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  Humphrey Barclay died four days later. His fever did not abate, so he was never conscious of the plastic-bubble world he inhabited in the special unit of the hospital or of the nurses in spacesuits who did their best to make him comfortable through his last hours on earth. He did not see his wife, his two daughters, his parents or his dreaded in-laws before he died, due to the strict no-visitors rule in the special unit. He never got the chance to file his report on Ndanga to his superiors at the Foreign Office, but his death spoke volumes.

  Senior Stewardess Judith Mills died eight days after Barclay, one day before Mrs Sally Morton, the passenger who had been sitting next to Barclay, and two days before Dr Geoffrey Palmer. There was a scare over Carol Bain when she became unwell after five days, but it proved to be just a cold. Geoffrey Palmer was the last of the people from the aircraft to die, but he was not the last to succumb to the virus. One of the nurses looking after Barclay became infected, despite the protective clothing, and she also died.

  ‘African Killer Virus Contained’ announced The Times. No further cases had been reported or were expected, according to health officials, it said; the situation was under control. The papers had kept up a daily assault on their readers, some of the tabloids initially predicting a plague that would sweep through the capital just as the bubonic plague had done in the seventeenth century. The more thoughtful articles concentrated on just how easy it was these days for viruses lurking in the heart of the African jungle one day to be transported to the West the next, courtesy of high-speed air travel.

  The relatively low death toll and the quick containment of the virus left the papers that had predicted a more extreme scenario looking rather silly, although one of them expertly diverted attention by going on the offensive and demanding to know exactly what the virus was. Its readers, it maintained, had ‘the right to know’. It was a line of attack that the others had missed because it was in fact true that there had been no official statement about the identity of the virus. It was also true that there had been no clamour to know. The ‘new African diseases’, as many of the papers had called them, were generally thought to be just that, and therefore of no real great concern to readers in Chingford or Surbiton.

  The Foreign and Commonwealth Office, London

  ‘They’re right, you know,’ said Sir Bruce Collins, putting down the paper. ‘We still don’t know the identity of the virus that did for poor old Barclay and the others.’

  ‘I thought they were pretty sure it was Ebola fever, sir,’ said one of the other eight people seated round the table.

  ‘That was and is an assumption,’ said Collins. ‘It’s probably the correct one, I grant you, considering all the symptoms, but we don’t have the official lab report yet.’

  ‘They’re taking their time, aren’t they?’

  ‘Apparently the scientists can only work on such viruses under what they call BL4 conditions. All the samples had to be taken to the government defence establishment at Porton Down for analysis. Anyway, what we have to decide now is whether or not the Foreign Secretary’s trip to Ndanga can go ahead.’

  ‘I don’t see how it can in the circumstances,’ said one man, and there was a general murmur of agreement.

  ‘I must remind you that this trip is important to us and to Ndanga, gentlemen. They need the respectability it will afford them and we in turn need access to their airstrip in the south and what goes with it. If we call off the visit, they just might renege on the whole agreement.’

  ‘But surely they’ll understand that such a visit doesn’t make sense during an outbreak?’

  ‘And there’s the rub,’ said Collins. ‘According to them, there is no outbreak. The authorities in Ndanga maintain that there has been no case of Ebola or any other haemorrhagic fever in the country in the past two years.’

  ‘But there must have been, otherwise how could poor old Barclay have picked it up? You have to get it from an already infected person, don’t you?’

  ‘Or an infected monkey, I understand.’

  ‘I can’t see Barclay consorting with chimps during his visit, can you?’

  ‘So that leaves us with a bit of an impasse,’ said Collins.

  ‘The Ndangan authorities must be lying.’

  ‘I have to admit that that thought did occur,’ said Collins. ‘So I made some discreet enquiries of the World Health Organisation. They have no record of any case of haemorrhagic fever in Ndanga in the past year.’

  ‘Did Barclay perhaps travel around a bit while he was in Africa?’ suggested someone.

