Bagatelle’s offices were unusually quiet. Geoff had taken a rare morning off to sort out some personal things and Stefanie was using the opportunity to sort out some files. The phone rang for the umpteenth time and she pressed the button on her remote headset to receive it.
‘Bagatelle Films.’
‘Stefanie, it’s Nathalie.’
‘Oh, wonderful to hear from you. How did things go?’
‘Fine thanks. Tom, John and I are at Marrakech airport, taking the next flight back to Gatwick, but I need to speak to Geoff urgently.’
‘I’m afraid he’s at home. I’ve tried contacting him myself but his phone seems eternally busy. If you like, I’ll keep trying until I get through and tell him to call you.’
‘No good I’m afraid, we are about to board. Flight should take about three to four hours. If we are on time I’ll get to the office around eight in the evening. Do you think he could come in and meet me there?’
‘I’ll ask. If not I’ll tell him to ring you as soon as you land.’
‘That’s great Stefanie. We are on the EasyJet flight, perhaps you would track our arrival.’ Nathalie disconnected the call.
Stefanie was about to return to her filing when she heard a loud cry. Geoff burst into the office, red faced, mobile in hand.
‘I just don’t believe this, we live in a Kafkaesque world. I have listened to so many options and so much music that I’m about to explode. Now listen, you…’ Geoff threw the phone across the room. ‘Hung up on again. Fucking artificial un-intelligence machines if you ask me. That’s it, I’m not paying for my gas whatever they say. They can just come and collect the bloody money.’
Stefanie had heard these rants before. She picked up the phone and placed it carefully on his desk. ‘How does a cup of coffee sound?’
‘Black and strong,’ replied Geoff sitting at his desk and putting his head in his hands. ‘Give me a few moments to get this black dog off my back and I’ll try to remember how to make normal conversation.’
Geoff’s face had returned to its usual colour when Stefanie presented him with the double espresso.
‘Thank you Stefanie, a lifesaver,’ said Geoff, downing it in one.
‘You’ve just missed her,’ said Stefanie. ‘Rang in from Marrakech, urgent apparently. She’d like to meet here in the office around eight o’clock this evening. That okay with you?’
Geoff scrolled through the diary on his telephone. ‘Theatre date, but the critics say it’s crap so if she says it’s urgent.’
Gatwick was jam-packed. Several flights had landed within minutes of each other and passengers were jostling to manoeuvre their place close to the luggage carousels. It was one of those rare times when the camera equipment came off first. John McCord heaved the boxes onto a trolley, said his goodbyes, and headed towards the carnet office. Nathalie and Tom waited for their personal bags. Finally Tom saw them; two small suitcases with huge orange gaffer tape crosses strapped around the sides.
‘That’s us,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come back to the office with you?’
‘No point in two of us going. Go home, have a bite to eat and get some rest,’ said Nathalie. ‘You deserve it.’
Tom took the train but, as Nathalie had the rushes, she walked towards the taxi rank. There was a large queue so she stood in line. The line seemed to move slowly. She couldn’t understand why at this busy hour there were so few cabs. She stood on tiptoe to see if she could see any coming around the corner. Her view was obscured by a number of people clambering aboard a shuttle bus. Then she saw a face that she knew. It was Joseph Karasa. What was he doing in London? A cold chill ran down her back. It couldn’t be, could it? The last couple in front of her took their cab and another taxi drew up behind opening its doors for her. She ignored the cab, grabbed her bag and ran towards the bus. She stumbled as a man crossed her path. He picked up her bag and handed it to her. Without thanking him she grabbed it and continued running. The doors of the bus were closing. She just managed to get alongside when it drew out of the bay. Diesel fumes filled her lungs as the bus propelled itself into the departing traffic.
Surprisingly the M20 was relatively free of vehicles and it didn’t take the taxi, which Nathalie eventually found, long to enter central London. As they approached Soho Square Nathalie could see the lights on in Geoff’s office. She paid the driver, skipped up the steps and pressed in the code to enter. Geoff was at his desk reading through a script, he tilted his head to look over his glasses.
‘Ah, the prodigal returns. How was the desert?’
Nathalie ignored the familiar prodigal line and sat in the chair opposite. ‘Sorry to drag you in at this time, hope you haven’t…’
‘Haven’t had to cancel anything? Nothing important. She’s gone with her sister, says she prefers her company than my sleeping carcass anyway. So what’s up, problems with the shoot?’
‘Shoot went fine. Also stumbled on some interesting documents. But before I go into that, we have a problem.’
She had been rehearsing it in the cab. Geoff hated people who didn’t get to the point. Despite her racing pulse she tried to deliver her speech calmly and deliberately.
