The atmosphere in Control’s office was definitely on the frosty side as Sir Henry took a seat next to Watson.
“Good morning, Sir Henry,” greeted M. “I assume that you have been briefed about 001 by now?”
Sir Henry nodded. “I’ve heard enough,” he answered, not wanting to hear the sordid details.
“Good. With any luck, and a bit of plastic surgery, we expect Wainbridge to make a full recovery. In the meantime, we still need to sort out this shit storm that is taking place in Swansea.”
Sir Henry opened his mouth to comment but the other man continued regardless. “I’ve just got off the phone with the PM. He’s keen for MI6 to take the lead on this one. I’m putting 003 on the case. He’ll be heading back to Swansea right after this meeting.”
Sir Henry looked at M and then glared at Watson. “So, I’m losing my car as well as my driver?”
“Alec was never on permanent assignment, Sir Henry.” M explained. “I’m sure you’ll get your old driver back. Er...”
“Smithers,” Alec told him. “His normal driver is Smithers.”
Alec turned to Sir Henry and met his stare, daring him to challenge the statement. “And don’t worry, Sir Henry. I think I should take the other car.”
“The Aston?”
“No, Sir Henry. The other car.”
Sir Henry grimaced. He did not approve of the other car. Charles Wainbridge would not have taken the other car.
“But,” he complained. “that’s the kind of car one of the office drones would drive. Good grief man, it’s not even British. Where’s your sense of style? Or patriotism!”
“I’d prefer to be a bit less conspicuous, Sir Henry. An Aston Martin might draw a lot of unwanted attention in the valleys.”
“Since when did that matter?” scoffed Sir Henry.
“I’m in the Secret Intelligence Service, Sir Henry,” Watson replied, coolly. “Perhaps I have misunderstood but I’ve always interpreted that to mean that the service should be secret, not the intelligence.”
“You didn’t go to Eton, did you?” Sir Henry sneered.
“Rhyl Valley Community College, Sir Henry,” Watson answered, emphasising Welsh accent.
Sir Henry looked across at M, who wore the expression of someone waiting for events to take their course. He could tell that he was not going to win this one.
“I’m not sure that the Home Secretary...”
“You can tell the Home Secretary,” interrupted M, rising to his feet. “That I shall keep her informed of progress. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a potential terrorist threat to neutralise.”
It took Sir Henry a few seconds to realise that he had been dismissed. He was never dismissed. The two MI6 men watched in silence as he stood, opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and stormed out as words failed him.
Sir Henry had barely cleared the office before M pressed a button on the underside of his desk and the door panel slid shut once more. At the same time, the office windows overlooking the Thames darkened as the anti-espionage screens were activated and a sixty inch touch-screen computer slid into view from the centre of the conference table.
“Now, Alec.” said M, joining Watson on the other side of his desk. “Tell me what you know.”
Watson summarised the visits Sir Henry had made to BIRD-FLU over the past couple of days. Although he did not like the man, he had to admit that he made very thorough case notes.
“The police seem to think that a local pet shop owner, Peter Lloyd, is behind the original explosion,” he told M. “Professor Greenwood was just collateral damage. Sir Henry, on the other hand, seems to favour the Animal Liberation Front.”
“He doesn’t approve of liberals or liberators,” Watson offered as way of explanation.
“And you?” M asked.
Watson’s hands skimmed over the screen with practised ease. The screen began populating with all the available information on Patrick Edwards, including the video footage that Watson had taken the previous night.
“There’s something funny about the janitor, Patrick Edwards - also known as Ricky - and his relationship with the Professor,” Watson explained. “Stuff that was kept off his record. Then he was acting very strangely last night.”
Alec paused the footage from the previous night as the figure in the cottage was holding the unknown object aloft. “I can’t quite put my finger on it yet, sir, but something about him just doesn’t seem right. Personally, I think that Patrick Edwards is our man.”
M stood silently at the screen for almost a minute, taking in the information.
“I find that highly unlikely, 003,” he said eventually.
“Why is that, sir?” asked Watson, surprised that his superior had formed an opinion so quickly.
M pointed at the bottom right corner of the screen where a police report from the night before was blinking.
“According to Swansea CID,” he answered, “Edwards is dead.”
Showing posts with label sir henry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sir henry. Show all posts
Saturday, 15 December 2012
Tuesday, 27 November 2012
Chapter 15.1
Sir Henry strode up the steps of the Secret Intelligence Service headquarters at Vauxhall Cross in London, taking them two at a time. He was not a happy bunny. Ignoring his lack of lagomorphism, the causes of this were threefold.
Firstly, he had been denied his usual driver and car for his journey from the Home Office. His annual request to excavate a secret tunnel under the Thames had been denied once again this year and so he had been forced to take a black cab. The journey had only lasted four minutes but that was hardly the point; in those four minutes he had heard considerably more about the plight of Chelsea and the folly of their new managerial appointment than he would care to know in four lifetimes.
Secondly, before he left the Home Office, the Home Secretary had made it very clear to him that she was not very pleased with the Swansea situation. The morning news was full of stories about a terrorist attack on a High Street bank. Although there was not yet any connection to the possible murder of the NATO Professor, the fact that Sir Henry had been in the area the day before had the Home Secretary worrying that the press would soon link it back to her. He wondered for a moment when politicians had got so obsessed about their own job security rather than national security; probably around the time the plebs had castrated the monarchy. (Sir Henry approved quite strongly of monarchies and often wished that he had been born in an earlier age. The Victorians would not have reassigned the driver of a man in his position.)
Thirdly, he had no sooner left the Home Secretary’s office when he had received the news of the accident that had befallen Charles Wainbridge. Her office was probably still echoing with his words, “we’ll putting our best man on it ma’am.” Now he was going to look like an idiot. Sir Henry did not approve of being made to look like an idiot, even if it was by a fellow Old Etonian like Wainbridge.
He was still mulling over the triple injustice as he rode the lift to the top floor of the building. Hopefully, M would have some good news for him; if not, at least Sir Henry would have someone to vent his frustration on. Technically, Kevin was only answerable to the Foreign Secretary but as the official representative of the Home Office, Sir Henry could certainly make life uncomfortable for the other man.
The lift arrived at its destination with a chime that was far too cheerful for Sir Henry’s mood and he was scowling by the time the doors had slid open to reveal the outer office of the Secret Intelligence Service’s inner sanctum.
Sir Henry breathed in the varnished mahogany wall panelling as he stepped from the lift. He was greeted by M’s secretary, Veronica Shagpile, who had clearly been crying and had panda eyes; she was a big believer in traditional Chinese medicine and sometimes abused her position in MI6 to smuggle all sorts of things into the country.
“Control is expecting you, Sir Henry,” Veronica told him, pressing a button under her desk that opened the concealed door to her left.
“Thank you, Miss Shagpile,” Sir Henry answered, pretending not to see the eyes; she was obviously upset about Charles Wainbridge and he could not blame her for that. There would be much wailing in the toilet cubicles of 85 Albert Embankment before this day was over.
“You’ve heard about Chuck?” she asked as he stepped towards the door.
Sir Henry paused. “I’ve been told there was an accident,” he confirmed. “But I’ve not heard the details. A fall, wasn’t it?”
Veronica nodded. “Climbing in Africa. Fortunately, he managed to deploy the emergency arse-flaps on his shorts but it was a bit too late and he’s broken both his arms and cracked a few ribs.”
She felt her resolve weaken. “He landed on his face,” she sobbed. “His beautiful face.” By now, the door was fully open and Sir Henry resumed his stride with what he hoped was a sympathetic nod. In reality, there was still a trace of scowl and his expression ended up somewhere midway between consternation and constipation. Veronica gave him a weak smile in return and wiped her eye with a handkerchief that was somewhat too lacy to be standard government issue.
The scowl returned in full when Sir Henry saw who else was in M’s office; at least now he knew why his driver had not picked him up this morning.
Firstly, he had been denied his usual driver and car for his journey from the Home Office. His annual request to excavate a secret tunnel under the Thames had been denied once again this year and so he had been forced to take a black cab. The journey had only lasted four minutes but that was hardly the point; in those four minutes he had heard considerably more about the plight of Chelsea and the folly of their new managerial appointment than he would care to know in four lifetimes.
Secondly, before he left the Home Office, the Home Secretary had made it very clear to him that she was not very pleased with the Swansea situation. The morning news was full of stories about a terrorist attack on a High Street bank. Although there was not yet any connection to the possible murder of the NATO Professor, the fact that Sir Henry had been in the area the day before had the Home Secretary worrying that the press would soon link it back to her. He wondered for a moment when politicians had got so obsessed about their own job security rather than national security; probably around the time the plebs had castrated the monarchy. (Sir Henry approved quite strongly of monarchies and often wished that he had been born in an earlier age. The Victorians would not have reassigned the driver of a man in his position.)
Thirdly, he had no sooner left the Home Secretary’s office when he had received the news of the accident that had befallen Charles Wainbridge. Her office was probably still echoing with his words, “we’ll putting our best man on it ma’am.” Now he was going to look like an idiot. Sir Henry did not approve of being made to look like an idiot, even if it was by a fellow Old Etonian like Wainbridge.
He was still mulling over the triple injustice as he rode the lift to the top floor of the building. Hopefully, M would have some good news for him; if not, at least Sir Henry would have someone to vent his frustration on. Technically, Kevin was only answerable to the Foreign Secretary but as the official representative of the Home Office, Sir Henry could certainly make life uncomfortable for the other man.
The lift arrived at its destination with a chime that was far too cheerful for Sir Henry’s mood and he was scowling by the time the doors had slid open to reveal the outer office of the Secret Intelligence Service’s inner sanctum.
Sir Henry breathed in the varnished mahogany wall panelling as he stepped from the lift. He was greeted by M’s secretary, Veronica Shagpile, who had clearly been crying and had panda eyes; she was a big believer in traditional Chinese medicine and sometimes abused her position in MI6 to smuggle all sorts of things into the country.
“Control is expecting you, Sir Henry,” Veronica told him, pressing a button under her desk that opened the concealed door to her left.
“Thank you, Miss Shagpile,” Sir Henry answered, pretending not to see the eyes; she was obviously upset about Charles Wainbridge and he could not blame her for that. There would be much wailing in the toilet cubicles of 85 Albert Embankment before this day was over.
“You’ve heard about Chuck?” she asked as he stepped towards the door.
Sir Henry paused. “I’ve been told there was an accident,” he confirmed. “But I’ve not heard the details. A fall, wasn’t it?”
Veronica nodded. “Climbing in Africa. Fortunately, he managed to deploy the emergency arse-flaps on his shorts but it was a bit too late and he’s broken both his arms and cracked a few ribs.”
She felt her resolve weaken. “He landed on his face,” she sobbed. “His beautiful face.” By now, the door was fully open and Sir Henry resumed his stride with what he hoped was a sympathetic nod. In reality, there was still a trace of scowl and his expression ended up somewhere midway between consternation and constipation. Veronica gave him a weak smile in return and wiped her eye with a handkerchief that was somewhat too lacy to be standard government issue.
