Crisis (Luke Carlton 1) (34 page)

Luke catapulted forward in his chair and shot out his hand to shake hers. ‘Luke Carlton. I’ve been sent from across the river.’

‘I know.’ She smiled. ‘I read your biog.’ She indicated the space at the desk next to his computer. ‘May I?’ She sat down without waiting for an answer.

‘You read my biog?’ repeated Luke. Was she flirting with him? Surely not, today of all days.

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she replied crisply. ‘I’ve read everyone’s biog in this room. I like to know who I’m working with.’

‘And?’ Luke was half expecting her to quiz him about his time with the SBS, or what he knew about García and his cartel.

Instead, she replied, ‘It looks like you could do with some IT instruction! You know, there’s an in-house program for what you’re trying to do there. It’s called Circuit. I can load it for you, if you like. Save you a lot of time.’

‘Wait,’ said Luke. ‘You’ve been tracking what I’m pulling together? But you’re sitting on the other side of the room.’

‘We’re all paid our salaries out of the Single Intelligence Agency account, remember? We’re all on the same team. Now, d’you want me to load that program?’

Before he had a chance to answer their attention was requested: Groves had an announcement to make. He looked rather shaken.

‘I’ve just taken a call from the surgeon commander at Plymouth General,’ he said. ‘The patient who presented himself at A and E two days ago with radiation sickness has just died.’

There was an audible intake of breath. This was a further reminder, as if any were needed, of the urgency of their task.

‘He had internal bleeding and raging infections,’ added Groves. ‘He took a cumulative dose of five hundred and fifty rads and his white blood cell count had dropped off the scale. Unfortunately he never regained consciousness so SO15’s detectives never got the chance to interview him. That means we’re none the wiser on where he received his lethal dose.’

Dr Sheila Morton, who had briefed them first thing that morning, had left some hours ago. In her absence, one of her colleagues from the radiological protection cell posed an all-important question.

‘Did the surgeon commander mention what the isotope was that killed him?’ The man asking had thick, black-rimmed glasses and, despite flecks of grey in his hair, retained the faint scars of teenage acne on his face and neck.

‘Yes, he did,’ replied Groves, hunting for a note he had scribbled down. ‘You should be getting the details any minute through your own channels from DPRS. But here it is.’ He held up a piece of paper to the light so he could read it. ‘It’s caesium chloride. I’m told it’s used in medical laboratories.’

The trio of scientists exchanged knowing glances. ‘That’s true,’ said the man with the glasses. ‘It’s also soluble in water and can get into all sorts of cracks. It’s hard to clear up, even with a polymer gel.’

‘So what are we talking about here?’ asked Groves. ‘Is this isotope a solid, a powder or a liquid? I’m confused.’

‘Most likely a powder,’ answered one of the scientists. ‘Caesium chloride has about the same density as talc, and it’s white. Think of it like a large bag of sugar or flour, except it will be held in a shield container.’

‘A container that obviously leaks, or has leaked,’ added Groves. ‘So it should be possible to plot a trail from everywhere that shows up traces of it. Just as the Met did with Litvinenko.’

‘Unless,’ said Luke, ‘that trail is at sea, not on land.’ Several faces swivelled round to him. ‘Can I ask how long it would take for someone to show up with symptoms of radiation sickness?’

‘That depends on how big a dose they got,’ answered the man with the glasses. ‘It could be hours or days. But if Plymouth are saying their patient got five hundred and fifty rads . . .’ he blew through pursed lips ‘. . . well, that would take effect within twenty-four hours.’

‘Right,’ said Luke. ‘So if – and we don’t know this for certain yet – but if the cartel brought this material ashore in that mini-sub, the one down in Falmouth Dock, it’s quite possible that was where the contamination took place. Which would make our dead patient a submariner.’

Even as he spoke, a terrible thought struck him. Jorge Enriquez had been crawling around inside that mini-sub only yesterday. He had to alert him immediately, tell him to go and get himself checked out. There would be questions asked, of course, since no one had authorized him to go inside the sub, but that could come later.

Luke excused himself from the meeting and took his phone out into the corridor. He scrolled down his contact list and dialled Jorge’s mobile but it went straight to voicemail. He called his friend’s work number at the embassy and a woman’s voice answered: ‘
Oficina de Commandante Enriquez. Buenas tardes.
’

‘May I speak to Señor Enriquez, please? It’s Luke Carlton from the FCO.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Commander Enriquez has gone home, he is not feeling well.’

