Project Venom (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Several hours later, two smartly dressed people joined the steady clatter of commuters going up and down the grey steps of London’s Charing Cross Underground station, on the edge of Trafalgar Square. Until recently, the man had worked for MI6. The woman had been an undercover agent for the CIA. Now, they worked for SWARM.

Neither of them looked particularly remarkable, or memorable, which was exactly what they intended. Nobody around them in the crowded, echoing hall of the Underground
station thought they were anything other than a couple of ordinary business people.

They rode the long escalator down into the depths of the station. The gentle clanking of the machinery beneath them reverberated off the curved ceiling above. The dusty, oily smell of the place made the woman wrinkle her nose.

They marched along with the crowd. The man checked his watch: just after 8.27 a.m. They’d be late if they didn’t get a move on.

While everyone else hurried ahead, lost in their own thoughts or in the music thrumming through their earphones, the man and the woman turned a sharp left into a narrow, dimly lit passageway. Nobody took any notice of their sudden detour.

They halted at a door marked “Staff Toilet – Out of Order”. The woman placed her hand against one of the wall tiles to the side of the door. Hidden inside it was a fingerprint-ID system. The tile flashed green and bleeped, and the door clicked open. With a quick glance over their shoulders to make sure they were unobserved, they went inside.

Beyond the door was an elegantly designed lift. The man spoke, apparently to the ceiling. “This is SIA agent code name J, access beta-delta-411, confirm.”

“SIA agent code name K,” said the woman, “access tango-alpha-924, confirm.”

“Confirmed,” said a recorded voice.

The lift descended rapidly. Moments later, it arrived at SWARM headquarters, part of the UK’s Secret Intelligence Agency base, hidden deep beneath central London.

“Come on,” said Agent J, “we should have been at the meeting five minutes ago!”

They made their way down further flights of stairs to the laboratory. It was a long, low room. Blue-tinted light came from panels in the floor. Along the centre of the lab was a line of raised workbenches. All around were display screens, machinery, files and racks of scientific equipment.

Gathered around one of the workbenches were SWARM’s senior members of staff. Agent J and Agent K were SWARM’s human operatives, whose job was to assist the micro-robots on their missions, if needed.

“You’re late,” said Beatrice Maynard. She was a tall, well dressed woman with blonde hair. Her tone of voice alone was enough to deliver a sharp telling-off.

“Sorry, Ms Maynard,” said Agent K.

Simon Turing, SWARM’s Data Analyst, pulled a face behind Queen Bee’s back and Professor Miller, SWARM’s stern Technician, frowned.

“I’ve called you all together,” began Queen Bee, “to brief you on a very serious situation. Up until now, the details have only been known to myself and to Alfred.”

SWARM’s resident Programmer, Alfred Berners, took his hands out of the pockets of his cardigan. On the workbench in front of him, raised up from their resting positions inside the workbench, were the glowing, complex electronic frames in which the micro-robots were kept. The six who’d returned from their overnight mission were recharging their energy cells and listening to the briefing. Widow’s frame was empty.

“A few days ago,” said Queen Bee, “an email came to my attention. It had been sent by a man
called Pablo Alva, from the offices of a medical research company called Smith-Neutall Bio Labs. It was sent to a terrorist in South America, a member of an underground network known as EBLS, the East Balboan Liberation Squad. Agent J, I understand you encountered this group while you were with MI6?”

“Yes,” said Agent J. “East Balboa is a small republic in South America. The East Balboan Liberation Squad was formed by rebels who wanted to get rid of the brutal, corrupt dictators who run the country. For years, the EBLS was dedicated to peaceful protest, until it was taken over by hard-line revolutionaries. All they wanted was power, and they didn’t care how they got it. Today, the EBLS is a terrorist organization operating in several countries. MI6 consider them a major threat.”

“The EBLS are a serious danger,” said Queen Bee. “So you can imagine the reaction when this email was discovered.”

She touched a couple of sensors on the workbench, and a screen on the wall blinked into life. It displayed a screenshot:

“Why would Alva send such a message using his own email account?” said Chopper the dragonfly, his voice coming from a speaker built into the frame surrounding him. “And from his own place of work? Wouldn’t that be risky?”

“It would,” said Alfred Berners, brushing a hand through his untidy white hair. “But he’d need to prove his identity to the terrorists. All sorts of data relating to IP addresses and routing servers can be mined from even the simplest email. The EBLS would need to see that the
message did indeed come from someone inside Smith-Neutall, and not from, say, MI6, trying to trap them.”

“Can we be sure Alva is the one who actually sent the email?” said Morph. “Couldn’t it have been someone pretending to be him?”

