After decanting the contents of our pockets into trays, we passed through a scanning arch, collected our things and followed the assistant secretary up several flights of stairs.
She chatted pleasantly about the weather, asked about our drive to the offices, and discussed the building and how wonderful the atrium was, before showing us into a large unoccupied room with a table for twenty people.
The windows looked out through slatted protective panels onto the street below. We could see people sitting on the wide perimeter pedestal around the base of the building, eating lunch and talking.
She left us alone while she fetched drinks. Coming back with a tray of tea, coffee and water, the assistant was followed in by two people.
The first was an anemic, somber man in his mid-thirties, of average height, dark hair, blue suit, white shirt, no tie, brown shoes and acrid aftershave.
Behind him came an elegantly dressed woman of about the same age. Her fair hair was a spectacular mane around her tanned, narrow face. She wore little makeup, a white cardigan and a dramatic onyx necklace like a peacock’s fan of eyed feathers, over a plain powder-blue top. Her pencil skirt was steel-gray and she wore plain, black shoes with a medium heel making her the same height as her male colleague. Her subtle perfume fought back against her colleague’s harsh odor.
The assistant introduced us, “Mister Fox, Miss Pendle, this is Gillian McCormack, the Minister for Security’s Private Secretary.”
We shook hands.
Gillian dismissed her colleague in a relaxed tone telling her she’d handle things from here. To me and Christmas she said, “This is Brett, he’s an intelligence analyst for state security.” She smiled easily and silently directed him to a chair at the end of the table. Christmas and I sat with our backs to the window. Gillian sat opposite us.
I asked, “What do you want to see us about?”
Brett said, “Well Mister Fox, you came to our attention as the victim of an attack with an internationally banned substance; VX nerve agent. The Home Office is especially aware of events concerning state-sponsored terrorism and organized crime, so as you can imagine, the security services flagged this to us. Since then we’ve learned that you’ve also been linked to a police investigation into another killing involving a neuro-toxin, that of Aleksy Naumowicz.
“You’ve reported being shot at by armed men in the North Yorkshire area, and two nights ago you were at the center of a gun-battle with a crime gang in Cumbria, during which this same nerve agent was used. We also understand,” he nodded to Christmas, “that you’ve been in contact with one of the MoD’s defense contractors, bringing them within a police investigation, and that you’ve become close to prominent shareholders within that business. We’d like to know from you exactly how these events tie together so that we can get a clearer picture centrally of what’s going on.”
Christmas took her dark glasses off. Brett and Gillian glanced at her beaten face. Hot baths were helping but her cheek and eye were still discolored. She didn’t seem to care.
I decided to recount the whole story leaving out only a handful of incriminating details; I just needed to remember what those details were.
I told them about how I’d been knocked unconscious, probably by the killer, on the night Aleksy had died and how his mother had asked me to get involved months later. “Mrs Naumowicz. I’ve never asked for her first name.”
“Maria Naumowicz, the proprietor of Polska Sprzątaczka, a Polish contract cleaning company.”
“I hadn’t realized she has a business.”
“Our information is that she employs over eighteen hundred people.”
“Well that explains where the money comes from. She’s given me two thousand pounds so far and I think she’s sent me a check for another three.” Then I told them about the spider, its box and Laura getting paid off when she started asking questions.
“Laura Wainwright was ‘paid off’ as you put it, because her employer is involved in a joint venture to develop an artificial intelligence humanoid and Laura’s detailed discussion of this project with you and others was making her employer uncomfortable.” Brett looked pointedly at Christmas.
She shrugged.
“Nothing to do with the spider then?” I asked.
“Not according to our information.”
I told them about the professor, the dead journalist and the listening devices in my clothing and rucksack.
“Placed there by the homicide team investigating the Naumowicz death.”
“Okay. I didn’t know. Should you be telling me that?”
“We think a little openness is useful at this point. Mutual trust. We’d like it reciprocated,” Brett tried to smile.
They showed polite interest while I described being hunted across the moors and stabbed in the café. “A woman injected the VX into my money belt at the same time.”
“Why were they trying to kill you?”
“I’ve no idea. I’m guessing it’s something to do with people visiting the professor and threatening the reputation of his old company, but it doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“Why did you keep the notes with the VX on them?”
“I kept some of them. I didn’t know for sure that the substance was VX. I didn’t want to throw away two hundred pounds if I could just wash the notes clean, obviously.”
“But you used it to kill two of the gang in Cumbria.”
“They emptied our pockets and then after counting it, became ill and died. Then I knew it must be the nerve agent that we’d suspected.”
“You’re lying,” Brett said flatly. “Christmas had the results from the lab confirming the substance as VX. They were sent to her and a detective working on the Naumowicz case.”
Christmas said, “I forgot to mention it to Zav.” She turned to me and shrugged.
I shrugged back.
He laughed sarcastically, “You’re expecting me to believe that you spent several days in each other’s company without once mentioning the VX lab results?”