The scowl returned in full when Sir Henry saw who else was in M’s office; at least now he knew why his driver had not picked him up this morning.
Thursday, 4 October 2012
Chapter 11.3
“What do you know?” Sir Henry asked.
“Not as much as I would like,” conceded Rhys-Morgan on the other end of the line. “Our current working hypothesis is a murder-suicide. Or murder. Or suicide. Some combination of murder and/or suicide, anyway. Unless it was an accident.”
“Not much then, Inspector.”
Sir Henry heard what sounded like a palm hitting a forehead on the other end of the phone.
“No,” came the muttered response. “Though we’re fairly sure that your man wasn’t the target. A number of the victims were related to each other and one Peter Lloyd, who is currently missing, presumed dead or fled. I think the Professor was just collateral damage.”
“What about the ALF?” asked Sir Henry.
Rhys-Morgan paused. “Excuse me?”
“The Animal Liberation Front.” Sir Henry’s tone dropped a few degrees. It was not quite icy yet but had certainly reached frosty. “You do know about the threats made by the Animal Liberation Front against BIRD-FLU?”
There was another pause. Rhys-Morgan was too tired for this.
“BIRD-FLU?” he asked. “An animal rights organisation has been threatening a disease? I’m a little confused, Sir Henry.”
“More that an little, I would say, Inspector,” answered Sir Henry. “And more than confused,” he thought to himself. If this was the lead of the investigation, it did not bode well.
“The ALF have not threatened the disease, Inspector,” he explained, as if to a child. “They have threatened BIRD-FLU: The Brecon Institute for R&D - Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit. The very research centre that was headed up by the late Professor Greywood.”
“Greenwood,” Rhys-Morgan corrected subconsciously, whilst he mind was processing the new information.
“Don’t be ridic...”
“I don’t think this was an ALF attack,” interrupted Rhys-Morgan.
Sir Henry did not approve of being interrupted but it happened so rarely that he did not really know how to react. He opted for pretending that it did not happen. “Explain.”
“One of the, er, victims was a tortoise,” Rhys-Morgan told him. “Right in the centre in the blast, too. That doesn’t strike me as the M.O. of an animal rights group. What’s more, they were a bunch of hippies. Druids. Tree huggers and the like. Not really your usual animal rights target.”
“I see,” said Sir Henry in a tone that suggested he did anything but. “And you prefer, this Peter Lloyd chap?”
“Well, he owns - or possibly owned - a pet shop.”
“A pet shop.”
“Yes, Sir Henry.”
“And the relevance of this is...?”
“Well, it might explain the tortoise?” replied Rhys-Morgan, a creeping sense of doubt transmuting what started life as a statement into a question.
Sir Henry was not convinced. “I am not convinced. You pursue your pet theory, Inspector. I am going to get our best man to follow up the ALF angle. I will let you know if you can be of assistance.”
It was Rhys-Morgan’s turn to be stunned.
“I’m sorry. If I can be of assistance?” he asked. “In my homicide investigation? With all due respect, Sir Henry, I’m not losing control of this one.”
“Really? It sounds like you already have. My people will be in touch to get the names of the rest of the victims.”
Sir Henry ended the call before Rhys-Morgan could muster a response and turned to the shell-shocked Johnson.
“It’s as I feared,” he confirmed. “I’m afraid Greywood’s dead. I’ve decided to bring in our best man, double-oh-one. Do you have a secure phone line in this facility?”
Professor Johnson nodded. “Yes, Sir Henry. It’s, er, in the Director’s office.”
“Wait in the car, Smithers,” Sir Henry told Watson, handing him the phone. “This won’t take long.”
“Not as much as I would like,” conceded Rhys-Morgan on the other end of the line. “Our current working hypothesis is a murder-suicide. Or murder. Or suicide. Some combination of murder and/or suicide, anyway. Unless it was an accident.”
“Not much then, Inspector.”
Sir Henry heard what sounded like a palm hitting a forehead on the other end of the phone.
“No,” came the muttered response. “Though we’re fairly sure that your man wasn’t the target. A number of the victims were related to each other and one Peter Lloyd, who is currently missing, presumed dead or fled. I think the Professor was just collateral damage.”
“What about the ALF?” asked Sir Henry.
Rhys-Morgan paused. “Excuse me?”
“The Animal Liberation Front.” Sir Henry’s tone dropped a few degrees. It was not quite icy yet but had certainly reached frosty. “You do know about the threats made by the Animal Liberation Front against BIRD-FLU?”
There was another pause. Rhys-Morgan was too tired for this.
“BIRD-FLU?” he asked. “An animal rights organisation has been threatening a disease? I’m a little confused, Sir Henry.”
“More that an little, I would say, Inspector,” answered Sir Henry. “And more than confused,” he thought to himself. If this was the lead of the investigation, it did not bode well.
“The ALF have not threatened the disease, Inspector,” he explained, as if to a child. “They have threatened BIRD-FLU: The Brecon Institute for R&D - Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit. The very research centre that was headed up by the late Professor Greywood.”
“Greenwood,” Rhys-Morgan corrected subconsciously, whilst he mind was processing the new information.
“Don’t be ridic...”
“I don’t think this was an ALF attack,” interrupted Rhys-Morgan.
Sir Henry did not approve of being interrupted but it happened so rarely that he did not really know how to react. He opted for pretending that it did not happen. “Explain.”
“One of the, er, victims was a tortoise,” Rhys-Morgan told him. “Right in the centre in the blast, too. That doesn’t strike me as the M.O. of an animal rights group. What’s more, they were a bunch of hippies. Druids. Tree huggers and the like. Not really your usual animal rights target.”
“I see,” said Sir Henry in a tone that suggested he did anything but. “And you prefer, this Peter Lloyd chap?”
“Well, he owns - or possibly owned - a pet shop.”
“A pet shop.”
“Yes, Sir Henry.”
“And the relevance of this is...?”
“Well, it might explain the tortoise?” replied Rhys-Morgan, a creeping sense of doubt transmuting what started life as a statement into a question.
Sir Henry was not convinced. “I am not convinced. You pursue your pet theory, Inspector. I am going to get our best man to follow up the ALF angle. I will let you know if you can be of assistance.”
It was Rhys-Morgan’s turn to be stunned.
“I’m sorry. If I can be of assistance?” he asked. “In my homicide investigation? With all due respect, Sir Henry, I’m not losing control of this one.”
“Really? It sounds like you already have. My people will be in touch to get the names of the rest of the victims.”
Sir Henry ended the call before Rhys-Morgan could muster a response and turned to the shell-shocked Johnson.
“It’s as I feared,” he confirmed. “I’m afraid Greywood’s dead. I’ve decided to bring in our best man, double-oh-one. Do you have a secure phone line in this facility?”
Professor Johnson nodded. “Yes, Sir Henry. It’s, er, in the Director’s office.”
“Wait in the car, Smithers,” Sir Henry told Watson, handing him the phone. “This won’t take long.”
Monday, 1 October 2012
Chapter 11.1
A fully-trousered Professor Johnny D. Johnson III waited nervously with Miss Mabel Middlebottom at the entrance to BIRD-FLU as the grey Bentley of Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown pulled up to park outside for the second time in as many days.
Sir Henry had called the previous evening to inform them that NATO were closing the centre until the business with Professor Greenwood was cleared up. With the exception of the mice, the animals were all on their way back to Bristol zoo, which had kindly agreed to put them up at short notice. The other staff had also been sent home. It was just left for Professor Johnson to oversee the lock-up and transfer of the security responsibilities from the usual base staff to some NATO guards. With guns.
Johnson gulped. Although he considered himself as American as Apple Pie (i.e. with European ancestry), guns made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. (He preferred the tridents of the Retiarii or the gladii of the Secutores, although he could appreciate that a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun was considerably more practical.)
He instinctively straightened as Alec Watson opened the rear door to the saloon and Sir Henry emerged. The bureaucrat surveyed the scene and gave a small nod of satisfaction at the sight of the NATO guards, who were already in place. A few strides then took him to the double doors to BIRD-FLU. This time, they were open and ready. Two guards flanked the entrance and gave crisp salutes, which Sir Henry acknowledged with another small nod.
“Sir Henry,” greeted Johnson, extending a slightly sweaty hand for a shake.
The hand was ignored as Sir Henry passed his gaze over the reception area. “I trust all the arrangements are in place, Professor?”
Johnson gulped again. His throat was suddenly very dry. He knew that he had done nothing wrong but still somehow felt like a schoolboy in front of a headmaster. “Sure are, Sir Henry.”
“The animals?”
“All gone bar the mice,” confirmed Johnson. “We are making arrangements in case they need to go too. Some of them are GM and so the licenses for moving around are more complicated.”
“But in hand,” he added as he saw Sir Henry’s frown.
“And the staff?”
“Sent home. Myself and Mildred are the only ones here now,” Johnson told him. “We’ll be leaving as soon as you are satisfied. The guards have been briefed to let in no one except myself and the animal house technician - he’ll need to come in once a day to look after the mice.”
“Good.”
Johnson found his stare drawn to the machine guns. “Umm, Sir Henry, are all the guns really necessary? I mean we don’t even know even something has happened to the director.”
Sir Henry opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by Alec Watson hurrying up with a mobile phone in his hand. The scowl that was beginning to form for the American academic was instead directed at full force at his Cambrian chauffeur.
“You are going to want to take this call, Sir Henry,” Watson insisted.
He took the proffered phone. “Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown.” Pause. “You are quite sure?” Another pause. “Excuse me a moment.”
Sir Henry lowered the phone for a moment and turned back to Johnson. “Regrettably, Professor, it would appear that you are quite wrong.”
Sir Henry had called the previous evening to inform them that NATO were closing the centre until the business with Professor Greenwood was cleared up. With the exception of the mice, the animals were all on their way back to Bristol zoo, which had kindly agreed to put them up at short notice. The other staff had also been sent home. It was just left for Professor Johnson to oversee the lock-up and transfer of the security responsibilities from the usual base staff to some NATO guards. With guns.
Johnson gulped. Although he considered himself as American as Apple Pie (i.e. with European ancestry), guns made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. (He preferred the tridents of the Retiarii or the gladii of the Secutores, although he could appreciate that a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun was considerably more practical.)
He instinctively straightened as Alec Watson opened the rear door to the saloon and Sir Henry emerged. The bureaucrat surveyed the scene and gave a small nod of satisfaction at the sight of the NATO guards, who were already in place. A few strides then took him to the double doors to BIRD-FLU. This time, they were open and ready. Two guards flanked the entrance and gave crisp salutes, which Sir Henry acknowledged with another small nod.
“Sir Henry,” greeted Johnson, extending a slightly sweaty hand for a shake.
The hand was ignored as Sir Henry passed his gaze over the reception area. “I trust all the arrangements are in place, Professor?”
Johnson gulped again. His throat was suddenly very dry. He knew that he had done nothing wrong but still somehow felt like a schoolboy in front of a headmaster. “Sure are, Sir Henry.”
