Prisoner 441 Read online

  ‘No, but I am certain it happens. There are a lot of young military personnel stationed at Porton Down and the turnover is large. Some say that up to now some 15,000 servicemen have passed through the establishment.’

  ‘Gracious, that’s quite a few potential ‘volunteers’. Would they really understand what they are volunteering for, in your opinion, after all most were National Service conscripts.’

  ‘I doubt it. Think about it. Not even the scientists knew. If they did, why experiment? They can give a scientifically calculated guess, but that’s all. There’s bound to be risk, but I would be doubtful if they had to give each volunteer a medical prognosis. This is a secret establishment. I doubt, also, if Government Ministers know the whole truth of what goes on.’

  ‘So, would it surprise you, if there were deaths during experiments at Porton?’

  ‘Not in the least. They are dealing with very dangerous and toxic chemicals.’

  Chapter 5

  Solomon Isaacs’ Apartment London

  The tall man in a long black raincoat had been replaced by a young woman dressed in a floral skirt that hung beneath her brown woollen coat. He’d seen her linger outside the office equipment megastore looking somewhat forlorn as he worked his way through the list of items he required to be delivered to 22A Belvoir Mansions Belvoir Square Finsbury Park. He knew Mrs Green would be in to take the delivery, she always was in the morning. The Warden had let him speak to her, in privacy, days before his release so he’d not feel so alone out there. The tail from where she had stationed herself, whoever she was, could have no idea what Solomon was ordering. At the cash desk he pocketed the smaller items and waited for the man to check the next morning delivery date for the larger items. No, he didn’t want “set up” advice or extended insurance warranties.

  As he set out to walk to his new home, the woman was replaced by two men this time dressed to blend in this most of the pedestrians walking the street, one with a woollen black hoodie. Solomon was not as nimble as he used to be but had been used to shrugging off tails in his home town of Munich way back. He entered the Red Lion public house and ordered a coffee and lingered by the bar.

  ‘See that guy with the hoodie.’ The barman looked at the door onto the street. ‘He and his mate are following me. I am afraid something bad might happen if I leave through the front door.’ The barman looked at Solomon. He’d seen enough street crime and took the bait. He leaned in closer to Solomon as he took a cloth as if the clean the bar.

  ‘Out the back, across the yard, there’s a locked gate. Here’s the key, I’ll follow after you and relock it. Turn left and follow the path. Good luck, my friend.’

  Certain that he’d shaken his tail, Solomon relaxed for the first time in hours. His mind was travelling back and forth trying to figure out who had authorised the tail and why. Nothing was ever what it seemed. He’d been through too much not to be concerned, not about his physical safety even though he was an old man, he wanted some time to be free again, to complete his story, his conscience of guilt.

  The key to his basement apartment was just as Mrs Green had explained. He entered 10A Belvoir Mansions in the attached block next to where Mrs Green lived but separated with different entrances.

  Two days later unseen by prying eyes, Mrs Green took delivery as agreed of the packages from the megastore. Over the fence dividing the two apartments at the back of Belvoir Mansions, Mrs Green handed them the Solomon.

  ‘What are you going to be up to, Solomon. Not a terrorist, are we? Your lease says no explosive materials,’ she said with a big smile.

  ‘It’s a computer and all the bits. It will keep me quiet for years.’

  ‘Rather you than me. I prefer the television, myself.’ Her broad London accent coming to the fore.

  Inside, Solomon unpacked the printer and set it on the edge of his desk connecting the cables to his computer. Even though he’d been away from the world for some considerable, time working in the prison library had enabled him to keep pace with developments in computer technology if only how to use the machines, not mend them. His desk overlooked a small park enclosed by black rusting railings with a small gate. He was given a key by his landlady and when the sun was shining or he needed to rest his eyes, he’d wander up the stone steps from the basement flat to sit a while on one of the wooden seats, his eyes taking in a very different world than the one he’d left behind all those years ago. He’d deliberately rented a basement flat. Anything else would be too much of a shock, when he’d been used to a cell with a window out of reach perched high on a wall as company, a basement felt secure for the moment.