“Well, I said to Zav that I thought it might be VX when he was first attacked. Now that we’re discussing it, I realize that I didn’t actually tell him that my initial guess was correct. We had a few days apart.”
“I forgot to ask,” I added.
“So you were just carrying this lethal nerve agent around in your pocket for over a week?”
“I changed my clothes. And I forgot about it. It was sheer luck that I had the toxic money with me on the day we visited Christmas’s aunt.”
“If it had leaked, killed you and then been handled by the first responders, how many people on the scene, paramedics and police officers would’ve died?”
“It seems I took a risk.”
Gillian said slowly, “I suppose we don’t need to discuss the merits of that risk here. It’s an informal chat. We’re on a schedule.” Looking at Brett, she tapped her watch.
Brett huffed with irritation.
She said, “Let’s go back a little. Why did you go to Limewood?”
Christmas said calmly, “We were visiting my aunt.”
“And that resulted in a gun battle with eight people dead?” Brett paused in his note taking, “Please explain.”
I said, “We were kidnapped. We’ve given detailed statements to the police about this.”
“I’ve read them,” said Brett. “So you visit Christmas’s aunt and then the gang that you claim attacked you in London, kidnapped you both. And it turns out the ringleader is the aunt’s near neighbor and the head of the Limewood village council. That’s a big coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“I imagine they’d been watching us and we just happened to stumble into her neighborhood.”
There was a silence which became long and sullen.
“Well our intelligence suggests that Miranda Lafarge led a criminal organization that might be responsible for a number of possible murders. Unproven for now. And we’ve found traces of VX nerve agent at a gang member’s address
in Liverpool. So that sort of ties up. But I don’t believe in coincidences.” He stared at me.
“All human existence is down to a series of massive coincidences. Maybe you should re-examine your beliefs.”
He said with quiet menace, “We don’t have time for an existential discussion right now, but I look forward to meeting you in different circumstances, when you’ll be more than happy to tell me whatever I want to know.”
Christmas glared at him.
Gillian shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
After a long silence he asked, “What about the truck driver’s killer? Who killed him and why?”
“I don’t know. The police are working on it and I should’ve taken the advice I got at the beginning and stayed out of it. I’m taking that advice now.”
We sat silently for a minute.
Brett said, “I know you’re holding something back.”
“Such as?”
“You spontaneously go to the zoo to ‘see a spider’. That doesn’t feel right. You lose the evidence that you say you collected there. That seems convenient. Why were people trying to kill you if this is about a scheme to gain Miss Pendle’s inheritance? I can’t work out if your use of the VX is amateur resourcefulness, gross stupidity or something more sinister. The thing which seems to connect all of these events is the defense contractor, HomEvo. How and why? How is the dead truck driver connected?”
“I have no idea on any of that.”
He said, “Let me be clear. We can make this informal chat much more formal and a lot less comfortable.”
“Well that’s all I’ve got. I’ll be telling Mrs Naumowicz that her son’s killer is still not identified. And since I’d like to avoid being shot at, stabbed or poisoned again, I’ll be staying well away while the police investigate. Christmas and I have personal plans. I’d like to get back to work without having to look over my shoulder constantly.”
Another long silence ensued.
Eventually Gillian said, “Do you have enough there for your report Brett?” The private secretary was bringing the interview to a close.
He seemed reluctant to argue. “We’ll be discussing this again with you before too long I think,” he said sternly, leaning toward me as he rose from his chair. He collected his notes and said flatly to Gillian. “I’ll send you my report for the minister.” As he left the room, he added with emphasis, “An interim report.” Brett closed the door firmly.
After a short silence Gillian got up, opened the door and looked into the corridor as though expecting someone else to arrive. She left the door ajar. Leaning against the wall, she looked at me and said, “Well, I think I can see where your loyalties lie. Miranda obviously didn’t need to kill you as part of the inheritance scheme. But her gang focused on you exclusively in the café attack. You’re obviously hiding something. Maybe several things.”
“Why didn’t you say so when Brett was in here?”
“Perhaps it suits us that some things stay out of sight.”
“Us?”
“Not every branch of government has the same objectives. Let’s just say that some of us are working on the larger agenda. Others are likely to focus inconveniently on unhelpful details.”
At that moment a man whose face I’d seen hundreds of times on television, in newspapers and online, strode into the room briskly.
THIRTY-SEVEN
He said, “Please don’t get up.”
We all stood up.
Gillian said, “Prime Minister, what a lovely surprise.”
“Am I interrupting? How is everything?” He stood very close to her, their hands almost touching.
His personal secretary and burly protection officer came in close behind, both wearing dark business suits. They closed the door and moved to the far end of the room at a distance that could just about be described as out of earshot.
“We’ve just finished the interview. All good as far as I can see. This is Xavier Fox and of course you know Christmas Pendle.”
“This is not a meeting,” he said, “I’m just passing by. On my way to freshen up and change my tie before my next meeting.”
