Crisis (23 page)

Bannerman drove the Sierra as far up the Inverladdie
Farm track as possible and then parked it out of the way of any vehicle that might want to pass.
He had hoped for good weather but the fates had
other ideas. There was a strong westerly wind and the sky promised rain in the not too distant future.
Bannerman changed his shoes for his climbing
boots and zipped himself into his shell jacket and
waterproof trousers, before protecting his face with
a woollen balaclava and pulling up his hood. He
collected the rucksack containing MacLeod’s Geiger
counter from the boot, before locking up the car
and setting off up the east side of the glen. He was
breathing hard by the time he reached the head of
the glen and could see the power station away to
his right.

Sproat had been correct about the terrain on this side of the glen. The ground fell away steeply and
was riddled with cracks, gulleys and peat bog. It
looked as if at some time in the past the ground
had breathed deeply and caused a general upheaval
in the landscape. This was not the kind of place to
break an ankle in, he reminded himself as he went
over slightly on his left one. He was going downhill
but the effort required seemed greater than on the
climb up the glen.

Although the power station was probably not
more than a mile away, as the crow flew, the
need for constant detour and climbing down into
and up out of craters meant that Bannerman had
covered nearly three times that distance before he
reached the area around the perimeter fence. After
a break of a few minutes to get his breath back, he had a cigarette in the shelter of a large rock before
starting out to follow the line of the fence down to the railway track and beyond to the sea where he
planned to begin his examination of the ground.

He got out the Geiger counter from his rucksack
and checked the condition of its battery, despite having inserted a new one that morning. He turned
the sensitivity switch on the side to B-CHECK. The
needle rose well past the red minimum mark, so he
turned the switch to its most sensitive setting to start
a rough scan of the area. With his back to the sea, he
crossed the single-track railway line leading to the
quarry and began to walk slowly back up the line
of the fence. He held the sensor in front of him and
swung it slowly backwards and forwards to cover
as wide an area as possible.

Apart from an occasional click from the instrument
as it received natural radiation from the atmos
phere the pointer hovered quietly on the base line.
Bannerman pushed his hood back a little so as not
to miss any sounds coming from the small speaker
in the side of the instrument. Suddenly he heard a loud rasping sound, but it came from behind him. He turned round to see an inflatable boat, its bow bouncing over the waves, coming straight for the
shore. Its outboard engine was buzzing angrily.

As he watched, Bannerman grew alarmed when
he realized that he was the object of attention for
the men on board. The three of them jumped out
into the shallows below him and waded quickly to
the shore to start running towards him. They were
carrying automatic weapons. He soon found himself
being gripped firmly on both sides by the arms.

‘What’s your game, then?’ demanded the third man who stood in front of him with sea-water
dripping from his oilskins.

‘I think I might ask the same of you,’ said
Bannerman, with more courage than he felt. ‘I am
on Inverladdie Farm property and I have permission
to be here.’

‘A smartarse, eh?’ sneered the man. ‘Let’s get
him back.’

Bannerman protested loudly but he was man
handled down to the beach and forced into the
boat. Once on the move, he sat quietly. The sound
of the engine and the heavy sea made conversation impossible and, for the moment, there was no place
else to go. He looked at the three men who seemed to be doing their best to ignore him. All were dressed in
the same weatherproof uniforms with a badge above
their left breast which said, SECURITY. Their boots
were of the commando type which laced up well above their ankles. They sat with the butts of their
automatic rifles on the wooden floor of the boat.

The boat traced a large circle out of Inverladdie territory and round to the back of the power station where it was brought in to a small bay. The man at
the tiller left it to the last moment to cut the engine,
with the result that the boat coasted on to the shingle
by virtue of its own momentum and slid to a halt on
the shore.

‘Get out!’ rasped the first man out to Bannerman.

Bannerman complied, introducing an air of resigned
lethargy to his movements in an attempt to salvage
his dignity.

‘
Move!’ another man ordered, punctuating his
request with the muzzle of his weapon in Bannerman’s
back.

Bannerman was marched up the beach and
through the gates of the station. He was directed
into a long, low building and put in a room devoid
of furnishings, save for a table and two chairs. One
of the armed men remained in the room with him
until a new face appeared. The newcomer was in
his thirties, clean shaven and dressed in a dark suit
with what looked to be a college tie. Judging from
the stiffening of his guard when the man entered,
Bannerman guessed that the new man might be in
charge of security.

The man seated himself opposite Bannerman at
the table and said, ‘Name?’

‘Who wants to know?’ replied Bannerman.

The man leaned across the table and said, ‘Me.’

‘And who are you?’ said Bannerman, evenly.

The man stared at Bannerman for a moment then
brought out an ID wallet and put it down on the
table in front of him.

Bannerman looked down at it and read that the bearer was ‘C. J. Mitchell, Head of Security.’