“Access to the company’s computers, including all email, is heavily encrypted, and securely recorded,” said Queen Bee. “Anyone trying to break into Alva’s account would show up on multiple logs and, according to Sirena’s hacks from last night, nobody did.”

“Why would the EBLS trust Alva?” said Nero.

“He used to be a member,” said Queen Bee. “However, he broke off all contact with them after they ditched peaceful protest and turned to violence. Or so he claims.”

“Do you think he was sent by the EBLS to infiltrate Smith-Neutall? To gain access to dangerous materials?” suggested Professor Miller, adjusting two pens that sat in the top pocket of his spotless white lab coat so they were precisely aligned.

“We don’t know … yet,” said Queen Bee.
“What we do have is a final analysis of the chemical data collected by Sabre on last night’s mission. Simon?”

Simon Turing cleared his throat and started tapping at a nearby keyboard. A long series of formulae showed on the 3D display that floated above the robots’ workbench.

“Well, there’s good news and bad news. The bad news is that this poison is every bit as lethal as we suspected. Nero’s calculations were correct, a miniscule amount of this stuff can kill an adult human. I’ve never seen anything like it. You’d only have to get it on your skin to be counting your last minutes. It’s an extremely powerful nerve agent, which means it mucks about with the way your body functions, but it also acts like a virus. You could put it into a spray cannister, pump it out into the air, and everyone within range would be dead as a doornail.”

“What would happen to them?” asked Chopper.

“Well, if you want the gory details…” shrugged Simon. “First, you’d start bleeding all over, then your eyes would—”

“Thank you, Simon, we get the idea,” said Queen Bee. “We’ve only just had our breakfast. You said there was good news too?”

“Ah, yes,” said Simon, raising a finger for emphasis. “This poison has a very complicated chemical structure. It is heavier than air. Which means that, although you could disperse it through the air and kill a lot of people, you can’t spread it all that far. At least, not in one burst.”

“Only a limited area could be affected by one attack?” said Professor Miller.

“Exactly,” said Simon. “You could kill, for example, a large building’s worth of people, but it wouldn’t spread much beyond that. An area as big as a football pitch or two, but definitely not an entire city. To kill a large area, you’d have to keep on pumping more into the atmosphere all the time.”

“But how long does it remain dangerous for?” said Alfred Berners. “Won’t it contaminate an area forever, no matter how large or small?”

“No. That’s the good news, part two,” said Simon. “Although this stuff isn’t technically alive, it still has what you might call a lifespan.
Concentrated inside the phial, it could stay dangerous for years. But let loose, it soon loses its power. Spray it over those football pitches and it’d be safe to kick off after about three days.”

“So it’s uniquely dangerous, but has limitations,” said Queen Bee.

“It’s the perfect terrorist weapon,” said Agent J.

“Exactly,” said Agent K with a shudder. “You can target specific people or areas, without the contamination spreading and the risk to your own life being too high.”

“Now that this poison has been uncovered,” said Professor Miller. “Isn’t it a matter for the police, rather than SWARM? After all, if this company has developed a secret bioweapon, they’ve probably broken any number of national and international laws.”

“Unfortunately, that’s part of the mystery,” said Queen Bee. “Smith-Neutall is dedicated to medical research. They develop medicines to fight diseases. The creation of a deadly poison is totally outside their normal work. That’s why we’re working on the theory that Pablo Alva is acting alone. He seems to have used the company’s
resources to follow his own research.”

“So why was Alva’s email picked up?” asked Agent K. “Because of his past links to EBLS?”

“No,” said Queen Bee. “It was intercepted at GCHQ, the UK government’s monitoring agency in Gloucestershire. It was flagged up only because of where it came from and the particular message it contained, the words it used. The fact that Pablo Alva sent it was simply the icing on the cake, as you might say.”

“If this intel came from GCHQ,” said Agent K, “then we’re not the only ones who know about it.”

“It’ll be all over MI5 and MI6 too,” said Agent J.

“I’m afraid so,” said Queen Bee. “We’re not the only ones in this race. I have a meeting at MI5 in a few minutes. I’ll impress on them just how dangerous the poison is. We’ll code-name it Venom. In the meantime, MI5 should be doing something useful and quietly keeping tabs on Alva’s home, phone and internet use. Let’s hope they do the sensible thing and leave everything else to us. This situation gives us a chance to put a stop to the EBLS’s entire operation by watching every move that Alva makes. That’s why Widow
is at Smith-Neutall right now. It’s vital that Alva doesn’t get spooked and break off contact with the terrorists. We may never get a chance like this again. We watch, we gather evidence and only then do we strike. Is that clear?”

