A Choice of Evils Read online

  I bought him another drink as before and chatted about everything that was of no interest to either of us. Time was now pushing towards 11 o’clock and a nature call was creeping up on me probably due to the recent curry. Peter finished his pint ready to split. We left the pub separately and that was the last I saw of him.

  The rain had now stopped and the night air had a cold nip in it but I needed the mile walk back to home. I was soon indoors sitting on the throne counting a hundred backwards. Typically the phone rang while my trousers were down but the butler on my answerphone took the message. Having finished, I learnt it was from Dave the weasel. He was waiting for me to phone him. This I did, and as if his hand was on his phone, he answered immediately. He had the information I wanted so we arranged a meeting for tomorrow at the Three Compasses pub in Rotherhithe Street at 11.30am. Dave was always brief on the phone and like Peter, economised with his words. That was understandable. Besides, I had some gremlins in my head that I may be being watched too. It was just a thought.

  I put the passes away knowing I would be using mine tomorrow after my meeting with the weasel. I planned to gain entrance at the Tropical Lab’ just before 5pm and find a good hiding place until I was sure everyone had left the building. My tools would consist of penknife, screwdriver, gloves and twirls. The latter being a special set of retractable adjustable keys that thieves used for opening locks. They didn’t work all the time but had been useful in the past. Now all was sorted for tomorrow and I was ready for a good night’s sleep.

  The last thing I remember was the grin on mouse’s face as I drifted away into fairy land. I remember feeling as snug as a bug in a rug. Whatever my dreams were, I had no memory of them when I awoke the next morning.

  8

  The maniacal laugh of micky mouse woke me with a startle. Seven o’clock was upon me again so I cut him short preferring to listen to the soothing chimes of the carriage clock. A measure of sanity had returned to my head. From bed to kettle to radio, I performed my ritual not forgetting to pop the toast in before I completed my ablutions. Today I would be wearing a suit and tie as I as I planned to enter the Tropical Research Lab’ in Blackfriars Road. I looked forward to collecting the information from Dave the weasel too.

  More reports from the radio were about the war in Afghanistan and the many casualties of it. A bishop had been caught with his trousers down and a young choir boy had reported his abuse which was being investigated by the police. Apart from that, a report that the death sentence had just reduced the American population by one was criticised by the prisoner’s supporters who claimed the man was innocent. Was there anything nice happening in the world, I wondered.

  Having digested that and my breakfast, I was ready for the paper shop. At least it was a dry day and I wouldn’t need to poke any one with my umbrella.

  I felt a spring in my step as I examined the birth of a new day. A black cat stared at me as I passed, spoiling its joy of observing an unsuspecting sparrow. Was the black cat lucky for me? Or was I lucky for the bird? I wondered. I hoped some of it rubbed off on me.

  Back home, I read the papers, had coffee, and geared my mind towards my plans for the day. Eleven o’clock arrived, so I decided to walk to the Three Compasses pub and set off to do so, noting my post box was empty as I left.

  As usual Dave the weasel was already there when I arrived. His crusty old face creased into a smile. He looked somewhat tired, yet come to think of it, he always looked like that. But after a few drinks, he would soon exude a better complexion once his red nose had warmed up.

  He shot out his hand as if mine was a life line. I pumped him a ‘hello’ and ordered the drinks knowing he would be looking for a dinner too. A mixed grill twice would go down well, he agreed. I noted two of his white shirt buttons were missing.

  ‘How’s it going Jack?’ He asked. I told him that in spite of an unhappy world I was still breathing. ‘Same with me,’ he answered. ‘Old soldiers never die, they only fade away,’ he grinned. A burning cigarette in his ash tray was exchanged for a fresh one as he inhaled deeply and I politely stepped back to avoid the smoke stream.