  This morning was going to be the start. He opened “Stealing the Staircase” and started to type, translating each letter, punctuation mark, number as he’d remembered them and gradually the page formed. After several hours had passed without noticing, Solomon was well into the first part of his story. He sat back and stretched his arms above his head flexing his fingers, staring out of the sitting room window in front of him momentarily, a shadow in front silhouetted against the sun hovered and disappeared. Had they found him again and his hideaway. Was it the same man that had followed him from Belmarsh or one of the two he’d lost in the Red Lion. It certainly wasn’t the woman. Was he being paranoid, he dismissed the thought, for the moment.

  Each morning as he set his coffee on the side of his desk, he’d looked at the book and then his printed paper stacked by the side of it. Yesterday, the mid-point was reached. A kind of boredom had set in. Whilst he was in Belmarsh, it had been exciting each day as every word and thought was new added to which an element risk, breaking the rules without being caught. He needed a break and, in any case, it was a dull day outside with the threat of rain in the air.

  Well hidden under a slightly too large raincoat, he walked into the post office and bought a roll of brown tape and two large sheets of brown paper and enquired about guaranteed signed delivery. Not satisfied that the manuscript would be in safe hands with the Post Office, he was directed, by the kind lady behind the counter with an overpowering voice, to the offices of a courier service further down the street.

  Clutching his bag with his recent purchases, he exited the post office. The man that was in the adjoining queue abruptly left just as his counter became free and followed Solomon into the street. He knew that whatever Solomon was engaged in, it was something highly confidential that he’d have to report to his boss at Scotland Yard, London’s headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Service responsible for policing most of London but for the moment it was “observe only” order.

  ‘OK, keep your eye on the old man. Let me know anything unusual. Jones will join you in rotation. No need to say but stay out of sight. He maybe old but remember he was once a prodigious brain and has a lot of history. Anything suspicious.’

  What was the old man up to? Inspector Vernon Smith tilted back his chair and looked out of the window watching the rain touch the glass and run down in rivulets disappearing beyond the frame, lost in his own thoughts. He needed to see the contents of the parcel. He was sure Solomon Isaacs was too intelligent to use a delivery service for transporting whatever it was in that parcel. He stood and began to realise that his surveillance team had been less than honest about their tracking. Did Solomon Isaacs know someone, somewhere wanted to know what he was doing. Had his early surveillance been too sloppy?

  They’d lost him once and it was only by pulling a massive favour that his contact in Belmarsh Prison revealed Solomon’ address. They’d glimpsed his computer from a walk past. He’d been sitting there for days after that, but what had he been doing before they re-established contact. After Solomon had ditched his tails, he been working on several strategies and now he had the answer. Once the first draft of the manuscript was complete, he printed it out in full ready for editing by hand. In the meantime, he searched the internet. “Stealing the Staircase” had been out of print for years. He wasn’t surprised. Who would want to buy a mediocre adventure story like th
at? He had only one option, but it would cost and take time.

  Mrs Wendy Green had grown into quite a friend and was only happy to help and Solomon had been very generous with his small gifts of her favourite tipple, a fortified wine named Dubonnet. Not the sort of drink held by most alcohol outlets. She knew lots of people and he knew she’d do her best for him if he ever asked.

  ‘Wendy, I wonder if you can find someone to do me a favour,’ he said one early evening.

  ‘What is it Solomon? I could do it for you.’

  ‘I have a book.’

  ‘So that’s what you’ve been hiding away from me.’

  ‘Yes. I want you to deliver it to my editor in person in Fleet Street. Could you do that?

  ‘Yes, of course but why can’t you do it? ‘Take the no.41 bus or a taxi. It’s that easy.’

  ‘It’s not that easy. I don’t want anyone to know about the book quite yet. There’s a lot of people still alive that may not be altogether happy to read about themselves and my editor has told me to be very careful, hence the subterfuge, Wendy.’