His secretary seemed to suddenly remember something and rushed over with three silk ties, putting them in his hand before returning to the other end of the room.
“Ahh, good.” He laid them on the table without glancing at them, and then smiling broadly, he shook my hand and looked me in the eye. He moved past me, the scent of subtle aftershave and new clothes in his wake, to embrace Christmas. “How are you dear? My goodness, that is a severe bruise.”
“The other side came off worse,” she said, her face bright with recognition.
“So I hear. A very great shame about Miranda. I know there’ve been concerns for a while,” he said sadly, sitting on the side of the table, his back slightly bowed.
I wondered why I’d not noticed he had gray-green eyes before.
His large oval face turned to me. “So what do you make of these new people then? The ones at Limewood. What do you think of their unusual attributes?”
“Apart from the one that’s been trying to kill me, they’re lovely people. But aren’t you concerned about the dramatic growth of that community? What happens when fifteen hundred people become a hundred and fifty thousand, in just forty years? And then larger than Birmingham one generation later?”
“Ahh, straight to the heart of the matter.” He sat up straight. “And I see you’re a fan of Malthus and his iron law; growing population and finite resources equals poverty and misery. Is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, they’re the answer to our ageing population, don’t you think? Solving the pension crisis and removing our reliance on foreign labor. Don’t you think it’s unfair of us to take the most dynamic people from neighboring countries, hobbling their economies while we get labor and tax from working people who’ve been raised and educated at no cost to us?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“The Limewood people value progeny over lifestyle. Victorian-size families. A workforce renaissance.”
“But these big families will create poverty eventually, won’t they? That was part of Miranda’s misguided motivation.”
“Is poverty inevitable? Malthus was wrong wasn’t he?”
“Yes, but he probably won’t always be wrong.”
He asked patiently, “Why has he been wrong so far?”
“He didn’t anticipate technological change, the discovery of new lands and big increases in food production. And he underestimated society’s ability to balance its growth against personal prosperity. But families with ten or twenty children at one time; how can that work for whole communities?”
“Did Vanessa tell you that she can choose how many children she has now?”
“She did.”
“And they’re intelligent people aren’t they? And without wishing to get too personal, you know that these wonderful new people,” he nodded toward Christmas, “are capable of deferring parenthood.”
Arms crossed, Christmas glared with mock indignation.
“So they might be on a population growth spurt right now, but they’re not mice. They’ll stop at the right level.”
“And what’s the right level?”
“Who knows? The western world hasn’t had to make drastic choices about food. Hardly anyone’s eating insects here; that’s a key source of protein elsewhere. They mostly taste like shrimp or nuts, you know. But I digress. I think you’ve heard the idea that there’s a potential population crash coming. After uninterrupted growth for over six centuries, it looks as though the global human population might reverse very significantly through an infatuation with technology. Some of our best people agree on this point with the Wainwright woman you met at HomEvo. Synthetic friends could displace parenthood. Our position in the global economy might improve very significantly if we maintain our population while numbers decline elsewhere.”
“And the old breed of p
eople? Like me and everyone else. What of them?” I looked over at Gillian, who had joined the prime minister’s personal secretary and his bodyguard at the other end of the room.
“The same as you. A loving partnership with the Limewood people. Assimilation of gene pools.”
“So is this the end of Homo sapiens?”
“Do you think it’s a tragedy that the Neanderthals died out?”
“I suppose not. But then I’m not one.”
“Well to some extent you are. Around three percent of most people’s genes are Neanderthal. Some people I’ve met have a lot more.” He glanced at his bodyguard. “So what exactly are you trying to save? The new people are stronger, more intelligent, generally speaking more attractive, and fully working-fit for longer. And I’ve gathered that you might have an investment in this new race. This is a little indelicate of me.” He turned to Christmas, “Forgive me. But am I right?”
She smiled at me and nodded encouragingly.
“But why’re you interested in my attitude to this social genetic change?”
“My dear fellow, you’ve gained a unique insight into what’s happening in Limewood. Within a few generations the UK’s population will be transformed. If you broadcast what you know now, you might create an hysterical reaction. The media will be full of terrifying stories about venomous spider-people leaving human skins hanging from coat-hooks; dead men piled floor to ceiling in the back bedrooms of nymphomaniac killer sirens; new babies flooding the streets of our cities like a plague of mewling, puking locusts. We need to manage perceptions during a long transition if we’re to avoid civil war and genocide.”
“So are you having this conversation with everyone? Twelve hundred children in Limewood will be dating and mating with hundreds of young people from outside their own community within a decade. How will you stop the outsiders from spreading the scare stories you’re describing?”
“Well in a manner of speaking, I and others will be having this conversation with them. In stages though. Step one will be the recognition of a new skin condition. One that causes the entire skin to slough off periodically, with the benefit of youthful renewal. It’ll be viewed as strange at first and then desirable when its benefits are understood. It’ll have a clinical syndrome type of name given to it by a doctor somewhere.”