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progressed over the years to become a much-valued member of the Sci-Med team, and the admiration was mutual.
    Steven left his fifth-floor apartment in Docklands and took a taxi to the Home Office. He wore a dark-blue suit, light-blue shirt and Parachute Regiment tie, and cut an imposing figure as he entered the building and showed his ID. No less imposing was John Macmillan, who in many ways could have been an older version of Steven, tall, slim and erect but with swept-back silver hair instead of Steven’s dark mane.
    ‘Good to see you, Dunbar. Take a seat.’
    Steven sat and listened to Macmillan’s apology for bringing him back early from leave. ‘Jamieson and Dewar are both out on assignment right now so I was faced with asking one of the scientific chaps to take this on or recalling you. I decided on you.’
    ‘I’m flattered,’ said Steven with only the merest suggestion of a smile.
    Macmillan looked at him for a moment, searching for signs of sarcasm, but didn’t find any. ‘Anyway, you must be aware of this Ebola thing on the African flight?’
    ‘I read about it in the papers,’ replied Steven. ‘Nasty.’
    ‘It could have been much worse but the emergency procedures for just such an eventuality worked well, and the problem was contained with only five dead – not that that’s much comfort to them or their families.’
    ‘So what concerns us?’ asked Steven.
    ‘The aircraft had come from Ndanga and the passenger who fell ill and infected the others was a Foreign Office official. He had been in Africa, making arrangements for a visit by the Foreign Secretary. The Foreign Office is worried.’
    ‘It would be crazy to go ahead with the visit until any outbreak is over,’ said Steven.
    ‘The Ndangan authorities say there is no outbreak.’
    ‘So how did our man get the disease?’
    ‘Precisely.’
    ‘God, you’re not going to send me to Ndanga, are you?’ exclaimed Steven.
    ‘Nothing like that.’ Macmillan smiled. ‘The Foreign Office would simply like to be assured that the relevant authorities aren’t lying. I’ve already been on to the WHO in Geneva. They’ve heard nothing about an outbreak, but I thought you might get in touch with some of your friends and acquaintances in the medical charities and see what you can come up with?’
    ‘Will do,’ said Steven. ‘Are they sure it’s Ebola?’
    ‘There’s been nothing back from Porton yet, but from all accounts it has to be one of the haemorrhagic fevers.’
    ‘But it could be something other than Ebola, like Lassa or Marburg disease. Not that it makes much difference: there’s not a damned thing anyone can do about any of them, anyway.’
    Macmillan nodded and said, ‘I understand that there’s going to be a briefing for officials tonight at the Foreign Office. Maybe they’ll have some news. I think you should go along.’
    Steven agreed.
    ‘Miss Roberts will give you details.’
    Steven spent the remainder of the afternoon telephoning friends and colleagues to find out which medical missions and charities were currently operating in Ndanga. He established that three were, including the large French organisation, Médecins sans Frontières. He had a friend who worked as a co-ordinator at their Paris office. He called her.
    ‘Simone? It’s Steven Dunbar in London.’
    ‘Steven! How nice. It’s been ages. How are you?’
    After an exchange of pleasantries Steven asked about haemorrhagic fever in Ndanga.
    ‘No, I don’t think so,’ replied Simone. ‘Give me a moment …’
    Steven looked out of the window of his apartment while he waited. It was sunny but there were black clouds coming in from the west.
    Simone came back on the line. ‘No, no reports at all of haemorrhagic fever in Ndanga or the countries surrounding it at the moment.’
    Steven liked hearing the word ‘haemorrhagic’ spoken with a French accent. It made him smile. ‘Thanks, Simone,’ he said. ‘I’m obliged.’
    ‘So when will we see you in