  ‘I considered that, too,’ said Collins, ‘but I’ve seen his diary. He didn’t have any time to play the tourist. Apart from that, there has been no Ebola in any of the countries bordering Ndanga during the last six months.’

  ‘How about contact with a carrier?’

  ‘As I understand it, the medical profession is a bit vague about carrier status where these diseases are concerned. Some don’t think a true carrier state exists,’ said Collins, ‘but there is agreement about transfer of the virus through body fluids from a person who is recovering from the disease.’

  ‘So if old Humphrey had slept with a lady of the night who’d recently had the disease, that could have been it?’

  ‘Barclay was more a National Geographic and mug-of-Horlicks man, in my estimation,’ said Collins. ‘But even if what you suggest were true, what happened to her other customers? They should all be dead by now.’

  ‘Well, even if that was how Barclay picked it up, I don’t see anything there to prevent the Foreign Secretary’s visit going ahead.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Collins. ‘Just as long as we’re satisfied that there really is no outbreak in Ndanga.’

  ‘If I might make a suggestion, sir?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Collins.

  ‘You could have a word with the Sci-Med people in the Home Office. They’re sort of medical detectives, aren’t they?’

  ‘They are indeed,’ said Collins, ‘and that is a very good idea. I’ll have Jane make me an appointment to see the head of that outfit… What’s his name?’

  ‘Macmillan, sir. John Macmillan.’

  The Sci-Med Inspectorate was a small independent body operating from within the Home Office under the directorship of John Macmillan. It comprised a number of investigators, well qualified in either science or medicine, whose job it was to take a look at problems, with or without possible criminal involvement, occurring in the hi-tech areas of modern life, areas where the police had little or no expertise.

  This was no reflection on the police. They could not be expected to notice when, for instance, the surgical success record of one hospital fell well below others carrying out almost identical procedures, nor were they in a position to investigate the possible causes even if they did. Likewise, they were unlikely to notice that certain chemicals being ordered by the staff of a university chemistry department were in fact being used to manufacture hallucinogenic drugs. Both of these scenarios had been encountered in the past by Sci-Med and resolved, through enforced resignation of an ageing surgeon in the first case and criminal prosecution of a number of lab technicians in the other.

  After Sir Bruce Collins’s visit, Macmillan asked his secretary to call in Dr Steven Dunbar. Dunbar had been a Sci-Med investigator for something over five years, and was currently on leave after his last assignment.

  ‘He’s only had a week of his leave,’ said Rose Roberts.

  ‘I’m aware of that, thank you,’ snapped Macmillan, ‘and of the tough time he had with his last job. But this won’t take him more than a couple of days, so please just make the call.’

  Steven Dunbar took the call as he was packing. ‘I was just about to head north to see my daughter,’ he told Miss Roberts.

  ‘I’m sorry. I did point out that you’d only had a week and post-operational leave is always a month, but he asked for you anyway. If it’s any help, he said it wouldn’t take long.’

  ‘All right.’ Steven grinned. ‘See
you at three.’

  Steven had a lot of respect for John Macmillan, not least because of his unswerving loyalty to his staff and his constant battle to preserve Sci-Med’s independence and freedom of action. It had been his brainchild from the outset and had shown its worth many times over, uncovering crimes that otherwise might never have come to light. Sci-Med might be small but it was an object lesson in how a government department should be run. Against the modern trend, its administration had been kept to a minimum and existed first and foremost to serve front-line staff and smooth the way for them, rather than the other way round as was sadly the case in modern Britain. According to some of Steven’s medical friends, NHS staff now spent more time filling in forms and undergoing audits, assessments and appraisals than they did treating the sick.

  No one came directly to Sci-Med. It was one of its great strengths that its investigators, when appointed, brought with them a wide range of abilities and experience. Dunbar, as a medical investigator, was of course medically qualified, but he had chosen not to pursue a conventional career in medicine. After two hospital residencies following medical school, he had found that he simply did not have the heart for it. A strong, athletic young man, brought up amid the mountains of Cumbria, he had felt the need for more of a physical challenge.

