Ken McClure - White death

When he thought it was safe again, Steven raised his head for another look and saw the man with the container open it and return to the car to splash the contents into the small gap. He was clearly nervous and moved as if he were standing on hot coals. He retreated quickly as soon as the container was empty and joined his accomplice in crouching down about twenty metres back from the car, forearms held up against their faces in anticipation of the explosion to come.

The seconds ticked by in silence with nothing but contracting metal noises coming from the Porsche as a slight pall of blue smoke drifted up from the wreckage. The faint sound of sirens in the distance was making the men even more edgy as it became clear to them that one of them might have to go back and ignite the car.

Steven, feeling a moderate breeze against his cheek, appreciated their dilemma. The wind was dispersing the highly explosive air/petrol mix before it could reach critical levels. He watched as the two men approached the car together, preparing to set fire to the petrol-soaked wreckage themselves, under the impression that they were about to immolate Steven Dunbar. They were only about three metres from the wreckage when Steven felt the wind drop to a flat calm, making his eyes open wide in anticipation. The men obviously didn’t realise the significance of the wind in the equation. Steven just had time to start considering the poetic justice of what was about to happen when the Porsche exploded, sending a sheet of yellow flame high into the air and enveloping his two would-be murderers in burning fuel as they were blown off their feet to land about fifteen metres from where he lay. Neither man moved as the flames consumed them, making Steven think that the blast alone had probably killed them. The air was filled with the smell of roasting flesh, which only added to the heavy cocktail of fuel and smouldering grass.

Steven could see activity on the banking where he’d come off the motorway and figured that the emergency services had arrived. It only took a second to decide that he did not want to be part of any police investigation at that particular moment. What he needed was time and space to work out what was going on, not get bogged down in police routine. He rolled back down the rise he had been hiding behind and into a ditch that ran along the length of the field. He maintained a crouching, scrambling run until he reckoned he was far enough away from the scene of the accident to stand up and take his bearings. There was a farm house about a quarter of a mile away and, between him and it, what looked like a minor road. He made for the road and a track he could see leading up to the farm, hoping that there might be some sign there. There was. It said, ‘Moorfields Farm’. Steven looked about him, taking in that the land round here was hilly but there was a relatively flat field about half a mile south of the farm house. He brought out his mobile phone and called Sci-Med. This was going to test Condition Red to the limit.

‘I need a helicopter to pick me up as fast as possible. I’ll be in a field about half a mile south of Moorfields Farm house to the east of the M1, travelling south from Leicester.’

‘Taking you to where?’ asked the calm voice of the duty officer.

‘London.’

‘Anything else?’

‘A car to meet me at the other end to bring me to the Home Office. I also need you to alert Sir John, please.’

‘Will do. I’ll call you back with an ETA for the ’copter.’

Steven closed his phone. Not for the first occasion in his time with Sci-Med he had cause to give thanks for the way Macmillan had set up the organisation. When it came to support for investigators in the field, everything ran like clockwork. Sci-Med’s administrative brief was to provide support for front-line people, not, as in the case of so many other government organisations, treat them as a source and supply of information for them to make reports and fill in forms of their own making.

Macmillan recruited the best for his investigators. He trusted their judgement implicitly and what they asked for they got. In the case of ‘Condition Red’ people, the rider ‘without question’ was applied. Recriminations, should there be any, would come later, not in the middle of an investigation.

Steven left the road and hid himself in a copse of trees at the southernmost edge of the field to wait. He used the time to reflect on what had happened and inspect his body for cuts and bruises. He had been remarkably lucky, he concluded — not even a sprained ankle from an incident he felt sure he would revisit in bad dreams throughout his life to come. He managed a wry smile when he thought it would have to take its turn among all the rest but the smile turned to feelings of bitterness when he started wondering who exactly his enemies were on this occasion. He’d been in similar circumstances before, waiting for pick-up from either a jungle or a desert rendezvous, when he’d known exactly who the enemy were but he’d never found himself doing it in the heart of the English countryside.

His phone rang and he flipped it open.

‘Air sea rescue helicopter flying in from Hunstanton; estimated ETA, thirty-five minutes.’

‘Roger that,’ said Steven.

‘Sir John will await your arrival.’

Steven whiled away the time, lying on his back watching the clouds pass over. He thought of Tally and Jenny, separately and together… together and separately… pleasant daydreams of family life, outings, picnics, Christmas time, holidays in the sun… Christ! thought Steven, suddenly fully alert and rolling over on to his stomach, Tally could be in danger. He steeled himself to think logically. The two hit men in the Jag had known he was staying in Leicester last night and where

… but they were now both dead. The chances were that they had been following him and had no interest at all in Tally but a nagging doubt persisted. If the opposition, whoever they were, suspected that he had told Tally anything that might concern them… she could be at risk. He would have to arrange protection for her until he’d worked out what was going on. The sound of rotor blades broke his train of thought and he ran out into the open to signal as he saw the helicopter appear.

‘I’m grateful to you,’ said Steven as he was pulled on board.

‘Our pleasure, Doctor,’ said the winchman, closing the door. ‘Makes a pleasant change from waiting for some clown to set to sea in a plastic dinghy.’ The man looked at the state of Steven and opened his medical kit. ‘Maybe we can do something about cleaning you up,’ he said.

With his cuts and bruises cleaned and dressed where necessary and with a rescue service anorak taking the place of his torn jacket, Steven jumped down from the helicopter, crouching from the downdraught, and running somewhat unsteadily in service boots a size too large for him, which the winchman had also come up with, to the waiting car. He turned and waved an acknowledgement to the helicopter crew who waved back before lifting off and leaning heavily over to port as they climbed away.

Macmillan’s first words when Steven appeared in his office were, ‘This had better be good.’

‘Good is not a word that’s going to come into this,’ said Steven. ‘Before we go any further I need a police guard put on Dr Natalie Simmons in Leicester — a discreet guard. I don’t want her to know. At this stage, it’s just a precaution.’

‘Address?’ asked Macmillan, picking up the phone.

Steven gave him details of Tally’s work and home addresses.

With that done, Macmillan looked to Steven. ‘Now?’

Steven told Macmillan everything leading up to the attempt on his life, watching him become more and more disturbed.