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

Steven was glad that the demands of
London traffic stopped him dwelling on what he’d discovered until he reached the sanctuary of the underground car park at Marlborough Court. By this time his anger and frustration had subsided enough to enable him to sit for a couple of minutes with only the contracting metal sounds from the Porsche for company until he had recovered his powers of cold, calm appraisal.

The fact that the blood samples had been sent to
Porton would mean a sudden end to that line of inquiry. Porton was a top secret establishment: there would be no point in asking even if he hadn’t already been warned off. But the mere fact they’d been sent there said a lot. Blood samples for diagnostic tests would not be sent to Porton unless there was a very good reason, a reason that implied a connection with high risk pathogens or biological weaponry. Polio was a high risk virus but Simone and her team were used to seeing and dealing with it. There would have been no need for Porton to become involved – but they were.

Dr Neville Henson had been present at the meeting
in Prague as had . . . the name wouldn’t come to him. Steven got out, locked the car and took the lift upstairs. He switched on the kettle and looked through his paperwork for the list of participants at Prague. Dr Mel Reznik from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, Georgia was the name he was looking for. Two scientists from labs dedicated to the study of the world’s killer diseases and how they might be developed or altered for military purposes. The CIA’s admission of guilt over using fake aid teams in order to gain intelligence clearly wasn’t the full story.

Steven had the feeling he was opening Pandora’s box. When he thought about it
, the confession could even have been a clever ploy to stop further investigation.
Médecins Sans Frontières
, the World Health Organisation and even the UK and French governments all saw the sense in keeping what had happened under wraps. They thought they were defending the polio eradication initiative from prurient press interest and scandal by keeping quiet about what the CIA had done when, in fact, they were unwittingly helping to cover something up. Something else was going on in the border region between Pakistan and Afghanistan, something that had got Simone Ricard, Aline Lagarde and maybe even Tom North killed.

The murder of Tom North was a difficult one. A terrorist assassination couldn’t be ruled out entirely if, as
Ricksen had said, North had been on their at-risk register, although the torture aspect made it more problematical and the manner of his killing was, as the Special Branch man had said, out of character. Explosives rather than knives were usually the choice of Islamic terrorists when it came to achieving their ends. But if North’s death was linked to what Simone had stumbled across, it suggested that North might not have been part of it, whereas his senior post-doc's faulty recollection of when blood samples from Simone had been received and what had happened to them put him very firmly on the naughty step. Steven needed to know a lot more about Daniel Hausman.

He
turned on his laptop and found an encrypted message that had come in from Jean Roberts. She had obtained contact details for Bill Andrews, the charity money administrator who had been with Simone in the gallery at the Strahov monastery library. He and the organisation he worked for were based in Kansas City – a long way from Wall Street, thought Steven. Mind you, so was charity. He checked his watch: the time difference suggested he give it another hour or so.

Jean had also included her report on the participants at the
Prague meeting. Her conclusions were that everyone was who they said they were but some had ‘more interesting’ backgrounds than others. She had listed those on a separate sheet: Dan Hausman was among them. Hausman had obtained his PhD from UCLA – the University of California at Los Angeles – before being recruited by the military and posted to Fort Detrick, the US equivalent of Porton Down. His PhD thesis had been on virus–cell interactions. As expected, there was no indication of what he had worked on at Fort Detrick. He had then left the military and sponsorship by the US pharmaceutical company Reeman Losch had enabled his secondment as a post-doctoral fellow to Tom North’s lab in London. Jean had added a note saying that Reeman Losch were not big players in pharmaceuticals – they weren’t quoted on the New York stock exchange – and that their special interest was in anti-viral compounds. It wasn’t clear where their income came from as only one of their products – an anti-retroviral agent – had come on the market. Since they were a private company, there was no way of scrutinising their accounts. Try US Intelligence, thought Steven. To his way of thinking it seemed probable that Reeman Losch was a front for them, given Hausman’s time at Fort Detrick and then his sponsored fellowship in the North lab.

The picture was building.
Reznik from CDC Atlanta, Henson from Porton Down and Hausman from Fort Detrick all had an interest in the Prague meeting and what was going on in the borders region between Pakistan and Afghanistan.

Bill Andrews also appeared on Jean’s list of ‘interesting’ people. A graduate of
Harvard Business School, he had worked briefly for an investment bank in New York before being recruited into the CIA. His career remained a blank until he surfaced again, this time working in financial management for the charity Children First before moving to his current position with the body that oversaw all American charitable contributions to health in the third world.

