Ken McClure - White death

‘Glock 23, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll have it delivered to the hospital. It’ll be there before you leave in the morning.’

It was a little after six in the evening when Tally came back. She was dressed in her outdoor clothes with a bag slung over her shoulder. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘How are you feeling which is more to the point?’ countered Steven. ‘All this must have come as a hell of a shock to you.’

‘Life’s rich pattern, I suppose,’ said Tally with a sigh. ‘But I must say I didn’t plan on being a Bond girl: I’m really not the type. I’m quite happy as a paediatrician.’

‘My life isn’t usually like this,’ said Steven. ‘I’m not a spy or any kind of secret agent. You know what I do: I told you. I wasn’t lying.’

‘And the Russians?’

‘I’ve no idea why they want me dead. I can only think I must have stumbled across something and upset the wrong people. The trouble is I’ve no idea what it is or who they are.’

‘Which makes things even more dangerous,’ said Tally.

‘It does,’ agreed Steven, deciding not to even try putting a gloss on things.

‘I hear I am to have people looking after me?’

‘Special Branch. John Macmillan thought it would be a wise precaution. He arranged it while I was in the land of nod. They’ll be discreet.’

‘And the men outside your door?’

‘Special Branch too. They’ll be gone in the morning when I check out.’

‘You’re expected to look after yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘I suppose that means you’re an expert in unarmed combat and carry a gun under your arm?’ asked Tally. There was no mistaking the accusation in her voice.

‘Yes,’ said Steven flatly.

There was an uncomfortable pause before Tally shook her head slightly and her eyes filled with renewed doubt.

Steven took her hand and said, ‘I served with Special Forces. I was a doctor but I acquired certain other skills along the way — but they’re a legacy of the past — nothing to do with my current job, and I only carry a gun when there’s cause to believe my life’s in danger. I don’t have a double 0 licence… although I have a TV one… and a driving one with three points for speeding on it.’

Tally couldn’t resist a smile. She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked Steven straight in the eye. ‘I hope I don’t live to regret this but I’m going to believe you,’ she said.

Steven closed his eyes and gave silent thanks.

‘What are your plans when you leave here?’

‘Back to London. I’m going to pick up the pieces of the investigation.’

‘Please be careful.’

‘I will, I promise. I’ve got too much to live for.’

‘You could always stay at my place until you decide what you’re going to do… Special Branch could look after both of us?’

Steven kissed Tally and thanked her for the offer. ‘I have to talk things over with John Macmillan face-to-face. We’ve not been told the whole story about the vaccine. I’m convinced of it.’

‘Keep in touch,’ said Tally. It sounded so poignant that Steven took her in his arms and held her close. ‘As soon as this thing’s over we’ll start making plans about us, right? We come first.’

Tally gave a slightly distant smile and nodded. ‘Take care, Steven.’

Steven was officially discharged next morning after final tests on his reflexes and cardiac and respiratory functions were completed to George Lamont’s satisfaction. ‘You’ll never be that lucky again,’ said Lamont. ‘There can’t be too many people in the world who’ve been injected with cyanide and lived to tell the tale.’

‘I believe you.’

Steven dressed and thanked the unit nurses for looking after him before having a word with Jenkins and Ritchie, the two Special Branch men on the door. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, I’m grateful to you but happily I won’t be requiring your services any longer.’

‘Oh, just when we were beginning to enjoy ourselves,’ said Jenkins, a thickset, bald man who would not have looked out of place in the front row of a rugby scrum. ‘Nothing we like better than baby-sitting Sci-Med agents. Delicate flowers they are, George,’ he said, turning to his colleague. ‘Did you know that?’

Ritchie, his more thoughtful-looking colleague, gave an embarrassed smile.

‘They’re all graduates,’ continued Jenkins. ‘Brains the size of planets, some of them, they reckon. Isn’t that right, Doctor?’

‘Well, all things are relative,’ said Steven, making sure he was looking directly at Jenkins when he said it.

‘But when push comes to shove… it’s Special Branch they call on when noses need blowing and arses wiping…’

‘And an excellent job you do,’ said Steven.

Jenkins bristled at being patronised. ‘Now are you sure you wouldn’t like us to see you across the road, Doctor?’ he asked Steven. ‘Check to see if there are any bad people out there? I mean, are you quite sure you’re fighting fit again…?’

Before Jenkins knew what had hit him, Steven had his arm twisted painfully up his back, his legs splayed apart and the side of his face rammed hard up against the wall in the corridor so that he looked like a gargoyle on a cathedral wall. ‘Yes,’ said Steven thoughtfully. ‘Everything seems to be working well… but thanks for asking. It’s always just as well to check…’

As the two Special Branch men walked away, Steven heard Ritchie say to Jenkins, ‘You arse, didn’t you know he was ex-Regiment?’

Steven found an official government courier waiting patiently for him in Reception. The man smiled politely and examined Steven’s ID carefully before handing over the package Steven knew would contain the pistol and ammunition he’d requested. He signed three forms and wished the man a safe return to London before following the signs for the ground floor visitors’ toilets where he used a cubicle for privacy while he loaded the weapon and secured it in its shoulder holster which he put on with some difficulty in the confined space. Finally, he adjusted the straps for comfort before putting his jacket back on and coming out to check in the mirror that there was no telltale bulge showing.

He used the exit nearest to where taxis dropped off their passengers and timed it so that he was exposed for the minimum of time before jumping into one that was just about to drive away after dropping off an elderly couple.

‘You’re supposed to wait at the stand,’ growled the driver.

‘Twenty quid says you’ll overlook it this once.’

‘Where to?’

Steven deliberately had the driver follow a circuitous route to the police compound where his car had been taken at Macmillan’s request. He first asked to be taken to the hotel he’d stayed at on his first visit to Leicester, changing his mind half way to ask instead for the French restaurant that he had taken Tally to before finally directing the driver to the police compound when he felt sure that they weren’t being followed.

‘Are you having a laugh?’ the driver growled.

‘Call it the gypsy in my soul,’ replied Steven.

He picked up the Honda and drove back to London without incident but spent the entire journey wondering why anyone should want to kill him, trying his best to work through things logically but without much success. Both attacks had originated in Leicester not London. He was certain that the first had been because of the tracking device on his Porsche — the fact that someone had reported his car stolen in order to get the information on its whereabouts seemed to confirm that. But that couldn’t have been the method employed to trace him for the second attack. The Honda wasn’t fitted with a tracker — at least he didn’t think it was… He called Stan Silver.