Ken McClure - The Gulf Conspiracy

‘God, it makes me so angry,’ said Warner. ‘To think grubby little men with their brown paper bags filled with cash and their inability to keep their trousers up in the company of tarts who can’t keep their mouth shut have brought the party to this.’

‘It’s not just the party,’ said Gardiner. ‘It’s the country we have to think about. Evolution is about to go into reverse. Just mark my words. Survival of the fittest is about to become a thing of the past. The weak and the halt and the lame are about to inherit the earth. Everyone will be a winner because no one will be allowed to lose.’

‘And what about us?’ asked Warner. ‘What do we do now?’

‘What can we do? We bide our time, Warner. We keep our eyes and our ears open and we bide our time. Our priority at the moment is to make sure we’re secure from the prying eyes of an incoming hostile administration.’

‘We’re always been careful about who came on board,’ said Warner. ‘You don’t think we’re vulnerable, do you?’

‘There is one thing I have some concern about,’ replied Gardiner. ‘That business at Porton and the mistake that was made.’

‘Ah, the vaccine problem?’ said Warner. ‘I thought Crowe sorted that all out. I thought he handled it well.’

‘It’s not Crowe I’m worried about; he’s one of us. It’s more the people who were working on the project at the time, the team. They were under the impression that their work was government-sanctioned when, strictly speaking, it wasn’t. Funding of the team was a bit of a grey area because of politicians not wanting to inquire too deeply in what goes on at Porton. It was accounted for as ‘special projects’ money.’

‘Ah,’ said Warner. He reached over to refill Gardiner’s glass from the crystal decanter that sat on the small table at the side of his chair. ‘New blood at the MOD and new faces at Porton might start asking awkward questions.’

‘Mowbray will keep an eye on the situation; he’s kept surveillance on the team ever since that damned cock-up, nothing too obtrusive but if any of them suddenly gets the urge to write their memoirs we’d have to do something about it. There’s never been any sign of anything like that but it’s still a niggling little worry.’

‘But they all signed the official secrets act. They knew that everything they did at Porton was top secret,’ said Warner.

Gardiner smiled wryly and said, ‘I’ve noticed that in recent times the Official Secrets Act doesn’t quite exert the same hold over people it once did.’

‘You mean, if the money’s right...’

‘Another sign of the times, damn it. But apart from that, if these people should ever find out that what they were doing had not quite been officially sanctioned and that HMG were never actually informed about the problem with the vaccine then all bets would be off. Sebring, the chap who Crowe went to great pains to tell us actually made the mistake, is not one of us, remember. He’s a worry.’

‘So what do you think we should do about it?’ asked Warner, looking over the top of his glass as he took a sip.

‘Maybe I’ll have a word with Mowbray. Tell him of our concern. Ask him to keep a special eye on Sebring, should there be any kind of a shake up at Porton or awkward questions coming out of MOD about special budgets.’

Warner nodded. ‘Do you see these Gulf War Syndrome people as any kind of threat?’ he asked before getting up out of his chair to put another log on the fire. ‘They were on television again this morning.’

‘Our eyes and ears at MOD have told me in confidence that HMG will not change its line on it and it seems solid enough to me. There’s no such thing as far as they’re concerned.’

‘What about the incoming lot with their bleeding hearts and regiments of social workers?’

‘The bleeding hearts won’t make it to the cabinet room,’ replied Gardiner. ‘Politicians will and they’re much more predictable. There won’t be any sudden hand-outs. It’s my bet they’ll stick to Tory spending limits so they can blame everything on the outgoing administration for a while. As regards the Gulf War lobby, they’ll point them at the BMA who’ve always maintained that there’s no such thing as Gulf War Syndrome.’

‘But still these people keep coming back, demanding investigation after investigation,’ said Warner.

‘Maybe, but I think we’re safe enough,’ said Gardiner. ‘We were lucky that there were just so many screw-ups in that damned war there was no real need to create red herrings; the bloody Gulf was awash with them.’

Warner put his head back on the leather cushion of his armchair and looked into the flames of the fire. ‘Five bloody years in the wilderness, not a happy prospect.’

‘It might well be more than five,’ said Gardiner.

‘D’you really think so?’

‘Pity Blair wasn’t a Tory. He seems to be everything that Major isn’t. Major will have to go before the next election of course, but for the life of me I can’t see his successor.’

‘A bit like looking for a virgin in a whorehouse,’ agreed Warner.

‘So what do we do in the meantime?’ asked Warner as the clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven.

‘We bide our time. We dig the dirt on the incomers, and throw it when we can. There will be plenty. Rest assured. They’re politicians.’

The Cenotaph

London

November 1997

Ex-RAMC sergeant Angus Maclean rested his hands lightly on the top bar of the steel crowd barrier and watched impassively as the Guards slow-marched up Whitehall to the haunting strains of Albinoni. The colour of the soldiers’ great coats matched the sky. In fact, everything seemed grey except for the blood red of the poppies. The colours of sadness, thought Maclean as he surveyed the scene through dark, haunted eyes.

The great and the good were about to remember the fallen on behalf of the nation. They would don their chosen uniforms of the day and salute solemnly while lesser ranks stared unseeingly, at attention, into the middle distance. They would lay their wreaths and bow their heads.

Maclean prepared himself mentally for what he felt he had to do. He was glad it was raining because raincoats bestowed a convenient and welcome anonymity on their wearers. The loose fitting nature of waterproof gear also made it easier to conceal things. In Maclean’s case this was a 500 ml glass bottle full of anti-coagulated blood and a large, folded banner with the words, ‘Bloody Hypocrites! Justice for Gulf War Victims,’ written on it. He had already spent three hours standing at his chosen spot, adjacent to a convenient join in the barriers, for he didn’t want to have to manoeuvre his way through crowds of people when the moment came. He needn’t have worried; the crowd wasn’t as dense as in past years thanks to the inclement weather and a growing sense of cynicism among the young.

When new Prime Minister, Tony Blair, stepped forward to lay his wreath, he would pull the barrier back a little and slip out through the gap to run across to the cenotaph itself. He would launch the bottle so that it smashed on the granite, splashing blood all over it while he unfurled his banner out along the base for the benefit of the cameras. It would be risky. There was a chance he might get shot, probably not by the soldiers but more likely by one of the plain-suited men guarding the House of Windsor and its new government. But he was counting on there still being a few moments of indecision, just enough time to complete his mission. After all, there still wasn’t a gun culture in the UK and armed police still thought twice before pulling triggers. And if he should get shot? Well, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered much any more except that these bastards be made aware of his anger and that of others like him.