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Chapters (124)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Acclaim for Frank Gardner’s Luke Carlton thrillers
  4. Also by Frank Gardner
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. 83
  90. 84
  91. 85
  92. 86
  93. 87
  94. 88
  95. 89
  96. 90
  97. 91
  98. 92
  99. 93
  100. 94
  101. 95
  102. 96
  103. 97
  104. 98
  105. 99
  106. 100
  107. 101
  108. 102
  109. 103
  110. 104
  111. 105
  112. 106
  113. 107
  114. 108
  115. 109
  116. 110
  117. 111
  118. 112
  119. 113
  120. 114
  121. 115
  122. Epilogue
  123. Acknowledgements
  124. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

The Russian ambassador gave a heavy sigh and shook his head sadly. ‘I have been instructed by my government to inform you,’ he said, ‘that we are currently reviewing the number of your diplomatic personnel at your embassy in Moscow. I should also inform you that the operations of British Petroleum in the Russian Federation are also under critical review.’ He stood up, followed by his assistant. ‘We thank you for the tea, Madame Secretary of State.’

62

Essex

Monday, 14 March, 1128hrs GMT

‘WHAT THE FUCK d’you mean, “it’s gone”? You’re not trying to tell me it’s just vanished into thin air, are you?’

Behind the doors of the haulage company’s office the two men stared at each other, one contrite and reticent, the other red-faced and furious. He answered his own question. ‘No. Of course it bloody hasn’t. So find the sodding monkey. Find out who’s taken it and finish it off. We can’t have this all kicking off before we’re ready.’ He waved a nicotine-stained finger in the other man’s face. ‘You told me no one ever goes into that bunker. I should never have listened to you.’

‘They don’t, normally,’ offered the other man.

‘Shut up, wanker. I’m doing the talking.’ He turned and walked towards the old metal filing cabinet, a hangover from the company’s pre-digital days. He placed his hands on its corners and hung his head in thought. Just outside the window someone was reversing a forklift truck and the constant beeping seemed to invade the whole room. It did little to ease the tension between them.

‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll need to let Moscow know what’s happened. They’re not going to be happy about this. Not happy at all.’ He stood up straight, turned and gripped the other man around the back of his neck. ‘So you get out there,’ he breathed, ‘and deal with that bleeding animal – now.’

63

National Institute for Health Protection, Lambeth, London

Monday, 14 March, 1145hrs GMT

FOR EVERYONE IN the room on that Monday morning there was a sickening sense of déjà vu. We’ve been here before, they were all thinking, when Covid-19 hit in 2020. Because the projection on the screen was chilling, no doubt about that. The axis along the bottom showed the timeline in days; the vertical axis showed the notional increase in infections if Agent X made the leap into the general population and could not be contained. The incline was exponential, the graph line soaring like a ski jump, a seriously steep one. Standing next to it was Brendan Holmes, the chief medical officer, and arranged on chairs in front of him were some of Britain’s foremost experts in disease control, all summoned to the headquarters of the National Institute for Health Protection. The group known as SAGE – the Government’s Scientific Advisory Group for Emergencies – was in session.