Invisible Enemy in Kazakhstan. Peter Cave

it was as if he were being given a second chance.

      ‘And my colleagues? Who would I be working with?’ he wanted to know.

      ‘Others like yourself. Scientists who have dared to work in areas avoided by the squeamish and faint-hearted. We scoured Europe for them – the concentration camps, the germ-warfare establishments, the genetic study centres set up by your late Führer in his dream of a pure master race. All supplemented with the cream of our own scientists, of course.’

      ‘The human subjects? You would use your own people for such experiments?’

      Leveski shrugged carelessly. ‘Some. Dissidents, activists, criminals, lunatics – the scum of our society. Polish Jews, prisoners of war, Mongolian peasants – the world is seething with displaced and expendable people, Doctor. As I told you, our supply of subjects is virtually inexhaustible.’

      There was only one, comparatively minor question left to ask.

      ‘What about my wife and sons?’ Steiner wanted to know.

      Leveski shook his head firmly. ‘I am afraid that our offer is for you alone, Dr Steiner. You must simply disappear without trace. They would be well provided for, of course. Your own needs would also be well catered for. There will be no shortage of available women where you are going.’

      Steiner considered the matter unemotionally. There was just one last point to be cleared up.

      ‘Suppose I turn down this proposition?’ he asked.

      ‘Ah.’ Leveski looked apologetic. ‘Unfortunately, you now know too much to be left alive. Perhaps you are aware that at this moment several Israeli assassination teams are highly active throughout South America. We would simply pass on our information about your whereabouts to one of them. It would then be just a matter of time.’

      The Russian broke off, to turn to his compatriot. ‘Viktor, why don’t you tell the good doctor how the Israelis’ victims die?’

      The other man spoke for the first time, in a deep, guttural voice. His thick lips cracked open in a bestial, malicious grin. ‘Choked to death on their own genitals,’ he grunted, with obvious relish. ‘Hacked off and stuffed down their throats.’

      Leveski stared Steiner coldly in the eyes, letting the image sink in. ‘Mind you, they might have something a bit more special for someone who used to perform surgical amputations without anaesthetic,’ he volunteered.

      Steiner held the Russian’s gaze, the ghost of a smile playing over his lips. ‘When do we leave?’ he asked.

       4

       London – January 1993

      Lieutenant-Colonel Barney Davies glanced around the Foreign Office conference room with a slight sense of surprise. He had not been expecting such a high-powered meeting. Nothing in the message he had received had given any indication that this was to be any more than a briefing session. Now, noting the sheer number of personnel already assembled, and the prominence of some of them, Davies could tell that this was to be no mere briefing. It looked more like a full-blown security conference.

      He reviewed the cluster of faces hovering around the large, oval-shaped table. Nobody seemed prepared to sit down yet; they were all still waiting for the guest of honour to arrive. It had to be pretty high brass, Davies figured to himself, for he recognized at least two Foreign Office ministers, either of whom could quite comfortably head up any meeting up to and perhaps including Cabinet level. He teased his brain, trying to put names to the faces.

      He identified Clive Murchison almost immediately. He had had some dealings with the man during the Gulf War, the successful conclusion of which probably had something to do with Murchison’s obvious and rapid climb up the bureaucratic ladder. Tending towards the curt, but irritatingly efficient, Murchison was of the old school, the ‘send a gunboat’ brigade. His presence alone reinforced Davies’s feeling that this meeting was serious stuff.

      Naming Murchison’s colleague proved a little trickier. Windley? Windsor? Neither name seemed quite right. It fell into place, eventually. A double-barrelled name. Wynne-Tilsley, that was it. Michael Wynne-Tilsley. Still technically a junior minister but well connected, tipped for higher things. Word was that he had the PM’s ear, or maybe knew a few things he should not. In political circles, Davies reflected, that was the equivalent of a ticket to the front of the queue.

      There were half a dozen other people who meant nothing whatsoever to Davies. Whether they were civil servants or civilian advisers, he had no idea, although there was probably the odd man from MI6 or the ‘green slime’ in there somewhere.

      There was, however, one more face that he definitely did recognize. Davies’s face broke into a friendly grin as he strolled across to the slightly hunched figure in the electric wheelchair. Reaching down, he gave the man’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

      ‘Well, you old bastard, what are you doing here? Thought you’d retired.’

      Piggy Baker looked up, grinning back. ‘I had…have. They dug me up again to bring me in as a special adviser on this one.’ The man extended his hand. ‘Barney, good to see you.’

      The two men shook hands warmly. Finally, Davies drew back slightly, appraising his old comrade. He noted that Piggy no longer bothered to wear his artificial leg.

      ‘So what happened to the pogo stick? Thought they would have rebuilt you as the six billion dollar man by now. All this new technology, prosthetics and stuff.’

      Piggy shrugged carelessly. ‘They did offer, a couple of years back. But what the hell? I’m too old to go around all tarted up like Robocop.’ He broke off, nodding down at the wheelchair. ‘These days, I’m happy enough to ponce around in this most of the time.’

      Davies nodded, his face suddenly becoming serious. ‘So, what’s all this about? Looks like high-powered stuff.’

      Baker’s face was apologetic. ‘Sorry, Barney, but I can’t tell you a thing until the briefing. OSA and all that, you know.’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ Davies had not really expected much else. He knew all about the Official Secrets Act, and official protocol. He had come up against it himself enough times.

      There was a sudden stir of movement in the room. The babble of voices hushed abruptly. Glancing towards the large double doors, Davies was not really surprised to see the Foreign Secretary enter the room. He had not been expecting anyone less.

      The Foreign Secretary headed straight for one end of the oval table and sat down. ‘Well, gentlemen, shall we get down to business?’ he said crisply. He glanced across at Wynne-Tilsley as everyone took their chairs. ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to introduce everybody before we begin the briefing.’

      Wynne-Tilsley went round the table in an anticlockwise direction. Just as Davies had supposed, most of the personnel were civilian advisers or from the green slime, the Intelligence Corps.

      The introductions over, the Foreign Secretary took over once more. ‘Gentlemen, we have a problem,’ he announced flatly. ‘The purpose of this meeting is to determine what we do about it. Let me say at this juncture that it is not so much a question of should we get involved as can we get involved. Which is why I have invited Lieutenant-Colonel Davies, of 22 SAS, here today.’ He paused briefly to nod towards Davies in acknowledgement, before turning to Murchison. ‘Perhaps you would outline the situation for us.’

      Murchison rose to his feet, riffling through the sheaf of papers and notes in front of him. He spoke in a clear, confident tone – the voice of a man well used to public speaking and being listened to.

      ‘Essentially, we’ve been asked by the Chinese to infiltrate former Soviet territory,’ he announced, pausing for a few moments to let the shock sink in. He waited until the brief buzz of startled exclamations and hastily exchanged words were over. ‘Which,