by Ken McClure
‘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.‘
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.
‘Ad
am!’
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.’
TEN
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.’
‘Something like that,’ agreed Dewar. ‘And there’s plenty of it today. I was blown off my feet at the airport. It looks like I’m going to be here for the next week or so. Will you let me know of anything that happens at your end that looks like it might be relevant?’
‘What sort of things?’
‘I’ll leave that to your judgement.’
‘I’ll keep you in mind.’
Next, Dewar phoned Steven Malloy at the Institute of Molecular Sciences.
‘Didn’t we just say good-bye?’
‘I thought so too,’ said Dewar. ‘But my masters have decided not to take any chances with this one. They sent me back. It’s a case of bolting the stable door before the horse has gone for a change. Can we talk? Somewhere other than the institute? I don’t want to advertise the fact that I’m back.’
‘You could come out to my place if you like?’ suggested Malloy. ‘Or I could meet you somewhere in town?’
‘Your place will be fine. 8 o’clock this evening?’
‘I’ll expect you.’
Dewar called the Reception desk and asked about renting a car now that he was staying for a while. A dark green Rover 600 was delivered in under twenty minutes. The interior was spotlessly clean but the previous driver had been a smoker, he could still smell the lingering stale legacy of tobacco smoke. He opened the sunroof. and turned on the fan.
He drove up the Mound then circled round past the Iraqi student centre in Forest Road trying to spot the surveillance. He couldn’t. That pleased him, he’d been harbouring notions of rival surveillance teams squabbling outside the entrance after hearing what Barron had said about ‘professional rivalry’. Maybe his fears had b
een groundless.
He drove slowly down the Royal Mile in the shadow of the old tenements, eventually turning right to pass in front of Holyrood Palace and enter the Queen’s Park, a large green area open to the public with an extinct volcano, Arthur’s Seat, as its centrepiece. He followed the road running through the park then turned off to the right to drive up round the hill and pull into a lay-by on the south side.He got out to take in the view and stood with his right foot resting on the first bar of the railings separating the road from a sheer drop. To the east he could see the sea. In the distance an oil tanker was making its way out of the Firth of Forth into the North Sea. To the south he could just make out the white tower block of the Institute of Molecular Sciences. He shivered slightly as a cool breeze caught his cheek.
It was a couple of minutes after eight when he drew up outside Malloy’s church home. It had been daylight the last time he’d been here so this time he stopped at the gate to take in the atmosphere of the place in the dark. Yellow light was spilling out from the windows where the stainglass had been replaced with ordinary clear glass. He thought it unusual to see a church building exuding light. It made him think of Christmas.
‘Come in,’ said Malloy. He was wearing jeans and an Aran sweater and holding a glass of red wine in his hand. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘A glass of that would be very nice,’ replied Dewar, nodding to the wine.
‘A precocious little bugger I picked up from Safeways,’ said Malloy, pouring Dewar a glass. ‘Rich in ambition but modest in price. He exaggerated a Scottish accent for the last few words. What’s the problem?’
‘The men who tried to coerce Hammadi into working on smallpox are still in the city. I don’t know why but I have to consider all possibilities.’
‘Why doesn’t someone arrest them?’