“The animals?”
“All gone bar the mice,” confirmed Johnson. “We are making arrangements in case they need to go too. Some of them are GM and so the licenses for moving around are more complicated.”
“But in hand,” he added as he saw Sir Henry’s frown.
“And the staff?”
“Sent home. Myself and Mildred are the only ones here now,” Johnson told him. “We’ll be leaving as soon as you are satisfied. The guards have been briefed to let in no one except myself and the animal house technician - he’ll need to come in once a day to look after the mice.”
“Good.”
Johnson found his stare drawn to the machine guns. “Umm, Sir Henry, are all the guns really necessary? I mean we don’t even know even something has happened to the director.”
Sir Henry opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by Alec Watson hurrying up with a mobile phone in his hand. The scowl that was beginning to form for the American academic was instead directed at full force at his Cambrian chauffeur.
“You are going to want to take this call, Sir Henry,” Watson insisted.
He took the proffered phone. “Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown.” Pause. “You are quite sure?” Another pause. “Excuse me a moment.”
Sir Henry lowered the phone for a moment and turned back to Johnson. “Regrettably, Professor, it would appear that you are quite wrong.”
Friday, 31 August 2012
Chapter 9.3
Sir Henry’s grey Bentley was joyless at the best of times but as Watson steered it on to the M4 it was definitely venturing close to negative joy and possibly pain. Something like yoghurt. Sir Henry did not approve of yoghurt.
Sir Henry himself was brooding in the back seat. He had spent a rather disappointing couple of hours, driving out to Professor Greenwood’s house and finding it empty but otherwise devoid of clues. He glanced over at the laptop on the seat next to him. Perhaps that would have some answers that the tech boys could extract. He sneered. Sir Henry did not trust computers.
Alec Watson, meanwhile, was quietly fuming in the front seat and trying not to convert his anger into miles per hour. Sir Henry did not approve of speeding. The fact that Alec Watson was probably capable of driving the Bentley back to London on two wheels was neither here nor there. He was tempted to try.
For Watson, the last couple of hours had been more than disappointing. They had been held up twice on the way to the Professor’s house: first by a drift of sheep being driven down the lane and then by a tractor that necessitated Watson reversing for quarter of a mile. Neither of these were particularly unexpected but Sir Henry seemed to hold him personally responsible.
When they had finally made it to the house, which was clearly deserted, Sir Henry had then refused to let Watson pick the lock. Instead, he made Watson call for a local locksmith, wasting another three quarters of an hour. As a final insult, he rejected Watson’s offer to hack into Greenwood’s laptop, in favour of shipping it back to Q division, who would no doubt find a way to make it explode or turn the CD drive into a Shiruken launcher before getting round to actually extracting any useful data - assuming there was even and useful data on there. As so often in Watson’s life of late, he could not help thinking that he would have achieved four times as much in half the time if Sir Henry would just sod off back to London.
To add injury to insult, they had missed lunch and now Watson’s stomach was rumbling. Sir Henry did not approve of motorway service stations, so there would be nothing for Watson until they got back to London. At least the partition was up so Sir Henry could not grumble about the rumbles.
Just as that last thought passed through his head, Watson heard the gentle whir of the partition sliding down. He gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter and let the accelerator pedal creep towards to the floor.
“I think I might have to get Wainbridge on this one, Smithers,” said Sir Henry. “There’s something funny going on here and I don’t like it.”
Watson nodded. Sir Henry did not approve of funny at the best of times, and this was not the best of times.
“I need you to call ahead and arrange a meeting with the M.O.D.” Sir Henry continued, oblivious to the bad vibes emanating from the front seat. “Unless Greywood turns up soon, I think we’ll have to close down BIRD-FLU until this all blows over. We would not want the locals to panic.”
“Yes, sir.” Watson answered, through gritted teeth.
“Either way, I want you to head back to Swansea first thing and do some more checking up on the rest of the staff. That American professor reeked of whisky and the caretaker clearly cannot be trusted. Never trust a man with a beard, Smithers: they have something to hide. Now, if you excuse me, I have some thinking to do."
As the partition slid back up, Watson’s left hand was already instinctively dialling the number for headquarters as he reflected what was just said. There was some good news, at least. Sir Henry said “you” not “we”. There was chance that he would be released from Sir Henry’s leash. He also found himself contemplating the idea of growing a beard.
Noting that Sir Henry had activated the darkened glass, Watson accelerated a little more and pulled the car out into the fast lane. Perhaps things were looking up.
With that, the heavens opened.
Sir Henry himself was brooding in the back seat. He had spent a rather disappointing couple of hours, driving out to Professor Greenwood’s house and finding it empty but otherwise devoid of clues. He glanced over at the laptop on the seat next to him. Perhaps that would have some answers that the tech boys could extract. He sneered. Sir Henry did not trust computers.
Alec Watson, meanwhile, was quietly fuming in the front seat and trying not to convert his anger into miles per hour. Sir Henry did not approve of speeding. The fact that Alec Watson was probably capable of driving the Bentley back to London on two wheels was neither here nor there. He was tempted to try.
For Watson, the last couple of hours had been more than disappointing. They had been held up twice on the way to the Professor’s house: first by a drift of sheep being driven down the lane and then by a tractor that necessitated Watson reversing for quarter of a mile. Neither of these were particularly unexpected but Sir Henry seemed to hold him personally responsible.
When they had finally made it to the house, which was clearly deserted, Sir Henry had then refused to let Watson pick the lock. Instead, he made Watson call for a local locksmith, wasting another three quarters of an hour. As a final insult, he rejected Watson’s offer to hack into Greenwood’s laptop, in favour of shipping it back to Q division, who would no doubt find a way to make it explode or turn the CD drive into a Shiruken launcher before getting round to actually extracting any useful data - assuming there was even and useful data on there. As so often in Watson’s life of late, he could not help thinking that he would have achieved four times as much in half the time if Sir Henry would just sod off back to London.
To add injury to insult, they had missed lunch and now Watson’s stomach was rumbling. Sir Henry did not approve of motorway service stations, so there would be nothing for Watson until they got back to London. At least the partition was up so Sir Henry could not grumble about the rumbles.
Just as that last thought passed through his head, Watson heard the gentle whir of the partition sliding down. He gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter and let the accelerator pedal creep towards to the floor.
“I think I might have to get Wainbridge on this one, Smithers,” said Sir Henry. “There’s something funny going on here and I don’t like it.”
Watson nodded. Sir Henry did not approve of funny at the best of times, and this was not the best of times.
“I need you to call ahead and arrange a meeting with the M.O.D.” Sir Henry continued, oblivious to the bad vibes emanating from the front seat. “Unless Greywood turns up soon, I think we’ll have to close down BIRD-FLU until this all blows over. We would not want the locals to panic.”
“Yes, sir.” Watson answered, through gritted teeth.
“Either way, I want you to head back to Swansea first thing and do some more checking up on the rest of the staff. That American professor reeked of whisky and the caretaker clearly cannot be trusted. Never trust a man with a beard, Smithers: they have something to hide. Now, if you excuse me, I have some thinking to do."
As the partition slid back up, Watson’s left hand was already instinctively dialling the number for headquarters as he reflected what was just said. There was some good news, at least. Sir Henry said “you” not “we”. There was chance that he would be released from Sir Henry’s leash. He also found himself contemplating the idea of growing a beard.
Noting that Sir Henry had activated the darkened glass, Watson accelerated a little more and pulled the car out into the fast lane. Perhaps things were looking up.
With that, the heavens opened.
Friday, 24 August 2012
Chapter 7.6
Although the BIRD-FLU common room was well furnished with comfortable chairs, the atmosphere within was far from comfortable. Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown did not notice, however, for he was surrounded by uncomfortable atmospheres wherever he went. It was his gift to the world. He flicked through a few more pages of the dossier in front of him, nodded to himself, and then looked up.
“What do you know of the ALF?” he asked with an abruptness that made it quite clear that conversations about the Centre’s name were most definitely over.
“They’re justified and they’re ancient?” hazarded Miss Mabel Middlebottom.
Alec Watson chuckled. “I think you’re thinking of KLF.”
"The Dutch airline?" she responded, confused.
“No!” frowned Sir Henry, flashing Alec a quick look of disapproval for unauthorised expression of amusement. “The Animal Liberation Front. I take it that you haven’t heard of them.”
“I have,” said Ricky. “The Swansea lot are getting quite militant, I believe.”
Johnson looked slightly alarmed but Ricky just laughed. “We don’t have anything to worry about here, though. This place is locked up tighter than a lamb’s sphincter.”
“How, er, colourful,” commented Sir Henry. “I suspect you’re right. The ALF would be unlikely to be able to break into this place. Not without leverage. That’s why they might have opted for more, how shall I put it, indirect methods.”
Johnson’s eyes widened as the penny finally dropped. For the first time since Sir Henry’s arrival, the professor stopped thinking about his lack of trouserage.
“Gee!” he blurted, collapsing into the leather armchair opposite Watson. “You don’t think this has anything to do with Tony’s disappearance, do you?”
Sir Henry inclined his head. “It’s certainly a possibility. The ALF have made several threats against the centre recently. That’s why I was sent to check security. Has Professor Greywood received any personal threats, to your knowledge?”
Johnson and Miss Mabel Middlebottom exchanged looks. The professor shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard about. Ricky? Did Tony say anything to you?”
Ricky shrugged and shook his head. “I’ve heard nothing like that.”
He sipped his tea. “I hope he’s okay.”
Miss Mabel Middlebottom was beginning to look a little upset.
“I’m sure he’s just ill,” she said. “And can’t get to the phone. Maybe he’s bedridden, with a fever.”
She bit on her finger in anguish.
“He’s a bachelor, you know,” she told Sir Henry. “He lives alone. Oh, the poor man!”
“Perhaps you could give us his address,” suggested Watson. “Then we…”
He was silenced by a glare from Sir Henry. It was not Watson’s place to eat biscuits and it was certainly not his place to make suggestions.
“Miss Middlebottom,” said Sir Henry. “Perhaps you could provide us with Professor Greywood’s address, so that we can investigate this matter further. It seems that our records are not as up-to-date as they should be.”
Watson rolled his eyes and took another hobnob. Miss Mabel Middlebottom nodded and wiped a tear from her eye.
“Of course,” she said, standing up. “I’ll go and get it, right away.”
“Thank you,” Sir Henry replied, softly.
Quite out of character, he found himself moved by the woman’s emotion, and it took him a few seconds to compose himself as she left the room. Taking a slow breath, he returned his attention to Professor Johnson.
“In the meantime, Professor, you need to be wary of ALF attack. You should probably move the larger animals off-site, just to be on the safe side.”
Johnson nodded. “We’ll have to close the labs for the cleanup anyway.”
“We also need to consider any other possibilities,” Sir Henry continued. “Any other potential targets for industrial espionage?”
The bare-legged academic blinked and shook his head with a small shrug of one shoulder.