  ‘I’m not going to get into any trouble, Solomon. Am I?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. What day do you usually go to the chiropodist, Wednesday, isn’t?’ Wendy nodded. ‘Good, take the taxi as usual but this time take another afterwards. Here I’ll pay.’ He handed her two twenty-pound notes.

  ‘That’s far too much.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. The taxi will have to wait for you outside. I will need you to make sure it is given only to this person, no-one else. Not a receptionist. No-one else.’ Solomon handed her the details of the recipient. ‘I’ll give you the package on Wednesday morning, over the fence.’

  Solomon returned to the computer and started to scan the pages of “Stealing the Staircase” into the computer from the original book he’d taken from Belmarsh. It was a long and laborious job. The assistant in the technical department of the computer megastore, for half an hour’s tuition, had taken him through the process of converting the page scans into a printable word format. When he’d finished, Solomon wrapped it in brown paper and put it with the one for Wendy of the shelf ready for Wednesday.

  **

  Police Sargent Warren flashed his badge.

  ‘The old man that just left a parcel for delivery, I need the destination address and recipient.’

  The surprised man did as he was told and retrieved the package and swivelled it face the policeman who noted down the details with a surprised look on his face.

  ‘Is that the scheduled time of arrival? Thanks. Forget this, young man. Never happened.’

  His boss listened carefully to Sargent Warren with incredulity pervading his face.

  Temporarily lost for words, he stuttered. ‘Grrrab it when it arrives and bring it to me immediately,’ he shouted.

  Solomon smiled to himself that evening when Mrs Green arrive home and gave him the receipt that Jonny Wightman had signed and knowing that the second parcel with the typed version of the Stealing the Staircase to Heaven would have arrived and, he hoped, would now be the subject of shaking heads and a great deal of embarrassment, somewhere in the police headquarters and give them a reminder that they weren’t dealing with an idiot.

  He poured her another Dubonnet as she described her most exciting day in years.

  ‘To us, a great team. Cheers.’

  Chapter 6

  Southampton England 1961

  Jonny Wightman now needed someone close to Government who could answer a more few questions. It was now clear to Jonny that the papers Mrs Osborne had brought to him were likely to be authentic.

  He’d ring Sam at home, he’d have a few contacts.

  ‘How are you feeling, Sam? Any better?’

  ‘No, not really. Goes on forever, one day, I feel better and get up then the next, I’m bad again. Anyway, what do you want, Jonny?

  ‘Actually, I need an introduction to one of political contacts, MP or someone close to Westminster.’

  ‘What on earth for, you digging up dirt?’

  ‘No. I need some historical information about Bio-ethics?’

  ‘Bio-ethics. What the hell are you doing, Jonny?’

  ‘Look, Sam, I’ll let you know all when I am certain that we have a story. Anyway, can you help me, Sam, or not? I’m just doing some research for an article I think we could use when we are short of news. Something our educated readers might appreciate,’ he lied, trying to put Sam’s suspicious mind at rest.

  ‘We don’t have any educated readers, Jonny, but I admire your sentiment. Speak to our Local MP, Roger Gainsforth. He’s a dear chap, bit old now but used to be attached to the Director of Public Prosecutions (DPP) office some years back. Ex- barrister. Hang on.’ Jonny waited as he heard Sam rifling through some papers. ‘Take down this number and mention me.’

  ‘Thanks, Sam. See you soon. No, sorry, don’t want your ‘flu in the office. Speak soon.’

  Jonny rang Roger Gainsforth and arranged to see him after his weekly surgery for his constituents held at the Civic Centre down the road from Jonny’s flat. The MP had typically asked for a list of questions before hand which Jonny had provided.

