by Ken McClure
Ferguson shrugged. ‘I’ll survive.’
‘You’re married?’
Ferguson nodded. ‘Yes, we’ve got one boy.’
‘Still living at home?’
‘A veil came over Ferguson’s eyes. ‘He’s not right,’ he said. ‘Brain damage when he was a kid.’
‘Bad luck. I’m sorry.’
Ferguson shrugged. ‘That’s the way it goes. Anyway, I think I’ll go find the others, leave you to your business.’
‘I really am sorry,’ said Dewar.
‘Yeah.’
Dewar called Macmillan at Sci-Med from Malloy’s office and told him what had happened.
‘Did this man, Le Grice admit it before he took his life?’ asked Macmillan.
‘He didn’t deny the attempt on Sandra Macandrew’s life and he mentioned extra smallpox fragments but he didn’t actually acknowledge any dealings with the Iraqis.’
‘Damn,’ said Macmillan. ‘But there seems little doubt?’
‘He had extra smallpox fragments and he tried to kill Sandra.’ replied Dewar. ‘It sounded to me like he’d tried to convince Sandra that the extra fragments would have helped with her research but she decided to blow the whistle on him anyway.’
‘That still leaves us with nothing against these damned people. ‘You don’t think he actually managed to supply them with the virus do you?’ asked Macmillan.
‘I don’t think so. I don’t think there was time and the Iraqis haven’t looked like they’re ready to leave according to the secret service.’
‘What are you doing about the lab where Le Grice worked?’
‘I’ve just told the research group leader that everything in his lab will have to be removed. I’d like a team from Porton Down called in to take it away. We can’t afford to take chances. They can analyse anything they think looks promising under conditions of maximum containment and destroy everything when they’re finished.’
‘You’re right, the last thing we need is someone contracting smallpox because it was left lying around and nobody knew about it.’
‘I’m going to lock and seal the lab. Would you arrange for the Porton team to be called in to do their stuff? I’ll tell the head of institute here to expect them.’
‘Are you planning to come back to London?’
‘I’ll hang on for a couple of days if that’s all right. I’ll brief the Porton team when they arrive and I’d also like to see the back of Siddiqui and his pal before I return. Presumably they’ll leave when word about Le Grice gets out.’
‘I’ve done what you requested about arranging to have them stopped and searched on the way out.’
‘Good, the more thorough and unpleasantly the better. Siddiqui can’t play the diplomatic card because he entered the country as an academic not a diplomat. God knows what Abbas’s status is but I’m sure a “misunderstanding” could arise.’
‘I think the immigration people have got the message,’ said Macmillan. ‘They’re still smarting from having let Siddiqui in unnoticed.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll get on to Porton. I’ll give them your number to contact when they get there.’
‘Any idea how long?’
‘I’m going to make this top priority. They have a rapid response squad. With the help of the military I should think four to five hours.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
Dewar found that Hutton, the head of institute already knew what was happening by the time he got to his office.
‘Dr Malloy told me,’ said Hutton. ‘He’s devastated. He sees it as the end of his career.’
‘He’s still a brilliant scientist,’ said Dewar. ‘Surely there will be a place for him somewhere.’
‘Unfortunately that’s not the way research works,’ said Hutton. ‘Research groups are a bit like Italian city states in the middle ages. There’s no question of the leader of one being able to join the forces of another. His rivals in the vaccine race will see his misfortune as one less runner in the race to worry about.’
‘Not exactly a Walt Disney world, is it,’ said Dewar.
‘What is these days?’ replied Hutton.
That old excuse, thought Dewar.
‘These people who’re coming,’ said Hutton. ‘What exactly are they going to do?’
‘They will take away absolutely everything from Steven Malloy’s lab in sealed containers and fumigate the lab itself when it’s empty. The contents of the containers will be subject to analysis under secure conditions when they get back to Porton then everything will be destroyed, just in case anything has been missed.’
Hutton nodded. ‘This all seems like a bad dream.’
‘For all of us,’ Dewar assured him.
‘Is there anything you’d like me to do?’
‘Just make sure that the Malloy lab is kept locked.’
‘I’ll put the whole corridor out of bounds until your people arrive. I’ll have one of the porters sit by the door.’
‘That might be best,’ agreed Dewar. He returned to his hotel and asked for beer and sandwiches. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast time and it was now four in the afternoon. He called Grant rather than the hospital to ask about Sandra Macandrew’s condition.
‘They say she’s improving,’ replied Grant. ‘Becoming stable, I think was the expression. Do you still want the guard left on her?’
‘Yes,’ replied Dewar after a moment’s thought. ‘It’s just possible that Le Grice admitted to her what he was doing for the Iraqis. Let’s keep her safe.’
‘You’re the man.’
Dewar wondered what film Grant had picked up that expression from. Next he called Simon Barron on his mobile number. ‘Anything happening?’ he asked.
‘Nothing but I hear you’ve been having a lot of fun and games?’ replied Barron.
Dewar filled him in on the details.
‘So panic over, we can expect our friends to pack their bags shortly?’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Can we be sure that this Le Grice character didn’t succeed in reconstructing the virus?’