  ‘I’ve gone out of my way to help you Jack,’ he continued. ‘You must be chasing something big according to my information, but you’ll tell me that’s none of my business?’ He raised his eyebrows and just for a fleeting second, he looked the proverbial policeman again. Then just as quick his face returned to his starched smile. We had an understanding. I smiled and ordered us both a large scotch. Amid our small talk, his roving eyes followed the barmaid’s movements as her shapely body seemed to have a hypnotic effect upon him. But this was broken when her smile informed us our meals were ready.

  At table, Dave went into a spasm of eating, hardly waiting for the previous mouthful to be chewed before the next one was lined up for demolition. In between his grunts of approval, his mixed grill was rapidly disappearing as if he were in competition of finishing first.

  It was the best part of an hour before our meals were finished. A satisfied smile lit up his face as he volunteered to speak and from his tattered leather coat pocket, he produced two large sheets of paper. They were print outs about Ahmed and Bruce. This is how it read:

  Hashemi Ahmed. Born 16.08.50

  Occupation: Official Interpreter attached Iranian Embassy.

  Current address: ‘Dreyfus’ Lyndon Gardens, Notting Hill Gate, London.

  Domestic status: No known cohabitee.

  Observations: Frequent flights to Teheran. Attends mosque (Stamford Hill)North London. Of interest to MI5/6. Suspected of covert intelligence gathering. Known to have contacts with Islamic revolutionaries.

  Summary: Has resided at present address for past 3 months.

  Specific: No known scientific interests in UK or EU. No trace/knowledge of joint collaboration with British scientists on government projects. End.

  Note: Enquirer should fill in form SIS/O47 if in receipt of information not indicated in print out. End.

  I let out a controlled sigh. Dave searched my eyes but I quickly masked the disturbance in my mind. I read on to the next print out on Bruce.

  Alexander James Bruce. Born 24.11.53. Chester, UK

  Occupation: Scientist (Dr. BSc. PHd. Hon) Specialist Genetics/Biology.

  Government employee. O S Acts. Code Red.

  Place of work: Tropical Research Lab’ Blackfriars Road, London. GHQ & Porton Down Research Facility.

  Current address: 61/b Willifield Road. Golders Green. London.

  Social history: Only son of 2 siblings. Cambridge hon’s graduate (as above). Parents mid class status. Reside Surrey.

  Domestic status: No known cohabitee. Occasional female liaisons.

  Observations: Prolific supporter of scientific conventions. Holiday’s twice yearly. Bahrain/Majorca.

  Government clearance code: Green.

  Summary: Has resided at current address past 7 years.

  Specific: No evidence/trace of foreign collaboration. End.

  Note: Enquirer should fill in form SIS/O47 if in receipt of information not indicated in print out. End.

  I folded the papers over and promised Dave they would be destroyed when I returned home. He gave a half-hearted smile and reminded me this was classified information. My mind was already in over drive with what I had read. I ordered two more large scotches because this time for sure, I knew I had been taken for a sucker by Ahmed. Whatever was in the XP42 formula was obviously of immense importance to him for whatever reasons. He was not a scientist after all and he gambled on my ignorance to make his proposition seem almost respectable. So just who and what was I really dealing with?

  The weasel saw I was a little preoccupied with my thoughts. It was almost 2o’clock. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together to indicate the balance of the money I owed him. Then he told me again how difficult it was to get that kind of information. It was worth a lot more, he emphasised. I took the hint and offered another £50 making it now £100.

  I could see it was
going to be one of those afternoons for Dave. What the hell, I thought. Someone was sure to eventually pour him into a cab. He was now about ready to start cracking his well-worn jokes to the barmaid. Unfortunately she gave him a smile which was all he needed. I told him I had to go and invited the barmaid to refill his glass. Dave lingered with my handshake almost pulling my hand from my wrist. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ I told him, and left.

  My plan for this evening was to get into the Tropical Research Lab and search for the formula so I made my way home to make the necessary preparations.