“Not really. I mean, we’ve got biological samples here but, like I said, we haven’t really got the research up and running yet.” He laughed nervously. “The only really innovation since the centre opened is Ricky here’s new air filter design. And that’s not even finished yet.”
Sir Henry sipped on his tea. “Would Professor Greywood have known anything of plans for the new air filter?”
“Well, obviously he was the one that okayed the installation of a new filter but he hadn’t seen the actual plans. Ricky keeps the plans locked away in a safety deposit box in his bank. Ain’t that right, Ricky?”
Ricky smiled and gave a nod, looking slightly uncomfortable about having his work discussed.
“Wouldn’t be any real point in stealing the plans anyway,” Johnson continued. “The system will only work in one of the Level Four labs on site here.”
The pensive silence that followed was broken by the return of Miss Mabel Middlebottom. Sir Henry set down his cup and saucer and stood to meet her.
“I think we have seen and heard enough,” he said, taking the piece of paper offered by Miss Mabel Middlebottom. “The centre will remain open for now, but be extra vigilant. We’ll be in touch soon. I expect an update the moment anything changes.”
“Of course, Sir Henry,” nodded Johnson, rising to see the visitor out.
“Come, Smithers.” He looked at the address in his hand. “We have a missing Professor to find.”
“What do you know of the ALF?” he asked with an abruptness that made it quite clear that conversations about the Centre’s name were most definitely over.
“They’re justified and they’re ancient?” hazarded Miss Mabel Middlebottom.
Alec Watson chuckled. “I think you’re thinking of KLF.”
"The Dutch airline?" she responded, confused.
“No!” frowned Sir Henry, flashing Alec a quick look of disapproval for unauthorised expression of amusement. “The Animal Liberation Front. I take it that you haven’t heard of them.”
“I have,” said Ricky. “The Swansea lot are getting quite militant, I believe.”
Johnson looked slightly alarmed but Ricky just laughed. “We don’t have anything to worry about here, though. This place is locked up tighter than a lamb’s sphincter.”
“How, er, colourful,” commented Sir Henry. “I suspect you’re right. The ALF would be unlikely to be able to break into this place. Not without leverage. That’s why they might have opted for more, how shall I put it, indirect methods.”
Johnson’s eyes widened as the penny finally dropped. For the first time since Sir Henry’s arrival, the professor stopped thinking about his lack of trouserage.
“Gee!” he blurted, collapsing into the leather armchair opposite Watson. “You don’t think this has anything to do with Tony’s disappearance, do you?”
Sir Henry inclined his head. “It’s certainly a possibility. The ALF have made several threats against the centre recently. That’s why I was sent to check security. Has Professor Greywood received any personal threats, to your knowledge?”
Johnson and Miss Mabel Middlebottom exchanged looks. The professor shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard about. Ricky? Did Tony say anything to you?”
Ricky shrugged and shook his head. “I’ve heard nothing like that.”
He sipped his tea. “I hope he’s okay.”
Miss Mabel Middlebottom was beginning to look a little upset.
“I’m sure he’s just ill,” she said. “And can’t get to the phone. Maybe he’s bedridden, with a fever.”
She bit on her finger in anguish.
“He’s a bachelor, you know,” she told Sir Henry. “He lives alone. Oh, the poor man!”
“Perhaps you could give us his address,” suggested Watson. “Then we…”
He was silenced by a glare from Sir Henry. It was not Watson’s place to eat biscuits and it was certainly not his place to make suggestions.
“Miss Middlebottom,” said Sir Henry. “Perhaps you could provide us with Professor Greywood’s address, so that we can investigate this matter further. It seems that our records are not as up-to-date as they should be.”
Watson rolled his eyes and took another hobnob. Miss Mabel Middlebottom nodded and wiped a tear from her eye.
“Of course,” she said, standing up. “I’ll go and get it, right away.”
“Thank you,” Sir Henry replied, softly.
Quite out of character, he found himself moved by the woman’s emotion, and it took him a few seconds to compose himself as she left the room. Taking a slow breath, he returned his attention to Professor Johnson.
“In the meantime, Professor, you need to be wary of ALF attack. You should probably move the larger animals off-site, just to be on the safe side.”
Johnson nodded. “We’ll have to close the labs for the cleanup anyway.”
“We also need to consider any other possibilities,” Sir Henry continued. “Any other potential targets for industrial espionage?”
The bare-legged academic blinked and shook his head with a small shrug of one shoulder.
“Not really. I mean, we’ve got biological samples here but, like I said, we haven’t really got the research up and running yet.” He laughed nervously. “The only really innovation since the centre opened is Ricky here’s new air filter design. And that’s not even finished yet.”
Sir Henry sipped on his tea. “Would Professor Greywood have known anything of plans for the new air filter?”
“Well, obviously he was the one that okayed the installation of a new filter but he hadn’t seen the actual plans. Ricky keeps the plans locked away in a safety deposit box in his bank. Ain’t that right, Ricky?”
Ricky smiled and gave a nod, looking slightly uncomfortable about having his work discussed.
“Wouldn’t be any real point in stealing the plans anyway,” Johnson continued. “The system will only work in one of the Level Four labs on site here.”
The pensive silence that followed was broken by the return of Miss Mabel Middlebottom. Sir Henry set down his cup and saucer and stood to meet her.
“I think we have seen and heard enough,” he said, taking the piece of paper offered by Miss Mabel Middlebottom. “The centre will remain open for now, but be extra vigilant. We’ll be in touch soon. I expect an update the moment anything changes.”
“Of course, Sir Henry,” nodded Johnson, rising to see the visitor out.
“Come, Smithers.” He looked at the address in his hand. “We have a missing Professor to find.”
Monday, 20 August 2012
Chapter 7.3
Professor Johnson led Sir Henry to BIRD-FLU’s common room whilst Ricky went to store his biohazard suit. Considering the mess that Sir Henry had made and that the janitor was going to have to clear it up, he felt that the fellow was being surprisingly decent about the whole thing. Johnson did not really know the man but that was the reputation he had - calm and unruffled. He just hoped that he wasn't suddenly going to snap and come into work with a shotgun.
The Common Room was one room that had neither swipe-card access nor a security keypad. The ubiquitous CCTV camera was present, however, but it was not this that Sir Henry noticed upon entering the room. Nor was it the presence of Miss Mabel Middlebottom, which he expected. Sitting next to Miss Middlebottom, in the act of dunking a chocolate hobnob into a cup of tea, was Alec Watson.
“Oh, Sir Henry,” said Miss Middlebottom as she spotted him. “I took the liberty of inviting your driver in for a cup of tea.”
Sir Henry frowned. He did not approve of taking liberties. (Not unless it was the liberty of some small third world nation, that is.)
“So I see,” he said, tight-lipped.
“I’m afraid we didn’t have any Earl Grey,” Miss Mabel Middlebottom continued, heaping woe upon woe. “I hope Typhoo will do.”
“That’ll be fine, Mabel,” answered Professor Johnson before Sir Henry could respond, taking the proffered cup of tea from Miss Middlebottom and passing it to the grey bureaucrat. He waved Sir Henry into a seat and almost sat next to him, then remembered that he was not wearing any trousers and decided to stay standing.
Sir Henry sipped his tea and shuddered. His refined taste buds were not impressed. He was a firm believer that you could judge a man by his tea. (Or a woman. Sir Henry was quite egalitarian when it came to judging people.) If you added sugar, you were weak. If you drank it with lemon, although traditional with Earl Grey, you were too fruity. If, heavens forbid, you drank it black, you were clearly trying too hard to be quirky. (Or, worse, were too disorganised to remember the milk.)
Unconsciously aware that they were being silently judged, the other three stared down at their cups, desperately trying to avoid both eye contact and conversation. The embarrassed silence was broken only when Ricky the Janitor entered the room. Even without the bulk of his protective suit, he was quite a burly man and sported a thick but well-trimmed face of hair. He loitered by the door for a few seconds before taking the cup of tea offered to him by Miss Mabel Middlebottom and sat down next to Alec Watson, looking equally uncomfortable.
Professor Johnson watched him sit down and coughed nervously, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence. “You know, Ricky, you should join us for morning coffee more often.”
Ricky looked at his watch and glanced at Sir Henry. "I'm normally home by 10.30, Professor."
"Of course, of course." Johnson replied.
“Ricky works nights,” he followed up feebly, feeling extra explanation was needed. He took another sip of his own tea, wishing it was something distinctly more alcoholic. Sir Henry glared at him and placed his teacup very deliberately onto the low coffee table in front of him, rotating the cup on its saucer to make the handle perfectly parallel to the edge of the table.
“Yes, I know,” said Sir Henry. “You told me earlier.”
"Yes, well, I, er..."
“Tell me what you know about the Director’s disappearance,” Sir Henry commanded in a tone that made it quite clear that he did not really care when the caretaker usually worked.
The Professor cleared his throat again. “Gee, Sir Henry. I don’t really know what I can tell you. Tony - Professor Greenwood - failed to turn up for work yesterday. Mabel followed protocol and called his home. When she was unable to get through, I tried his cell and couldn’t get hold of him either. Again, Mabel followed protocol and raised the alert.”
He looked over to Mabel for support and she nodded sombrely. He coughed again. “To be honest, we were hoping you might be able to tell us something.”
If Sir Henry had any intention of telling Johnson something, he did not show it. “Have you had any problems before this?” he probed.
Johnson thought for a moment, taking another sip of tea to prolong the cogitation. He tried to hide the grimace. Johnson did not even like tea and usually drank coffee but he felt that he already had enough black marks against his name in Sir Henry’s bad books. Had there been any problems before? There was that one incident months ago but that was just kids.
Probably best not to withhold information from a man like Sir Henry, though, lest he find himself an unwilling new recruit in the British Antarctic Survey or something. Did they even taken Americans in the British Antarctic Survey? He was not sure about that but was sure that he did not want to find out. He took a big gulp of tea.
“Professor?” Sir Henry had sounded mildly impatient before but now he was definitely up to a medium or hot level of impatience. Johnson got the distinct impression that he did not want to find out what happened when it reached the top of whatever scale Sir Henry used for these things.
“Umm, there was one incident,” he explained, “but it wasn’t anything major. Not long after I started, there was a legal case brought against us by a local animal rights organisation - HAVEN, or RAVEN or something. It wasn’t particularly aggressive, though. I think they were just trying to get the name changed. Wanted us to change it to, umm,” he paused. “What was it, Mabel?”
Mabel looked up from her cuppa. “I think it was the ‘South Wales Murder Death Camp’,” she answered.
“That sounds about right,” he agreed. “It wasn’t a big deal, though. Our lawyers, Smeg & Butterworth, managed to get them to back down without it even going to court. Professor Greenwood got the whole thing sorted within a couple of days. I’m not sure he would have even mentioned it to the rest of us if he wasn’t so annoyed by the name himself.”
“Interesting,” said Sir Henry in a flat voice that sounded anything but interested. “Any chance of something similar happening again?”
Johnson shrugged. “I don’t think so. As we’re not doing any actual experiments at present, it would be an open-and-shut case. Besides, apart from the mice, all our animals are volunteers these days, anyway.”