NOBODY TOOK MUCH
notice when Luke let himself back into the task force ops room. His face wore a look of profound concern but that was hardly surprising, given the circumstances. Britain was facing a catastrophic threat and he was one of the privileged few to be burdened with that knowledge.

Groves was still speaking as Luke returned to his seat, wondering if he should report his fears about the Colombian naval attaché and the mini-sub. But the prospect of seeing his friend carted off and quarantined in an isolation unit when he was probably fine put him off. He would give it one more hour, no more.

‘Carlton. Glad you’re back,’ said Groves. ‘We’ve had another update. I’ve just been sharing it with the team here. That ship, the one you intercepted off the coast?’

‘The
Maria Esposito
?’ said Luke.

‘That’s the one. It turns out there’s considerably more to her than we thought.’

More than
you
thought, reflected Luke. We always suspected she was hiding something, just needed more time to search her.

‘The Navy divers and search teams have finally been all over her, top to bottom,’ said Groves. ‘It took them a while to bring in the right equipment but they’ve come up trumps. It transpires she had a false hold with a concealed hatch. She’d had a lot of work done
before the voyage. Enough to hide a six-metre mini-sub beneath all those useless tractor parts from North Korea. They’re holding the crew in Falmouth. Devon and Cornwall Constabulary are working on the charges now. So,’ Groves raised his voice to include everyone in the room, ‘now that we know how they got this stuff over here, we can move forward. This is what needs to happen.’

At that moment Luke’s mobile vibrated quietly in the breast pocket of his suit. As discreetly as possible, he lifted it out to see who was calling. It was Jorge Enriquez, the Colombian naval attaché, returning his call.

‘Carlton,’ said Groves, looking straight at him.

‘Yes?’ His phone was still vibrating, he had yet to answer it. He really needed to take this call but now was not the time: Groves was about to issue a tasking order.

‘I’ll need you to coordinate everything we have coming in from every CHIS inside the Colombian international criminal networks, both here and overseas.’

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said a scientist. ‘But what’s a CHIS?’

‘Apologies for the jargon,’ said Groves. ‘It stands for Covert Human Intelligence Source. They’re our moles inside whatever group we’re trying to penetrate.’

With the attention off him, Luke stole a glance at his mobile. Enriquez had rung off. Keeping his eyes on Groves as far as he could, Luke tapped out a text.
Are u ok? U ill?
He pressed send.

‘Conor.’ Groves was talking to the Ulsterman now. ‘I need G Branch to shake up every CHIS we have with any connections to the South American underworld.’

‘I’m going to be straight with you,’ the man replied. ‘We don’t have a lot of traction in that area. We tend to leave it to the NCA and the Colombian Embassy. They’ve not really been on our radar as a national threat priority. Until now.’

‘Understood,’ said Groves. ‘Cross-check with the NCA if you need to, but keep it discreet.’

Luke’s phone was buzzing again. It was Jorge. This was getting really awkward. He excused himself and slipped out into the corridor.

‘What’s up, buddy?’ said Jorge. ‘What’s with the messages? I’m nursing a hangover here.’ He certainly didn’t sound like someone dying of radiation poisoning.

‘I’m going to cut straight to the point. That mini-sub you climbed into yesterday? Down in Falmouth?’

‘Don’t tell me you want me to go back?’

‘No. Quite the opposite. It’s possible – we’re not sure yet – that it’s contaminated . . .’

There was a long pause at the other end.

‘Jorge? You still there?’

‘I’m still here. I’m not happy to hear this, Lucas, but I’m still listening.’

‘You need to get yourself checked out for radiation poisoning.’ Luke told him to go to University College Hospital in Euston Road. It was the best he could offer right now.

When he walked back into the ops room Groves shot him an irritated look. ‘If we could keep your attention in here for just five minutes, Carlton,’ he told him. ‘There’s been another development. It seems every time you step out of this room we get a new piece of the jigsaw.’

‘Sorry, sick relative,’ Luke lied.