‘Wel
l, well, well,’ murmured Steven. ‘Enter the CIA.’ He sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. It was odds on that Andrews still worked for the CIA, and his connection with Children First could hardly be coincidence. It was almost certainly he who set up the false aid teams under the umbrella of Children First. Now, as financial controller of all charitable monies collected in the US for health projects in far-away places, he was in a position to direct funds to wherever the CIA wanted them to go. In fact, the CIA could actually fund their own projects under the guise of charitable contributions.

Jean had added a codicil pointing out that another participant at the
Prague meeting, Dr Ranjit Khan, had been a classmate of Andrews at Harvard: they had shared an apartment. Khan had returned to his native Pakistan after graduating and was believed to be working for Pakistani intelligence – currently a somewhat fractured body thought to be at odds with the present government. It was possible that he had been responsible for supplying the Pakistani element in the fake aid teams.

Steven stared at this last piece of information with the feeling that he was missing something. He prided himself
on not missing much. Paying attention to detail was an important part of his job. Even if it didn’t appear significant at the time, a small detail could later prove to be the missing part in a puzzle – or even save a life. He remembered what it was. When he’d asked Bill Andrews about who had been present in the gallery when Simone had fallen, Andrews had mentioned Khan, saying, ‘The Pakistani doctor who was with us – Dr Khan, I think his name was,’ as if he hadn’t known him.

Steven got up and walked over to the window to look out at the rain. Andrews and Khan both worked for intelligence services, had probably collaborated over the setting up of fake aid teams and had been with Simone at the time of her fall. They then came down from the gallery and put on a Greek tragedy for the benefit of onlookers with much weeping and wailing. They didn’t
know it yet but by Christ they were going to pay for it . . . in spades.

Steven turned his thoughts to
Aline Lagarde and who might have killed her. Andrews? Khan? Khan hadn’t been at Simone’s funeral: he’d had to return to Pakistan, according to . . . Andrews. Was that the truth or could Andrews have been covering for Aline’s killer? Steven had been planning to phone Andrews to quiz him about who had lost a contact lens in the gallery on that fateful day but things had moved on apace. He was now almost sure that Andrews and Khan had cooperated in Simone’s murder. He called Inspector Philippe Le Grice in Paris instead.

Af
ter an exchange of pleasantries Steven came directly to the point. ‘I have a favour to ask.’

‘In connection with the death of
Aline Lagarde?’

‘Yes.
I think it possible she was murdered by a Pakistani intelligence officer named Dr Ranjit Khan. His cover is that of an aid worker in the villages of the Pakistani/Afghan border. The official story is that he attended the conference in Prague where Simone Ricard died and then returned directly to Pakistan. I think he may have come to France. Is there any way you can check immigration records for the relevant dates?’

‘Normally, yes,’ replied Le Grice, sounding unsure. ‘But given the involvement of our intelligence services in the investigation into Dr
Lagarde’s death, they might wonder why I want to know.’

‘I take your point,’ said Steven. ‘But there’s a good chance they know nothing about Khan. I don’t think
even they know the whole story.’

‘But they came up with the evidence against Dr
Lagarde.’

‘I think they were involved in trashing her reputation but I don’t think they knew anything about the killing. They were acting under orders to keep a CIA operation in
Afghanistan out of the limelight.’

‘I thought
you
guys were the Americans’ poodles,’ said Le Grice.

‘I’ve got a sore paw.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Steven felt
guilty about asking Le Grice to do something that might rebound badly on the detective if he were wrong and French intelligence did know more than he thought they did. The phone interrupted his train of thought. It was Jean Roberts.

‘Hello
, Steven. John was wondering if you had any more thoughts to offer on the ME problem? I think the Home Secretary has been inquiring.’

Steven’
s feelings of guilt shifted direction. He hadn’t actually got round to re-examining the file Jean had given him in detail. He should have remembered that although he and John knew that Langley’s death had been an unplanned accident, that was not the official line and the police had probably been encouraged to think differently.

‘I haven’t reached
any conclusions as yet,’ he replied. ‘But I’m working on it.’

‘Then that’s what I’ll tell him,’ said Jean, giving Steven the awful feeling that she could read his mind. ‘I’ll let him know you’ll be in touch soon.’

Steven interpreted the word ‘soon’ as 'get a move on'. ‘Thanks, Jean.’

