The Lazarus Strain (27 page)

‘She didn’t say anything about taking a holiday to me,’ said Steven.

‘Should she have?’

‘We are friends . . . we had a relationship.’

‘I noticed,’ said Macmillan. ‘Maybe you imagined that it would be on-going and she didn’t?’

‘Nothing like that,’ Steven assured him. ‘If I’m honest, I hoped that might be the case but Leila made it quite clear that her career came first and that she was going back to the States to continue it. She couldn’t wait to get back to the university in Washington . . . she said.’

‘So why not be honest about what she was planning . . .’ mused Macmillan, as if trying to decide whether or not the deception was big enough to cause Sci-Med concern.

‘I’m trying to see things objectively,’ said Steven. ‘But emotional involvement is getting in the way. I find myself thinking she’s gone off to France or Spain to meet up with some secret lover.’

‘Which of course, would be of no concern to Sci-Med,’ said Macmillan.

‘Quite,’ agreed Steven. ‘But there may be another reason she’s gone missing and that’s why I need an objective view.’

Macmillan took a few moments to compose his thoughts before taking a deep breath and saying, ‘Dr Martin has been – is - more than a bit player in all of this. She is the designer of our main hope of defence against a potentially disastrous biological weapon. It is essential we know exactly where she is at all times - especially if it should be somewhere other than where she said she’d be.’

‘I suppose that was what I wanted to hear,’ said Steven. ‘I’ve put the wheels in motion to find out what flight she boarded and where she was going when I said goodbye to her on Tuesday.’

‘Good. I have to say in any other circumstances I’d replace you with one of the others because of your personal involvement but you’re in this too deep and you’ve already brought us a long way. You’re probably still our best chance of finding out what al-Qaeda are really up to. I won’t give you a lecture about steeling yourself to be objective but you must continue to think round all the angles, Steven - whoever it concerns. You’re good at it, maybe the best: continue to be.’

Macmillan had already hung up but Steven murmured, ‘Yes, Boss,’ before switching off his phone and slumping down into his chair by the window. The light was almost gone and the traffic on the river was lit up like pearls on velvet. He concentrated on the one star he could see in the sky as he forced himself to think round all the angles where Leila was concerned. The trouble was he knew so little about her. There just hadn’t been time to say much to each other about their past lives because of the demands and sense of urgency of the situation they’d found themselves in. It had been a bit like a wartime romance with no time for considerations past or future; only the ‘now’ had been important. This was a situation that had to be remedied. He called the duty man at Sci-Med and said, ‘I’ve got another job for you. I need you to find out everything there is to know about Dr Leila Martin and her career. Get on to her university in Washington and see if you can get them to send a full CV. If they prove difficult, get John Macmillan to put the request through the CIA chief of station in London. If the worst comes to the worst he’ll be at the meeting of the UK Joint Intelligence Committee tomorrow.’

‘A CIA man at the JIIC meeting?’ exclaimed the duty man.

‘That’s normal protocol,’ said Steven. ‘He leaves when domestic matters are discussed. This is top priority,’ he insisted. ‘I need this information.’

‘Understood.’

‘Anything back from Heathrow yet?’

‘Nothing. I’ll get on to them again.’

Another hour was to pass before the duty man called back. ‘Heathrow says that no one named Leila Martin left through the airport on Tuesday on any of their flights.’

‘They’re sure?’ exclaimed Steven.

‘They’re positive.’

‘You’re telling me she never left the country?’

‘No,
they’re
telling you she never left the country and, like I say, they’re quite sure. If you turn on your laptop, I’ll forward some stuff to you that’s just come in from Washington on Dr Martin. I told them we needed the CV for an article
The
Times
was doing about American academics working in the UK and they sent it without question.’

‘Well done,’ said Steven. ‘”A” for initiative.’

‘Mum will be pleased . . . Use decoder l54.’

Curiouser and curiouser, thought Steven. If Leila hadn’t left the country . . . this could put a whole new complexion on things. He knew he shouldn’t read too much into it but his spirits rose when the thought occurred to him that there was just a chance that the whole thing might be some kind of misunderstanding. Leila might have forgotten something and gone back to the cottage to get it. It had taken longer than she’d anticipated and she’d simply missed her flight! Rather than bother calling anyone, she had stayed over, made new arrangements and flew out next day or whenever they could get her on another flight! It was only a working hypothesis but he liked it. He called the duty man at Sci-Med once more and asked him to check again with the airport - this time against all departures on Wednesday or even Thursday.

‘Will do. Get the CV okay?’ asked the duty man.

‘I’m just about to download it,’ said Steven. He set up his laptop to receive and decode Leila Martin’s CV and spent the next fifteen minutes going through it. He didn’t feel comfortable doing it because it seemed underhand, disloyal, almost the action of a secret policeman investigating his own family but he knew it had to be done.

