.
It was impossible to think about such an attack without conjuring up images of the dead piling up in the streets as
services
were overwhelmed and society broke down, conceding defeat to a tiny, unseen enemy. As to which one … Would there be faces horribly disfigured by the eruption of smallpox pustules? The blue-black complexion of plague victims? The crippling paralysis of polio or the unstoppable bleeding of haemorrhagic virus infection? The answer was out there, and imminent if the intelligence was correct.
A knock came to the door, and Jean came in with coffee. ‘Thought you might need this. What news from upstairs?’
Steven snapped out of his preoccupation. ‘The Northern Health Scheme was killing people off, but we’re no nearer knowing how they actually managed it.’
‘An untraceable poison?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe it was untraceable back then,’ suggested Jean. ‘Science has moved on …’
‘A good thought,’ said Steven. ‘But we’d be talking
exhumation
.’
Jean shrugged her shoulders uncomfortably and said in a small voice, ‘Maybe worth thinking about?’
‘Not something to do without good reason; it always causes such distress to families. Maybe I’ll mention it to John when I see him. I need to tell him about the COBRA meeting anyway. He should be part of what’s going on.’
‘You look tired,’ said John Macmillan when Steven sat down.
‘Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?’ Steven’s grin took a deal of effort.
‘Things not going well?’
He explained about the COBRA meeting and the reported threat.
Macmillan’s shoulders slumped forward as he let out a sigh. ‘Strange,’ he said. ‘We knew this had to happen. But now that it’s here on our doorstep the very thought of it is just as
horrifying
as if it had come out of the blue. Any idea what?’
‘None.’
Macmillan echoed Steven’s earlier thoughts regarding a chemical attack. ‘We can cope with that, but microbes let loose on a largely unprotected population … doesn’t bear thinking about. It could destroy the entire country.’
‘Merryman are being asked to step up vaccine production, but it could well be too late.’
Macmillan nodded. ‘We’re always a bit too late in this country. It’s a way of life … but when it comes to locking stable doors after the horse has bolted we have the most secure doors in the world.’
Steven was a little disturbed at hearing Macmillan sound so cynical. It was unlike him. ‘MI5 are pretty sure the would-be attackers are “home-grown”, to use their word.’
‘So the disaffected of Leicester or Birmingham are seeking to wipe out the country they were born in … ye gods.’ Macmillan looked Steven straight in the eye. ‘Strikes me we’re going to need all the good people we’ve got. I take it you will stay on at Sci-Med until … such times?’
Steven nodded.
‘I suppose in the light of what you’ve just told me this pales into insignificance, but what’s been happening with your investigation?’
‘Everything’s pointing to Carlisle and his pals being involved in mass murder back in the early nineties.’
Macmillan’s eyelids shot up.
‘They were killing off people who were costing society a lot of money.’
‘A population cull?’
‘That’s what it looks like, but I don’t know how they were doing it. Nothing was ever found in any of the bodies subjected to PM examination. Highly dependent people just
conveniently
died after being treated in the Northern Health Scheme area.’
‘But they must have died of something.’
‘Natural causes.’
‘Which means what?’
Steven narrowed his eyes as he considered the question. He decided not to bring up Jean Roberts’s suggestion of an unknown toxin. ‘No,’ he said slowly, ‘they died of what they were expected to die of. They all had conditions that required treatment by either their GP or College Hospital … and they were all prescribed appropriate medication …’
‘But they still died of their condition, so maybe …’
‘They weren’t treated at all,’ Steven finished.
Macmillan nodded. ‘They were culling the population by denying treatment to those who were perceived to be a drain on resources. So the question is, how did they manage to
withhold
treatment without anyone noticing?’
‘That’s where French’s computer expertise must have come in,’ said Steven. ‘He must have come up with a program that would take into account the age and medical records of the patients. If you were on the wrong side of the line – too old, long-term sick, increasingly infirm, a drug addict or suffering from an incurable condition – the computer decided you got nothing.’
‘And that’s where Schreiber’s pharmacy would come into its own. They must have come up with drug packaging that looked like the real thing but held pills or capsules that contained nothing but … sugar or chalk, useless placebos.’
‘It was that simple,’ said Steven with a final shake of the head. He exchanged a wry smile with Macmillan, a pleasing moment for both men, who recognised that they were still a good team and, more important, would continue to be. Nothing had changed as a legacy of Macmillan’s illness.
‘But we’ve no proof,’ said Macmillan.
The men knew each other well enough for Macmillan to interpret Steven’s look as comment about the age of the crime and the fact that the perpetrators were all dead, not to mention the new horror they were now facing. ‘You should still carry on,’ he said. ‘I think we owe it to the people who died. Not least the journalist and the doctor who worked out what the bastards were up to.’
Steven nodded.
‘Besides, it’ll take our minds off what we have to look forward to. God help us all.’
Steven said, ‘Schreiber’s long dead, but French was alive and well right up until the meeting in Paris. If they were planning to reintroduce the scheme, the software must be around, probably in the Deltasoft offices.’
‘A raid?’
‘A raid,’ agreed Steven.
‘You’ll have to clear it with the Home Secretary. French was a powerful man, a stalwart of the community and a big donor to the party.’
‘You don’t think …’ began Steven hesitantly.
