Resurrection

by Ken McClure

  ‘Right you are sir,’ said Dewar.

  ‘I think this one is probably just a paperwork exercise but good luck anyway.’

  Dewar had lunch at a pub by the river on the way back to the flat. It was sunny so he sat outside in the autumn sunshine with a pint of Guinness, watching the river traffic go by and thinking it might be the last time he’d do that this year. He was pleasantly surprised at how quiet the pub was. It encouraged him to open his briefcase and take out the folder he’s been given. He flicked through the contents while he waited for his prawn salad.

  Basically it was a list of the universities and research institutes currently holding DNA fragments of the smallpox virus. There were twelve, two in Scotland, the rest in England. Eight had already complied with the audit request, four were still to file. The two in Scotland were among the four. Of the eight that had made returns, seven had submitted lists that agreed with the central source file. One, the Institute of Biosciences in Manchester appeared to have two more fragments than they were officially credited with. That seemed like a good starting point, thought Dewar as he put away the file and took a sip of his beer.

  Hector Wright turned out to be a short fat man in his late fifties. He had a shock of white hair, a pugnacious expression and eyes that looked and learned all the time. He would never manage to look elegant or distinguished, whatever he wore, but no one would ever sell him a vacuum cleaner he didn’t want.

  ‘So you want me to tell you all about smallpox,’ said Wright as he slumped back down in his chair behind his desk after shaking hands. Dewar caught the body language of a man about to launch an interrogation. ‘Why?’

  ‘I understand you’re a leading expert on the subject,’ said Dewar, deliberately misunderstanding the question.

  Wright nodded thoughtfully. He knew that Dewar had side-stepped the question. He also reckoned that he wasn’t going to get anywhere by pursuing it. ‘I don’t know if anyone can ever claim to be an expert on that little bastard,’ he said with feeling. ‘When I worked with it all these years ago it always seemed to have some new trick up its sleeve. You’d think you understood it then — I know it’s stupid to say this about a virus for God’s sake — it’s about the most basic life form you can get and some people would argue that it isn’t even that — but it was almost as if it had a mind of its own, that it was malevolent, if you get my meaning, that it wanted to kill you.’

  Dewar saw that the man meant what he was saying; he wasn’t just coming out with it for effect.

  ‘I don’t mind telling you I got pretty mad when these people put a stop to the WHO proposal to wipe it out altogether back in ‘95. All that rubbish about destroying something that God had created and what an interesting little beast it really was. Jesus! the only function a smallpox virus ever had on this earth was to kill human beings. There’s no intermediate vector, no animal hosts, no life cycle of its own; it only affects us and we’re talking about a fifty percent kill rate with Variolamajor.

  ‘As much as that?’

  And that doesn’t mean to say the other fifty percent get better like nothing ever happened. More often than not it leaves the survivors brain damaged, sometimes mad, often blind, always disfigured. If you come out of it with only a face that looks like you stood in front of a grenade when it went off you can count yourself a very lucky person indeed.’

  ‘It’s that bad?’

  ‘The worst.’

  ‘You’ve actually experienced it in the field then?’

  ‘1975, Somalia. I was with the WHO team who encircled the last outbreak. Like Apaches round a wagon train we were, closing in for the kill, vaccinating everything that moved so the disease couldn’t spread out from its epicentre.’

  ‘It must have given you a tremendous sense of achievement when you finally realised that you’d actually done it, wiped out a disease that’s plagued man throughout recorded history and probably before that.’

  ‘Damn right. Me and a few others, mainly Americans, got pie-eyed for a week but you know, it hardly made the papers back here.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘People in this country had already forgotten what smallpox could do. By that time it was something that happened in far off lands. If we’d wiped out something that affected Cheltenham it might have been a different story but Africa? Bottom of page five if we were lucky. Until of course, the accident happened.’

  ‘Accident?’

  ‘Birmingham. Everyone thought it was okay to work on the virus under lab conditions. After all, you know exactly where the virus is at all times in the lab. Glass containers are much more predictable than human beings; they don’t cough, spit, throw up over you or bugger off to Majorca when they feel like it. We didn’t have the fancy containment facilities they have today and all the rules and regulations to go with it but we were still pretty careful in our own way. Each lab did its best; some were better than others of course. It was up to individual consultants to impose their own rules but Birmingham was a lesson to us all.

  The damn thing got out of what everyone thought was a secure lab. It killed a woman medical photographer almost before we knew it and you know what the worst thing was? To this day we don’t know what really went wrong. We don’t know how it got out.’

  Dewar was picking up a lot from Wright. The man was just talking conversationally but he found himself already developing a more than healthy respect for the virus.

  ‘After that there was no more working in hospital labs and the like with live smallpox. Thank God, there could have been many more accidents.’

  ‘My information is that there are only two places on earth that are allowed to store live smallpox?’ said Dewar.

  ‘That’s right, Atlanta and Koltsovo although some pessimists think it still might be viable in corpses of people who died of the disease.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ said Dewar.

  ‘I’m not talking about bodies that have undergone normal decomposition,’ said Wright. ‘I’m talking about bodies subject to special environmental conditions. It’s been suggested that the permafrost regions of Russia might still harbour live smallpox in bodies buried there nearly a hundred years ago. The ground conditions would be just right.’

