Resurrection

by Ken McClure

  ‘Roger that. I’ll call you if something happens.’

  ‘What now?’ asked Malloy.

  ‘Did Ferguson have a car?’

  ‘A Ford Escort.’

  ‘Then he must have taken it. It’s not outside the house. Get the number from his wife. I’ll get the police to put out an alert for it. Malloy went off to do this while Dewar took a last look round the garage before trying to restore the padlock mounting on the door as best he could. He had plenty of time; Malloy seemed to take for ever. When he finally did appear he said, ‘Sorry. She couldn’t remember the number. She’s in a bit of a state. She had to look for the log book.’

  Dewar called the police with details of the car, giving instructions that its location should be reported as soon as possible. On no account were they to attempt to stop the vehicle or chase the driver.’ Dewar repeated the instruction so there was no misunderstanding. He didn’t want Ferguson spooked into doing something stupid with the cargo he was carrying.

  Dewar and Malloy drove back towards town, unsure what to do until they got word about Ferguson’s whereabouts or of an Iraqi initiative. Dewar became more impatient with each passing minute. He checked his watch. ‘What are the police doing?’ he complained. ‘Surely they must have found the car by now.’ He called in to police headquarters to check for himself. Still no sighting of the car.

  ‘Might be off the road,’ suggested Malloy.

  ‘In a car park, you mean?’ said Dewar. He called the police again and asked that car parks in the city be checked. ‘This has A1 priority!’

  Half an hour went by with Dewar and Malloy just cruising around the city centre, waiting for news. At three forty, Barron called.

  ‘Siddiqui and Abbas have just left the building.’

  ‘Don’t lose them!’

  ‘Not likely,’ replied Barron. ‘They’re on foot.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It looks to me as if they’re just going round the corner as usual to the coffee shop.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Dewar. He couldn’t bring himself to even contemplate a scenario not involving the Iraqis. He rested his elbow on the window ledge of the car door and brought the heel of his hand up to his forehead while he thought. ‘That’s it!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What’s it?’ asked Malloy.

  ‘The cafe! The Bookstop Cafe! That’s where the hand-over’s going to be. It’s the one place they never arouse any suspicion by going to. They set it up that way by going there every day! They’re regulars! Ferguson must be going to meet them there! Move it!’

  Malloy drove. Dewar called Barron..

  ‘The hand-over is going to take place in the Bookstop Cafe,’ he said. ‘The Iraqis’ contact is one, George Ferguson, male Caucasian, six two, red hair, early fifties. Is he there yet?’

  There was a long pause. Malloy swung the car into Hanover Street and stopped at the traffic lights.

  ‘Roger that. A male fitting that description is currently inside the cafe’

  ‘Is his car outside?’ asked Dewar. ‘He couldn’t be sure if Ferguson would have the virus with him or whether he’d leave it in the car. ‘It’s a white Ford Escort.’ He gave the number.

  ‘Negative,’ said Barron. ‘What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Ferguson and the Iraqis must not be allowed to leave. As long as they stay put take no action until we find his car. With any luck the virus’ll be in the boot. Once we have that they’re all yours.’

  Dewar called the police again and asked them to concentrate their hunt for Ferguson’s car in the area around the Bookstop Cafe but on no account were officers to pass in front of the cafe Ten minutes passed with still no sighting. Dewar could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead. ‘Come on, come on,’ he urged impatiently. They were now sitting in Forest Road, just round the corner from the cafe Dewar’s impatience made him get out the car. He walked to the end of the road and caught sight of Barron, watching the cafe He called him on the phone. ‘Still inside?’

  ‘Laughing and talking just like any other day.’

  ‘And Ferguson?’

  ‘He’s joined them. There are a couple of books on the table in front of him that he’s just bought. For all the world it looks like he’s just having a cup of coffee before leaving and is chatting to people at a neighbouring table.’

  ‘Just books? No boxes or parcels in front of him.’

  ‘Not as far as I can see.’

  Dewar looked towards Barron again and saw that he was using the medical school building on the other side of the street as cover for his watch on the cafe ‘The medical school!’ he thought. The police wouldn’t have checked the car park in the quadrangle. It was just conceivable that Ferguson might have left his car there. He said so to Barron.

