‘Presumably that would be much harder now with everyone on their guard,’ said Karen.
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Dewar.
On the following Wednesday, Dewar saw a copy of the report from Porton Down. He had been called into the offices of Sci-Med to discuss it with Macmillan. The people at Porton had been working round the clock and had succeeded in identifying several tubes containing DNA from the smallpox virus. Only two tubes were found to contain DNA not registered to be held by the Institute of Molecular Sciences. Dewar checked their identity. They were the exact two fragments that the people in Malloy’s lab had wanted to continue their research on an AIDS vaccine, the two that Le Grice said he’d taken from those left by Hammadi.’
‘This more or less confirms what Le Grice told Sandra Macandrew,’ said Dewar. ‘He really must have destroyed the other fragments as he said. All he was interested in were the ones he needed for his research.’
‘Good,’ said Macmillan. ‘There’s an end to it.’
‘Have you heard anything from MI5 about Siddiqui and Abbas?’ asked Dewar.
Macmillan frowned. ‘Nothing, apart from the fact they’re still there,’ he said.
‘Still a worry,’ said Dewar.
‘Maybe you’re reading too much into it,’ suggested Macmillan.
‘I’d feel a whole lot better if they’d just get the hell out of there.’
‘MI5 will continue to monitor their every move and if they’re carrying any of these damned fragments when they do finally leave, we’ll be destroying the lot and bringing their actions to the attention of the UN as well as WHO.’
Dewar nodded. He had hoped he’d feel better about the whole affair when Porton came up with their report but somehow, in spite of the fact that they seemed to have confirmed what Le Grice had told Sandra, he didn’t. He was in danger of becoming paranoid about the continuing presence of the Iraqis in Edinburgh, but part of that paranoia at least was due to Simon Barron who’d said at the outset that their behaviour suggested that they were waiting for something. As to what it was, the question still remained and it still haunted him.
Dewar was given the following week off as terminal leave. This was usual when Sci-Med staff completed assignments. Although Karen still had to work, they made the most of their evenings together, eating out and seeing shows and generally just being together rather than communicating by telephone.
‘I could learn to like this life,’ said Karen when they returned to Dewar’s flat on Thursday evening after a concert. ‘This must be what normal people do?’
‘No, they watch television and go to bed early,’ said Dewar.
‘One of these sounds all right,’ said Karen.
‘Good to hear it.’
‘I was talking about television,’ teased Karen. ‘Anything on?’
‘Nothing at all,’ said Dewar, taking her in his arms. ’But I’m afraid we can’t have an early night.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s already gone midnight.’
The phone rang at half past three. Telephones always seemed louder at that time in the morning, fracturing dreams and silence like an alarm. Dewar fumbled the receiver off the bedside table and brought it clumsily to his ear, half expecting a wrong number apology. Macmillan was on the other end. ‘I’m in my office. I want you over here right now.’
The phone went dead before Dewar had had a chance to say anything at all in reply. He looked at the phone as if it were responsible for the incident.
‘Something wrong?’ asked Karen, who’d rolled over on to her front and was sleepily rubbing here eyes.
‘I think that’s a safe yes,’ replied Dewar. ‘But God knows what. That was Macmillan. He wants me over there.’
‘I thought it was too good to last, said Karen pushing her hair back from her face. ‘They’ve got another assignment for you. I knew it.’
Dewar wasn’t so sure. ‘I’ve never known one start off with middle-of-the-night dramatics,’ he said. ‘Something must be awfully wrong if they got Macmillan out of bed at this time in the morning. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound so rattled.’ He dressed hurriedly and kissed Karen good-bye while checking his pockets for keys and wallet.
He raced through quiet streets, anxiously turning over the conversation with Macmillan in his mind and searching for reasons. A barge was approaching the bridge as he crossed the Thames; its lights seemed friendly in the darkness and the dull monotonous thump of its engine contrasted with the rasp of his own as he accelerated away at the lights change. He was at the Home Office in under fifteen minutes.
There were four other men in Macmillan’s office when he entered, Frobisher, Macmillan’s deputy, looking grave, two he didn’t recognise but who were introduced as being from the Department of Health and the Public Health Service respectively, and a third man he did recognise. It was Hector Wright from the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, the man who’d briefed him on
smallpox at the outset. It was Wright’s presence that alarmed Dewar most. His first thought was that there had been some mistake in the report from Porton on the contents of Steven Malloy’s lab; they must have come up with something really alarming.
‘We’ve had some very bad news,’ said Macmillan.
‘About the contents of the tubes?’ asked Dewar.
Macmillan looked puzzled then he understood Dewar’s train of thought. ‘If only! Worse than that, a lot worse than that,’ he said. ‘There’s a case of smallpox in Edinburgh.’
Dewar felt as if he’d been hit in the stomach then he started to feel stupid and finally angry. In spite of all the protests he’d heard about no one being irresponsible enough to attempt reconstruction of live smallpox virus, it now appeared that one of them had actually done it. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ he asked.
‘There’s no doubt,’ continued Macmillan. ‘A twenty-six year old man, he’s been in the city’s Western General for over a week; they didn’t know what was wrong with him at first but they do now. They’ve done all the tests and they’re positive; he’s been moved to the hospital’s isolation suite.
Dewar tried to think who at the institute might fit the patient’s description but his mind was doing cartwheels. He couldn’t concentrate. ‘Which one of them’s gone down with it?’ he asked.
‘It gets worse,’ said Macmillan. The patient is not one of the institute staff. As far as we can ascertain, he has no connection with the institute at all.’
Dewar couldn’t believe his ears. ‘But there must be a connection,’ he protested.
‘You’d think so,’ agreed Macmillan. ‘Common sense demands it but if it’s there, we can’t find it.’
‘Our people have drawn a complete blank,’ said the Public Health official.
‘So who is this man?’
Macmillan read from the sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Michael Patrick Kelly, aged 26, currently unemployed, last job, site labourer for J.M. Holt and Sons, known to the police, one conviction for theft, two more for drugs related offences. Divorced four years ago, current partner, Denise Banyon, also known to the police, drugs offences. They live in the Muirhouse district of the city, an area of high unemployment and drug problems.
‘But there just has to be a connection with the institute,’ insisted Dewar, although he had to admit that it wasn’t blindingly obvious.
‘Can you see it?’
‘Not at first glance,’ conceded Dewar. ‘Maybe he has friends at the institute?’
The doubting glances became infectious. ‘All right, I agree, doesn’t seem likely. Maybe he carried out some work there? What does this firm, Holt and Sons do?’
‘The people on the ground up there looked at that,’ said the man from the DOH. They’re house builders. That’s all they do. They’ve never done any kind of contract work for the university.’
‘Well you said he’s unemployed at the moment. Maybe he’s been working as a window cleaner?’ suggested Dewar, clutching at straws.
‘They’re looking into that sort of thing at the moment,’ said Macmillan. ‘Getting information from the circle of people he moves in isn’t proving easy.’