‘Lloyd has told me that WEXA has initiated a limited attack to prove that they can spread the virus. This afternoon I saw Joseph Karasa at Gatwick. I don’t think the two are coincidental.’
She paused, her chest heaving. Geoff folded his hands together and tapped his thumbs.
‘And do you have any evidence that he is carrying the virus?’
‘No, but why else would Joseph Karasa be in London?’
Geoff unclasped his hands and reached for a side drawer in his desk. ‘Many reasons; holiday, sightseeing, perhaps he has friends here.’
‘Geoff, the last time I saw this guy he was in a smoky hut in a Zimbabwean village with a couple of masked guys with guns. Hardly the sightseeing type.’
Geoff pulled out a folder, placed it on his desk, and leafed through the neatly typed forms. He handed Nathalie one of the pieces of paper.
‘Contact-sheet. Joseph Karasa works for the Harare hospital. Your contact there is a Nurse Sue Jones. Why don’t you give her a call, ask her if she’s received our immunisation video yet, and drop in the conversation if she knows where Joseph is.’
Nathalie closed her eyes. Blindingly obvious. Why hadn’t she thought of that? She had thought they might phone the police, the anti-terrorist unit, anyone who might find this guy but Geoff was right, they would ask her for evidence. She started to reach for her phone. Geoff held up his hand.
‘Before you do that, I think you should calm down and take a breather. You don’t want Nurse Jones to detect any panic in your voice. Why don’t you tell me about those interesting documents you came across?’
Nathalie took a deep breath and told him the story. How Tom had discovered that Townes had scrapped one of the trials for his new Alzheimer’s drug. How the healthy volunteers taking batch #124 suffered memory loss and that one of these volunteers was Esther Phillips. She showed Geoff the photos on her phone and explained that this wasn’t the only data that Townes had manipulated. It had been discovered that his Ebola vaccine was totally ineffective against some new strains of the virus. Despite this he was still selling millions of vials, and the data had been hidden from the drug authorities.
‘The problem is,’ said Nathalie, ‘we got these illegally. I don’t know what to do.’
Geoff studied the photographs of the documents. ‘Well I do. Send me these, wipe them completely from your phone and leave it to me. And now that you are breathing more easily, take a drink from the water-cooler over there and go into the boardroom to make your call. It will be better without me hovering over you.’
Joseph Karasa stepped out of Victoria station and made his way along Vauxhall Bridge Road. This was his first time in London and the sights and sounds were strange to him. The streets were wet with a recent downpour, but the smells from the pavement were unlike any he had experienced before. A leaden metallic taste rather than the brackish soil of the African bush. A mass of people tumbled towards him, weaving in and out, and he held on tightly to his small travel bag. It had been easy getting the visa. Members of the hospital team had done this trip many times before. The Child-Aid agency liked to see representatives of the recipients of their aid. It gave the charity kudos and the tangible reward of a speech from someone who had seen what their life-changing gifts could do, encouraged more donations. Joseph had volunteered to be this year’s delegate and had been given the all-expenses-paid trip as a reward for his dedication to the immunisation programme. He stopped to look at his London street map, so suddenly that someone lurched into him and the bag fell off his shoulder. He dropped the map and picked up the bag, scrabbled to open the straps and frantically dug in between his clothes to find the container. To his relief it was intact, cushioned between the soft lens-cloth in a glasses case.
Nathalie had been unable to get through to Sue Jones and Geoff had sent her home. She had spent most of the night awake anticipating a response to her message even though she knew this was stupid, Harare was only a couple of hours ahead of London. Finally the blue light flashed on her phone. She grabbed it from the side table and tried to focus her tired eyes on the screen. 7.00 am and a message. Sue Jones? No, Lloyd. It was asking her to call him on a new number. She dialled and it didn’t take him long to pick up.
‘It’s on today.’
Nathalie’s head was full of Joseph Karasa. ‘They’re doing the attack today?’
‘No, the covert filming. Temba is flying in this morning and I’m picking him up at the airport. Haven’t got much time to teach him how to use the camera, they say they want to meet him this afternoon.’
‘Do you know anything about Joseph Karasa?’
‘Who?’
‘The immunisation guy, is he the one that is doing the initial attack?’
‘Karasa, immunisation guy. Ah yes you did mention him. No idea. They’ve not told me who or when they’re doing that. Are you still okay with this filming thing? If you’ve told the authorities about a possible attack and WEXA hear about it it’ll really scupper that.’
Nathalie hadn’t thought about the consequences for her programme. She was so wrapped up in the idea of stopping anyone spreading the Ebola virus. ‘No, I mean yes, go ahead with the filming. We haven’t told anyone about the potential attack yet, not enough evidence. Have a lead though, will follow that through first. Any change of plan and I’ll call you.’