  ‘Want me to check?’

  ‘No, you keep your eyes on the cafe They might try to leave. I’ll walk to the corner and cross the road. I’ll only be exposed for a few seconds. If they’re all inside the cafe, talking I should get away with it.

  Dewar pulled up his collar, stuck his hands in his pockets and walked to the corner junction with Teviot Place. He ran across the road and picked a moment when a bus was coming along to hurry up to the entrance of the medical school. The bus shielded him from view from the cafe He looked around the quadrangle at the cars parked there. A man in uniform was walking among them, looking at windscreens for permits. Dewar looked along the line. At the far corner, nearest the building was a white Ford Escort. He couldn’t see the number but he felt sure it would be the one. He hurried over and saw that the number checked out.

  Dewar informed Barron and the police. He needed help as quickly as possible

  to get inside the car but he didn’t want patrol cars screaming into the quadrangle and uniforms running everywhere.

  Barron said that he would send one of his men round. He was in plain clothes, so wouldn’t arouse suspicion; he was more than a match for a Ford Escort.

  ‘How long?’ asked Dewar.

  ‘About thirty seconds,’ replied Barron. ‘He’s watching the cafe with me.’

  It took the agent a further thirty seconds to break into Ferguson’s car. Dewar searched the interior but found nothing. He pulled the boot release catch and hurried round to lift it up. There was nothing there apart from a travel rug, a few tools and a folding chair.

  ‘Damn, damn, damn,’ exclaimed Dewar. ‘He left the house with it. He must have it with him.’

  ‘In the cafe, you mean?’ asked the agent.

  Dewar nodded. He called Barron.

  ‘All we needed.’

  ‘But you said he doesn’t seem to be carrying anything?’

  ‘I can only see the top of the table. He could have a bag or a box at his feet for all I know.’

  ‘Oh fuck!’ exclaimed the agent at Dewar’s side.

  Dewar looked at him and then at what he was looking at. The old man who had been checking the parking permits was watching them and had a phone to his ear.

  ‘He’s calling the police!’ said the agent. ‘He thought we were trying to steal the Escort!’

  Dewar called the police and tried to have the response cancelled but the sound of police sirens was already in the air and getting louder. ‘Call them off!’ he yelled into the phone but it was too late. Two patrol cars came hurtling into Teviot Place and the people inside the cafe jumped to the wrong conclusion. Siddiqui and Abbas got up to leave.

  Barron ordered his men in to stop them leaving the cafe Dewar ran round to the front of the medical school leaving the agent to deal with the arriving police. ‘Get the virus!’ he yelled at Barron. ‘Forget everything else. Just get the virus!’

  Dewar was the last to enter the cafe Ferguson had gone as white as a sheet and was sitting in a corner as if paralysed. One of Barron’s men had charge of a box he’d taken from under the table and was guarding it with his body. Barron’s men had pulled their weapons. Siddiqui was back sitting sedately in his seat as if nothing had happened. Abbas was looking di
stinctly more uneasy but he too had resumed his seat.

  ‘Is that what you’re after?’ Barron asked Dewar. The agent stood back to let Dewar examine the box.

  Dewar opened it and saw that it contained six individual flasks. ‘I think so,’ he replied. He looked at Ferguson and snapped, ‘Well, is it? Do they contain smallpox virus?’

  Ferguson nodded his head in hang-dog fashion and then looked down at the floor.

  Dewar squatted down in front of Siddiqui and looked him in the eye. ‘Well, Professor. What do you have to say for yourself?’

  Siddiqui looked at him disdainfully and said. ‘I am an Iraqi national, here to liaise with students from my country. I have nothing to say.

  ‘And your relationship with Mr Ferguson here?’ asked Dewar.

  Siddiqui looked at Ferguson and said, ‘I have never seen this man before in my life. He came in while my friend and I were having coffee as we always do at this time in the afternoon. I would like to go now please.’

  ‘Lying bastard,’ said Ferguson.

  Dewar picked up the case that sat at the side of Siddiqui’s chair and snapped it open on the table.

  ‘I protest,’ began Siddiqui but his protests fell on deaf ears.