He found it hard to switch his attention from the progress he had been making on an international platform to events at home involving threatening letters, paint daubing and the letting down of tyres
, but he opened the file and started reading.

After an hour, Steven’s initial feeling that he was looking at trivial crimes which had nothing to do with
Sci-Med started to falter as he picked up on a puzzling feature about the whole ME affair. He paused to make more coffee and was cursing the fact that his Gaggia espresso maker was leaking all over the place when the phone rang. He thought it might be Philippe Le Grice, but it was Tally.

‘Good news, I’ve got an evening off. Can you come up?’

Another guilt attack. ‘Tally, I can’t. I’ve got to get a report ready by tomorrow morning.’

‘What a pity.
’

‘I’m already way behind
.’

‘Ah me, then my
disappointment will probably lead to the appearance of the wicked witch of the west on the wards tomorrow. Think of the children, Steven, think of the poor children . . .’

Steven couldn’t help smiling as he started to waver.

‘You could always work on your report . . . afterwards?’

‘I’m on my way. Book us in for dinner somewhere nice.’

Steven found himself sitting at Tally’s kitchen table at two in the morning, wearing T-shirt and boxer shorts, working on his report for Macmillan. The one saving grace was that he did feel perfectly relaxed. Tally was sleeping soundly.

The same feeling of puzzlement he’d felt earlier reappeared as he moved through the file making occasional notes about time and place. Ostensibly, the ME
protesters, whoever they were, were objecting to government money's being put into psychiatric evaluation instead of what they regarded as proper research – a hunt for the virus causing the condition . . . so why on earth were they targeting the very people who were carrying out the sort of research they wanted? Why weren’t they attacking the psychiatrists and psychologists who were getting the grant money? Why weren’t they labelling
their
efforts as pointless and a waste of time? And who were the people carrying out the attacks? They didn’t seem to have any official voice. Anyone from the ME groups willing to be interviewed seemed to deplore what they saw as crude publicity stunts. The perpetrators always seemed to be people unknown to the official bodies.

The explanation given
by them for attacking microbiologists – almost exclusively appearing in the form of graffiti because no one was ever willing to justify their actions in person – was that the scientists weren’t doing their job properly: they couldn’t be if they hadn’t found the virus; they must be deliberately delaying to keep themselves in a job. There seemed to be no appreciation of the fact that if the protesters kept harassing and attacking these people, perhaps forcing them to change fields, there would be no one left looking for a biological cause at all.

Steven shook his head
in bemusement. ‘Why, why, why?’ he murmured.

‘Delilah,’ whispered a sleepy voice behind him. Tally put her arms round him. ‘God, I feel so guilty. You’re working through the night and a
ll because of my need for your gorgeous body . . .’

‘Understandable,’ murmured Steven.

‘Bastard.’

‘Ah, the fickleness of women . . .’

‘How’s your report going?’

‘I’ve got enough to make Sir John believe I’ve been working my bottom off
. . . which gives me an idea . . .’ said Steven, getting up and turning to enfold Tally, his hands placed firmly on her buttocks.

‘No, no,’
she giggled. ‘The report . . . the report . . .’

John Macmillan sat at his desk, massaging his temples as he thought about what Steven had said. ‘God, nothing is ever straightforward
, is it?’ he complained. ‘Let me get this straight. You seem to be suggesting that someone other than the ME sufferers might be behind the attacks on researchers because they want to stop research being carried out on it?’

‘I’m just saying it’s a possibility,’ said Steven. ‘Otherwise the attacks don’t make sense. Why scare people out of doing what you want them to do in the first place?’

‘Mmm.’

Steven had to stifle a yawn behind his hand.

‘Am I boring you?’ snapped Macmillan. He didn’t miss much.

‘Sorry.
Insomnia . . . lot on my mind.’

‘As I recall, you were going to the North lab yesterday?’

Steven took a deep breath. ‘Yes and I’m glad I did. I’m pretty sure I know who killed Simone, and possibly Aline as well.’

Macmillan turned round, his eyes wide. ‘You know?’

‘Mainly thanks to Jean’s work in getting me background info on the people attending the Prague meeting. I think Simone’s death was caused by two of the official participants, one an American aid administrator named Bill Andrews who’s almost certainly CIA, and a Pakistani doctor named Ranjit Khan. He’s almost certainly Pakistani intelligence.’

Steven went on to fill in the details leading to his conclusion, ending with, ‘I’m waiting to hear back from Inspector Le Grice about Khan’s movements.’

