The Conspiracy II
The Conspiracy II
Laurence O’Bryan
Copyright © 2020 LP O’Bryan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.
Ardua Publishing
Argus House, Malpas Street
Dublin 8,
Ireland
http://arduapublishing.com
Ordering Information: Contact the publisher.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Real places and incidents are included only as part of the fictional story.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank my editors Sheryl Lee, Tanja Slijepcevic, Jacqui Corn-Uys, and Alex McGilvery. All remaining errors are mine alone. Special thanks also to my wife, and children, for all their support.
“When evil men advance against me to devour my flesh, when my enemies and my foes attack me, they will stumble and fall,”
Psalm 27:2.
Contents
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80
Before You Go – Two Things
1
West London, May 27th, 2020
Rob McNeil waited. He was in a short line of people outside Emelia’s deli on the New King’s Road. He and Jackie used to come here regularly to get supplies for breakfast. He found it both comforting and painful to be doing the same thing without her.
The woman behind him nodded as he looked around. “Is this a good place for fish?” she asked, adjusting her blue face mask.
Rob looked into her eyes. There was a smile there. “Yes,” he said. “Very good.”
“You live around here?” asked the woman. “I just moved in up the road.” She was in her late-twenties—a dark-haired beauty, similar to Jackie in a way that made him blink.
“Yeah, I do.” His breath caught in his throat.
“I don’t mean to be forward,” she said. “But I need help with connecting my Wi-Fi.” She put her head to one side. She looked forlorn, her blue face mask slightly askew.
“There’s an app for that,” he said. “Try the Handyman app.” He turned away. Something was not right. He hadn’t shaved. No woman had ever approached him like that in his life. He didn’t turn around again.
On the way back to his house, he walked quickly. He’d seen what might have been people watching him a couple of times in the past few weeks, but no one had made contact with him. All he did was work, eat, and sleep, with memories of Jackie filling his head on endless reels. He’d been told by one trying-to-be-helpful colleague that he was blocking out his grief, but he had to, or it would overwhelm him.
Was that woman just looking for help? Since coming back from Beijing a few weeks before, his life had been drab. Endless working from home, an occasional visit to the lab in Oxford to work on the remaining sample vaccine that had survived the break-in, and only going out to stock up on basics.
The memories of Jackie only made him work harder, usually more than twelve hours a day. But it was good work, and it was saving his soul. And they were getting places, planning phase two trials, in which hundreds of people would be given the vaccine. There was pressure to expand to a phase three quickly after that too. In phase three, the numbers given the trial vaccine would rise to about thirty thousand, but there would be real challenges.
The results of their phase two would change every aspect of any phase three plan. Planning phase three was like walking fast in the dark.
On one visit to the lab a few weeks before, he’d supervised the transfer of a sample of his virus eater into a flask containing a medium of vitamins and sugar so that millions of cells would grow to allow them to create extra vaccine samples. That had been a fraught process. No, every aspect of what he was working on had massive implications. Was that why he was paranoid?
He looked at the surveillance camera high up on a pole at the traffic lights on the corner up ahead. Was the video feed from around his house still being monitored, he wondered? He looked back as he went to cross the road. The woman who’d spoken to him was nowhere to be seen. She’d probably just marked him down as another unfriendly Londoner.
As he neared his house, his phone vibrated. It was a number he didn’t know. He didn’t answer.
He did that a lot of the time now, to avoid all the sympathetic phone calls from distant relatives and long-lost friends. It wasn’t that he wanted to avoid human contact, it was just that he was tired of repeating himself. Tired of the thank yous and of endlessly regurgitating upsetting descriptions of what had happened to Jackie.
He’d done enough of it in the first week after he’d got back. He was done with all of it.
When he reached his front door, his phone vibrated again. He looked at it. It was a call from a US number. Maybe he should take it. It could be something to do with his mother in Arizona. He tapped at the phone.
“Holy cow, Rob, do you never answer?” said the voice. It was Jim, the CIA pilot he’d traveled with to China.
“You’re lucky I picked up,” said Rob.
“I have some news, Rob, my friend.”
Rob closed the front door behind him.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“No, not yet, how are you, how’s your institute?”
“All good, Jim.”
“You spend too much time working, so I hear.”
They were watching him.
“What do you have for me?”
“You might want to sit down,” said Jim.
Rob put a hand on the wooden banisters. He hadn’t turned the light on in the hall, so it was gloomy, with only light from the frosted glass front door coming in.