  Dewar lifted up the lid to reveal it was full of English bank notes. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I remember the coffee here being quite reasonably priced. You’ve got some explaining to do.’

  Siddiqui’s nerve held but Abbas snapped. He leapt to his feet and vaulted over the counter to snatch up a knife and hold it to the throat of the young lady who owned the cafe and who had been watching events with an air of bemusement.

  Siddiqui rasped something in Arabic at him and it didn’t sound complimentary but Abbas seemed determined to make his own bid for freedom. ‘Let Susan go,’ said Siddiqui, this time in English. ‘She has always treated us with courtesy. Perhaps she might even forgive you this misunderstanding … if you let her go!’

  ‘Drop your guns,’ demanded Abbas, ignoring Siddiqui and now looking wild-eyed, like a trapped animal.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Barron calmly. ‘But no.’

  ‘I’ll kill her!’ threatened Abbas.

  ‘I hope not, but we will not be putting down our guns.’

  ‘They don’t say that on television!’ complained Susan as she struggled to breathe with Abbas’s arm round her throat.

  ‘I mean it!’ threatened Abbas.

  ‘I mean it too,’ continued Barron. ‘We have charge of the virus. Laying down our weapons would mean relinquishing that charge. My orders do not permit that. Killing the young lady will accomplish nothing. I’ll just kill you afterwards.’

  ‘I don’t want the virus! It was Siddiqui’s plan. Everything is Siddiqui’s plan!’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Siddiqui losing his cool for the first time.

  Dewar kept trying to catch the cafe owner’s eye while Barron and Abbas continued their stand-off. He finally succeeded and started trying to direct her attention to the coffee pots standing on the counter in front of her. Steam was curling from their spouts. She had been about to serve them when all hell had broken loose. Dewar saw that she had understood what he was getting at.

  ‘Put down your guns!’ said Abbas, now sounding desperate.

  ‘No deal,’ said Barron.

  Dewar nodded and the young woman grabbed one of the coffee pots, flinging the contents back into Abbas’s face. He screamed out in pain as the scalding fluid met his eyes and dropped the knife. Dewar vaulted over the counter and brought him to the floor where two of Barron’s men took over.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked the owner who was standing with both hands to her face. She nodded mutely.

  ‘Time to get these two out of here?’ said Barron, looking to Dewar.

  Dewar nodded. ‘But leave Ferguson.’

  Barron and his men escorted the Iraqis out to waiting cars. Dewar lifted the box up off the table and put it on the service counter while he took out the flasks one by one.

  ‘You’ll bring him?’ asked Barron as he was about to close the door.

  Dewar nodded. Malloy squeezed in before the door was closed. ‘Looks like I missed it all.’

  ‘It’s over,’ agreed Dewar wearily.

  ‘Why?’ Malloy asked Ferguson who was sitting with his head in his hands.

  Ferguson looked as if he had aged twenty years in the last half hour. His shoulders sagged and he had the air of a man about to face the gallows. ‘I needed the money,’ he replied.

  ‘But Christ! Smallpox!’ exclaimed Malloy.

  Ferguson shook his head. ‘That wasn’t the plan.’ he said. ‘It all went wrong.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I never intended to give them Variola major,’ said Ferguson. ‘That’s alastrim in the flasks

  ‘Oh God,’ said Malloy.

  Dewar looked at him for an explanation.

  ‘Alastrim is a mild form of smallpox.. It’s practically indistinguishable from the real thing in lab tests but when they came to use it it wouldn’t be anything like as effective as the real thing. The whole Iraqi plan would misfire.’

  ‘I took the alastrim vials and left the variola major cultures in the cellar along with the other stocks until I had time to destroy them. I never dreamt anyone would want to steal them.’

  ‘The guy on the digger thought the vials contained drugs so he helped himself to a few.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘So it was just bad luck he picked the smallpox ones,’ said Malloy.

  ‘I suppose,’ agreed Dewar. ‘It could have been typhoid, tuberculosis, cholera, God knows what else. But you’re still responsible for the outbreak,’ Dewar accused Ferguson. ‘All the people who’ve died, the ones who’ll never see again and the fact we’ve now got smallpox back in the world. And all because … you needed the money.’