“Volunteers?!” Sir Henry did not approve of volunteers. People should do what they were told, not what they wanted to do.
Johnson nodded. “From Bristol zoo, mostly. Looking to expand their academic horizons.” He glanced about conspiratorially and leant forward to whisper. “To be honest, most of them are rejects from the Bristol University labs.”
Sir Henry frowned and picked up a dossier from the table. He opened it and turned to the third page. “It seems that Professor Greenwood does not share your confidence. You said he was annoyed by the name of the Centre, himself. According to this report, he has complained several times since it opened. Apparently, he feels that BIRD-FLU is not a very sensible acronym and might attract what he called, the ‘wrong sort of attention’.”
“Gee, well, it is a rather stupid name,” Johnson told him. “I think we’d all have to agree with that.”
He looked around the room and felt gratified to receive affirmatory nods from all but Sir Henry himself.
“I mean, I know we are part of the Brecon Institute for R and D, and this is the Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit but calling the place BIRD-FLU?” He continued, hoping that Sir Henry himself was not responsible but knowing that he was beyond retreat now. “Really? That’s just dumb. Right?”
Sir Henry was just staring intently. “Go on.”
Johnson’s jaw flapped for a moment in surprise before a nervous chuckle escaped. “Umm, isn’t it obvious?”
“Humour me,” came the humourless response.
“Well,” Johnson explained. “We’re the Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit. Everyone knows that Bird Flu is in the Orthomyxoviridae family!”
The Common Room was one room that had neither swipe-card access nor a security keypad. The ubiquitous CCTV camera was present, however, but it was not this that Sir Henry noticed upon entering the room. Nor was it the presence of Miss Mabel Middlebottom, which he expected. Sitting next to Miss Middlebottom, in the act of dunking a chocolate hobnob into a cup of tea, was Alec Watson.
“Oh, Sir Henry,” said Miss Middlebottom as she spotted him. “I took the liberty of inviting your driver in for a cup of tea.”
Sir Henry frowned. He did not approve of taking liberties. (Not unless it was the liberty of some small third world nation, that is.)
“So I see,” he said, tight-lipped.
“I’m afraid we didn’t have any Earl Grey,” Miss Mabel Middlebottom continued, heaping woe upon woe. “I hope Typhoo will do.”
“That’ll be fine, Mabel,” answered Professor Johnson before Sir Henry could respond, taking the proffered cup of tea from Miss Middlebottom and passing it to the grey bureaucrat. He waved Sir Henry into a seat and almost sat next to him, then remembered that he was not wearing any trousers and decided to stay standing.
Sir Henry sipped his tea and shuddered. His refined taste buds were not impressed. He was a firm believer that you could judge a man by his tea. (Or a woman. Sir Henry was quite egalitarian when it came to judging people.) If you added sugar, you were weak. If you drank it with lemon, although traditional with Earl Grey, you were too fruity. If, heavens forbid, you drank it black, you were clearly trying too hard to be quirky. (Or, worse, were too disorganised to remember the milk.)
Unconsciously aware that they were being silently judged, the other three stared down at their cups, desperately trying to avoid both eye contact and conversation. The embarrassed silence was broken only when Ricky the Janitor entered the room. Even without the bulk of his protective suit, he was quite a burly man and sported a thick but well-trimmed face of hair. He loitered by the door for a few seconds before taking the cup of tea offered to him by Miss Mabel Middlebottom and sat down next to Alec Watson, looking equally uncomfortable.
Professor Johnson watched him sit down and coughed nervously, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence. “You know, Ricky, you should join us for morning coffee more often.”
Ricky looked at his watch and glanced at Sir Henry. "I'm normally home by 10.30, Professor."
"Of course, of course." Johnson replied.
“Ricky works nights,” he followed up feebly, feeling extra explanation was needed. He took another sip of his own tea, wishing it was something distinctly more alcoholic. Sir Henry glared at him and placed his teacup very deliberately onto the low coffee table in front of him, rotating the cup on its saucer to make the handle perfectly parallel to the edge of the table.
“Yes, I know,” said Sir Henry. “You told me earlier.”
"Yes, well, I, er..."
“Tell me what you know about the Director’s disappearance,” Sir Henry commanded in a tone that made it quite clear that he did not really care when the caretaker usually worked.
The Professor cleared his throat again. “Gee, Sir Henry. I don’t really know what I can tell you. Tony - Professor Greenwood - failed to turn up for work yesterday. Mabel followed protocol and called his home. When she was unable to get through, I tried his cell and couldn’t get hold of him either. Again, Mabel followed protocol and raised the alert.”
He looked over to Mabel for support and she nodded sombrely. He coughed again. “To be honest, we were hoping you might be able to tell us something.”
If Sir Henry had any intention of telling Johnson something, he did not show it. “Have you had any problems before this?” he probed.
Johnson thought for a moment, taking another sip of tea to prolong the cogitation. He tried to hide the grimace. Johnson did not even like tea and usually drank coffee but he felt that he already had enough black marks against his name in Sir Henry’s bad books. Had there been any problems before? There was that one incident months ago but that was just kids.
Probably best not to withhold information from a man like Sir Henry, though, lest he find himself an unwilling new recruit in the British Antarctic Survey or something. Did they even taken Americans in the British Antarctic Survey? He was not sure about that but was sure that he did not want to find out. He took a big gulp of tea.
“Professor?” Sir Henry had sounded mildly impatient before but now he was definitely up to a medium or hot level of impatience. Johnson got the distinct impression that he did not want to find out what happened when it reached the top of whatever scale Sir Henry used for these things.
“Umm, there was one incident,” he explained, “but it wasn’t anything major. Not long after I started, there was a legal case brought against us by a local animal rights organisation - HAVEN, or RAVEN or something. It wasn’t particularly aggressive, though. I think they were just trying to get the name changed. Wanted us to change it to, umm,” he paused. “What was it, Mabel?”
Mabel looked up from her cuppa. “I think it was the ‘South Wales Murder Death Camp’,” she answered.
“That sounds about right,” he agreed. “It wasn’t a big deal, though. Our lawyers, Smeg & Butterworth, managed to get them to back down without it even going to court. Professor Greenwood got the whole thing sorted within a couple of days. I’m not sure he would have even mentioned it to the rest of us if he wasn’t so annoyed by the name himself.”
“Interesting,” said Sir Henry in a flat voice that sounded anything but interested. “Any chance of something similar happening again?”
Johnson shrugged. “I don’t think so. As we’re not doing any actual experiments at present, it would be an open-and-shut case. Besides, apart from the mice, all our animals are volunteers these days, anyway.”
“Volunteers?!” Sir Henry did not approve of volunteers. People should do what they were told, not what they wanted to do.
Johnson nodded. “From Bristol zoo, mostly. Looking to expand their academic horizons.” He glanced about conspiratorially and leant forward to whisper. “To be honest, most of them are rejects from the Bristol University labs.”
Sir Henry frowned and picked up a dossier from the table. He opened it and turned to the third page. “It seems that Professor Greenwood does not share your confidence. You said he was annoyed by the name of the Centre, himself. According to this report, he has complained several times since it opened. Apparently, he feels that BIRD-FLU is not a very sensible acronym and might attract what he called, the ‘wrong sort of attention’.”
“Gee, well, it is a rather stupid name,” Johnson told him. “I think we’d all have to agree with that.”
He looked around the room and felt gratified to receive affirmatory nods from all but Sir Henry himself.
“I mean, I know we are part of the Brecon Institute for R and D, and this is the Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit but calling the place BIRD-FLU?” He continued, hoping that Sir Henry himself was not responsible but knowing that he was beyond retreat now. “Really? That’s just dumb. Right?”
Sir Henry was just staring intently. “Go on.”
Johnson’s jaw flapped for a moment in surprise before a nervous chuckle escaped. “Umm, isn’t it obvious?”
“Humour me,” came the humourless response.
“Well,” Johnson explained. “We’re the Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit. Everyone knows that Bird Flu is in the Orthomyxoviridae family!”
Tuesday, 14 August 2012
Chapter 6.6
Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown stood in the centre of the animal house, looking round at cage after cage, stacked up to head height. There were several different types of animals present. A large cage in the corner housed a couple of chimps. A second held a troupe of monkeys, one of which was masturbating quite openly, much to Sir Henry’s disgust. (Sir Henry most certainly did not approve of masturbating monkeys.)
“Somebody really should spank that monkey!” he said.
There were also several guinea pigs and a dozen rabbits. Mostly, however, there was just cage upon cage of white mice.
“What are all the mice used for?” he asked.
“A lot of it is a historical throw-back,” Johnson explained. “Mice were used in early biological weapons testing, looking at the spread of viruses associated with wound caused by different calibre weapons.”
“Really?” asked Sir Henry. “And what did they find.”
“Sadly, mice do not respond well to high impact damage. The spread of just about everything was roughly proportional to the calibre of the weapon. Those early experiments were terribly crude, though.” (And messy.) “We are much more sophisticated now. The Mouse is a good model organism to represent mammalian physiology. However, we mostly use them to run in little wheels and generate electricity if the power fails.”
Sir Henry looked around the room. It looked secure. “Who has clearance for this room?”
Johnson thought for a moment. “All the research staff, the two animal technicians. Oh, and the janitor, of course.”
Johnson noticed Sir Henry wince at the word ‘janitor’ but he was not going to change his language just for some stuffy English bureaucrat. In fact, he had started emphasising his American accent just to spite the toffee-nosed limey.
“The caretaker?” questioned Sir Henry. “Does he have access to all the labs?”
Johnson nodded. “Of course. He doesn't have the security codes for any of the actual experiments, naturally. Not that we are actually doing any experiments at the moment. If NATO would give us a bit more money for the science and impose a little less security then...”
“Why does he wear that suit?” frowned Sir Henry, cutting him off.
Johnson gave the nervous laugh of someone thrust into a position of authority who has suddenly realised that he is likely to held responsible for all the idiosyncrasies of their fellow workers. “The suit? Oh, Ricky’s just a bit of an eccentric. Slightly paranoid about us releasing germs into the air. I think some of the cleaning chemicals are also a bit nasty.”
There was a pregnant silence. "I don't clean," he added weakly, feeling the need to justify his ignorance.
“Can he be trusted?”
Johnson was visibly shocked by the question. “Ricky? Why, sure! Like I say, he’s a bit eccentric but he’s harmless enough. Certainly not dangerous. More committed than anyone to keeping the place functional and secure – and the bugs firmly contained inside. In fact, he’s actually designing a new air-filtration system for us at the moment. Quite the all-round handyman is our Ricky.”
Sir Henry said nothing and Johnson, being a worrier, started to worry. Had he said something bad? Was Sir Henry now worried about bugs? They did not even have any bugs at the moment. Not any good ones, anyway. Nothing that would make you bleed out of every orifice.