‘I’m Bannerman.’

‘First name?’

‘Ian.’

‘Well, Ian Bannerman,’ said Mitchell sitting back
in his chair. ‘You are in trouble.’

‘One of us is,’ replied Bannerman.

Mitchell sized up Bannerman in silence for a few
moments before saying, ‘What were you doing at
the fence?’

‘I was on Inverladdie Farm property. I had per
mission to be there and what I was doing is none
of your business.’

‘Is that where you left the Citroen?’ asked Mitchell.

‘What Citroen?’ asked Bannerman.

The 2CV with “Save the Whales” in the back
window and “Nuclear Power No Thanks” along
the back bumper. That’s what all you buggers drive isn’t it?’

‘Who exactly are “all us buggers”?’ asked
Bannerman.

‘The club,’ Mitchell sneered. “The lentil eaters, the
organic turnip heads, the gay, vegan, lesbian, whale
saving, league against nuclear power brigade.’

‘Oh I see, you thought I was trying to blow up
the station,’ said Bannerman, making the notion
sound so ridiculous that Mitchell’s mouth quivered
in anger. ‘I’ll ask you again, what were you doing
by the fence?’

‘And I’ll tell you again, it’s none of your business,’
said Bannerman meeting the security man’s eyes
with a level stare.

The impasse was broken by one of the men from the boat coming in and placing Bannerman’s Geiger
counter on the table. ‘He had this with him, sir,’ the
man announced before leaving.

‘Well, well, well,’ purred the security man. ‘What
do you know, the boys’ own radiation monitoring
kit. Just what the hell did you hope to find?’

‘‘
I didn’t
hope
to find anything,’ replied Bannerman.
‘I wanted to know if there had been any leakage of
radioactive material to the west of the station.’

The security man seemed intrigued. He leaned
towards Bannerman and asked, ‘Why?’

‘
That’s my business.’

‘Your business?’ said Mitchell, putting a different
inflection on the word.

‘Yes.’

‘A journalist? Is that it? A crusading investigative
journalist. Isn’t that what you scaremongering busy-
bodies call yourselves? Is that it Bannerman?’

‘You really have a problem don’t you,’ said
Bannerman, quietly. ‘Have you ever thought about
a career more suited to your personality, say, light
house keeper in the Arctic Ocean?’

Without warning, Mitchell swung his fist at Bannerman and caught him high on his left cheek
bone. The force of the blow knocked him backwards
and his chair toppled over to send him sprawling to
the floor.

Bannerman sat up slowly holding his hand to
his face and breathing erratically, partly through
surprise and partly through shock. Mitchell got
up to stand over him. ‘Wait outside,’ he rasped to the guard by the door. The man, who Bannerman
could see was uneasy about what he was witnessing,
complied immediately.

‘What now?’ asked Bannerman. ‘Electrodes on my
testicles?’

‘You lot make me sick,’ sneered Mitchell. ‘Get
up.’

Bannerman got to his feet. He had recovered
from the blow and was holding his temper firmly
in check. He said, ‘I’d like to see the station manager
please.’

‘He’s a busy man,’ said Mitchell.

‘So am I,’ said Bannerman. He enunciated every
syllable with arctic coldness. ‘I am Dr Ian Bannerman,
consultant pathologist at St Luke’s Hospital London,
currently investigating the deaths of three local men at the request of the Medical Research Council and
Her Majesty’s Government.’

Mitchell looked as if he was about to lay an egg.
His eyes suggested his brain was asking his ears for a
recap on what they’d just heard. ‘ID?’ he croaked.

Bannerman showed him identification.

Mitchell looked down at the table surface as if it
were to blame for everything. ‘Why didn’t you say
so in the first place?’

‘Because I didn’t choose to,’ snapped Bannerman. ‘I was on private property when your men abducted
me and brought me here. I pointed this out to them at the time and to you when I got here but you took
no notice. Now get me the station manager.’

Mitchell left the room and Bannerman lit a ciga
rette. His fingers were trembling slightly.

Some ten minutes passed before the door opened
and Bannerman was politely invited to follow one of
the security men. He had suddenly become ‘sir’. He was taken to the main building of the power station
and then by elevator to the top floor where he was
shown into the station manager’s office. Mitchell
was with the manager and Bannerman could see
that the man had been fully briefed about what had
happened.

‘Leave us, Mitchell,’ said the manager curtly and
Mitchell walked past Bannerman with a small,
uneasy smile.

‘My dear Doctor I don’t quite know what to
say,’ said the station manager, coming round from
behind his desk to usher Bannerman to a chair.
‘I’m John Rossman. I can only offer my most
profuse apologies and ask you to understand some
of the pressures my people have to cope with.
Nuclear power stations are natural targets for every
inadequate misfit in society who’s looking for a cause to crucify himself for. Constant vigilance is a must.’