‘Are you sure? It’s our necks on the line you know.’
Nathalie did know, she still couldn’t get the vision of the machete cutting into that oil drum out of her head. ‘Any news and I’ll call, promise. This number?’
‘Yes, I’ll keep the phone for two days. If I don’t hear anything and all goes well I’ll send the video through to Bagatelle’s encrypted drop-box this evening.’
Lloyd ended the call. Nathalie was about to dial Sue Jones’ number when her phone rang. A Zimbabwean number.
‘Nathalie Thompson?’
Nathalie recognised the voice. ‘Yes. Sue Jones?’
The Child-Aid agency was only a few hundred metres from Joseph’s bed and breakfast. The accommodation was poor by London standards but for Joseph it had been pure luxury. He had spent the previous evening with a takeaway in his room watching television and this morning had consumed several bowls of cornflakes taken from the Tupperware container. He had pressed his jacket by putting it under the mattress and by doing it up disguised the wrinkles from his only shirt. He watched himself in the mirror as he neatened his tie. He had been waiting for this a long time.
The agency was not what Joseph was expecting. Instead of a pristine steel and glass premises it was in the middle of a rundown terrace in a Pimlico side street. He checked the number of the address on his sheet of paper. Yes it was number 27 but did he have the right road? Then he noticed the small sign in the doorway. Pimlico Child Aid, First floor. He pressed the bell and waited. After a few moments the door opened to reveal an elderly man in shirtsleeves and braces. He looked Joseph up and down and thoughtfully put his head on one side.
‘You’ll be here for the charity lot then,’ he said in an accent that Joseph could just about understand.
Joseph showed him his sheet of paper. ‘Nurse Karasa, I believe this is the premises of Child-Aid.’
‘That’s what the sign says.’ The man stood there passively.
‘I have an appointment.’
‘Don’t they all,’ said the man. ‘Just wish they wouldn’t use me as their doorman.’
‘Doorman?’
‘Oh, forget it laddie, take the stairs, it’s the first cream door on the right.’
The man disappeared into the dark interior without another word. Joseph looked at the threadbare carpet on the narrow wooden staircase in front of him. He straightened his tie, took a deep breath and made the steep upward climb. This was meant to be the easy part.
The door was opened by a thin young woman wearing spectacles. She greeted him like a long lost relative.
‘Joseph, welcome to our agency, such a long way to come, we are so privileged.’
She shook his hand vigorously. ‘Come, come in, my colleagues are eager to meet you, cup of tea?’
Joseph didn’t know what to say. He had expected a lecture hall and a few rows of suited representatives. Instead he was shown into a small damp Victorian parlour boasting a few odd chairs and a small group of volunteers. Most were dressed as if they had bought their clothes from charity shops. This was going to be difficult. These people were really caring. His plan was to read the short institutional speech from the typed sheet he had been given from the hospital, make his excuses and then disappear. His next appointment, the real reason for his visit, was on no formal agenda but they were not to know that. He looked at his watch. He still had time. He accepted the offer of a cup of tea and sat with it on his lap facing the expectant expressions. He left the prepared speech neglected in his pocket.
‘Perhaps they don’t realise it but the children of Africa are indebted to your care,’ he began.
As soon as she had got the information from Sue Jones, Nathalie had rung Geoff. Now she, Geoff and Nick Coburn were sitting in his office.
‘So that’s the story Nick,’ said Geoff. ‘Here’s the address. Could be completely innocent, the guy might really be on a charity jolly, or on the other hand…’
‘He could be spreading the Ebola virus,’ completed Nathalie.
‘But we don’t want you sparking off an international incident,’ said Geoff. ‘And we don’t want any premature disclosure buggering up our film.’
‘Geoff,’ exploded Nathalie. ‘If it means stopping people catching Ebola, who cares about the film.’
‘I’m just asking Nick to be sensitive, not always his strong point. Of course, if he’s carrying any of that nasty stuff, we’ll stop him. But we don’t want his mates to know, anyway not before we get them on film.’
Nick was looking at the address. ‘He’s right Nathalie, and it’s not just for his bloody movie, I’m sure the security services would prefer to have the whole gang rather than one of their sacrificial lambs.’
‘Sacrificial lambs?’
‘You don’t think they’ve left any trail connecting him to them do you? No, if he gets caught they’ll wash their hands of him. That’s why you need to get their faces on camera.’ Nick got to his feet. ‘Anyway, I’d better go and check out this Child-Aid outfit. Although it’s not exactly the place I’d visit to start an Ebola epidemic.’