Chapters (124)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Acclaim for Frank Gardner’s Luke Carlton thrillers
- Also by Frank Gardner
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- 27
- 28
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- 42
- 43
- 44
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- 53
- 54
- 55
- 56
- 57
- 58
- 59
- 60
- 61
- 62
- 63
- 64
- 65
- 66
- 67
- 68
- 69
- 70
- 71
- 72
- 73
- 74
- 75
- 76
- 77
- 78
- 79
- 80
- 81
- 82
- 83
- 84
- 85
- 86
- 87
- 88
- 89
- 90
- 91
- 92
- 93
- 94
- 95
- 96
- 97
- 98
- 99
- 100
- 101
- 102
- 103
- 104
- 105
- 106
- 107
- 108
- 109
- 110
- 111
- 112
- 113
- 114
- 115
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
- THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING
‘COLD WAR COVER-UP!’ exclaimed the online tabloid’s lead story. One look at the byline beneath the headline was enough to ring alarm bells in her head. No less than three of the paper’s top investigative reporters had collaborated on this story. They must have worked fast – Svalbard had only happened on Monday so, clearly, they must have thrown everything at it. She skimmed down the page, sifting swiftly through the words that followed, and swore quietly again.
‘Britain drops its guard’ … ‘Germ war Armageddon’ … ‘NHS woefully under-prepared’ … ‘Intelligence failure’ … ‘Supine government’ …
The list went on. How had they got hold of all this so quickly? Was somebody in the Cabinet Office leaking? She had to speak to the cabinet secretary about it. Quite possibly this would need a full investigation, get the Met detectives in from Counter-Terrorism Command, open up everyone’s emails, their digital diaries and all their WhatsApp messages to scrutiny. But that would have to wait. Right now she had other, more pressing priorities. Most importantly, she must be seen to be doing something. Something strong and decisive, a bold gesture that would stamp her mark as the new no-nonsense foreign secretary. It was still going to need the PM’s sign-off, obviously, but she didn’t expect any pushback from that quarter. No, this was her time, her moment. She put down the tablet, waved away her special adviser and called the meeting to order.
‘This,’ she announced, with what she hoped was a suitable degree of gravity, ‘is a time for concerted action. We want to – no, we must – send a message to Russia that their actions are completely unacceptable!’ As she said this she again placed both hands palms down on the table for emphasis. ‘They cannot be allowed to get away with what they’ve done on Svalbard with impunity. Therefore, in addition to the measures I have already announced today, I will be making a recommendation to the National Security Council. As from Monday next week we will restrict the regular Aeroflot service between London and Moscow to just one flight a week.’
A hand went up, halfway down the table. Someone from Trade this time.
‘Forgive me, Foreign Secretary, but is this really prudent? Surely they’ll do the same to BA.’
She peered at the speaker for a moment. She was getting tired of having to deal with all these waverers. ‘Then we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it, won’t we?’ she told him. ‘But I haven’t finished yet. As a further measure, I will be recommending that we close Russia’s consulate in Edinburgh. It is imperative …’ she looked around the table, then repeated ‘… it is imperative that we draw a line in the sand against what is nothing short of reckless, state-sponsored, biological terrorism.’