As the gap in conversation grew, Johnson felt more and more compelled to fill it. “I mean, I don’t really know the man. Professor Greenwood hired him. Seems like a nice fella too. Gets on well with everyone as far as I know. Especially well with Greenwood, I believe. They both tend to work nights a lot, you see.” He glanced at his watch.
"Actually, Ricky's normally knocked off by now. Must have been another fecal incident in the animal house."
Sir Henry thought for a moment. The masturbating monkey stopped playing with itself and started picking its nose instead. It certainly had the air of an animal that could create a fecal incident.
“I believe I have seen enough,” said Sir Henry, a decision reached. “I think it’s time for tea.”
The two men left the lab and Sir Henry approached the caretaker, who stopped mopping and looked up at the approaching grey figure.
Sir Henry peered through the transparent window in Ricky’s hood and adopted the standard Englishman abroad tone: very slow, very clear, and very loud. “How – well – do – you – know – the – Director?” he asked, nodding slowly in encouragement with each word.
Professor Johnson winced at such a flagrantly patronising display. “It’s all right, Sir Henry. He can hear quite clearly in that suit.”
“Really?” Sir Henry sounded rather disappointed. He enjoyed patronising the lower classes. (And ‘Johnny Foreigner’.) He turned back to face the janitor. “You – can – hear – me – OK?”
Ricky nodded. If he had taken any offence at Sir Henry’s behaviour, he showed no sign in his voice, however.
“Perfectly, sir,” he replied in a soft West Country accent. “And the Director, sir. I get on very well with the Professor Greenwood. Is he alright?”
Sir Henry thought for a moment. “I would like you to join us for a cup of tea,” he said, only slightly slower and louder than normal.
Ricky looked over Sir Henry’s shoulder at the Professor. He generally took his tea breaks in the caretaker’s cupboard. Johnson shrugged and nodded encouragement at him.
“Certainly, sir. I’m pretty much done here anyway. I’ll just have to stow my bucket.”
“Quite so.”
Sir Henry spun about on his heel and marched off back down the corridor, leaving Johnson dithering over whether to explain to the janitor what was going on, or follow the belligerent bureaucrat.
Deciding discretion was the better part of valour, Johnson opted for hurrying after Sir Henry, catching up with him just as he stopped by the door through which he had entered the lab area. There was no swipe-card receptor or keypad.
“How do we get out?” he asked Johnson.
“The codes are only used for access,” the professor explained. “To open the door, just press the green button.”
Being colour-blind, Sir Henry could not see a green button. However, there was a prominent grey button on the wall next to him. He slammed his palm on it.”
“Nooo!” cried Professor Johnson, leaping forward. “Not the red button!” But it was too late. Alarms started ringing very loudly above their heads. Sir Henry turned in time to see the interior of the lab opposite engulfed in jets of steam from all directions. Soon the window was completely misted up and he could see nothing.
“Good heavens.”
“That’s the emergency decontamination button, Sir Henry!” shouted Johnson over the alarms. “In case there’s an emergency in the lab.”
“Oh.”
Johnson pulled a key out of his pocket and inserted it into the middle of the button Sir Henry had pushed. With a sharp twist, he pulled the button out again.
The alarm ceased and the sprays in the lab stopped. Condensation ran down the inside of the window. Sir Henry peered inside. It was no longer spotless. Every available surface seemed to be covered in a white powder that must have dropped from the ceiling before the steam-jets kicked in caked it on.
“Oh dear, what a mess!” he said, glancing down the corridor at the caretaker and his bucket. “I wouldn’t want to be the one who had to clean that up.”
“Somebody really should spank that monkey!” he said.
There were also several guinea pigs and a dozen rabbits. Mostly, however, there was just cage upon cage of white mice.
“What are all the mice used for?” he asked.
“A lot of it is a historical throw-back,” Johnson explained. “Mice were used in early biological weapons testing, looking at the spread of viruses associated with wound caused by different calibre weapons.”
“Really?” asked Sir Henry. “And what did they find.”
“Sadly, mice do not respond well to high impact damage. The spread of just about everything was roughly proportional to the calibre of the weapon. Those early experiments were terribly crude, though.” (And messy.) “We are much more sophisticated now. The Mouse is a good model organism to represent mammalian physiology. However, we mostly use them to run in little wheels and generate electricity if the power fails.”
Sir Henry looked around the room. It looked secure. “Who has clearance for this room?”
Johnson thought for a moment. “All the research staff, the two animal technicians. Oh, and the janitor, of course.”
Johnson noticed Sir Henry wince at the word ‘janitor’ but he was not going to change his language just for some stuffy English bureaucrat. In fact, he had started emphasising his American accent just to spite the toffee-nosed limey.
“The caretaker?” questioned Sir Henry. “Does he have access to all the labs?”
Johnson nodded. “Of course. He doesn't have the security codes for any of the actual experiments, naturally. Not that we are actually doing any experiments at the moment. If NATO would give us a bit more money for the science and impose a little less security then...”
“Why does he wear that suit?” frowned Sir Henry, cutting him off.
Johnson gave the nervous laugh of someone thrust into a position of authority who has suddenly realised that he is likely to held responsible for all the idiosyncrasies of their fellow workers. “The suit? Oh, Ricky’s just a bit of an eccentric. Slightly paranoid about us releasing germs into the air. I think some of the cleaning chemicals are also a bit nasty.”
There was a pregnant silence. "I don't clean," he added weakly, feeling the need to justify his ignorance.
“Can he be trusted?”
Johnson was visibly shocked by the question. “Ricky? Why, sure! Like I say, he’s a bit eccentric but he’s harmless enough. Certainly not dangerous. More committed than anyone to keeping the place functional and secure – and the bugs firmly contained inside. In fact, he’s actually designing a new air-filtration system for us at the moment. Quite the all-round handyman is our Ricky.”
Sir Henry said nothing and Johnson, being a worrier, started to worry. Had he said something bad? Was Sir Henry now worried about bugs? They did not even have any bugs at the moment. Not any good ones, anyway. Nothing that would make you bleed out of every orifice.
As the gap in conversation grew, Johnson felt more and more compelled to fill it. “I mean, I don’t really know the man. Professor Greenwood hired him. Seems like a nice fella too. Gets on well with everyone as far as I know. Especially well with Greenwood, I believe. They both tend to work nights a lot, you see.” He glanced at his watch.
"Actually, Ricky's normally knocked off by now. Must have been another fecal incident in the animal house."
Sir Henry thought for a moment. The masturbating monkey stopped playing with itself and started picking its nose instead. It certainly had the air of an animal that could create a fecal incident.
“I believe I have seen enough,” said Sir Henry, a decision reached. “I think it’s time for tea.”
The two men left the lab and Sir Henry approached the caretaker, who stopped mopping and looked up at the approaching grey figure.
Sir Henry peered through the transparent window in Ricky’s hood and adopted the standard Englishman abroad tone: very slow, very clear, and very loud. “How – well – do – you – know – the – Director?” he asked, nodding slowly in encouragement with each word.
Professor Johnson winced at such a flagrantly patronising display. “It’s all right, Sir Henry. He can hear quite clearly in that suit.”
“Really?” Sir Henry sounded rather disappointed. He enjoyed patronising the lower classes. (And ‘Johnny Foreigner’.) He turned back to face the janitor. “You – can – hear – me – OK?”
Ricky nodded. If he had taken any offence at Sir Henry’s behaviour, he showed no sign in his voice, however.
“Perfectly, sir,” he replied in a soft West Country accent. “And the Director, sir. I get on very well with the Professor Greenwood. Is he alright?”
Sir Henry thought for a moment. “I would like you to join us for a cup of tea,” he said, only slightly slower and louder than normal.
Ricky looked over Sir Henry’s shoulder at the Professor. He generally took his tea breaks in the caretaker’s cupboard. Johnson shrugged and nodded encouragement at him.
“Certainly, sir. I’m pretty much done here anyway. I’ll just have to stow my bucket.”
“Quite so.”
Sir Henry spun about on his heel and marched off back down the corridor, leaving Johnson dithering over whether to explain to the janitor what was going on, or follow the belligerent bureaucrat.
Deciding discretion was the better part of valour, Johnson opted for hurrying after Sir Henry, catching up with him just as he stopped by the door through which he had entered the lab area. There was no swipe-card receptor or keypad.
“How do we get out?” he asked Johnson.
“The codes are only used for access,” the professor explained. “To open the door, just press the green button.”
Being colour-blind, Sir Henry could not see a green button. However, there was a prominent grey button on the wall next to him. He slammed his palm on it.”
“Nooo!” cried Professor Johnson, leaping forward. “Not the red button!” But it was too late. Alarms started ringing very loudly above their heads. Sir Henry turned in time to see the interior of the lab opposite engulfed in jets of steam from all directions. Soon the window was completely misted up and he could see nothing.
“Good heavens.”
“That’s the emergency decontamination button, Sir Henry!” shouted Johnson over the alarms. “In case there’s an emergency in the lab.”
“Oh.”
Johnson pulled a key out of his pocket and inserted it into the middle of the button Sir Henry had pushed. With a sharp twist, he pulled the button out again.
The alarm ceased and the sprays in the lab stopped. Condensation ran down the inside of the window. Sir Henry peered inside. It was no longer spotless. Every available surface seemed to be covered in a white powder that must have dropped from the ceiling before the steam-jets kicked in caked it on.
“Oh dear, what a mess!” he said, glancing down the corridor at the caretaker and his bucket. “I wouldn’t want to be the one who had to clean that up.”
Sunday, 12 August 2012
Chapter 6.4
“The disappearance has raised some security issues,” Sir Henry told Professor Johnson. “I want to make a full inspection of your security measures. You will take me on a tour of the facilities and then perhaps Miss Middlebottom will be kind enough to make us a cup of tea, over which we can discuss the security threat and Professor Greywood’s disappearance.”
“Well, I...” began Miss Mabel Middlebottom.
“I wasn’t asking,” said Sir Henry. “I’ll have Earl Grey, naturally.”
Leaving Miss Mabel Middlebottom performing a passable guppy impression, Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown waved Professor Johnny D. Johnson III into action. Johnson turned and indicated a bank of monitors behind Miss Middlebottom’s chair, throwing the receptionist a grimace of apology as he did so.
“The monitors behind the reception desk can patch into any of the centre’s CCTV cameras,” he explained. “Every room in the building, except for the offices, are monitored and there are a further eight cameras outside covering the compound. Camera footage is taped, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
“The centre itself is surrounded by a high voltage electric fence. Motion sensors and floodlights are spaced evenly round the perimeter and the gate is guarded twenty-four hours a day. A backup generator in the outhouse supplies power in the case of a Mains failure.”
Johnson pointed to various features in the foyer. “Access to the main building is restricted by swipe-card and security codes. The doors themselves are bullet-proof and there’s an infrared intruder-detection system in reception that is activated when the building is empty.”
Sir Henry nodded. So far, so good. “And the laboratories?”
Johnson gave an internal sigh of relief and pointed down a corridor to his left - the opposite direction to his messy office and fire-damaged legwear. “I’ll show you.”