  ‘Requiescat in pace,’ said Dewar.

  ‘Amen to that,’ agreed Wright.

  ‘I’m told the entire smallpox genome has been DNA sequenced,’ said Dewar.

  ‘That’s right. We know every last base pair of its evil little self. A string of letters you can’t even make a word out of and it’s killed millions.’

  ‘Does that mean you could actually build it in the lab if you wanted?’

  Wright smiled as if recognising the real reason for Dewar’s interest. ‘Who in their right mind would want to do that?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘I didn’t say anything about right mind.’

  ‘Point taken. No, there are easier ways of playing God. The genome has been cut into fragments so that researchers can work on bits of the virus.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘And I’ve just heard about a ban being placed on the movement of these fragments,’ said Wright, putting two and two together. ‘Does that mean that you suspect someone of trying to re-assemble them?’

  ‘There’s no real evidence of that. It’s just a precaution,’ said Dewar. He didn’t want to insult a man of Wright’s intelligence by pretending that nothing at all was amiss.

  ‘But it’s something you’re looking into?’

  Dewar nodded.

  ‘I wish you luck and hope to God, it really is just a precaution.’

  ‘For the sake of interest, Doctor, how would you go about doing it.’

  ‘Reconstruct the virus? I wouldn’t even consider it.’

  ‘But if you had to?’

  ‘I suppose I’d ligate the fragments or maybe start with another pox virus, something like cowpox and try converting it into Variolamajor with appropriate DNA changes.

  ‘Would that be easier?’


  ‘Not necessarily but not having tried it I couldn’t say for sure.’

  Dewar admired the scientific answer. ‘I take it the authorities would know all about the possibility of altering another pox virus to become smallpox?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Wright. There’s not only a ban on any institution having more than twenty percent of the smallpox genome in terms of DNA fragments, there’s also a ban on having any other pox virus in the same institution at the same time.’

  ‘If I were to tell you that an English lab has admitted to having two more fragments of the virus than it’s registered to have, would you find that suspicious?’

  Wright threw back his head and laughed. ‘God no,’ he exclaimed. ‘You know what university labs are like. The only paperwork they’re interested in is the kind you publish to advance your career and get more grant money. Anything else is a pain that someone else will do but no one ever does. When the complaints come in they just scream, “infringement of academic freedom” and it works like a magic mantra. Politicians back off like vampires from a crucifix. They don’t like to be thought philistine’

  ‘I know how it goes,’ agreed Dewar.

  Wright opened his desk drawer and took out a sheaf of papers. ‘I got these together for you,’ he said. ‘Everything you wanted or didn’t want to know about the smallpox virus.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m grateful.’

  ‘Don’t be. They paid me a consultancy fee. There’s one more thing they asked me to do.’’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Vaccinate you.’

  Institute of Molecular Sciences

  Edinburgh.

  ‘I’ve got that list you wanted,’ said George Ferguson.

  ‘Good,’ said Malloy. ‘Everything check out?’

  ‘Sure, I’ve been through all fridges and freezers, checked all the fragment stocks. Mind you, there were quite a few tubes and bottles among Ali’s stuff that I didn’t recognise. I don’t know what you want done about these?’

  ‘I’ll ask Pierre to take a look, see if he recognises anything, maybe clear out what we don’t need,’ said Malloy. ‘Admin sent me down the official fragment record for the lab. Maybe you could do a final check, your list against theirs before we submit it. I don’t need any more shit in my life.’ Malloy rummaged through his desk drawer and came up with a brown internal mail envelope which he flicked open to check it contained the right thing before handing it to Ferguson. ‘There you go. Have you seen Pierre this morning?’

  ‘He’s in the computer room, working on the sequence data.’

  Malloy nodded. He was just about to say something else when the air was filled with the deafening sound of a siren. Ferguson and Malloy looked at each other but speech was pointless until the sound subsided. When it finally did, the noise was replaced by deathly silence. All extractor fans and air conditioning had shut down. The continual hum that no one noticed was suddenly seriously missed.

  ‘Bio-safety alert,’ said Malloy. ‘First we’ve had. Let’s hope it’s a false alarm.’

  Under the terms of a bio-accident alert, staff had to remain exactly where they were until further notice. Doors were sealed so that no one could enter or leave; the windows in the building were designed not to open anyway. The main objective was to contain any infectious agent at loose inside the building.

  Five minutes passed before the telephone rang. It had never sounded so jarring before.

  ‘Malloy.’

  ‘Paul Hutton here. We’ve had an HIV incident on Level 3. There’s been a spillage in the containment lab.’

  ‘So what’s the problem if it’s in the containment lab?’

  ‘The air lock was open when it happened.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Malloy.

  ‘Two of Cairns’ people had been working in there. When they were preparing to leave one turned back for some reason — maybe he forgot to do something or maybe just to check something but he knocked over two vials of live virus almost at the same moment as the other one opened the air lock.’

  ‘Sod’s law,’ said Malloy. ‘But it’s been contained within the outer lab?’