  Back indoors, I read over the print outs again. The problem now was that a different picture was unfolding before me. If Bruce was the real scientist and Ahmed wasn’t, then the formula was about something extremely important that only a foreign power would be interested in too. My guess was it was anything other than a formula for gene cloning. But what? I wasn’t in a position to ask and I knew no one in a position to tell me. Ahmed’s story was a plausible one, but now the voice on the tape and the print out all pointed against him as a bona fide scientist. I reproached myself for getting into such a dangerous situation. Ahmed’s story was a clever one alright and my advantage now was that I knew he was a liar.

  I couldn’t help dwelling upon it all. There was a bit of scary paranoia about this whole thing and I felt that I was now a victim as much as Dr Bruce would become. More so, it seemed I had become an unwitting agent in some kind of espionage in stealing a government secret. What if I tried to back out now? Return the money? What if I told Ahmed what I now knew about him? Would that frighten him off? Christ! What was I bloody well going to do? Did I carry on and pretend I was none the wiser? After all it was just a ‘steal to order’ job. Forget the paranoia and get on with it. Steal the formula, hand it over, take the rest of the money owed and forget about it! But then why trust Ahmed to keep his part of the deal? Wouldn’t I become a liability to his organization? Maybe a thief like me was an expendable commodity? There was nobody I could turn too. There was no doubt Ahmed had checked me out before he approached me. He probably knew as much about me as I knew about myself, especially as he had read my autobiography THE MIND OF A THIEF.

  I cursed myself for being such a fool. I was compromised from both sides. If I told Bruce, then I would become involved with the government and police and get arrested. If I about turned on Ahmed, I would become his liability. If I carried out the theft, the government would move heaven and earth to find the culprit responsible. It seemed the lesser of the evils was to carry out the theft and play it by ear. I was cornered.

  It was now 4pm. I stuck a passport photo onto the forged pass and gave it a signature. That went straight into my pocket. The jemmy, screwdriver, twirls, torch and gloves were already in my briefcase. I wore a pin stripe city suit to look the part now my thieving mode had returned. I was now on auto pilot just like I used to be in my old thieving days. Such was the head upon my shoulders as I left home and got in my car.

  9

  As expected, the traffic was heavy as I drove down the Old Kent Road through into Blackfriars Road. It took me almost an hour to drive the six miles, but I found a quiet location to park at. Within minutes, I was walking along the pavement towards the Tropical Research Lab. Trying my best to measure up to the task, I soon approached the foyer and flashed my pass to the security guard. After a brief scrutiny, he pressed the entry button from inside to let me in.

  There was a vast array of staircases and landings, each housing classroom sized rooms. I could see male and female boffins, seriously engaged with microscopes doing research. It was a quiet studious atmosphere as I watched them through a chink in the whitewashed windows. A board gave details of the Lab’s No’s and names of who was occupying each one. There were eight in all. I found Dr Bruce located on floor three, and made my way up, listening to the echoes of my footsteps as I did so.

  Bruce’s Lab was no bigger than any of the others. I examined the door lock from the outside. It was an ordinary 4 lever E type. My twirls would attend to that. A peep through the whitened window saw me a darkened room, where a figure was huddled over a microscope illuminated by an infra-red light. Two other figures were engaged in a similar activity of embroiled dedication. The time was now 6pm. Surely they would be winding up soon, I thought.

  I moved away to find a location to hide. On moving to the top floor, a quick scan around found me a cleaning store cum broom cupboard. It was unlocked. Peering inside, I saw it was big enough to hide in and as quiet as a mouse, I found a space behind some boxes. It was made to measure. On depositing my brief case there, I quickly made for the men’s toilet and passed sweet notes of falling water, before settling in for the wait ahead of me.

  Sitting there in the dark cupboard reminded me of the times when I had hidden in the attics and lofts of huge country house mansions while owners were in. On occasions, I had waited like a cat waiting to pounce on a bird. It all came back to me, as I listened to the faint and distant noises coming from somewhere within the building. Now at last I could hear the distinct calls of goodnight, and the clicks of light switches. Through the keyhole, a small dot of light was enough to see my watch was showing 6.45pm. The darkness gave a psychological feeling of safety in the cupboard.