  After some heart-searching he had joined the army at the end of his clinical year and had been assigned to the Parachute Regiment, where he had found all the physical challenge he could ever have hoped for, and more besides. He had thrived in this environment and had been trained as an expert in field medicine, an expertise he had been called upon to use on several occasions during his subsequent secondment to Special Forces. He had served all over the world and had been called upon to use not only his medical skills but often his powers of innovation and initiative. He would have liked nothing better than to stay with the SAS, but the nature of the job dictated that it be the province of young men and the time inevitably came when he had to step down, an ‘old’ man at the age of thirty-three.

  Luckily, the position at Sci-Med had arisen at exactly the right time. The job had seemed perfect in that, although he’d still require his medical qualifications, he was not going to end up in some bleak surgery, freezing warts off feet and dishing out antidepressant pills. Instead, he would be involved in Sci-Med’s day-to-day investigations. He would be given assignments judged suitable to his expertise and allowed to pursue them in his own way. Sci-Med would provide all the back-up he needed, ranging from expert advice to weapons if need be.

  From the Inspectorate’s point of view, Steven had appeared from the outset to be well suited to their requirements. He was a doctor with proven ability to survive and succeed in extremely demanding situations. Real situations, a far cry from the ‘How would you cross this imaginary river?’ problems of office team-building exercises. And so it had proved to be. Steven had progressed over the years to become a much-valued member of the Sci-Med team, and the admiration was mutual.

  Steven left his fifth-floor apartment in Docklands and took a taxi to the Home Office. He wore a dark-blue suit, light-blue shirt and Parachute Regiment tie, and cut an imposing figure as he entered the building and showed his ID. No less imposing was John Macmillan, who in many ways could have been an older version of Steven, tall, slim and erect but with swept-back silver hair instead of Steven’s dark mane.

  ‘Good to see you, Dunbar. Take a seat.’

  Steven sat and listened to Macmillan’s apology for bringing him back early from leave. ‘Jamieson and Dewar are both out on assignment right now so I was faced with asking one of the scientific chaps to take this on or recalling you. I decided on you.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ said Steven with only the merest suggestion of a smile.

  Macmillan looked at him for a moment, searching for signs of sarcasm, but didn’t find any. ‘Anyway, you must be aware of this Ebola thing on the African flight?’

  ‘I read about it in the papers,’ replied Steven. ‘Nasty.’

  ‘It could have been much worse but the emergency procedures for just such an eventuality worked well, and the problem was contained with only five dead — not that that’s much comfort to them or their families.’

  ‘So what concerns us?’ asked Steven.

  ‘The aircraft had come from Ndanga and the passenger who fell ill and infected the others was a Foreign Office official. He had been in Africa, making arrangements for a visit by the Foreign Secretary. The Foreign Office is worried.’

  ‘It would be crazy to go ahead with the visit until any outbreak is over,’ said Steven.

  ‘The Ndangan authorities say there is no outbreak.’

  ‘So how did our man get the disease?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘God, you’re not going to send me to Ndanga, are you?’ exclaimed Steven.

  ‘Nothing like that.’ Macmillan smiled. ‘The Foreign Office would simply like to be assured that the relevant authorities aren’t lying. I’ve already been on to the WHO in Geneva. They’ve heard nothing about an outbreak, but I thought you might get in touch with some of your friends and acquaintances in the medical charities and see what you can come up with?’

  ‘Will do,’ said Steven. ‘Are they sure it’s Ebola?’

  ‘There’s been nothing back from Porton yet, but from all accounts it has to be one of the haemorrhagic fevers.’

  ‘But it could be something other than Ebola, like Lassa or Marburg disease. Not that it makes much difference: there’s not a damned thing anyone can do about any of them, anyway.’

  Macmillan nodded and said, ‘I understand that there’s going to be a briefing for officials tonight at the Foreign Office. Maybe they’ll have some news. I think you should go along.’