Sir Henry was already striding down the corridor with purpose and Johnson scurried after him, catching up as he halted at the large metal door at its terminus.
He pointed at the wall. “This has a higher clearance level swipe-card and keycode.”
Sir Henry waited expectantly whilst the Professor swiped his card through the appropriate slot and punched in his code, each key emitting a different tone like a cluster of slightly depressed Clangers. Using touch-tone keypads could be seen as a security risk, allowing spies and whatnot to hide around corners and hear the entry codes. They were, however, standard issue in all government buildings following the Montreal Treaty on international espionage countermeasures. Professor Johnson also found the tones useful on days like today, when he had forgotten his glasses.
The door slid open with a low hum and a stock science fiction female computer voice purred: “Welcome, Professor Johnson.”
“The computer logs all entries to the laboratory area,” Johnson explained, stepping through the door.
Sir Henry started to follow Johnson through the door but stopped when a red light started flashing above the door, accompanied by a loud buzz.
“Please identify,” said the female computer voice, oozing disembodied sexuality and yet being somehow clear that failure to identify oneself may lead to someone else having it do it for you. In a morgue.
Sir Henry frowned and withdrew his leg from the doorway. (Sir Henry did not approve of female voices for computers. In his opinion all computers should sound like HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey. He was convinced that they shared HAL’s psychotic tendencies anyway.) The buzzing stopped but the red light continued to flash.
“Sorry,” apologised the flustered Professor. “Only full-time BRC staff have clearance.
I’ll sign you in too.”
Johnson leant round the doorway and swiped his card through again, this time keying a security code of a different tune that in other circumstances might have seemed quite jaunty. The red light ceased flashing.
“Welcome, guest of Professor Johnson,” said the computer.
Sir Henry stepped tentatively through the door and it hummed shut once more. He found himself in a clinically clean corridor of pale-grey that stretched away to the left and right. In front of him was a large window into a spacious laboratory. The lab was spotless with very little visible equipment. Several empty animal cages sat on the benches.
This window was the central one of three equally spaced down the corridor. Next to each window was a door, each with its own swipe-card and keypad lock. At one end, to their left, the corridor cornered to the right. At the other end, it ended in a very sturdy-looking Emergency Exit.
“There are eight laboratories,” explained Professor Johnson, “including two with level four containment facilities and the animal house. Every lab has restricted access and only those with the highest security clearance can enter the Level Four labs. Doors and windows are bullet-proof, naturally.”
“Naturally,” nodded Sir Henry. You could not have a madman with a gun interrupting important research. Not unless it was him, anyway.
Johnson pointed to the Emergency Exit. “Emergency Exits are locked and cannot be opened unless there is an emergency, in which case the computer will switch them onto manual release. In a power failure, they also switch to manual. Like the main doors, they have infrared intruder detectors.”
He looked around in approval. “I must admit, Professor, you have gone some way toward allaying my fears. Except for some slackness on the gate, security seems to be very acceptable.”
“Thank you, Sir Henry,” replied Johnson, relaxing slightly.
“Could probably do with changing the voice of the computer, though.” He tensed again. “Excuse me?”
“Can’t have a woman running the show.” Sir Henry told him flatly. “Most improper, what?”
“Um, er, quite so, Sir Henry.” Johnson lied. Even if it was not utterly politically incorrect, reprogramming the security system would cost thousands of pounds. Johnson just smiled and nodded, hoping Sir Henry would continue the tour and forget about it. Better still, he would never be back to find out either way.
Sir Henry peered through the window ahead of him into the lab. “So tell me, Professor. How goes the research?”
Johnson coughed. “Actually, Sir Henry, what with all the security measures we’ve had installed and the recent government cut-backs, we haven’t had the money to do any experiments. But we do have very well equipped labs and Professor Greenwood was confident that once we could afford some consumables, we should be able to make great advances.”
“Marvellous,” said Sir Henry, who had not really been listening. Instead he had been trying to work out what the little grey box on the bench nearest the window did. “Can I see inside one of the labs?”
Johnson was taken aback. “Certainly, Sir Henry. To see inside that lab, however, you will need to suit up fully and go through the airlock. Perhaps one of the Level Two labs or the animal house would be more to your liking?”
“Lead on, Professor.”
Sir Henry followed Johnson down the corridor away from the Emergency Exit and round the corner into another stretch of corridor. This one looked much the same but had doors and windows on both sides – three on the left and two on the right. At the far end was another Emergency Exit, in front of which was a man mopping the floor. The man was dressed from head to toe in a bright yellow biohazard suit, complete with hood.
Sir Henry pointed. “Who is that?”
“Oh, that’s Ricky. The Janitor.”
Sir Henry scowled. “You mean the Caretaker? Just because most of the money for this place came from those ghastly Americans, it does not mean that we have to start talking like them.”
Professor Johnny D. Johnson the Third’s jaw dropped slightly. “But I am American, Sir Henry.” “Don’t be ridiculous, man. Do you think I would forget the nationality of my own staff?”
“Well, I...” began Miss Mabel Middlebottom.
“I wasn’t asking,” said Sir Henry. “I’ll have Earl Grey, naturally.”
Leaving Miss Mabel Middlebottom performing a passable guppy impression, Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown waved Professor Johnny D. Johnson III into action. Johnson turned and indicated a bank of monitors behind Miss Middlebottom’s chair, throwing the receptionist a grimace of apology as he did so.
“The monitors behind the reception desk can patch into any of the centre’s CCTV cameras,” he explained. “Every room in the building, except for the offices, are monitored and there are a further eight cameras outside covering the compound. Camera footage is taped, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
“The centre itself is surrounded by a high voltage electric fence. Motion sensors and floodlights are spaced evenly round the perimeter and the gate is guarded twenty-four hours a day. A backup generator in the outhouse supplies power in the case of a Mains failure.”
Johnson pointed to various features in the foyer. “Access to the main building is restricted by swipe-card and security codes. The doors themselves are bullet-proof and there’s an infrared intruder-detection system in reception that is activated when the building is empty.”
Sir Henry nodded. So far, so good. “And the laboratories?”
Johnson gave an internal sigh of relief and pointed down a corridor to his left - the opposite direction to his messy office and fire-damaged legwear. “I’ll show you.”
Sir Henry was already striding down the corridor with purpose and Johnson scurried after him, catching up as he halted at the large metal door at its terminus.
He pointed at the wall. “This has a higher clearance level swipe-card and keycode.”
Sir Henry waited expectantly whilst the Professor swiped his card through the appropriate slot and punched in his code, each key emitting a different tone like a cluster of slightly depressed Clangers. Using touch-tone keypads could be seen as a security risk, allowing spies and whatnot to hide around corners and hear the entry codes. They were, however, standard issue in all government buildings following the Montreal Treaty on international espionage countermeasures. Professor Johnson also found the tones useful on days like today, when he had forgotten his glasses.
The door slid open with a low hum and a stock science fiction female computer voice purred: “Welcome, Professor Johnson.”
“The computer logs all entries to the laboratory area,” Johnson explained, stepping through the door.
Sir Henry started to follow Johnson through the door but stopped when a red light started flashing above the door, accompanied by a loud buzz.
“Please identify,” said the female computer voice, oozing disembodied sexuality and yet being somehow clear that failure to identify oneself may lead to someone else having it do it for you. In a morgue.
Sir Henry frowned and withdrew his leg from the doorway. (Sir Henry did not approve of female voices for computers. In his opinion all computers should sound like HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey. He was convinced that they shared HAL’s psychotic tendencies anyway.) The buzzing stopped but the red light continued to flash.
“Sorry,” apologised the flustered Professor. “Only full-time BRC staff have clearance.
I’ll sign you in too.”
Johnson leant round the doorway and swiped his card through again, this time keying a security code of a different tune that in other circumstances might have seemed quite jaunty. The red light ceased flashing.
“Welcome, guest of Professor Johnson,” said the computer.
Sir Henry stepped tentatively through the door and it hummed shut once more. He found himself in a clinically clean corridor of pale-grey that stretched away to the left and right. In front of him was a large window into a spacious laboratory. The lab was spotless with very little visible equipment. Several empty animal cages sat on the benches.
This window was the central one of three equally spaced down the corridor. Next to each window was a door, each with its own swipe-card and keypad lock. At one end, to their left, the corridor cornered to the right. At the other end, it ended in a very sturdy-looking Emergency Exit.
“There are eight laboratories,” explained Professor Johnson, “including two with level four containment facilities and the animal house. Every lab has restricted access and only those with the highest security clearance can enter the Level Four labs. Doors and windows are bullet-proof, naturally.”
“Naturally,” nodded Sir Henry. You could not have a madman with a gun interrupting important research. Not unless it was him, anyway.
Johnson pointed to the Emergency Exit. “Emergency Exits are locked and cannot be opened unless there is an emergency, in which case the computer will switch them onto manual release. In a power failure, they also switch to manual. Like the main doors, they have infrared intruder detectors.”
He looked around in approval. “I must admit, Professor, you have gone some way toward allaying my fears. Except for some slackness on the gate, security seems to be very acceptable.”
“Thank you, Sir Henry,” replied Johnson, relaxing slightly.
“Could probably do with changing the voice of the computer, though.” He tensed again. “Excuse me?”
“Can’t have a woman running the show.” Sir Henry told him flatly. “Most improper, what?”
“Um, er, quite so, Sir Henry.” Johnson lied. Even if it was not utterly politically incorrect, reprogramming the security system would cost thousands of pounds. Johnson just smiled and nodded, hoping Sir Henry would continue the tour and forget about it. Better still, he would never be back to find out either way.
Sir Henry peered through the window ahead of him into the lab. “So tell me, Professor. How goes the research?”
Johnson coughed. “Actually, Sir Henry, what with all the security measures we’ve had installed and the recent government cut-backs, we haven’t had the money to do any experiments. But we do have very well equipped labs and Professor Greenwood was confident that once we could afford some consumables, we should be able to make great advances.”
“Marvellous,” said Sir Henry, who had not really been listening. Instead he had been trying to work out what the little grey box on the bench nearest the window did. “Can I see inside one of the labs?”
Johnson was taken aback. “Certainly, Sir Henry. To see inside that lab, however, you will need to suit up fully and go through the airlock. Perhaps one of the Level Two labs or the animal house would be more to your liking?”
“Lead on, Professor.”
Sir Henry followed Johnson down the corridor away from the Emergency Exit and round the corner into another stretch of corridor. This one looked much the same but had doors and windows on both sides – three on the left and two on the right. At the far end was another Emergency Exit, in front of which was a man mopping the floor. The man was dressed from head to toe in a bright yellow biohazard suit, complete with hood.
Sir Henry pointed. “Who is that?”
“Oh, that’s Ricky. The Janitor.”
Sir Henry scowled. “You mean the Caretaker? Just because most of the money for this place came from those ghastly Americans, it does not mean that we have to start talking like them.”
Professor Johnny D. Johnson the Third’s jaw dropped slightly. “But I am American, Sir Henry.” “Don’t be ridiculous, man. Do you think I would forget the nationality of my own staff?”
