Ken McClure - Resurrection

Dewar took Karen’s hands in his and kissed her fingertips. ‘You did reach the top,’ he said.

Karen smiled. ‘And you?’ she asked.

‘I’m flying back to Edinburgh tomorrow.’

‘I thought it was over,’ said Karen, looking surprised.

‘I suppose you could say it’s a precaution. There’s just an outside chance the Iraqis might try something to recover their fortunes.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like persuade someone else to help them out.

‘You’re serious?’ exclaimed Karen.

‘Like I say, it’s just a precaution.’’

‘Why can’t they just deport these damned people?’ said Karen angrily. ‘All this pussy-footing around.’

‘That’s not the way things are done in the diplomatic world,’ said Dewar.

‘Well it should be,’ said Karen with a grin.

‘What’s for eating. All I’ve had today is a British Airways lunch.’

‘Pasta, ‘cos it’s quick and easy,’ said Karen, leading the way through to the kitchen with Dewar following along behind.’

Dewar put his arms round Karen from behind as she stirred the sauce and brought up his hands to cup her breasts. He kissed the side of her neck.

Karen giggled and said with mock severity, ‘Stop it, I need to concentrate or I’ll burn the dinner.’

Dewar continued fondling her. He slipped his right hand down to the waist band of her jeans and undid the button.

‘Adam!’

He slowly worked the zip down until he could slide his hand into her panties.

‘Adam, you’re … impossible,’ she murmured, her resolve beginning to weaken as Dewar kept up his caress. ‘Are we going to eat or am I going to turn the gas off?’

The gas was turned off with Dewar, still paying attention to the side of Karen’s neck as they made their way slowly through to the bedroom.

Much later, Karen rolled over on to her front and pushed her tousled hair away from her forehead. She ran her finger lightly along Dewar’s eyebrows as he lay with his eyes closed. ‘Amazing what you can do on a British Airways lunch,’ she said.

‘You know what,’ murmured Dewar.

‘What?’

‘I’m starving.’

The wind was so strong at Edinburgh Airport that Dewar had to lean into it as he stepped outside the terminal building and made his way along to the taxi rank. He hadn’t quite reached it when a black Ford Scorpio pulled up at the kerb beside him and the passenger window slid down under smooth electric control.

‘Dr Dewar?’ inquired a male voice, competing with the sound of the wind.

Dewar bent down to look across to the driver. He didn’t recognise him.

‘Jump in. I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Who are you?’ Dewar asked flatly.

The driver smiled and brought out an ID card from an inside pocket. He undid his seat belt to lean over and hold it up. ‘Name’s Barron, Simon Barron.’

At least it isn’t Bond, thought Dewar, reading the Military Intelligence accreditation on the card. He opened a back door and put his travel bag on the seat before getting in the front to sit with his computer on his knee. He had to confess he was glad to be in out of the wind. He shook hands with Barron saying, ‘Is this part of a government strategy to save on taxi fares?’

‘Not exactly,’ smiled Barron. ‘But it’s an interesting idea. They told me you were coming in on this flight so I thought I’d meet you. Wretched day. We should talk, exchange business cards as it were.’

‘Makes sense,’ agreed Dewar. ‘We don’t want to be getting in each other’s way. Are you on your own here?’

‘No,’ replied Barron without volunteering how many there were. ‘Not that w’re exactly being overtaxed. Siddiqui doesn’t go anywhere apart from round the corner to visit a local coffee-come-bookshop, the Bookstop Cafe. Just stays put in the Iraqi student centre.’

‘How about the other one, the policeman, Abbas?’

‘Much the same. A few visits to the local shops, that sort of thing. As far as we can determine he doesn’t meet with anyone or go anywhere special and there’s no timetable or regular pattern attached to his movements. That tells us something in itself, I think.’

‘What?’ asked Dewar.

‘That they’re just putting off time. They’re waiting for something, something to happen.’

‘That’s my fear,’ said Dewar. ‘If they didn’t have a reason to stay, they would have left the city before now ’

‘And that something could be a virus, I understand,’ said Barron.

‘You’re well informed. That’s the worst case scenario.’

‘I’m also told you’re in a position to give us a list of those who might be capable of supplying them with it?’ said Barron.

‘Not exactly,’ corrected Dewar. ‘I think it possible I can come up with a list of people who have the necessary expertise but I can’t point you at anyone who would actually be liable to consider doing it.’

‘The possibles will be fine,’ said Barron. ‘We’ll take it from there, see what we can come up with.’

‘I hope that doesn’t mean staff harassment at the institute,’ said Dewar. ‘We’re talking about an outside possibility here.’

‘We’re very discrete.’

Dewar glanced at Barron out of the corner of his eye. He was in his mid thirties, tall, dark-haired, fit looking, well dressed, like himself, in an establishment sort of way. He exuded an air of confidence which extended to his driving. He moved in and out of gaps in the traffic quickly and surely. At the big roundabouts on the western outskirts of the city he accelerated quickly into the first available space without hesitation, seemingly knowing at all times what was inside of him, outside of him and coming up behind.

‘I expected Special Branch to be doing the surveillance work,’ said Dewar.

‘That might still be true,’ agreed Barron with just a hint of a smile..

‘Are you saying you two don’t talk to each other?’ said Dewar, the surprise showing in his voice.

‘You know how these things are,’ said Barron. ‘Professional jealousies and all that. The issues in this case aren’t clearly defined. Some aspects say it’s ours, others say theirs. It’s all a bit awkward. I take it you’re staying at the same hotel as last time?’

Dewar glanced at him, wondering how he knew but simply confirmed that he was.

They had reached the centre of the city. The words ‘all a bit awkward’ were going round in Dewar’s head, and he didn’t feel at all encouraged. This was a prime facie case of too many cooks about to spoil the broth, he feared. ‘How do I get in touch with you when I’ve compiled this list?’ he asked as Barron brought the car to a halt outside his hotel with a slight dip of the nose under braking.

‘Don’t bother. I’ll get in touch with you,’ said Barron. ‘When d’you think you’ll have it?’

Dewar shrugged. ‘Tomorrow some time.’

He got out of the car and opened the back door to retrieve his travel bag. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

The Scorpio moved off with a slight squeal of protest from the tyres, leaving Dewar standing on the pavement looking after its disappearing rear. ‘Good bye, Simon Barron, man of mystery,’ he murmured. It was like watching the Lone Ranger gallop off at the end of every old TV show. If the job was finished, just where the hell was he going at that speed and why? If the Iraqis weren’t doing anything, why the rush to keep station outside the student centre in Forest Road?

Dewar contacted Grant at police headquarters as soon as he’d unpacked and settled into his room. He swung his legs up on the bed and sat propped up against the headboard.

‘Can’t stay away, huh?’ said Grant. ‘Must be the Scottish air.’