Resurrection

by Ken McClure

  ‘It only looks a complete mess,’ replied Sandra. ‘We know where everything is. A tidy lab is a sterile lab, that’s what Steve always says. If you’re polishing benches it means you can’t think of an experiment to do.’

  ‘A point of view, I suppose,’ said Dewar.

  After ten minutes or so of passing the time of day with Sandra and Peter — Pierre Le Grice had decided to keep his own company and busied himself about the lab, George Ferguson returned to loud demands from the others to show them his medal.

  Ferguson laughed. ‘No medal,’ he said. ‘Only a few precious words from HerrDirektor to inspire me and make it all worth while.’

  ‘George, this is Doctor Dewar. He’s inquiring into Ali’s death,’ said Steven Malloy.

  Dewar shook hands with Ferguson and asked him the same questions as the others about the dead student. His reply was much the same. He, like everyone else in the lab, had liked Ali. His death had come as a complete shock.

  ‘Did you know what Ali was working on?’

  Ferguson shrugged and said, ‘Only in the broadest of terms. I’m a hospital technician who had the hospital taken from under him. I look after the virus stocks and see to the culture media. This new molecular stuff is largely beyond me and you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’

  ‘It must have been a bit of a change to come here?’

  ‘Ferguson smiled at what he saw as understatement. ‘I’d been at the City for thirty two years,’ he said.

  ‘Must have been tempting to call it a day and take early retirement?’

  ‘The bank manager disagreed,’ said Ferguson.

  Dewar smiled. ‘No golden handshake on offer eh?’

  ‘From the NHS? Pull the other one.’

  ‘You seem to have settled in well with the group here.’

  ‘It’s a temporary thing. Steve had a vacancy but whether he’ll get a new grant or not is another matter. If he doesn’t I’ll be out the door come Christmas. My face doesn’t really fit in the institute anyway.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Times change. These days science graduates outnumber jobs ten to one. You need at least an upper second to get a job that would have gone to an ONC ten years ago. If the job involves making the tea as well, we’re talking about a PhD.’

  Dewar smiled and said, ‘I hope something works out for you.’

  He had a last meeting with Paul Hutton to thank him formally for his cooperation.

  ‘Does that mean you are finished with us?’ asked Hutton.

  ‘I should think so,’ replied Dewar. ‘Unless there are any more developments.’

  ‘You’re returning to London today?’

  ‘I’m going to show my face at the Iraqi students association. I’ll take it from there.’

  SEVEN

  The Iraqi students association was on the first floor of a Victorian building in a street largely taken up with restaurants offering cuisines of the world. The street was narrow, the buildings tall and traffic fumes hung in the air like a November fog. The smell of foreign food mingled with vague damp odours of plaster and cats as he climbed the badly lit stairs and knocked on the door with the brass plaque and Arabic inscription on it.

  A young man answered, obviously surprised to see a westerner standing there. ‘What do you want?’ he asked in clipped but otherwise perfect English.

  ‘My name’s Dewar. I’d like to speak to any friends of Ali Hammadi.’

  ‘He is dead.’

  ‘I know he’s dead. That’s why I’d like to speak to them.’

  ‘You are a policeman?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Dewar showed him his Sci-Med ID card.

  The man seemed to compare the photograph on the card with the reality several times before deciding that it might be a reasonable likeness. ‘Dr Adam Dewar,’ he intoned.

  ‘That’s me,’ Dewar agreed.

  ‘Come inside.’ said the man, suddenly turning on his heel and leaving Dewar to close the door behind them. They passed along a narrow hallway past a series of grey-painted doors leading off into badly lit rooms as far as Dewar could determine. Single, unshaded light bulbs seemed to be the preferred source of illumination and, in rooms with ceilings twelve feet high, there seemed to be more shadow than light.

  There were about twelve people in the room Dewar was finally shown into; they sat separately in groups of three or four and all looked about the right age to be students. The furnishings in the room were old and the heavy curtains on the windows looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned since the turn of the century. They hung behind several faded velvet-covered couches, each with one single wood-scrolled arm. The scene reminded Dewar of a Victorian illustration of an Opium den. A few of the students had note books open and appeared to be discussing course work.

