Ken McClure - Resurrection

‘So you think there was something in this smallpox scare after all?’ said MacLean.

‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Dewar. ‘Hammadi working with fragments of the virus and having the necessary skills, the presence of Siddiqui in the city, Hammadi’s subsequent suicide. It all adds up.’

MacLean nodded sagely. ‘But you’re convinced nothing came of it?’

‘I’m as sure as I can be in the circumstances,’ replied Dewar. ‘I think if Hammadi had delivered the goods Siddiqui and his sidekick would have left immediately. As it is, they’re still there.’

Macmillan raised his eyebrows and Dewar said, ‘I know, that raises another question but anything that Hammadi had been working with was either destroyed or re-allocated after his death.’

‘It’s a pity they didn’t find any incriminating evidence of what he’d been asked to do,’ said Macmillan.

‘The scientist who cleared out Hammadi’s reagent bottles certainly didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary,’ said Dewar. ‘But he concedes that there were unlabelled tubes and also tubes with labels that he couldn’t decipher among Hammadi’s stocks. In the circumstances I don’t suppose Hammadi would have put warning signs and a skull and crossbones on them.’

‘You mean he might have devised a code to disguise what they were?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything elaborate. The staff there often use their own initials to label tubes along with sequential numbers so AH1, AH2 etc would have meant something to Hammadi but not necessarily anything to anyone else.’

‘I see and you say they were all destroyed?’

‘They all went into the bio-disposal system at the institute.’

‘What does that entail?’

‘Discarded glassware and their contents are steam sterilised in an autoclave before washing and being put back into circulation Plastic tubes are autoclaved too but they melt at that temperature so they’re not re-useable. The deformed plastic residue is destroyed later by incineration.

Macmillan looked thoughtful. ‘Why did the bastards have to try it in the UK,’ he murmured. ‘I fully expected to be reporting to WHO that there was no problem at our end.’

‘Sorry about that,’ said Dewar.

Macmillan smiled. ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘As long as we’re sure that the attempt failed?’

‘We can’t be one hundred percent certain but all the signs are pointing to failure. Siddiqui didn’t get what he wanted.’ said Dewar.

‘Good.’

‘But he’s still there.’ said Dewar. ‘And that worries me,’ he confessed.

You think it conceivable he could still do it?’

Dewar gave an uncomfortable shrug. ‘I think it would be naive to assume that the Iraqis gave their entire stock of virus fragments to Hammadi so I think we should assume they probably still have the capacity.’

‘Has Siddiqui any chance of persuading someone else in Edinburgh to take Hammadi’s place?’

‘There are no other Iraqi nationals in the institute. I checked.’

‘If coercion isn’t a possibility that leaves money as an incentive,’ said Macmillan.

‘I can’t see any scientist being persuaded to do something like that for money. Far too risky and totally immoral.’

‘But if the price were right … ‘ mused MacLean.

‘I suppose so.’ Dewar understood too much about human nature to argue the point. But even if such a person could be found there would be practical difficulties, he pointed out. They’d presumably want to live to spend the money. That would mean having to use the high containment facilities at the institute and that would mean attracting attention. They would be noticed — even if they did it at night. Research isn’t a nine to five job. There are always people around.’

‘Nevertheless … if the money were right … ‘ persisted MacLean. ‘I think you’re right to be concerned about Siddiqui’s continuing presence. He could be negotiating with someone or he could be past that stage and waiting for more fragments to arrive.’

‘I take it security has been stepped up after the balls-up over his entrance to the country?’ asked Dewar.

‘Tighter than a gnat’s rectum,’ said Macmillan.

‘What would you like me to do?’

Macmillan thought for a moment. ‘Let’s err on the safe side. Go back to Edinburgh and wait it out with Siddiqui. You know the people at the institute. You know who’s capable of doing what and who’s not. That could prove invaluable. I’ll have a word with the other agencies and request that they do nothing without running it past you first.’

‘Let’s hope they agree,’ said Dewar.

Macmillan smiled at Dewar’s reservations. ‘I think they’ll see it makes sense in this case,’ he said. ‘They won’t know a damned thing about smallpox.’

‘Do you want me back there tonight?’

‘Tomorrow will do.’

Dewar got a taxi to take him and his stuff back to the flat. He hadn’t expected to be going back north so he now had a clothes problem. There wouldn’t be time to launder what he had in his travel bag and what was lying in the laundry basket; he’d have to buy some new stuff. He checked his watch; it was 4.30pm. Plenty of time; he’d said he’d be at Karen’s at seven. He took a trip to a branch of Marks and Spencers and stocked up on what he needed. On the way back he stopped off at Oddbins and bought two bottles of wine to take round to Karen’s. There was just time to take a shower, dress — using one of the new blue shirts he’d just bought and catch a cab to get him to Muswell Hill just before seven.

Karen lived in a ground floor flat conversion of a terraced villa in north London. The flat’s best feature was that it had a south facing lounge with French windows, leading out into a pretty little walled garden. The upper part of the villa had been unoccupied for some time, the old lady who had lived there was dead and her estate was not yet settled.

This meant that the garden was not overlooked; it had been secluded and private throughout the summer. Karen and Dewar had used it, when the weather allowed, to do their paperwork and read up on background material for their jobs. Their relationship was good enough to sustain long periods of silence and they had spent many summer evenings there with only the sound of insects and the muted strains of Chopin drifting out from indoors. Tonight the doors to the garden were closed against a chill autumn wind that blew multicoloured leaves across the grass in mini whirlpools.

Karen was wearing a white Tee shirt and jeans. Over this she wore a yellow apron with a large red wine bottle on it. The word Ciao was scrawled across it diagonally. She was barefoot which made her seem even shorter when Dewar took her in his arms and gave her a hug.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.

‘Must be almost a week,’ said Karen mockingly but not displeased at Dewar’s show of affection.

‘Eight days,’ he said. ‘How are you? Still knackered?’

‘Tired but happy — as Enid Blyton used to say,’ said Karen. ‘I’m just so glad it’s over. It’s always the same with urban outbreaks; you know exactly what to do, you set up everything by the book but after a couple of days without success you start to imagine that you’re never going to able to pin it down. It’s going to spread until it affects the whole population and you’re not going to able to do a damned thing about it.’

‘But you’ve never failed yet,’ said Dewar.

‘I know. And you tell yourself that but it’s no good, you still start to think that way and that’s what really tires you. It’s a sort of mental assault course. You’ve clambered over the wall before but this time it seems even bigger. You can see your bleeding finger tips scraping back down the stone as you fail to reach the top and slide back.‘