Cobra Z (6 page)

“Oh for fucks sake,” Clive the manager said under his breath. Clive was as tall as Jack, but where Jack was slim, Clive was built like a brick shit house. But as Jack knew, he also had a heart condition brought on by years of smoking, unhealthy eating and his advanced years. Although in his mid-fifties, and although Clive now smoked only electronic cigs, his angina seemed to get worse as the months progressed. As physically imposing as he was on the outside, the organs on the inside were weak and failing. He was no longer a force to be reckoned with. “Oy you lot, I’ve told you, you’re barred,” the manager shouted at the new arrivals. They swaggered forward anyway.

“That’s no way to treat a customer,” the leader of the gang said. Owen Patterson was a nasty piece of work. Dripping the arrogance of youth and wrapped up in the blanket of sociopathy, Owen did not seem intimidated by Clive’s obvious size advantage.

“Out, or we call the police,” Clive said stepping from around the counter. He bunched his fists together, trying to ignore the gnawing pain that was threatening to stab into his chest. The three white yobs stood inside the entrance to the establishment, one even leering at a female customer, and Clive took another step towards them. Jack followed him from out behind the counter, backing him up. There were only five other customers present, and they eyed the developing situation nervously.

“Well, will you look at these two black bastards,” Owen said. It was obvious to Jack that he was trying to goad Clive, and Jack put a restraining hand on his boss’ arm. Clive looked back at him and seemed to physically calm. He nodded to Jack and shouted for one of the other staff members who appeared from out of the kitchen.

“Beth, code seven.” Beth nodded and dipped her hand under the counter by one of the cash registers. Clive turned to Owen. “So do you want to leave now, or be dragged away by the cops when they arrive? It’s your choice.”

Owen looked back at his two lieutenants and smiled. He turned back to Clive, gave a resigned shrug and then looked at Jack. Pointing a finger at him he said, “I’ll be seeing you later, cunt.” He flicked his cigarette at Jack’s head, which Jack dodged easily.

“Out,” Clive said, pointing to the door. Owen looked up at the ceiling, snorted a large wodge of phlegm into his throat and spat it at Clive’s feet. Backing up, he collected his minions, and with an exaggerated display of his middle finger, he and his warriors left the building. When they were out of sight, Clive pulled out his spray from his back pocket and gave himself two shots under the tongue. The angina began to subside, much to his and Jack’s relief.

“I’ll clean this up, Clive,” Jack said. Clive smiled and put a fatherly hand on his shoulder.

“You watch out for those three tonight, Jack,” Clive said, with a worried expression. “There’s evil in that boy’s heart.”

11.35AM, 14
th
September 2015, Thames House, Millbank, London

Croft sat in an empty grey room without windows or anything but the most basic of drab furnishings. The table in the centre of the room was metal, bolted to the ground, a steel ring welded to the top obviously for the securing of handcuffs, which he fortunately did not wear. The room was featureless except for its fluorescents and its utter grey blandness. A solitary CCTV camera watched him from the corner by the room’s only door, its red dot winking occasionally. Croft resisted the temptation to look into it. He wasn’t in any trouble; this was just somewhere to put him. The door was unlocked, but that’s only because this was the headquarters of MI5, so saying he wasn’t going anywhere until dismissed was an understatement. Besides, there was no handle on his side of the door, and he knew that it opened inwards. He had been in rooms like this many times in his life, only on those occasions he hadn’t generally been sat on this side of the table.

This was the home of what he knew as Control. Although not a member of MI5, Croft worked under the supervision of the Centre for the Protection of National Infrastructure, an MI5 branch. He ultimately reported to the home secretary and the prime minister, but for now, it would be MI5 who would be doing the inevitable de-briefing of the morning’s events. And as expected, they had taken his firearm. Understandable really – he had just killed three people on UK soil, and his story needed to be verified. This wasn’t America. This wasn’t a country where you could own a host of weapons and in some areas carry them freely. No, this was a land of Queen and Country, and despite popular belief, the agents of government did not have a licence to kill.