  The man who had answered the door said something to them in Arabic. Dewar picked out the word Hammadi.

  There was a prolonged silence while everyone looked at Dewar impassively then one student got up and came over. He smiled, showing perfect teeth. ‘I am Tariq Saadi, Ali was my friend,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d like some coffee?’

  Dewar sipped bitter coffee while Saadi, a postgraduate student in Mathematics, told him what he knew of Ali. He and Ali had in fact, come from villages in Iraq not more than twenty kilometres apart but knew each other only slightly before going to Baghdad to do their first degrees, meeting up properly and becoming firm friends. Both had been delighted when they managed to get on to the foreign study programme together.

  ‘We didn’t think it would be possible for us to travel abroad but science is above political difficulty,’ said Tariq. ‘The politicians may disagree but the universities continue to communicate.’

  ‘Good,’ said Dewar. ‘How are your studies going? he asked, hoping to gain the man’s confidence.

  Tariq shrugged and smiled. ‘Sometimes I struggle.’

  ‘Was it the same for Ali?’

  ‘Oh no,’ smiled Tariq. ‘Ali was very clever and so …’ he searched for the word … ‘about his science.’

  ‘Enthusiastic?’ suggested Dewar.

  ‘Yes, thank you, enthusiastic but more … dedicated is the word.. For Ali, science was everything. All he was interested in. The sky was the limit and one day he was going to do great things. He said it would be possible to have enough food for everyone on the planet. An end to starvation would be made possible through molecular biology and the cloning of the genes.’

  Dewar smiled at the idealism of youth. Molecular biology might well enable scientists to do these things but it wasn’t going to happen. It wasn’t going to happen because no one invested money in things that didn’t make a profit and feeding the hungry wasn’t a paying proposition. Ali Hammadi would not now live to discover that awful truth. There was no point in pointing it out to Tariq.

  ‘So why did Ali kill himself?’ asked Dewar softly.

  Tariq paused, his eyes misting over as he thought of his friend, then he said simply, ‘It was so sad.’

  Dewar needed more. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But no one seems able to come up with any reason why he did it? There must have been one. Something must have gone terribly wrong in his life. Ali’s colleagues at the institute tell me that he was obviously upset about something. They say he became very depressed during the weeks before he died. You were his friend; he must have confided in you, didn’t he?’

  The boy shrugged uncomfortably and Dewar got the impression that it wasn’t just what he’d said that had produced the reaction. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that a new man had entered the room and was standing looking across at them. He seemed older than the others, an Arab, tall and bearded with heavy, dark-rimmed spectacles. He remembered Inspector Grant saying something about older men being part of the set-up.

  ‘No, Ali told me nothing,’ said Tariq, obviously unsettled at the appearance of the newcomer. ‘I don’t know why he did it. It’s a mystery. Maybe he was ill. It can happen, you know.’

  Dewar looked him s
traight in the eye and knew that he was lying. The presence of the bearded man was intimidating him.

  ‘Look Tariq, maybe this isn’t the best place to talk?’ he suggested quietly.

  ‘I don’t think there is any more to say,’ replied the boy but he spoke the words like an automaton.’

  ‘I think there is,’ insisted Dewar but keeping his voice low. ‘Maybe you owe it to your friend to tell me exactly what you know? I understand how difficult things are for you so I’m going to leave now but I’ll leave my card on the seat. Call me when you feel it’s safe. If I’m not there leave a message.’

  The boy nodded uncertainly.

  ‘Well, thanks for your help Tariq, I’m sorry about your friend’s death. It was very sad,’ said Dewar in a louder voice that invited overhearing. He got up and was shown to the door by Tariq. To get there they had to pass the older man who didn’t acknowledge them as they passed but Dewar took a good look at him anyway. Maybe Inspector Grant could come up with some pictures. It would be nice to know who and what he really was. As he walked out on to the street he decided that he would stay on in Edinburgh for the time being..