  ‘I did!’ retorted Ferguson with some semblance of spirit. ‘The bastards are putting me out to grass after thirty years with a pension that won’t pay the fucking gas bill. Joyce has cancer and who’s going to look after Malcolm when we’re gone? He needs long term care. That takes money. Money I don’t have!’

  Neither Dewar nor Malloy could think of anything to say. After a long pause, Dewar said simply, ‘Let’s go.’

  Dewar drove. Malloy sat in the back with Ferguson. They were about to start heading down the Mound on their way over to police headquarters when Ferguson suddenly pleaded, ‘Let me see Joyce and Malcolm one last time. Just a few minutes together then I’ll come with you and cooperate fully?’

  Dewar thought for a moment then said, ‘Five minutes, no more.’

  ‘Thanks. You’re a decent bloke.’

  They drove over to Baberton in silence and Dewar parked outside Ferguson’s house. He could see that Joyce had come to the window. She looked small and fragile.

  ‘Malloy said, ‘We have your word?’

  ‘I promise,’ said Ferguson. ‘I will not try to run away.’

  ‘Five minutes,’ Dewar reminded him.

  Dewar and Malloy sat outside in the car while Ferguson, gathering Joyce in his arms, disappeared inside. Five minutes passed with no sign of his return. ‘Another couple,’ said Dewar.

  ‘Right,’ said Dewar after ten minutes had gone by, ‘Let’s fetch him.’

  Dewar rang the bell. There was no response. He tried again. Nothing.

  Both men ran round the back of the house, half expecting to find the back door flapping open and Ferguson gone but the back door was locked. Dewar shrugged and put his shoulder to it. It gave after the second challenge.

  Ferguson, Joyce and Malcolm were all lying together on the living room floor. The television was on but they were all quite dead. There was a vague chemical smell in the air.

  ‘Cyanide,’ whispered Dewar, freeing a small brown bottle that was still in Ferguson’s hand. ‘Poor bastard, I guess this was plan B all along. The Iraqis just provided an alternative scenario for a few weeks.’

  ‘Oh George,’ whispere
d Malloy.

  TEN DAYS LATER

  ‘Tell me it’s really all over,’ said Karen as she and Dewar travelled south together on their way back to London. Ian Grant was well on the road to recovery, the outbreak in Edinburgh was under control and people were being vaccinated in circles of ever increasing radius from the city to ensure that the virus would find it difficult if not impossible to spread. With a bit of luck it would be contained and the earth would be free of it again.

  ‘It’s over,’ smiled Dewar.

  ‘What will happen to the Iraqis?’

  ‘George Ferguson’s death will provide the authorities with the excuse they need to avoid any kind of public trial. No testimony from George means no trial for Siddiqui means no embarrassment for the establishment. Nobody comes out of this affair with any credit.’

  ‘So it will all just be swept under the carpet?’

  ‘That’s my guess.’

  ‘But surely there will be demands for an enquiry?’ insisted Karen.

  ‘For some politicians, calling for a full public enquiry is a way of life. They do it so often that nobody takes a blind bit of notice any more. Their requests will be denied and armies of spin doctors brought in to make sure everyone concentrates on the fact that the epidemic is over and the disease has been contained. Celebration and services of thanksgiving will be the order of the day.’

  ‘Doesn’t that make you angry?’

  ‘Just numb.’

  ‘Will you get leave?’

  ‘I’m presenting my report at the Home Office tomorrow morning then I’m all yours. How about you?’

  ‘My leave started this morning.’

  ‘Shall we go away for a few days?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Scottish Highlands? Very few people and lots of fresh air.’

  ‘Deal,’ smiled Karen.

  When Dewar finished delivering his report on the happenings in Edinburgh he was met with a wall of stunned silence. There were about thirty people in the room, the Home Secretary and Minister of Defence were sitting in the front row beside Macmillan.

  ‘Dr Dewar, I think we owe you a debt of gratitude,’ said the Minister of Defence. ‘Thanks to your efforts, a potentially disastrous scenario in the middle east has been averted. There are already signs that Saddam will now back down and allow the UNSCOM inspectors to resume their work.’