“Logged,” replied the robot bugs.

CHAPTER THREE

“Pablo Alva must be arrested immediately.”

A short, round man with a moustache was addressing a dozen MI5 secret agents seated around a large oval conference table. The nameplate outside the man’s office said “Morris Drake – Inland Containment Officer”. He stood in front of a large screen, showing a slightly blurred photograph of Pablo Alva getting into a car. Alva was thin and scruffy, with a heavily lined face and a sour expression.

“This was taken yesterday afternoon as Alva left work,” said Drake. “I’ve had his flat and
the Smith-Neutall building watched twenty-four seven. Nothing unusual has been observed. We’ve also been intercepting his email, both at work and at home, and the only messages that have come in or out of his account are a competition entry form, and his birthday list sent to his mum. Bless.”

The MI5 agents laughed.

“So, nothing unusual there either. The internet connection into the Smith-Neutall building shows no odd or unexpected traffic, and Alva’s home broadband connection has registered only a couple of hours on BBC iPlayer and a ten-minute go on Ultimate Zap-Master 4.”

“What’s the conclusion we draw from all this?” said Drake. “Anyone?”

The agents glanced at each other for a moment. One of them nervously raised his hand.

“That Alva’s not contacted the EBLS again yet, sir. We should continue to monitor.”

“Wrong!” cried Drake. “It means he must be getting his messages out some other way, and we’ve got to nick him right now before the EBLS launch an attack.”

“What about the poison, sir?” said another agent. “That’s still safely under lock and key, isn’t it? I mean, they can’t launch an attack without it.”

“Of course they can’t,” said Drake. “And it’s got to stay that way. That’s why we must arrest Alva now, before he does the deal. He’s not going to steal the poison until the last minute, is he? He’s not going to keep it in a box at home! He’ll snatch it and run.”

The image on the screen changed. Now it showed the layout of the Smith-Neutall building.

“We need to move fast,” said Drake, “because I have it on good authority that we’re not the only branch of the secret service taking an interest in this. And I won’t have MI6 or the SIA poking their noses into our business. Internal security is our patch, not theirs. I don’t care what goes on halfway around the world, our job is to root out people like Pablo Alva on home turf. It was some secret SIA department who managed to analyze the poison, and we need to make sure they don’t start taking over this operation. We all know what those top-secret weirdos are like. They’ll be sending in invisible sniffer dogs or robot cleaning
ladies or something!”

The agents laughed.

“And I’m not having them thinking their stupid gadgets can do our job better than us!”

The agents applauded.

“We cut off exits at Smith-Neutall here, here and here,” said Drake, pointing to positions on the screen. “I want their labs secured. I want every last member of staff questioned. I want an armed guard on that poison around the clock. I want Alva in a black van and heading for the nearest interrogation room faster than you can say … something very short. Are we clear?”

The top-floor office at Smith-Neutall Bio Labs was cool and comfortable, but the three people in it were quite the opposite. Sitting behind a large desk was Gwen Stirling, the Chief Executive, who was in charge of running the whole company. On the other side of the desk were the company’s Head of Science, Dr Kirk, and the Sales Director, Peter Seede.

“The one and only positive in all this,” said Gwen in a low voice, “is that nobody outside the company knows about the poison.” She tapped her long fingers beside the untouched cup of coffee on her desk. Her angular nose seemed to point accusingly at the Head of Science. “You’ve made sure of that?”

“Oh, absolutely, Gwen,” burbled Dr Kirk. He was even more tense and nervous than the others. He fiddled with his thick-framed glasses and his shoes jittered on the soft carpet beneath them. “There are only the three of us who know it exists, plus my assistants Pablo and Emma. They’re both completely reliable, we can be totally sure they won’t tell anyone.”

“Can we?” piped up Peter Seede, the Sales Director. “Do they understand how bad things could get? If news ever leaks out that we’ve created this horrific stuff, nobody would ever buy any of our medicines again. We’d be shut down by the authorities and go straight to prison, thanks to your bungling!”

“We’re very well aware of that, Peter,” replied Gwen. “Calm down.”

The Sales Director shifted uneasily in his seat, smoothing his dark hair. He tweaked at the cuffs of his expensive designer suit. “Sorry, Gwen,” he said at last. “You’re right, we mustn’t panic. But let’s be clear about who’s at fault here.” He threw a hostile glance at Dr Kirk.

“You know perfectly well it was an accident!” spluttered the Head of Science, shifting in his seat nervously. “An accident! We were so close to the correct formula and then the computers tracking the chemical analysis registered unexpected mutations!”

“The cold-cure formula?” asked the Chief Executive.