  Steven agreed.

  ‘Miss Roberts will give you details.’

  Steven spent the remainder of the afternoon telephoning friends and colleagues to find out which medical missions and charities were currently operating in Ndanga. He established that three were, including the large French organisation, Medecins sans Frontieres. He had a friend who worked as a co-ordinator at their Paris office. He called her.

  ‘Simone? It’s Steven Dunbar in London.’

  ‘Steven! How nice. It’s been ages. How are you?’

  After an exchange of pleasantries Steven asked about haemorrhagic fever in Ndanga.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ replied Simone. ‘Give me a moment…’

  Steven looked out of the window of his apartment while he waited. It was sunny but there were black clouds coming in from the west.

  Simone came back on the line. ‘No, no reports at all of haemorrhagic fever in Ndanga or the countries surrounding it at the moment.’

  Steven liked hearing the word ‘haemorrhagic’ spoken with a French accent. It made him smile. ‘Thanks, Simone,’ he said. ‘I’m obliged.’

  ‘So when will we see you in Paris?’

  ‘Soon, I hope. We’ll have dinner.’

  THREE

  Steven arrived for the 7.30 p.m. briefing at the Foreign Office at 7.20 and found more than fifty people already there. Some he knew, many he didn’t. One of those he did was Fred Cummings; a consultant microbiologist attached to the London Public Health Service. Fred tended to stand out in a crowd because of his sparse but bright-red hair and a liking for loud sports jackets.

  ‘Big turn-out,’ said Steven, coming up at his elbow.

  ‘Porton wanted to speak to everyone concerned at the same time, rather than have a series of meetings with health chiefs and local authorities,’ said Cummings.

  ‘So they’ve identified it?’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Cummings. ‘They’ve taken long enough about it. A fiver says it’s Ebola.’

  ‘Ebola fever in the Old Kent Road — now there’s a thought to conjure with,’ said Steven, ignoring the bet.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Cummings smiled. ‘I haven’t needed All Bran since that bloody plane landed.’

  A distingu
ished-looking man, whom Steven took to be a Foreign Office official, appealed for quiet and the hubbub died down. Four people mounted the platform and were introduced jointly as the investigating team from Porton Down. Their leader, Dr Clive Phelps, a tall, gangly man with bushy grey hair and a straggly beard, took the Foreign Office man’s place at the microphone and tapped it twice unnecessarily before speaking. Steven wondered idly how he would get his beard inside a surgical mask.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Phelps. ‘I understand that everyone here — apart from Foreign Office personnel, who have their own reasons for requiring information — is a health professional so I won’t beat about the bush. It’s a filovirus.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’muttered Cummings. ‘The Daily Mail ’s been telling us that for weeks.’

  ‘But, contrary to popular reports and rumour, it isn’t Ebola,’ continued Phelps.

  ‘So it has to be Marburg,’ whispered Cummings. ‘There only are two filoviruses.’

  ‘And it isn’t Marburg disease either.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Cummings. He felt like the straight man in a comedy double act. ‘Then how can you call it a filovirus?’ he asked out loud, as hubbub again filled the room.

  ‘Under the electron microscope the virus appears filamentous, forming branched filaments of up to fourteen thousand nanometres in length. In other words, it looks like a filovirus and, of course, it causes a haemorrhagic fever very similar to Ebola, if not identical. The victims suffer high temperature, stomach cramps and nausea, and bleed profusely from just about everywhere.’

  ‘So why do you say it isn’t Ebola?’

  ‘The four subtypes of Ebola that we know about and have characterised in the past all have a uniform diameter of eighty nanometres. This virus has a diameter of a hundred and twenty nanometres.’

  ‘It could be a new subtype,’ suggested Cummings.

  ‘That’s possible,’ conceded Phelps with an uncomfortable shrug, ‘but we think not. We’ve carried out an investigation of the nucleic acid content of the virus — that’s what’s been taking the time — and there are significant differences. That’s why we think it’s a new virus.’