‘All the signs are that he didn’t. Porton Down are going to investigate the entire contents of the lab he worked in to see if they can get an idea about what stage he was at and if Sandra Macandrew comes round she can probably tell us a good deal.’
‘Let’s hope she does,’ said Barron. ‘In the meantime we go on watching while you have all the fun.’
‘I think I’ve had quite enough “fun” as you put it. I just want to see the back of these two up in Forest Road.
* * * * *
Dewar received a call from the Porton team after they landed at Edinburgh Airport just after eight. He arranged to meet them outside the institute and found them already waiting when he got there. He had not taken into account a police escort which cut down their town travel time considerably. The small convoy comprised two police cars and an unlettered black Transit van. Dewar presumed that this also had been supplied by the local police.
He introduced himself to the leader of the team, Doctor Robert Smillie, and briefed him on events.
‘That’s more or less what we’ve been told,’ said Smillie when he’d finished. ‘If you’ll just show us to the lab in question we’ll take over from there. Any special problems? Do we need respirators?
‘No,’ Dewar assured him. ‘The man involved in this affair was a highly trained scientist. If there’s anything to be found it will be in an appropriate container. The question is, which one? There could be several; alternatively there may be none. This is a precaution but a very necessary one.’
The team of three changed into coverall suits and put on gloves before entering Malloy’s lab, carrying a number of sealable plastic containers. They took less than sixty minutes to remove every single tube and bottle in the place, even moving all the furniture to examine the floor underneath for anything that had fallen and rolled.
‘I’m impressed,’ said Dewar to Smillie when his team had fin
ished and were setting the sterilising ‘bombs’ in place.
‘I think this is where I say, all in a day’s work,’ said Smillie.
Dewar grinned and said, ‘But I don’t envy you the next bit.’
Smillie nodded his agreement. ‘There’s no question of analysing the contents of every single container,’ he said. ‘But we’ll do a DNA scan and concentrate on those that come up positive. Can’t say how long it’s going to take. We’ll be using the high containment suite. That always slows things up. It’s like picking your nose with boxing gloves on.’
THIRTEEN
Dewar watched the lights of the small convoy disappear into the night as they headed off back to the airport. Hutton, who had seen it as his duty to be present throughout, looked at his watch and said that he’d have to rush, muttering something about dinner with friends. Dewar wished him good-night and suddenly wondered what he himself was going to do with the rest of the evening. He felt a distinct sense of anticlimax.
So much seemed to have happened since he’d got up that morning but, he asked himself, did he really know that much more at the end of the day? True, Le Grice had been identified as Sandra Macandrew’s attacker and it seemed almost certain that he must be the Iraqis’ man on the inside but he still didn’t know exactly what the Iraqis had asked him to do or how much of it had been achieved, any more than with Ali Hammadi. These were still the key questions in the whole affair.
Maybe he even knew less about them, was Dewar’s next depressing thought. Up until now he’d believed that Hammadi had refused to do anything at all for Siddiqui but that conclusion had been partially based on Le Grice’s report that he’d found nothing out of the ordinary when he’d cleared out Hammadi’s stuff in the lab. That was possibly a lie. If only Le Grice had owned up before he’d taken his life instead of saying nothing. What had been the point of that? he wondered. It was hard to believe that any man about to die would not take the chance to redress the balance of good and evil in his life even if he hadn’t been any kind of believer.
Another man to whom this day had been pivotal was Steven Malloy. It was the day his career had effectively come to an end. Despite having every right to do what he’d done in the circumstances- indeed, he’d had no real option, Dewar felt something approaching guilt. He liked Malloy and believed the good things Ferguson had said about him. Good research scientists weren’t that thick on the ground — much less so than Joe Public imagined. One such person tended to make a university department a good one, two made it a centre of excellence.
He wondered what Malloy was doing tonight. Would he be with friends, or was he brooding at home alone? Almost on impulse, Dewar decided to drive out to Temple and find out for himself but before doing that, he stopped at an off-licence and bought a bottle of good malt whisky.
The drive out to Temple took longer than last time because of heavy rain that started on the way. By the time he left the main road, the wipers were struggling to cope, forcing him to slow right down on the dark winding roads where water quickly gathered into pools in the dips and made estimating their depth a gamble each time before ploughing through. He was relieved when the lights of the village began to flicker through the needles of the pine trees.
When he stopped outside Malloy’s place he could see the lights were on. He sat in the car for a moment listening to a small voice inside his head that told him this was not a very good idea but eventually it was overridden by his conscience telling him that this was the right thing to do. People automatically said sorry; often when they didn’t mean it. He hoped that driving out here to say it again would convince Malloy that at least he did. He got out the car and hurried up the path, pulling up his jacket collar against the rain and hugging the whisky bottle to his chest.
Just before he reached the door he had the thought that Malloy might not be alone. He could hear music coming from inside and recognised it as Stan Getz playing, These Foolish Things. He side-stepped into the garden so that he could take a peek in through the window. As far as he could tell, Malloy was alone. He could see him slumped in a chair with his back to him, glass in hand, feet up on a stool.
Dewar knocked gently on the arched door at first but had to rap progressively louder as he failed to get an answer.