  He booked into a city centre hotel and made his report to Sci-Med using his lap top computer and a phone link. There wasn’t that much to report, just that he wasn’t quite happy about the Edinburgh situation as it stood. He’d be staying on until he knew more. After that, he phoned Karen. She was at the lab.

  ‘You’re where?’

  ‘Edinburgh,’ Dewar told her again. ‘I’m going to be here at least another day. How’s Kensington? Is the world still falling out of its bottom?’

  ‘People don’t have that kind of problem in Kensington,’ laughed Karen. ‘They have “upset stomachs”. I think we’re on top of the outbreak. We’ve traced the problem to a cold meat supplier and closed him down for the moment. In theory it’s all over bar the sh … shouting.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same,’ said Dewar.

  ‘That sounded like it came from the heart,’ said Karen.

  ‘I’ve got such a bad feeling about things here.’

  ‘So there’s no chance of you getting back by the week-end?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so but there’s no way of knowing for sure. I’m just playing it by ear. I’m convinced one of Ali Hammadi’s friends knows more than he’s letting on. That doesn’t mean to say it’s anything relevant but I’d really like to understand why this man, Hammadi took his own life when he seemed to have so much to live for.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t.’

  ‘The police are convinced it was suicide and his behaviour had changed in the weeks leading up to his death.’

  ‘While the balance of his mind was disturbed …,’ intoned Karen.

  ‘It’s what disturbed it,’ said Dewar.

  After a pause, Karen said tentatively, ‘Why not pop down to North Berwick while you’re up there, say hello to my mother? It’ll take your mind off things for a wee while.’

  ‘Could do,’ agreed Dewar slowly.

  ‘Not a good idea?’

  The prospect of spending an evening with Karen’s widowed mother did not fill Dewar with enthusiasm. A few drinks and a bit of light conversation in the hotel bar might have been a preferred option however, he didn’t want to offend Karen. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘Could do.’ He hoped he sounded more enthusiastic than he felt. ‘Any messages?’

  ‘I was actually hoping to get up to see her this weekend but I’m not sure how long the Salmonella thing will take to resolve. In theory we should have seen the last of the new cases by tomorrow. Maybe I should plan for the week after next instead. I don’t suppose you’ll feel like a return trip to Edinburgh that soon?’

  ‘Why not. It would be fun to spend some time together up here,’ said Dewar. ‘Maybe we could run off to the highlands for a day or so?’

  ‘That would be nice. Of course, you may still be there!’ laughed Karen.

  ‘If I am it means I’ve hit big trouble and everyone might be running off to the highlands,’ said Dewar.

  ‘Give Mother my love and tell her I’ll be up the week after next.’

  Dewar’s laptop bleeped as he reconnected it to the phone socket to put it on stand-by. There was a message waiting for him from Sci-Med. A man named Tariq Saadi had called. He wanted to meet with him. The suggested place was James Thin’s bookshop in South Bridge, the time eight o’clock that same evening. Dewar wondered why Saddi had called the Sci-Med number. He deduced that he had probably tried his mobile number first and found it engaged with his call to Karen so he had called the other number on the card rather than wait and try again. That inferred a sense of urgency. A limited window of time in which to make a call.

  Dewar looked at his watch. It was just after 7.30pm. Karen’s mother would have to wait for another day.

  The taxi dropped him off in South Bridge outside the entrance to Edinburgh University’s Old College building and opposite Thin’s bookshop. He crossed the street, dodging the evening traffic and entered the shop to find it pleasantly quiet. It was also deceptively large, occupying several floors of an old building that had seen many internal conversions in its time, leaving it a warren of rooms, corridors and staircases. Dewar moved slowly round the groundfloor getting a feel for the place and pausing occasionally to examine a book. At that time in the evening there were less than a dozen other customers browsing the shelves. Saadi was not one of them.

  Dewar opted to try a lower floor and thought he was all alone there save for a member of staff — a student working part time, he guessed, — reading a text book by her till. He was suddenly startled to feel a tap on the shoulder and turned to find Saadi who’d materialised from the shadows of an alcove. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he whispered nervously.

  ‘So there was more to Ali’s death?’ said Dewar quietly.