‘Perish the thought,’ said Macmillan. ‘She’s the Home Secretary.’
Steven resisted the temptation to point out that John Carlisle had been the health secretary, but Macmillan noticed he was biting his tongue. ‘Charlie Malloy is coming to see me tomorrow. I’ll ask him to have everything ready to go the minute you get approval from on high.’
Steven nodded his thanks. ‘Good to have you back, John.’
‘Thank you.’
Steven had anticipated a difficult interview with the Home Secretary. He wasn’t disappointed. The fact that he had been more than forthright at the COBRA meeting didn’t help.
‘If your reputation for success didn’t precede you, Dr Dunbar, I would be tempted to turn down your request and dismiss what you’ve just suggested as being too ridiculous for words. Are you seriously telling me that the government of the day was party to such an outrage?’
‘No, Home Secretary, I’m not. I think the health department back then was infiltrated by others – I’m sorry I can’t be more specific – but John Carlisle, the then secretary of state, was certainly part of the conspiracy, knowingly or otherwise.’
The Home Secretary diverted her gaze for a moment before saying quietly, ‘I think it was “otherwise”.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Carlisle called me before he died. His wife and I were friends when we were younger.’
Steven was aware of the pulse in his neck as a long silence ensued.
‘I thought he was just trying to save his own miserable skin – and he was – but he came out with some ridiculous story about having his career ruined by other people when he was health secretary back in the early nineties. Claimed he was stabbed in the back by people he referred to as the Schiller mob, who were pursuing their own agenda.’
‘But he didn’t know what they were up to?’
‘If he did, he didn’t say – and that would have been the time to say it. If ever there was a time to show the strength of your hand … But I thought he was making the whole thing up, so I didn’t probe. Mind you …’
Steven’s eyes opened wide, encouraging the minister to say more.
‘I have heard rumours from time to time about … some faction calling themselves the Schiller Group. But you know what Westminster’s like. Rumours abound.’
‘The Northern Health Scheme wasn’t just the project of a few,’ said Steven. ‘It had powerful backing, not least from those who got John Carlisle elected in the first place and oversaw his rise through the ranks.’
‘Well, it was all a very long time ago – not that that excuses any of it in any way if what you say is true – but I just wonder if this is the right time to be destroying confidence in the government?’
‘Is there ever a right time?’
‘Point taken,’ conceded the Home Secretary with the merest hint of a smile. ‘I will sanction your raid, but I must ask that you be discreet. Our country is by all accounts about to face one of the biggest crises in its history. The population must have trust in their leaders if we’re to get through this.’
‘Understood, Home Secretary.’
Steven returned to the Sci-Med offices and sat thinking for a moment, his hand resting on the telephone. It had been his intention to call Charlie Malloy and give him the go-ahead for a police raid on Deltasoft, but the Home Secretary’s request for discretion was playing on his mind. She was right: this was not the time to unearth a huge scandal involving a past
government
minister.
A raid on Deltasoft would not in itself do so, but it would certainly attract the attention of the national press who would then see it as their business to find out what it was all about. He took his hand off the telephone while he asked himself a few questions. Would French have kept such sensitive
software
in the company offices and labs where others might stumble across it? Deltasoft had grown into a major player, successful and well respected. It was unthinkable that the entire staff would be complicit in some right-wing conspiracy.
French had been a very clever man; he would have worked out that keeping details of his illicit activities in a building full of computer experts in their own right might not be such a good idea. Maybe he kept it under lock and key, or whatever the computerised version of that was these days, but it might be even safer to keep it somewhere else. At home, perhaps?
Steven knew nothing about French’s widow other than that she, like the other relatives of the dead, had not known anything about the Paris meeting. This suggested that she had not been part of the conspiracy. She could, of course, have been lying, but according to the police report she had been utterly shocked when informed about her husband’s death, not only by the death but by the location – she had kept asking what he had been doing there, seemingly fearing that he might have been having an affair. She still could have been acting, thought Steven, but if not, it gave him an idea.
‘All set to go?’ asked Jean when he emerged.
‘Change of plan. I need all you have on Charles French’s wife, and I need the address of the family home.’
‘Right,’ said Jean, taken a little by surprise. Steven had told her of the Home Secretary’s approval for a raid before he’d changed his mind. ‘I have her on the database.’
She brought up the relevant information on her monitor. ‘Here we are. Maxine French, aged forty-seven, parents both GPs in Surrey, a Cambridge graduate like her husband, only in French and Italian, worked as a translator in the early years of their marriage but gave that up to become a lady of leisure when Deltasoft took off.’
‘Did she have anything to do with Deltasoft at any point?’
‘Not that I can see,’ said Jean, checking her screen. ‘She appears to have filled her time with charity work, served on several committees, chair of two of them, a pillar of the community just like her husband. She had a particular interest in underprivileged children. They both had.’
Steven held back a comment about the great and good and their charities. ‘Address?’
‘Clifford Mansions in Kensington. They have the penthouse.’
‘Set up a meeting, will you?’ Almost as an afterthought, Steven asked, ‘Does the name Schiller Group mean anything to you?’
Jean narrowed her eyes. ‘You know, I think it does. I’m sure I came across something recently to do with that but for the life of me I can’t remember what.’
‘Let me know if it comes back to you.’