of cruelty to people? The question genuinely interested him. He wondered idly if these bleeding hearts would be able to teach him how to feel.
He took a long drag of his cigarette then crushed it to death in the car’s pull-out ashtray. He didn’t have time to think about that shit right now. He had a job to do. And the fucking protestors were stopping him from doing it.
How long were they going to be? Beyond them, a single light was burning in the window of the institute. Only one car remained parked in the staff car park.
The car belonged to Dr David Twigger, a scientist specialising in the study of viruses in animals. The protestors were outside because of the macaque monkeys and rats he used in his experiments. He argued that although he wished there was an alternative, using the animals was essential. He pointed out that the research carried out here was on diseases that affected animals not humans. They were trying to save animals, stop the viruses that affected pets, farm animals and wild creatures. The protestors argued that this was all very well, but why should some animals suffer so that others might be saved in the future? They also stated their belief that the only reason so much effort was put into studying these diseases was because scientists were worried they may spread to humans. Avian, or bird, Flu was a prime example.
It was a moral maze – Sampson was glad he had no morals – and in actual fact the institute did not attract much in the way of protests, unlike Huntingdon Life Sciences and other controversial places where the scientists and staff were threatened daily. The protests here were low-key and mild-mannered, carried out by a small bunch of locals.
Ignoring the protesters, Dr Twigger worked until after dark, dedicated to his research. All the other staff had gone home and now it was just Dr Twigger and a couple of security guards. The building was surrounded by CCTV cameras and barbed wire, but because this lab concentrated on animal diseases and didn’t store viruses that could harm humans and because of the low-level protests, security was not too tight, especially compared to some of the research facilities Sampson was familiar with. The protestors waited outside so they could scream abuse at Twigger as he drove home, possibly pelting his car with eggs for good measure, but no-one had ever physically attacked him or the building.
Tonight it looked as if Twigger wasn’t going to come out. Not until the early hours anyway. Sampson watched the little group of protestors gather in a huddle, debating what to do next. From their body language it looked like the younger woman wanted to stay, but the others, especially Beardy, wanted to go home to their beds and the sleep of the righteous.
The majority won the argument and they shuffled away, taking their placards with them.
Sampson watched them go. At the corner of the street, they parted, the three older members of the group heading one way while the young woman went the other. For a moment he considered following her. He could grab her and lock her in the boot of his car until later. See if she could teach him something.
But he didn’t have time. Twigger might come out while he was away, meaning Sampson would have to come back tomorrow. That wasn’t going to happen. He wanted to get this over with tonight.
He watched the sallow vegan woman walk away. She was probably a student at the university. She would never know what a lucky escape she’d just had.
He opened the glove compartment, grabbed a balaclava and pulled it over his head. On the front of the balaclava were three letters: ALF. Everyone would think the protestors had suddenly decided to step up their efforts. Next, he put on a pair of black leather gloves, then opened the car door, got out and walked towards the fence.
On the way, he spotted some leaflets that the protestors had dropped. He picked one up and studied it. A cat stared out at him – the most miserable cat he’d ever seen – and the text below detailed the experiments that had been carried out on this cat and many others like it. ‘Tortured in the name of science.’ Sampson shook his head. These people didn’t know the true meaning of torture. He could have taught the vegan girl if he’d had time, but now it was too late. The leaflet would come in handy, though. He folded it and stuck it in his back pocket.
Climbing the fence was easy for him. At the top he used a pair of wire cutters to snip through the barbed wire, then dropped gently onto the grass on the other side. He was thirty yards from the building. He took a deep breath. He needed to work quickly; this was what he was good at.
A camera swivelled towards him as he broke into a jog towards the building. He knew the camera would record the letters on the balaclava. He knew the security guards – probably ex-police or ex-army, dulled by too many nights sat staring at screens on which nothing ever happened – would panic and come out to meet him before calling for back-up. And even if they did call for back-up, Sampson would be in and out before they arrived.
He was right. The outside lights came on and the door was flung open. Two guards came running out, one with a crewcut, the other with short blond hair. The crewcut came towards him first, shouting ‘Stop’ as he ran. But in the harsh light Sampson saw confusion on the guard’s face. He didn’t understand why the guy in the balaclava was still running towards him in a straight line. Charging him. As Crewcut stopped and raised his gun, Sampson, without stopping, unsheathed the knife he had just pulled out of his pocket, releasing it expertly, it spun in the air before landing deep in the guard’s throat.
Crewcut dropped to the grass. A few steps behind, the blond guard saw his colleague fall, and stumbled to a halt. He raised his gun and fired, but Sampson had anticipated this and veered to the left, the bullet cracking past him. Before the guard could fire another shot, Sampson was upon him.
He grabbed the guard’s arm at the elbow and wrist and, raising his thigh, pushed his forearm swiftly down and snapped it. The guard choked on his own scream. Sampson took hold of the sides of the man’s head and, with a single twisting motion, broke his neck.
He stepped over the body and ran into the building through the door the inept security guards had left open, looked left and right to get his bearings, and ran towards the laboratory where Dr Twigger’s light burned bright.
Sampson kicked open the lab door and found Dr Twigger waiting for him. The scientist stood at the far end of the laboratory, holding a metal bar. Sampson imagined the doctor probably kept this bar with him for security. What a waste of time. Behind him stood a row of six cages, each containing a macaque monkey. The brown-furred monkeys stared at him implacably from behind the bars. Between Sampson and the doctor was a bench bearing lab equipment: high-powered microscopes, a computer, test tubes, a jumble of flasks and dishes and the other paraphernalia of lab life. A pair of rubber gloves lay inside-out on the bench, as if they’d just been hurriedly removed.
Dr Twigger was a thin man in his late forties with hair that needed cutting. He looked like a frightened man who was desperate not to show that fear.
‘Get out,’ he said shakily, holding up the bar.
Sampson walked up to him and punched him in the face before the doctor could swing the metal bar, which he wrenched from Twigger’s grip. He threw it across the lab, the loud clanging making the monkeys jump and screech. They leapt about their cages, baring their teeth. Sampson glanced at them.
Twigger pulled himself upright. Blood trickled from his left nostril. He wiped it on the sleeve of his white coat.
‘If you’re planning to free these animals you’re making a big mistake. They’re sick and will attack humans. A monkey in that condition can do a lot of damage.’
Sampson ignored him. He walked over to the computer and pressed a key on the keyboard, keeping one eye on the doctor. He examined the figures on the screen, then crouched down and
