Ken McClure - The Secret

Andrews had said that carrying out the experiment was of the utmost importance to the security of all their countries although he didn’t know why. That, Steven concluded, was still a secret — the secret known by the few. He’d had enough for one day; he called Tally. He didn’t want to tell her anything about his day; he just wanted to hear her voice.

Macmillan called just after ten when Steven, feeling better after talking to Tally, was watching the news on TV. He killed the sound and listened expectantly.

‘The computer people have recovered the content of a letter sent from the prime minister’s office to Tom North. ‘It impresses on North that what they call “the discovery” must remain secret at all costs until such times as Porton or Fort Detrick have come up with a way of dealing with what they term “the problem”. Make any sense?’

After considering for a few moments, Steven said not.

‘I’m going to tell the computer people to go home and get some rest,’ said Macmillan. ‘They’ve done well and with a bit of luck they’ll come up with more tomorrow.’

‘I was going to leave off telling you this until tomorrow,’ said Steven, ‘but, as you’ve called, I had a bit of a run-in with Bill Andrews of the CIA earlier on...’

Steven heard the short intake of breath at the other end of the phone which translated in his mind into, “All I need”. ‘I caught him following me. He insists he was going to warn me about Khan having gone rogue. After a bit of a chat, I think I believe him. He says Khan is part of some militant anti-India faction but he doesn’t know what he’s after.’

‘Did you tell him?’

‘No.’

‘Did you ask him about the secret?’

‘He doesn’t know any more than we do.’

‘Pity, still, let’s hope for a more productive tomorrow.’

Steven went through to the kitchen and closed the window: all traces of his earlier guest had now gone. He felt hungry but, as he hadn’t made a visit to a supermarket for some time, wasn’t quite sure what he had in store and he thought it too late to send out for take-away food.

The fridge revealed some bacon with a slightly greenish sheen to it when held at an angle and a small slab of cheddar cheese that Sir Alexander Fleming might have been able to make a significant discovery on in another era. The lettuce looked as if the US Air Force had attacked it with Agent Orange and the duck paté might have served well in the pointing of brickwork. The cupboard above the fridge however, yielded a large tin of corned beef and a small one of baked beans which gave his morale a boost and prompted him to murmur, ‘And a Michelin star goes to... Steven Dunbar.’

As always, after a day in which a lot had happened, Steven was finding it difficult to unwind. His earlier plan to have a long soak had of course, been scuppered by the encounter with Andrews, something which had sent his adrenalin levels soaring and it was taking a long time for them to subside. He was no longer hungry; he didn’t want any more to drink; he didn’t want to watch TV but he knew if he went to bed, he wouldn’t sleep. He seemed destined to continue fidgeting until he realised there was a way he could speed the unwinding process up. He checked the weather outside from the window before changing into a track suit and trainers. It was one in the morning but he was going out for run. He would run until exhaustion freed him from restlessness.

An hour later Steven arrived back at Marlborough Court thinking he might have overdone it as sweat dripped from his face on to the floor of the lift and he experienced the slight feeling of nausea that athletes encountered when pushing themselves to the limit. It passed without incident however and was replaced by a pleasant endorphin rush once he had showered and settled down with a cold Peroni beer. He was enjoying a warm feeling of well-being when the phone rang.

Phone calls were never welcome in the small hours of the morning; no one ever phoned with good news at that time. Steven answered in trepidation, running through a range of possibilities in his head. None of them applied.

‘Dr Dunbar?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Perhaps you’d like three guesses, Doctor?’

The cultured voice and Pakistani accent made Steven’s blood run cold. He was talking to Simone’s killer, Khan.

‘You have something I want Doctor and I would be grateful if you would deliver it to me.’

Alarm bells were ringing in Steven’s head. Khan sounded too sure of himself, like a man about to show a hand of four aces. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Forget the nonsense, please. There isn’t time as you are about to appreciate. I want the memory card or the next time you see your daughter will be at her funeral.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Steven, feeling sick to his stomach. ‘My daughter? What the hell are you talking about?’

Steven stopped when a familiar voice came on the line. ‘Daddy, Daddy, there’s a bad man in the house...’

‘Jenny?’

Khan was back on the line. ‘I don’t have to warn you about involving outside agencies. That goes without saying. Start by flying into Edinburgh Airport with the card. Be there by noon and await my instructions.’

Steven was beside himself. Khan had got inside the house at Glenvane and was holding Jenny hostage. Right now it didn’t matter where he had obtained the information. What mattered was that he was holding his daughter and was demanding the memory card in exchange for her life — a card he no longer had. In what now seemed like some hellish irony, he had handed it over to be held under secure conditions and stop it falling into the wrong hands.

There had to be a way round this. He would get in touch with Jean Roberts who had put the card into secure safe-keeping. He would explain what had happened and she would... no, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t! That’s not how the system worked. Having worked out that the card was really the thing Khan was after in his murderous rampage, he and Macmillan had agreed that it be put into the government’s secure system that would keep it safe from any kind of coercion or blackmail attempt being applied to individuals. Nothing he or Macmillan said would make any difference right now. HMG did not pay ransoms, give in to blackmail or make deals with criminals. Steven was in the very position the system was designed to guard against.

He felt as if he were being crucified slowly, one nail at a time. Every idea he came up with seemed to end in a negative. He found himself fighting his way through successive waves of fear and anger which overwhelmed his ability to think clearly. Experience insisted on reminding him that these emotions were his enemy. However difficult it was, he must calm down. He must accept that he couldn’t get his hands on the card: there was just no way to do it, therefore there was no point in considering it further. He had to save Jenny by other means. What other means?

There was no point in waking Macmillan. They would just end up going over the same ground and time was of the essence. Calling up the police in Scotland was also a non-starter and would almost certainly lead to disaster. Explanations would be required, referrals, approvals, permissions and God knows what before anyone actually did anything. There wasn’t time.

He would fly into Edinburgh as instructed. He would follow further instructions to the letter and would hand over a memory card. It couldn’t be the card that Khan wanted so that’s when the big bluff would begin. There was no way of knowing how much time there would be before the deception was discovered but that, he acknowledged with a chill running down his spine, might well be irrelevant. On past performance, there would be no trade. Khan would accept the card and kill both he and Jenny. To give Jenny any chance at all against the bastard he would need help, the kind of help that could only come from one place.