“I’m sitting,” he lied, holding the banisters tight, a dozen speculations jumping through his mind.
“We’ve seen her,” said Jim. “Here in DC.”
“Who?”
“Gong Dao. The woman from the Chinese Embassy who visited your wife before she died.”
Rob pressed his hand to his chest. His heart had skip
ped a beat. “I thought she was dead?”
“Apparently not.
“Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t call if you if we weren’t.” He sounded indignant.
“OK, I’m coming to DC.”
“Call me when you get here.”
The call cut off. Rob headed up the stairs, fast. His priority for the last few weeks had been getting the vaccine project finished, but he could work on that now from anywhere. They had managers to supervise the vaccine trials.
He had to find Gong Dao, confront her if he could, find out who had ordered her to infect his wife and why. The fact that she’d been listed as dead confirmed they were hiding something. He had to get there before she disappeared again.
It was the least he could do for Jackie.
He looked up flights, and found there weren’t many still operating, then paused, and looked out the window. Why had Jim told him about finding Gong Dao? Why did Jim want him back in the United States?
2
Dulles International Airport, near Washington DC, May 28th, 2020
Rob walked quickly through customs and border control. The lines were short and the questions minimal. He had every right to be traveling back to the United States because of his passport. He was waved through. He only had a backpack with him, so he didn’t have to wait for baggage.
It was hot and humid when he jumped in the yellow Dulles Express cab. The driver was wearing a black cloth face mask. Rob had bought a pack of blue face masks at Heathrow airport. He adjusted his as he sat into the back, making sure the mask was connected properly at his ears.
“Where to?” asked the driver.
“The Lincoln Hotel on 21st, downtown DC.”
He’d called Jim before he left London and had told him when he was arriving. Jim said there would be a room booked in Rob’s name at the Lincoln for as many nights as he wanted to stay. He’d also said he’d meet Rob for breakfast at eight the following morning.
The hotel was one of those discreet gray piles that fits in with the discreet gray men and women who ran the city and the nation. Some people call them swamp creatures, probably derived from the nearby Foggy Bottom district, but also because of the great survival instincts of the lobbyists and staffers who would eat each other’s hearts for a better job, no matter which party was in office.
His room was all laminated walls and doors, a giant TV he didn’t even want to turn on, and dimmed lighting, so you didn’t have to see your flaws.
***
There was no room service, because of the virus, and the breakfast buffet bar was closed when he arrived down at the restaurant the following morning. But he had made the right call arriving downstairs with his mask on. People were being waited on at widely separated tables, and only tasking their masks off when their breakfasts arrived and they were eating.
The waiting staff all wore masks too.
He’d arrived early so he could eat a little before the meeting. He ordered just French toast and coffee. He was just finishing it when Jim slipped into the seat opposite. He wasn’t wearing a mask. They bumped elbows.
“You don’t do masks?” said Rob.
“No, our protocol says we only wear them when we have to,” said Jim. “Big crowds, for instance. This place is almost empty.” He pointed around him.
“What’s the news on Gong Dao?” said Rob.
“You came back quick,” said Jim. “But I hate to tell you, she hasn’t been seen since she went into the Chinese Embassy yesterday morning.”
“Where’s the embassy?”
“Straight out of the city, past Cleveland Park; but you won’t be going there.”
“I could just turn up at the door.” Rob put his napkin on his plate and moved his chair under him, as if he would get up and leave.
Jim raised a hand. “No, you don’t want to do that.” He shook his head.
“Why not?”
“Because I won’t give you any more information if you do.”
Rob sat back in his seat.
“OK, so why did you lure me back across the Atlantic?”
“There’s someone we’d like you to meet.” Jim’s face was impassive. “Someone you’ll want to meet.”
“Who’s that?”
“You’ll find out. Are you ready?”
“You’re going to have to tell me a bit more.”
Jim leaned forward. “Faith will be there. She’ll give you the details. Don’t get all paranoid on me.”
“OK, let me finish my coffee.” Rob took a sip. “Have you seen the protests in Minneapolis? It’s all over the internet,” he said.
Jim shook his head. “That’s a bunch of anarchists trying to tear everything down.”
“They do have something to protest about,” said Rob.
Jim leaned forward. “There’s a lot more to these protests than you think.” He looked around. There was no one sitting close to them.
“There’s a big Black Lives Matter protest planned for here in Washington tomorrow. We’ll be talking about it this morning. Come on, let’s go.”