‘All right,’ complained Malloy’s voice as he finally responded to Dewar’s insistence. ‘Who is it?’
‘Adam Dewar,’
There was a long silence before the door finally opened. ‘What the f … ‘
Malloy looked at Dewar as if he still didn’t believe it was him. He was obviously the last person on earth he expected to see standing there, or wanted to see for that matter.
‘Hello. How are you doing?’
‘I don’t think I believe this,’ said Malloy, his voice slightly slurred. He scratched his head.
‘I just came to say that I really meant it when I said I was sorry about your research.’
Malloy regarded Dewar for a long moment through screwed-up eyes. ‘And now you’d like forgiveness,’ he said. ‘Te absolvo, feel any better?’
‘I didn’t come to ask for forgiveness,’ said Dewar evenly. ‘I did what I had to do and I think you know that if you’re honest with yourself. I don’t regret it but I am genuinely sorry. I though we might have a drink together.’ He held up the whisky.
Malloy looked as if he were running through a series of options inside his head, ranging from bursting out laughing to slamming the door in Dewar’s face. Eventually he shrugged and said, ‘You’d better come in.’ He accepted the bottle from Dewar and splashed whisky into two tumblers.
‘What shall we drink to?’ he asked, handing one to Dewar.
‘The future,’ replied Dewar evenly. ‘Whatever it holds. May it be kinder than the present.’
‘The future,’ repeated Malloy, without adding the cynical rider Dewar had been half expecting. That pleased him for although Malloy was drinking, he was not wallowing in self pity. Both men took a large swallow.
‘Sit down.’
‘I thought you might be with Peter Moore and George Ferguson this evening,’ said Dewar.
Malloy shook his head. ‘No, Peter will be at the post-grad union, playing the tragic role to the hilt, I should think. Always a more successful gambit with the ladies than Mr Happy, I seem to remember.’
‘You don’t see his predicament as serious then?’
‘He’s first year. He’s not lost much. Most of them take a year learning to pick their noses without poking their eye out. He’s a good student. I’ll have a word with Cairns about him. I’m sure he’ll take him over. Maybe a change of research project but no real harm done.’
‘Good,’ said Dewar. ‘And Sandra?’
Malloy grimaced. ‘She’s different. She’s going into her third year, too late to change I’m afraid. Assuming she survives her present predicament she won’t have enough for a PhD but she could write up for an MPhil.’
‘Let’s hope she gets the chance,’ said Dewar.
‘Amen to that,’ agreed Malloy, raising his glass to the notion.
‘That just leaves George Ferguson.’
‘Poor George. He’s not having the best couple of years, poor bugger. They pull his hospital down after thirty years, transfer him all around the university and now this. He’s got a wife with cancer and a mentally retarded boy, you know.’
‘I knew about the boy,’ said Dewar ‘I didn’t know about his wife. I was speaking to him before I left, or should I say he was the only one left speaking to me by that time!’
Malloy gave a lop-sided grin. ‘I can imagine.’
‘He seemed to be taking it philosophically,’ said Dewar.
‘Good,’ said Malloy. ‘He usually imagines that life is waging a personal vendetta against him.’
Dewar smiled. ‘He has a point by the sound of it. And you? What will you do now?’
‘I’ve had a couple of offers from drug companies in the last year. I turned them down but maybe it’s time for a slice o
f humble pie. Maybe mammon and me’ll get along just fine.’
‘Academics often talk a lot of nonsense about working in industry,’ said Dewar. ‘If you’re good, there’s no problem,’ said Dewar. ‘It’s half-arses industry’s not so keen on and most of the university-luvvies throwing up their hands in horror at the very idea of industry are exactly that. They know they’d be rumbled in that world within ten minutes and be shown the door.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’
Malloy got out of his chair and replenished their glasses. Dewar was about to decline but thought better of it. He could always get a taxi back to town and pick up his car tomorrow. Malloy needed company; it seemed the least he could do in the circumstances.
The Getz record had come to an end. ‘Other side?’ asked Malloy.
‘Why not.’
Dewar woke with a splitting headache to find that he still had all his clothes on and was still in the church at Temple. Malloy was asleep in the chair opposite, snoring quietly, his glass lying on its side on the carpet at his feet. He looked for his own and found it standing on the table beside an empty whisky bottle.
‘Streuth,’ he muttered as he rubbed at the stiffness in his neck from having slept in a chair. He stood up at the second attempt and went over to the window to look out. The rain had stopped but the sky didn’t look too promising. The grass was speckled with wet autumn leaves, themselves spattered with mud after the downpour of last night. He went off to the bathroom and felt better when he’d sluiced some hot water up into his face then rinsed out his mouth.
When he returned, Malloy was coming to with groans of protest at the stiffness in his limbs. ‘God, what time is it?’ he asked.
Dewar looked at his watch. ‘Seven thirty.’
‘Coffee, I need coffee.’
Dewar grinned and switched on the kettle.
Malloy didn’t speak again until he had taken a second mouthful of black coffee then he said suddenly, ‘You know, I still don’t believe that Le Grice agreed to do what you think he did.’
‘Everything points to it.’