  ‘As far as we know. Cairns’ people seemed to know what they were doing. They stayed where they were inside and sounded the alarm.’

  ‘You’ve arranged a decontamination team?’

  ‘There’s a bit of a problem.’

  Malloy closed his eyes.

  ‘Malcolm Cairns and his two post docs are away at the AIDS meeting in Chicago. There are only a couple of first year PhD students left in Cairns group.’

  ‘Malloy let out his breath in a slow sigh. ‘You mean it’s going to be down to somebody else to clear up the shit?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Hutton, suggesting that it wasn’t his manner of speaking.

  ‘I suppose volunteers have been tumbling over themselves?’ said Malloy.

  ‘Well actually, I thought as yours is the only other AIDS lab you might agree to help out?’

  Malloy paused before replying, ‘Okay, I’ll do it and I’ll ask for one other volunteer from my people but I’m not putting any pressure on them …’

  ‘Count me in.’ said George Ferguson who’d picked up the general gist of the conversation, standing beside Malloy.

  Malloy looked at him, as if needing a second affirmation.

  ‘It’s okay. Count me in.’

  Malloy, still holding the phone, said, ‘I’ve got my volunteer. George Ferguson has just signed on.’

  ‘Ferguson?’ exclaimed Hutton. ‘I’m not sure if that’s entirely …’

  ‘In the present circumstances it’s what I think that’s important,’ said Malloy edgily. ‘Unless of course, you’re telling me that you are prepared to take George Ferguson’s place, Professor?’

  ‘You know very well that I’ve not worked with live viruses for many years and never with that particular one.’

  Ferguson, who had now been listening in to the conversation in the unusual silence of the room, smiled wryly and whispered, ‘Another bugger who learned to swim from a book. He’d drown if he ever hit the water.’

  ‘It’s George and me then. Perhaps you’ll arrange for the suits and decontamination fluid to be ready for us on Level 3 when we get there. Oh, and is the phone line still open to the two inside?’

  ‘Yes, I have contact.’

  ‘Maybe you could close your end so that I can speak to the people inside?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Who are they by the way?’

  ‘Simone Clary and Gregor White.’

  ‘Post doc and third year student. Okay ready when you are.’

  The phone went dead and Malloy allowed ten seconds for Hutton to close the other phone link before dialling the Level 3 lab. It was answered first ring by a woman’s voice.’

  ‘Hello Simone, this is Steve Malloy. What’s your situation?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s too bad but Gregor …’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s upset.’

  Simone had lowered her voice to say it. Malloy guessed it was so that White wouldn’t hear. He became aware of a whimpering noise in the background and sussed the situation.

  ‘Okay Simone. I have to ask some questions before George and I put on the noddy suits and come and clean you up. Was the spillage contained within a given area?’

  ‘Yes, one vial broke open on the floor, the other one survived.’

  ‘So there is a puddle of liquid on the floor in the containment lab?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did either of you come into contact with the liquid?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did you see the vial hit the floor?’

  ‘Not exactly. when I turned round Gregor had knocked over the vials but he made a brave effort to catch them before they hit the floor. He didn’t quite manage it but he did catch one and interrupted the fall of the other so that the impact was lessened.’

  ‘Good, that p
robably means there was minimal splashing and aerosol formation. I’m going to ring off now Simone. George and I will be with you soon.’

  Malloy put down the phone and turned to Ferguson. ‘You heard?’

  Ferguson nodded.

  ‘What d’you think.’

  ‘Piece o’ piss. Puddle on the floor, no aerosols. You could deal with that with a mop and some Dettol.’

  Malloy smiled. ‘Probably, but we’d better put on a show for the lieges. There is one worrying thing though. Sounds like young White is throwing a wobbly. We don’t want him making a charge for the door as soon as we get in there.’

  ‘Maybe you could get Simone to keep him out the road till we do the needful?’

  Level 3 was almost deserted when Malloy and Ferguson entered from the stair well. Their footsteps didn’t quite echo but were certainly audible as they walked along the corridor to the ante room to the outer door leading to the high level containment facility. Two bio-safety suits had been left outside along with a pressurised container of decontaminating fluid with a hose and steel spray head attached. The corridor phone rang; Ferguson who was nearest picked it up.

  ‘Put me on to Dr Malloy,’ said Hutton’s voice.

  ‘Herr Direktor,’ said Ferguson, passing the phone.

  ‘Steven, The engineers have decreased the air pressure on Level 3 so there can be no outflow.’

  ‘Right,’ said Malloy.

  ‘A comfort,’ whispered Ferguson.

  ‘Good luck, you two.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Malloy.

  Ferguson made a face.

  Malloy dialled Simone and got an engaged tone. ‘Fuck!’ he said.

  ‘It’ll be Herr Direktor trotting out sterling British claptrap,’ said Ferguson. ‘We’re all with you Simone, although I’m three floors below heading for a taxi.’

  Malloy thought about phoning someone else to tell Hutton to clear the line then decided against it. Instead, he banged on the outside door of the suite, figuring Simone would understand. The phone line cleared.

  ‘Simone, we’re about ready to come in. Can you make sure you’re both well back from the door?’ He stressed the word, both.