He stood and headed for the door.
Rob followed him.
3
Kostromskaya, SW Russia, May 29th, 2020
Vladimir thanked the taxi driver. The man’s hand shook as he took the notes that Vladimir passed him. Whether that was because he was an alcoholic or just terrified of Vladimir it was hard to say.
Maybe he’d caught a glimpse of the FSB issued Makarova semi-automatic in a holster under Vladimir’s armpit as he got in the cab. Taking a man with a gun to the largest chicken farm in the region might mean someone had made a mistake. The taxi driver would probably tell the story in a bar that evening, or possibly even before that, to his special customers who would listen to him, locals who know people working at the farm.
That would do no harm.
To show people that the Russian state was still interested in what went on at the farm was a good thing. Definitely a good thing.
Stories kept people on their toes. If the population thought there was still a chance of getting a bullet in the back of your head if you didn’t do what you were told, it curbed rebellious instincts.
Vladimir headed for the farm manager’s building after he exited the cab. Giant sheds made from shiny new sheets of corrugated aluminum extended in rows behind the building, as if to the horizon. Giant silos containing feed, Vladimir guessed, stood to one side where a truck was being loaded or possibly unloaded. It was hard to tell.
No one stood waiting to greet him at the front of the management building, but he could sense eyes on him. When he looked around, he spotted two men in dirty green rubber coveralls at the end of the silos observing him.
The taxi driver pulled into the car park. Vladimir made a call before going inside.
“When will you be at the farm?” he asked.
“Thirty minutes,” came the reply.
He walked across and opened the main door of the management building and went inside. He’d seen a plan of the building so didn’t bother to stop at the glass panel reception hole in the wall; he just pushed at the thin door leading to the corridor beyond, turned right and headed for the manager’s office.
He counted the doors on his left as he went. When he reached the third door, he jerked the handle and went in.
A shout filled the room. A giant gray-haired man was behind a desk at the far end. A large blonde woman was sitting on his knee with her blouse half open.
Vladimir was wearing a black face mask. The manager and his friend had no masks on.
“Out,” shouted Vladimir.
The secretary or administrative assistant, or whoever she was, was still doing up her blouse as she exited the room. Vladimir hadn’t shown any identification since he’d arrived, but it was clearly not needed in this situation.
The manager rose, his hands in the air. “I expected you later,” he said.
“That’s good,” said Vladimir. “I like to catch people unawares.”
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“There’s really no need for you to come all the way up from Moscow,” said the manager, a foolish smile on his face.
“But this is much more fun,” said Vladimir. He pointed his thumb at the door. “Your assistant is from the old school, yes?” He shook his head. “Does anything for her boss?”
The manager grimaced, as if he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
“You have the samples?” asked Vladimir.
“Yes, yes, we have twenty vials, as requested, all contaminated with the new virus that forced us to kill all our stock.” He nodded toward the table behind Vladimir. “Look, everything is packed and ready to go.”
“How many staff are still here?” asked Vladimir.
“Just the four of us.”
Vladimir went to the table, looked at the label on the large Styrofoam box. It was a biological sealing unit with temperature controlling elements inside. Beside it waited a custody sheet, which he signed. It listed the contents as had been requested.
He tested the weight of the box. Yes, it could accompany him back to Moscow on the train. Better that than allowing it out of his sight.
The distant wail of sirens sent the manager to a window. A large, olive green radiation, chemical, and biological incident truck was being escorted into the turning area in front of the building by a wailing police car. Behind them came a prisoner transportation vehicle.
The manager’s eyes widened. “This is not a category four incident. I am sure of that,” he said, turning to Vladimir.
“You will be detained at a facility not more than a hundred kilometers from your home,” said Vladimir in a robotic tone.
The manager shook his head. “Not for six weeks, please. There is work to do here, to restart production. A lot of people depend on their jobs here.”
“This facility no longer exists,” said Vladimir. “It will be burned, bulldozed over, and declared out of bounds for a period of at least ten years.”
The manager’s eyes widened. The sound of marching feet echoed down the corridor.
“Don’t feel so bad. At least you’ll have a friendly assistant with you,” said Vladimir.
4
Washington DC, May 29th, 2020
A black Chevrolet suburban waited outside the hotel by the curb, its engine running. Jim looked left and right, then pointed at a rear door for Rob to get in. The vehicle set off quickly once they were inside.