‘I’ve had Plymouth General on the line again. They’ve just taken in another casualty with suspected radiation sickness. And this one’s conscious. They’re transferring him up here immediately. He’ll be coming in by air ambulance and going straight to the isolation ward at UCH.’

‘That’s the death ward,’ said a man from the Met. ‘It’s the one they put Litvinenko in.’

Groves ignored the morbid remark and looked at Luke. ‘Carlton, you speak fluent Spanish, don’t you?’

‘Pretty much, yes.’

‘Good. Because apparently that’s the only language the patient speaks. You’ll get first crack at him. Jenny, go with him to the hospital. Oh, and please listen to the medics there. Don’t go taking any chances on protection when you interview this patient. I don’t want anybody else getting contaminated.’

ELISE MAYHEW WAS
not a worrier. Since paying off her student debts early, with a bit of help from her parents, she had had few financial worries, although the art gallery, it had to be said, did not exactly pay her a generous wage. But she was acutely observant – that was partly what had got her the job in the first place and perhaps why she had spotted Luke at that party. Now something had registered with her that just didn’t seem right.

It was halfway through the afternoon when she looked up from the digital archive she was skimming through online.

‘Samantha,’ she called, to the girl on Reception, ‘did that woman from yesterday ever call back? You know, the one who was waiting when I came back from lunch?’

‘I don’t think so, no.’ Samantha had been eating a biscuit and she had to swallow the last of it before she could answer fully. ‘Why? I mean, let’s face it, most of them don’t come back, do they?’

‘It’s not that,’ said Elise, biting her bottom lip distractedly. ‘She asked about a Portuguese artist, Agostinho Bacalao. She was very specific about his name.’

‘And?’

‘He doesn’t exist! There’s absolutely no record of him in any catalogue. I Googled him too. Nothing. And that surname just means “codfish”. You don’t think that’s odd?’

‘Maybe. A bit. If she comes back and you’re out I’ll make sure I get her card.’ With that, she replaced her earphones.

Elise put on her coat, walked outside, lit a cigarette and observed the shoppers of St James’s as they scurried along the pavement. Should she mention it to Luke? She knew he was incredibly busy right now and probably wouldn’t welcome the call. No, it could wait. Besides, she was holding out for the right moment to broach something rather more delicate with him.

‘
FRIJOLES
,’ HE GROWLED.
‘Simple refried beans.
Nada m
á
s
, nothing more. So what the fuck is wrong with my chef that he can’t cook them the way I like? Hmm?’ El Pobrecito was not a happy man that morning. Since the massacre of the police commandos at the fortified farmhouse at Ituango, Nelson García and his entourage had moved their base deeper into the hills to avoid retribution from the state. They had chosen an uninhabited coffee planter’s villa as their new headquarters. The place was crawling with ants and García had been grumbling constantly as he pined for the lost comforts of his farmhouse.

‘
Tranquilo, Patrón
,’ Valentina purred, as he lay face down on the makeshift acupuncture table. ‘You give yourself too much tension. Here . . . I’m going to make it better.’ Gradually, like an angry dragon being lulled to sleep, the cartel boss’s bad mood subsided and his shoulders slumped. A smile of contentment settled on his coarse, pockmarked features and his eyes closed. For a man with five mobile phones, a multi-billion-dollar drugs empire and a great many enemies, this was perhaps the only time of day when he could completely relax. Outside the window the rain fell in sheets, drenching the untended crimson helliconia shrubs that crowded up against the wall and soaking the lush foliage that cloaked the hills.

Valentina looked down at the bear of a man beneath her as she removed the needles, one by one, then began to knead and
massage his shoulders. His street-fighting days were far behind him but the muscle bulk was still there, built up over long hours in his mother’s filthy backyard, endlessly lifting two concrete breeze blocks stuck on the ends of a scaffolding bar. Valentina, too, was stronger than she looked, her slender frame hiding a toughness that few could see from the outside.

Now there was an interruption, a soft but urgent knocking at the door. Nelson García roused himself with a scowl. His time with Valentina was supposed to be sacrosanct, regardless of which safe house she was summoned to. Had he not issued a standing order that he was never to be disturbed at this hour unless it was a matter of great urgency? The door opened and Suarez stepped into the room, the only man permitted to come into his inner sanctum. García sat up and faced him with a mixture of weariness and expectation.