  On the stroke of 7pm I could hear the heavy footsteps of the security guard checking that the building was empty. An odd click of a light switch sounded as his footsteps stopped here and there as he ascended up a flight of stairs. My ears strained to hear him return down and disappear to the ground level. Finally, as I made open the door, I could hear the turning of the key on the ground floor. Then he was gone.

  For a few moments, I allowed my eyes to adjust to the landing darkness as I listened again. The building was in total silence. The only noises were of the passing traffic outside. Walking on my rubber heels, I felt my way around until I came to Dr Bruce’s Lab. I took my twirls, gloves and torch from the case and immediately got to work on the lock. I picked my way around the tumblers inside it until I found the tension rod. With a roll, a twist and a lift, I collapsed the tumblers and slid back the lock. A slow turn of the handle and Hey Presto! I was now inside shining my torch light around the Lab.

  A steel cabinet of draws caught my eye together with a desk. I remembered I was looking for a red bound file as I searched through each drawer looking for the key words XP42. One by one, I went through each file and sheath of papers as an elimination exercise. Most of them were stamped with a skull and cross bones, the symbol for poison. All kinds of scientific symbols and mathematical data compounded my confusion and ignorance, as I laboured with the searching. After two hours with the cabinet, I turned my attention to a desk nearby. Once again, I did a meticulous search, drawer after drawer, and file by file. So far things were not looking good.

  I moved to a long bench work top, where pigeon holes housed more papers and clip boards. There was nothing to encourage my optimism. As I looked around, my torch beam fell on the handle of a door at the back of the room. I moved towards it. There appeared to be a slit of light at the bottom as if the light was on inside. I turned out the torch and crept towards it. I was right. There was a light on. Now I could hear some noises. Again I listened and determined what they might be like the sound of a mouse treadmill and sounds of scratching within a cage, so without further delay, I opened the door and saw for myself.

  It was quite a large room. It was furnished with cages holding various animals. I saw rabbits, rats, monkeys, a dog and some creatures whose names I did not know. It was obvious these animals were the subject of experiments. Each cage held a clip board giving details of their history. Curiosity moved me along each cage. I noticed the words dosage and toxin code run like a thread through the details of each one. Then like a punch between the eyes, I saw the letters XP42. In the corner of the room stood a fridge with paper labels stuck on its door. The XP42 was one of them. When I peered inside, there were trays of glass phials all labelled. I had to be careful. This was dangerous stuff. My fingers t
urned and lifted them from their slots. Each had its own code of scientific jargon written on a label. As I slow moved each in turn, I saw it! A red label with the skull and cross bones and XP42 in large letters. So this was it?! It was crystal clear, like water. So this was what it was about? Gene cloning my arse! I thought.

  My adrenalin started to pulse as I began to shift around taking it all in. Here in front of my eyes was a lethal collection of killer poisons. All matter of factly being tried and tested, only a few yards from the ordinary streets below. I looked at the cages of confined creatures deprived of a protest. Could they know what man the beast was doing to them? Could they sense the pain and terror in store for them? Questions unfolded in my mind. Was this stuff being used upon humans in third world countries? What about the thousands of people who go missing each year? Victims of experiments? What about me? Survival was the name of the game in this world. Such a thought concentrated my mind on the business in hand.

  Once again, I returned to the laboratory itself. Now I knew that the XP42 formula was actively being used right here! Again I set to work searching where I had not previously looked and came across a cupboard on a wall. It was open. Inside were a diary and other log books together with an array of keys hanging on hooks. I shun the torch on the tabs of different keys. Just then I noticed two keys labelled with the words Deposit. Barclays Bank. XP42 with a telephone number on the tab. Was this a coincidence? I thought not. Surely this had to be where the formula was kept? Having searched everywhere, there was no sign of the red folder in the lab’ or Bruce’s home. It made sense. An important file had to be kept in safe keeping. Where better than a bank vault? I knew that if I took the keys, they would be missed. I wrote down the telephone number of the bank. It would be easy to find out the address of that. Now I would have to plan on how to get the red bound file from the bank.