“Yes,” said Dr Kirk. “As you know, I’ve been working on it for years, on and off. Finding a cure for the common cold would bring us fame and fortune. We’d have an honoured place in the history of medical science. My assistants and I were sure we were on the right track.”

“And you really don’t know what happened?” growled the Sales Director.

“On paper, everything worked perfectly,” said Dr Kirk. “There was a mutation of the genes we
spliced into the formula – something we didn’t account for.”

“I don’t see why you can’t just destroy the evil stuff right now,” said Peter.

“Because we must conduct tests. We simply must!” said Dr Kirk. “We have to understand how and why our cold-cure formula went so horribly wrong. If we destroy it now, we could easily make the same mistake again.”

Gwen Stirling stood up and gazed out of the window overlooking the car park. She took some deep breaths. “How long will the tests take?” she said.

“Two days,” said Dr Kirk. “Maybe three.”

“And once they’re done, the poison can be incinerated?”

“Yes, burned away,” he replied. “Every trace will be gone.”

“OK,” she said. “In the meantime, we stay calm and we stay quiet. Peter, we go ahead with the sales trip to Thailand as planned –” the Sales Director nodded – “We act as if nothing has happened. In a couple of days, this will all be over.”

“In a few hours, this will all be over,” said Drake, Inland Containment Officer of MI5, leaning closer to his communication screen. “The Smith-Neutall building will be sealed off and Pablo Alva will be in custody.”

“My section is already active on this,” said Queen Bee. “Storming the building would be foolish.”

“Oh, would it now?” sneered Drake.

The two of them glared angrily at each other, like circling tigers fighting over territory.

“We have a perfect opportunity to end the threat from the East Balboan Liberation Squad,” said Queen Bee. “If you go charging in, that opportunity will be ruined.”

“My only concern is securing the poison and apprehending those responsible for it,” barked Drake. “I’m not interested in any of the SIA’s undercover, clever-clever game-playing.”

“There are larger issues at stake here!”

Drake shook his head scornfully. “Who are
you, again, exactly? What do you do at the SIA? What’s your section? Huh?”

“You know I can’t tell you that,” said Queen Bee.

“Exactly,” spat Drake. “You lot make me sick! If Alva gets away, if that poison gets out, who’ll be in the biggest trouble, eh? The section that isn’t top secret, the one people know exists, my section – MI5! Headlines in the press, finger-wagging on the news, the whole works. I refuse to be bossed around! There’s nothing your agents can do that mine can’t.”

“Really? I’ve heard that one before,” said Queen Bee sarcastically, arching an eyebrow.

“This is my operation,” growled Drake.

“I already have an undercover agent at work inside Smith-Neutall,” said Queen Bee. She let Drake assume she meant a human, not a micro-robotic spider.

“So what? Back off.”

The screen went blank.

Queen Bee paused for a moment to compose herself. All she would ever allow others to see of her was an iron shell of authority and determination.
However, now and again her shell would crack a little.

She stabbed at the control panel beside her. Simon Turing’s face appeared on the communication screen.

“Yes, Ms Maynard?” said Simon.

Queen Bee stared into the screen. “We take action, and beat MI5 at their own game. Activate the SWARM.”

“OK,” said Dr Kirk, calmly, “we carry on as normal. Everything’s fine, and nothing is going to happen.”

His two lab assistants, Pablo Alva and Emma Barnes, glanced at each other.

“Are you sure?” said Alva. He spoke in a low voice, his East Balboan Spanish accent strong.

Smith-Neutall’s Head of Science nodded. “Absolutely. I’ve just been speaking with the Chief Executive and the Sales Director. They’re agreed that this whole terrible situation stays one hundred per cent secret.”

The three of them were gathered in a corner of the laboratory at Smith-Neutall, unaware that Widow was hidden behind a nearby glass beaker, monitoring their every word. Her pointed metal legs held her motionless. Microscopic sensors pulsed across her domed abdomen.

She’d been following her orders. She had tracked Pablo Alva’s movements from the moment he’d arrived that morning.

“I’m so glad nobody else knows,” said Emma. “I was worried we were all going to get arrested or something.”

“We continue to run our tests on it,” said Dr Kirk, “and as soon as they’re done, we’ll destroy it and everything will be back to how it was. We’ve no reason to worry.”

“I could hardly sleep last night,” said Alva, “just knowing that stuff is around. I keep getting this terrible feeling that I’m being watched.”

“Me too,” said Barnes. “Guilty conscience, I guess.”

“We’ve nothing to feel guilty about,” said the Head of Science. “It was an accident. Now, I suggest we all return to work. Those tests must
be done as quickly as possible.”