Friday, 10 August 2012
Chapter 6.2
The grey-uniformed guard only gave a cursory glance at Sir Henry’s identification before activating the main gates to the NATO biological research institute outside Swansea. Sir Henry knew that they were expected but did not approve of such slackness. The British Empire had not been built by slackers. (In Sir Henry’s understanding, it had been built by slaves, sugar and tea – three things of which he approved quite strongly.)
The large electrified gates slid silently apart, allowing the grey Bentley entry into the compound. Sir Henry looked around at the electrified perimeter fence, topped with razor wire and nodded to himself. High voltage fences topped with razor wire were things of which he approved. The guards may be a little lax but at least security in general seemed good.
Watson parked the grey car on the grey tarmac next to the entrance of the low grey building and got out.
“Would you like me to wait here, sir?” he asked, holding the car door open for his boss.
“Yes, thank you, Smithers,” Sir Henry replied, closing his grey briefcase and stepping out of the car. “I shall take things from here.”
Sir Henry strode with purpose towards the double doors of the Institute. He noted the swipe-card mechanism and security keypad next to the door. He had a swipe-card and, being a high level NATO technocrat, was privy to all the security codes of the building. He felt, however, that since the guard should have announced his arrival, it would be below his dignity to use such things.
The receptionist on duty did not disappoint him and over-rode the security system. The double doors slid silently open before him, silently closing behind him again once he was inside. He looked around at the closed circuit television cameras covering the reception area. CCTV was another thing of which Sir Henry approved.
The receptionist, whose security tag identified as one Miss Mabel Middlebottom, smiled nervously at Sir Henry. Sir Henry almost smiled back. He approved of security tags.
“I have notified Professor Johnson of your arrival, Sir Henry,” Miss Mabel Middlebottom informed him. “He will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you,” he replied with a slight subconscious frown. He did not approve of people keeping him waiting.
As if in answer to his impatience, there was the sound of a door closing down the corridor. Walking towards Sir Henry was a short, flustered-looking man with thinning brown hair and a gleam of sweat upon his brow. He was wearing a pristinely clean, white laboratory coat that came down almost to his knees. Beneath the coat were a pair of pale bare legs that terminated in brown sandals (much like a gladiator might wear) and argyle socks pulled halfway up his calves (much like a gladiator certainly would not wear). It was a combination of which Sir Henry did not approve. (More due to the flash of colour that he believed to be in the argyle socks than the inherent affront to fashion, which was the sandals and socks combination. Sir Henry did not really approve of fashion, either.)
As he drew to within a couple of feet of Sir Henry, the man offered his right hand.
“Welcome to Swansea, Sir Henry.”
Sir Henry took the proffered limb. “Deputy Director Johnson, I presume,” he said, shaking the man’s hand firmly.
“Er, yes, that’s right,” came the nervous reply. “Forgive my appearance,” Johnson added. “I am wearing shorts under this lab coat – it looked like a sunny day when I left home this morning.”
Sir Henry frowned. An odd bunch, these science types, he decided.
“I’m sorry, Professor,” he replied. “You appear to be confusing me with somebody who cares.”
Johnson almost took affront at such candid insensibility but, realising that he was standing trouserless before a superior that could have him fired on the spot, he decided to let it pass.
“I am anxious to get straight down to business,“ continued Sir Henry.
“Of course.”
“I am most concerned about the apparent disappearance of Professor Greywood.”
“Don’t you mean Professor Greenwood, Sir Henry?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, man. Do you think I would forget the name of the Director of a NATO research centre?”
If Professor Johnson did think that Sir Henry would forget the name of the Director of a NATO research centre – and he most surely did – he was far too prudent to say so.
The large electrified gates slid silently apart, allowing the grey Bentley entry into the compound. Sir Henry looked around at the electrified perimeter fence, topped with razor wire and nodded to himself. High voltage fences topped with razor wire were things of which he approved. The guards may be a little lax but at least security in general seemed good.
Watson parked the grey car on the grey tarmac next to the entrance of the low grey building and got out.
“Would you like me to wait here, sir?” he asked, holding the car door open for his boss.
“Yes, thank you, Smithers,” Sir Henry replied, closing his grey briefcase and stepping out of the car. “I shall take things from here.”
Sir Henry strode with purpose towards the double doors of the Institute. He noted the swipe-card mechanism and security keypad next to the door. He had a swipe-card and, being a high level NATO technocrat, was privy to all the security codes of the building. He felt, however, that since the guard should have announced his arrival, it would be below his dignity to use such things.
The receptionist on duty did not disappoint him and over-rode the security system. The double doors slid silently open before him, silently closing behind him again once he was inside. He looked around at the closed circuit television cameras covering the reception area. CCTV was another thing of which Sir Henry approved.
The receptionist, whose security tag identified as one Miss Mabel Middlebottom, smiled nervously at Sir Henry. Sir Henry almost smiled back. He approved of security tags.
“I have notified Professor Johnson of your arrival, Sir Henry,” Miss Mabel Middlebottom informed him. “He will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you,” he replied with a slight subconscious frown. He did not approve of people keeping him waiting.
As if in answer to his impatience, there was the sound of a door closing down the corridor. Walking towards Sir Henry was a short, flustered-looking man with thinning brown hair and a gleam of sweat upon his brow. He was wearing a pristinely clean, white laboratory coat that came down almost to his knees. Beneath the coat were a pair of pale bare legs that terminated in brown sandals (much like a gladiator might wear) and argyle socks pulled halfway up his calves (much like a gladiator certainly would not wear). It was a combination of which Sir Henry did not approve. (More due to the flash of colour that he believed to be in the argyle socks than the inherent affront to fashion, which was the sandals and socks combination. Sir Henry did not really approve of fashion, either.)
As he drew to within a couple of feet of Sir Henry, the man offered his right hand.
“Welcome to Swansea, Sir Henry.”
Sir Henry took the proffered limb. “Deputy Director Johnson, I presume,” he said, shaking the man’s hand firmly.
“Er, yes, that’s right,” came the nervous reply. “Forgive my appearance,” Johnson added. “I am wearing shorts under this lab coat – it looked like a sunny day when I left home this morning.”
Sir Henry frowned. An odd bunch, these science types, he decided.
“I’m sorry, Professor,” he replied. “You appear to be confusing me with somebody who cares.”
Johnson almost took affront at such candid insensibility but, realising that he was standing trouserless before a superior that could have him fired on the spot, he decided to let it pass.
“I am anxious to get straight down to business,“ continued Sir Henry.
“Of course.”
“I am most concerned about the apparent disappearance of Professor Greywood.”
“Don’t you mean Professor Greenwood, Sir Henry?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, man. Do you think I would forget the name of the Director of a NATO research centre?”
If Professor Johnson did think that Sir Henry would forget the name of the Director of a NATO research centre – and he most surely did – he was far too prudent to say so.
Sunday, 5 August 2012
Chapter 5.2
Grey. The sky was decidedly grey. It was the kind of sky that you would not take home to meet your mother lest it suddenly decided to make a horrible mess on the carpet without warning. It was the kind of sky that simply oozed the threat of cold, wet, miserable rain. There would be none of your light, refreshing rain here. No, sir. And the rain would be grey too: matching its apparently endless source with the kind of lack of imagination that is usually only shown by manufactured boy bands.
Grey. The road was grey. Grey tarmac lined with scattered grey boulders that wound its way through the hills. Although covered in grass, the greenery seemed to have its colour leeched away by the grey sandwich of road and sky. The hills themselves had many small outcrops of grey rock poking through the surface, as if they were desperately trying to shed their emerald coat through sheer embarrassment at adding colour to the scene.
Grey. The Bentley was grey. A very tasteful metallic grey but grey nonetheless. On the back seat, as if one with the grey leather interior, sat a grey man. A dark grey suit was worn over a light grey shirt. His eyes, grey-green. His hair, steely grey. His well-trimmed moustache, grey like a ship in Her Majesty’s navy. Beside him, sat a grey briefcase. It was open. Inside were many bits of paper, typed with a grey letter header.
Grey. Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown lived in a grey world. The casual observer* might speculate that Sir Henry’s greyness was a reflection of a boring, humourless personality with all the charm of a mouldy peanut, of a man who distrusted colour and noise as the outward manifestations of the impetuous, uncontrollable urges of youth. Of life. Colour was wild. Colour was messy. No, worse, colour was untidy. (*A casual observer, being one who had not encountered Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown in a professional context. Sir Henry did not approve of casual.)
The reality of the situation was that Sir Henry Ponsenby-Brown was completely colour-blind. He simply could not see colours at all; his world really was grey. The fact that all those other things happened to be true about him was just coincidence.
Despite the fact that he lived in a world full of shades of grey, Sir Henry very much preferred things in pure black and white. A place for everything and everything in its place. His place. Everything tidy. It was for this reason that his brow furrowed as he read the faxed report in front of him; the information it contained was far from tidy. Ponsenby-Brown looked up over the fax. “How far now, Smithers?”
“Not long now, sir,” answered his driver, Alec Watson. “And it’s Watson, Sir Henry. Not Smithers.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, man. Do you think I’d forget the name of my own driver?”
Grey. The road was grey. Grey tarmac lined with scattered grey boulders that wound its way through the hills. Although covered in grass, the greenery seemed to have its colour leeched away by the grey sandwich of road and sky. The hills themselves had many small outcrops of grey rock poking through the surface, as if they were desperately trying to shed their emerald coat through sheer embarrassment at adding colour to the scene.
Grey. The Bentley was grey. A very tasteful metallic grey but grey nonetheless. On the back seat, as if one with the grey leather interior, sat a grey man. A dark grey suit was worn over a light grey shirt. His eyes, grey-green. His hair, steely grey. His well-trimmed moustache, grey like a ship in Her Majesty’s navy. Beside him, sat a grey briefcase. It was open. Inside were many bits of paper, typed with a grey letter header.
Grey. Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown lived in a grey world. The casual observer* might speculate that Sir Henry’s greyness was a reflection of a boring, humourless personality with all the charm of a mouldy peanut, of a man who distrusted colour and noise as the outward manifestations of the impetuous, uncontrollable urges of youth. Of life. Colour was wild. Colour was messy. No, worse, colour was untidy. (*A casual observer, being one who had not encountered Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown in a professional context. Sir Henry did not approve of casual.)
The reality of the situation was that Sir Henry Ponsenby-Brown was completely colour-blind. He simply could not see colours at all; his world really was grey. The fact that all those other things happened to be true about him was just coincidence.
Despite the fact that he lived in a world full of shades of grey, Sir Henry very much preferred things in pure black and white. A place for everything and everything in its place. His place. Everything tidy. It was for this reason that his brow furrowed as he read the faxed report in front of him; the information it contained was far from tidy. Ponsenby-Brown looked up over the fax. “How far now, Smithers?”
“Not long now, sir,” answered his driver, Alec Watson. “And it’s Watson, Sir Henry. Not Smithers.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, man. Do you think I’d forget the name of my own driver?”
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