The first responders to the scene, two veteran police constables, had been cautious but mindful of the instructions given to their superiors. They had sealed off the entrance to the cemetery and waited for backup, as was their instructions. MI5 had arrived seven minutes later, and the PC’s knew better than to try and pull some jurisdiction crap. They never got to speak to the blood-soaked man in the Saville Row suit who was quickly whisked away from the scene, nor the man the MI5 agents carried away in handcuffs. What happened that morning in the cemetery would forever be a mystery to them, and would be whispered about in their precinct for the days to come. At least that was until other events sent the world around them insane.

The door opened and Craver walked in, a concerned and harassed look on his face. “You’re as good a shot as you’ve always been I see, David,” he said, sitting down opposite Croft. “And I see the doctor has patched you up.” The bullet had only grazed his ear, which didn’t faze Croft. He’d suffered much worse than that in his time, as the story of the scars and sealed holes in his body could declare. He was, however, pissed that one of his favourite shirts was probably ruined. The suit he could probably get away with because it was black, but he doubted the shirt could be salvaged.

“Has the prisoner said anything?” Croft asked.

“No, nothing of note, hasn’t even asked for a lawyer. Not that he would get one of course.” Craver smiled thinly. “The statement you made on the helicopter ride over here made interesting reading though. You’re right about them being amateurs. Second-hand, poorly maintained guns in the wrong kind of holsters. They were most likely bought off the Deep Web with Bitcoin, probably at the last minute, which might explain why our guest wasn’t armed.”

“Do you want me to have a crack at him?” Croft said with a smile. “I’m sure I could get him to talk.”

“Yes, I’m sure you could,” Craver said disapprovingly, “but I think not. We aren’t bloody Americans now, are we? The man still has rights. He’ll talk; they always do. He’s presently enjoying an endless loop of Barney the Dinosaur. He’ll be singing a different tune soon enough.”

“I think this means I’m close though. It also means we definitely have a mole in the organisation. I wasn’t followed – I can assure you of that – so someone told them I was going to be there.”

“Yes, I believe you,” said Craver. “And I think you might be right. We need to find out who this group is and what it is they are planning.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to have a crack at him?” Craver stood from the table and walked over to the door, which opened for him.

“Julia will be along shortly with the paperwork. I’ll let you know when the guy cracks.” And with that Craver left, the door closing behind him.

2PM, 14
th
September 2015, Conference Room A, 70 Whitehall, London

He wasn’t late after all. COBRA, that’s what the press called it. The bloody leech-like press, how they liked their acronyms and their cloak and dagger and their misinformation. COBRA, the Civil Contingencies Committee, held in the Cabinet Office Briefing Room A. He didn’t normally attend these briefings in person, but today was a notable exception. When his masters called, he attended. There were twelve people in the room, including Prime Minister David Osbourne and Home Secretary Claire Miles. Of course, a different Home Secretary to the person who had offered him the job under the last administration, that man now sitting on the back benches of the opposition. Probably just counting the days so he could retire on a big, fat government pension.

Whilst the politicians came and went, the civil servants always stayed the same. Milnes and Craver were both there, as well as the present heads of MI5 and MI6. Impressive, Croft thought, it seemed somebody had actually listened to him. Christ, even Sir Nick Marston, the Chief of the Defence Staff, was here. Croft didn’t salute because technically he wasn’t in the army anymore, and besides, the general wasn’t wearing his hat.

“Prime Minister, General,” Croft said, indicating the two senior people in the room. He took his place at the table and sat down.

“You’ve had an interesting day,” the PM said. “Any word on who it was that attacked you?” Croft was going to answer, but the MI5 head, Sir Michael Young, spoke up instead.

“We don’t know who they are as they aren’t in any of our databases. Even the passport database is clean. The one the major captured is refusing to talk, hasn’t even demanded a lawyer. The suspect driving the car got away. We found the car abandoned, burned to a crisp.”