  The day had been a shocker, rain and more rain. By the time Jonny reached the Civic Centre despite it being only a short walk, he was drenched and his umbrella had seen better days having been turned inside out several times by the gusting wind. He shook it out and palmed the excess water from his coat and waited outside the MP’s office, watching a straggle of local people coming and going at regular intervals. Some smiling, others shaking their heads in disappointment. Eventually, Roger Gainsforth emerged, carrying his briefcase and coat. It was clear in his face and demeanour that he didn’t want any more aggrieved locals pestering him about such trivial matters which they could, with a modicum of sense, solve themselves.

  ‘I’m getting too old for this malarkey. Don’t you quote me, Jonny. May I call you, Jonny.’

  ‘I most certainly, Sir.’ Jonny would have doffed his cap if he had one.

  ‘Good. Let’s get to the Golden Hind over the road. They have quiet little corner and a very good beef pie.’

  Jonny followed in Roger Gainsforth’s wake as he strode across the road, expecting the cars to make way for his bulk, for he was now a portly white-haired man in his early 60s. Once inside they settled into a booth well clear of the bar and the tobacco smoke that hung in the air swirling as the door opened and shut at the other end of the public house.

  ‘Well, Jonny, you’ve come to the right chap. Interesting set of questions. I spoke to Sam and he told me about this ambitious young man he was mentoring. Happy to help, but not as an official source, you understand.’

  ‘I don’t intend to quote you at all. I just need to understand attitudes and the application of the law in reality and, of course, your expert opinion.’ Jonny hesitated and just to emphasize to point, added ‘but certainly not to quote.’

  Roger and Jonny sat silently as they tucked into the beef pies.

  ‘Your right, Sir, they are good,’ said Jonny scooping the last morsel onto his fork.

  ‘OK, let me start at the beginning. You asked about ‘Informed Consent’. You may already know that in the past, not all experiments on humans required consent. The subjects were volunteers. You know the phrase, deemed consent.’

  Jonny nodded.

  ‘What about the law? Didn’t it say anything?’

  ‘Not really. To avoid litigation, most physicians usually obtained consent after they had explained the nature of the operation. If I remember correctly the principle was enshrined in English law in the 1830s but I have to check the case law to be certain.’

  ‘Did things change after the gas attacks in the First World War?’

  ‘Yes. The British military, after that war, vowed that such events would not happen again and that they find ways to combat the situation. I was still a barrister in the 1930s and in our London Chambers, we had a man, Sir Norman Gibbs, who was asked by the British Medica
l Council (BMC) to advise them on the ethics of human experimentation. After you rang me, I looked up some papers I had come across during my time with the DPP. They are in the public domain. Here read this.’

  Jonny took the hand-written note and read aloud what Gibbs had said.

  ‘I am of the opinion that the consent of a person on whom the experiment is made would afford a complete answer to any claim for damages …I assume that the nature of the risk would be explained…..and that the experiment would be conducted with all due care and all precautions suggested by medical science would be taken….’

  Jonny handed the note back to Roger Gainsforth.

  ‘No. you keep it. After this, things got a little bit more difficult. Well, this was fine for the 1930s but after the next war, with all the atrocities and the discovery of new nerve gases.’

  ‘Like Sarin, that the Germans had tested in the concentration camps.’

  ‘Yes. That was one thing but don’t forget, Jonny, there was another threat. The one from Russia, the Cold War and nuclear proliferation.’

  ‘So are you telling me that the Nuremberg Code was going to be ignored in the interest of self-preservation of Britain and the rest of the free world.’

  ‘Ignored is too strong a word, Jonny. I’d use the words “economically varied”, if you get my drift. The Nuremberg Code is a set of research ethical principles for human experimentation set as a result of the trials at the end of the Second World War. On August 20, 1947, the judges delivered their verdict in the "Doctors' Trial" against Karl Brandt and 22 others. These trials focused on doctors involved in the human experiments in concentration camps. No, the aim of the Code was to find a balance, between, on the one side, the right of the individual to choose whatever he or she wanted and, on the other, the need to benefit the human race by pushing the boundaries through experimentation.’