Macmillan had returned to his desk. ‘Do you have any thoughts on why they did it?’

Steven shook his head. ‘I’m convinced there’s some kind of two
-tier cover-up going on. Some of the big players – maybe even our own government – believe they’re conspiring with the Americans to keep the use of fake teams by the CIA hunting for Bin Laden a secret. It’s not that they approve of it: they simply don’t want to damage the polio eradication initiative beyond repair. But that’s not all they’re doing. They’re unwittingly helping to cover up something else.’

‘Which is?’

‘I don’t know.’

Macmillan looked thoughtful, almost trance-like, as he considered what Steven had told him. It was a look Steven recognised and respected: he waited patiently for the outcome.

‘Difficult,’ began Macmillan. ‘We’re short of friends. The involvement of MI6, the CIA, Pakistani intelligence and God knows who else means that we can’t look for help in either working out what’s going on or in seeking justice for your friend. The only vulnerable point would appear to be Dr Hausman. Before Jean’s painstaking work there was a chance that he might just have sent on the samples on to Porton because he’d been told to, but in the light of Jean’s findings about him and the supposed pharmaceutical company sponsoring him that must be deemed unlikely. He must know what’s going on.’

Steven couldn’t fault Macmillan’s logic. ‘Unfortunately, we don’t have a pretext for arresting or even questioning him. He’s done nothing wrong.’

Macmillan went into thoughtful mode again before coming up with, ‘If what you say is true about there being a two-tier cover-up . . . perhaps we could jolt the well-meaning cover-upper into asking some embarrassing questions of their colleagues.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Exposing Dr Hausman’s Fort Detrick background and CIA connections along with the questionable credentials of his sponsor pharmaceutical company, Reeman Losch. People might then start to wonder what else the CIA have been up to.’

‘Divide and conquer.’

‘I can’t see us doing much conquering,’ countered Macmillan. ‘But a bit of a rift might be a start.’

‘How will you do it
?’ asked Steven.

Macmillan glanced at his watch. ‘I’m having lunch with the director of MI5 today. I’ll ask openly about
Hausman and Reeman Losch. No doubt he’ll . . . mention our interest.’

‘Light blue touch paper and retire immediately,’ said Steven, remembering the old
firework warning.

‘In the meantime,’ said Macmillan, looking thoughtful, ‘I’m going to take you off the ME thing and pass it over to one of your colleagues. If what you’ve worked out about this two
-tier cover-up business proves correct, you’ve got enough on your plate. All right with you?’

‘Absolutely. Who’s the lucky boy?’

‘I think I’ll give it to Scott Jamieson. He’s done a good job in uncovering the hospital supplies scam up in Manchester. It’s time to hand that one over to the police. He’ll welcome a new challenge.’

‘He’s a good bloke,’ said Steven.

‘All right to brief him with your thoughts on the subject?’

‘Of course.’

Steven returned to his office, pausing to thank Jean Roberts for the excellent work she’d done on screening the people at the Prague meeting.

‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘Can I get you some coffee?’

Steven was sipping his coffee and thinking about Tally when his phone went. It was Philippe Le Grice in Paris.

‘I have some news for you.’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Very. You were right in your suspicions. Dr Khan did not return to
Pakistan immediately after the Prague meeting. He was a passenger on board a flight from Prague to Paris the day before Simone Ricard’s funeral.’

‘So he
was
in Paris when Aline was killed?’

‘There’s no doubt about it
. He left France the morning after Aline Lagarde’s murder.’

‘He’s your man,
Philippe.’

‘Thank you, Steven. I only hope we
can prove it and restore Dr Lagarde’s reputation, but I suspect it won’t be that easy. A DNA match might do it, but as you might expect from a hotel room, we have DNA profiles for a number of unidentified individuals. I just hope we get the chance to compare them with Khan’s.’

‘It might be a good idea to make sure the samples you have are kept in a secure place considering third party involvement in the case,’ suggested Steven.

‘Quite so.’

Steven thanked Le Grice for his valuable help. Now
that he had proof that Andrews had been lying about Khan, not only about knowing him but about his movements after the Prague meeting, he was certain in his own mind that Andrews and Khan were responsible for the murders of Simone and Aline Lagarde. Or should that be the CIA and Pakistani intelligence?

‘There’s one more thing,’ said Le Grice. ‘When Khan left
France he didn’t fly to Pakistan.’

‘No?’

‘He boarded a flight to London.’