“They were amateurs, Prime Minister. If they had been professionals, I probably wouldn’t be here. Three against one is never good odds. It would, however, be interesting to know how they knew where to target me and why.” That was something Croft was itching to know.

“This does add extra fuel to the intelligence chatter we have been receiving,” said Stuart Watkins, the head of MI6. He looked like he had just walked straight out of the 1950’s with his tweed suit and his waxed moustache. “It can’t be coincidence that Croft was attacked. As you know, Prime Minister, his investigations have uncovered some very disturbing possibilities.”

“That there is a traitor or traitors in government?” the PM asked.

“I believe so,” answered Croft. “And I believe it is related to the Hirta Island incident.” As he had expected, there was an agitated murmuring from the room.

“I believe that’s why you’re here, Captain Savage.” The PM turned his attention to a woman sat three chairs away from him. She was tall and slender, but Croft could tell there was muscle there. She was in civilian clothing, but she was no civilian. She just screamed military.

“Major, I believe you know Captain Savage?” said General Marston. Indeed he did. That was one of the fuck ups he’d had to deal with two years ago. Head of Biomedical Science at the Defence Science and Technology Laboratory at Porton Down, she had been there when he arrived one dark and wintery morning to find that a very nasty strain of Foot and Mouth had escaped into the surrounding environment. His report didn’t blame her, however – she had only been in the job a day and hadn’t even unpacked. Even so, she had almost lost her job due to the public, media-induced uproar when all the hooved cattle in a 10-mile radius were slaughtered. The picture of them being burnt in the middle of a field even made the front page of several newspapers.

“Good to see you again, Major. Prime Minister, may I?” The PM nodded in agreement. Savage picked up a remote off the table and pressed it. The large screen at the end of the conference room came to light, displaying several files. Heads turned towards it. “We ran analysis of the incident at Hirta Island and came to several disturbing conclusions, which concur with the major’s analysis of the event…”

Croft filtered it all out. He’d heard it all before, written most of it. Instead, he watched the faces around him. Someone in this room was dirty, he was sure of it. He just didn’t know who, and he didn’t know why. It wasn’t motivated by profit, of that he was sure. Having millions in the bank meant little if the world was dead, and dead was really the only end game for the Hirta virus. Croft looked for guilt, for deception, but saw nothing but arrogance and genuine concern. Savage was telling them a tale to chill the hearts of men, a tale that even Croft had found difficult to believe even as he was typing it into his computer. He concentrated on Savage, noticed the pulled-back hair, the determination in her face, the line of her neck. The tight, conservative skirt and the white blouse didn’t for a minute disguise a figure that Croft found appealing. Croft briefly felt something in his mind he hadn’t felt for…. well, years. Lust.

“It is our conclusion that the Hirta Island incident was the result of a deliberate viral attack. The virus, we believe, was manufactured at the facility with the full knowledge of the now deceased Professor Cook. Whether he thought he was working under official sanction, we will never know. We believe the person or persons unknown contaminated the insulin dose of one of the facility’s senior staff, and then left by helicopter. That helicopter was never found, and we have never been able to ascertain the identity of our saboteur.”

Croft believed the helicopter was at the bottom of the Atlantic, along with everyone on board. Whoever had organised the Hirta incident had decided to make sure there were no loose ends left. Savage continued. “We believe the data on the virus was transmitted offsite, despite the facility’s firewalls, and that there is now, at the very least, the blueprint for a devastating biological weapon in the hands of some very dangerous people. Whoever they are, they have money and influence.”

“You think they have a working form of the virus?” asked General Marston. Savage looked at Croft.

“I do, yes, General. And both myself and Major Croft have come to a similar conclusion that someone high up in our chain of command is complicit.” That was a surprise; Croft hadn’t expected her to back him up on that aspect.
Hmm, I think I like this woman
, thought Croft.
HH