  Tariq nodded. ‘I don’t know everything but they wanted him to do something for them. Ali didn’t want to have anything to do with it but they threatened him. They said it would be the worse for his family.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Our … advisors.’

  The man at the student association?’

  Tariq nodded.

  ‘They’re government?’

  Another nod.

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Two. Professor Siddiqui and a man named Abbas, the man you saw.’

  Dewar made a mental note of the names. ‘Have you any idea at all what they wanted Ali to do?’ he asked.

  ‘He wouldn’t say but he was very frightened. He said … ‘

  ‘What did he say?’ prompted Dewar.

  ‘He was afraid many people would die.’

  Dewar felt himself go cold. He could feel the pulse in his temples start to beat harder. He was listening to a nightmare becoming a reality. ‘Are you sure he told you nothing more than that?’

  Tariq shook his head. ‘Nothing. He said it was too awful but I know they gave him something.’

  ‘Do you know what?”

  ‘Pieces of something. I overheard a conversation one day. Ali was upset. He said something about not wanting the pieces. It was too dangerous.’ Tariq shrugged to suggest it didn’t mean anything to him. ‘He said the pieces should be destroyed but Siddiqui said he had to do what they told him or it would be the worse for him and his family.’

  ‘Pieces?’

  ‘Yes … ‘

  Tariq froze suddenly. Dewar watched him turn pale before his eyes and realised that he was looking past him, his eyes wide with fear. He turned round to see a face staring at them through a gap that had opened up in a row of books behind them. It was the man from the Iraqi student association, his black beard brushing shelf, his spectacled eyes unblinking as they stared at Tariq. A shorter, more academic looking Arab appeared at the end of the shelves.

  Tariq looked as if he might pass out. ‘I have to go,’ he stammered.

  ‘You don’t have to go anywhere with them,’ insisted Dewar in an urgent whisper. ‘They can�
�t do anything to you in this country. If you’re afraid, I can help. We can sort it out. Stay here with me. Tell me what they wanted Ali to do.’’

  ‘You don’t understand … my family …’

  Tariq moved meekly towards the two Arabs and didn’t look back. Dewar felt helpless but he had the feeling he’d only make things worse for Tariq by making a scene. He caught the eye of the bearded Arab and hoped he could suggest with a look that should anything happen to Tariq it might be bad news day for him but the man remained impassive. After a short, muted exchange in Arabic Tariq was ushered upstairs with the other Arab leading the way.

  Dewar, filled with frustration, hit the palm of his hand against the end of a bookshelf causing the girl by the till to look up sharply. ‘If we don’t have what you’re looking for, we can always order it,’ she said helpfully.

  Dewar looked at her then realised what he’d done and apologised. He made for the stairs and left. He started to walk back to his hotel, knowing that he needed time to calm down and get his thoughts in order. He walked up Chambers Street and followed GeorgeIV Bridge up to the Royal Mile which led from the castle down to the royal Palace of Holyrood. He crossed and paused at the head of The Mound, the steep thoroughfare that joined old Edinburgh to its so-called Georgian new town. The lights of Princes street were strung out like pearls below him. To his left, the floodlit castle sat high on its ancient rock. Surely such a beautiful city could not really be host to a plot hatched in hell.

  It was obvious to Dewar that Tariq had translated an Arabic word he’d heard as ‘pieces’ where ‘fragments’ would have been more correct but Tariq wasn’t a biologist. He’d had no idea what they’d been talking about. The ‘pieces’ just had to be DNA fragments of the smallpox virus. There was no other plausible explanation. The question now was, how many fragments did the Iraqi government men have access to and what had happened to them?

  When Tariq had overheard Ali protesting that what they wanted him to do was too dangerous, had he been talking in general terms about the whole idea or specifically what they were asking him to do? Had Ali been approached as one of a number of people in a chain of events, each perhaps doing part of the virus assembly or had he been the final link in the chain, the scientist who would finally join up all the fragments? Whatever it was, it had been enough to push him over the edge into suicide. Could the Iraqis really be at that stage? Was the resurrection of live smallpox really that close?