He read that Leila Martin was the daughter of a French father and Moroccan mother. Her late father had been a distinguished neurologist who had written several books on the subject, one of them now a widely recognised university text book, her mother a concert pianist who had been establishing herself as a particularly brilliant interpreter of the works of Liszt had had her career cut tragically short by arthritis in her thirties. Leila had been brought up in Paris and educated both there and at a finishing school in Berne, in Switzerland. She had returned to study biological sciences at the Pasteur Institute in Paris and had gone on to obtain a doctorate in immunology from the Seventh University of Paris before heading off to the USA to take up successive post doctoral fellowships at the University of California at Los Angeles and at Harvard Medical School in Boston. She had then moved to the World Health Organisation in Geneva to work on vaccine design for third world immunisation programmes before returning to the States to become associate professor of immunology at the university in Washington where she was currently employed.

It was clear to Steven, and anyone who read her CV, that Leila Martin was a woman of impeccable background who, in her youth, had been an exemplary student and who was now regarded by the scientific community as a gifted immunologist. Steven noted that she had picked up several academic awards and prizes along the way and had built up a formidable publication list in prestigious scientific and medical journals. There was absolutely nothing to suggest that she could be anything other than the intelligent, beautiful woman he had fallen for . . . so where was she and what was she doing?

Twenty minutes later, the duty man at Sci-Med rang to say that Heathrow had drawn a blank on the other days too. They were adamant that Leila Martin had not left the country through their airport.

Steven rubbed his forehead nervously with the tips of his fingers as he tried to salvage a possible scenario from the wreckage of the old one to explain why Leila was still in the country. Okay, she forgot something . . . she went back to get it and missed her flight because . . . she fell ill . . . or had an accident! She could be lying unconscious in hospital somewhere! Worse still, she could be lying on the floor of the cottage! She could have gone back there, fallen and struck her head and no one would know she was even there!

‘It was after eleven in the evening and for once Frank Giles was not still at work when Steven called. He tried his mobile number instead and got a sleepy response.

‘Jesus, Dunbar, this is the first early night I’ve managed in yonks and you have to ruin it.’

Steven apologised but said it was important. ‘Leila Martin has gone missing,’ he said. ‘She was supposed to get on a flight to Washington on Tuesday but it never happened. She’s still in the country somewhere.’

‘You mean she’s been kidnapped?’

‘I don’t know what I mean,’ confessed Steven. ‘I saw her as far as the airport so I’ve been thinking that she may have had to go back for something and been involved in an accident but we can’t rule out anything. Could you run a check on the hospitals? I’m going to drive up to her cottage.’

‘I’ll mobilise the troops,’ said Giles. ‘Just in case Ali and his pals are involved.’

Steven rushed down to the basement garage, pausing briefly when he realised that he had promised to return the Porsche to Stan Silver by the end of the day. He hated breaking a promise but this was an emergency and it was too late to arrange another car. He would call Stan from Norfolk to explain. There was still a chance he could have it back by morning.

The wheels on the 911 squealed on the compound floor of the garage as he rounded the final pillar and accelerated up the ramp where he paused briefly to look to the right before roaring off into the night.

There were moments on the journey when Steven questioned his own actions: he recognised that his emotional involvement with Leila was definitely playing a part. One moment it seemed like exactly the right action to be taking, the next an absolutely ridiculous thing to be doing when the Norfolk police could have checked out the cottage for him and probably a lot quicker. But there was no turning back now and he had cause to be grateful that the temperature was above freezing as he challenged the grip of the Porsche’s fat tyres on every tight bend. At least the lateness of the hour meant that traffic was light.

The growl of the engine died away to an uneven burble as he slowed right down to turn into the lane leading to Leila’s cottage, wondering why she had chosen to live here in the first place. There was no doubt that it had rural charm but in retrospect, Leila had never even mentioned this, only the lack of heating and the jumble sale furniture. She would have been happier with a flat in the city. His heart skipped a beat when he saw that there was a car parked outside the cottage; it wasn’t Leila’s: this one was a dark Vauxhall Vectra estate. Surely the property couldn’t have been re-let so quickly? He would have given odds against there being a queue lining up for it in winter.

The fact that there were no lights on left him with a dilemma. Should he turn around and drive off, accepting that new tenants had moved in or should he wake the household and say who he was and why he was there? He decided he had to be sure about things. He’d knock, ask and apologise if necessary.

There was no answer to either his first or second louder knock and it made him curse under his breath but he couldn’t really blame whoever was inside for not answering the door at three in the morning in the middle of nowhere. He supposed the main thing had been established and that was that Leila could not be there, lying alone and injured on the floor. He got back into the Porsche and started the engine.

When he came to do a three point turn to get back to the road his headlights swept the length of the Vectra and briefly illuminated a jacket that had been draped untidily over the back of the front passenger seat. It made him hit the brakes. It was Leila’s. It was the leather blouson she’d worn over her little black number the first time they went out to dinner together. It had a distinctive, patterned collar on it. But it wasn’t Leila’s car . . . Well, it wouldn’t be you idiot, would it? . . . his subconscious accused. Leila would have returned her car to the rental company before going to the airport on Tuesday. When she realised she’d have to come back for something she would have rented another at the airport. Vectras were among the most common hire cars around. Leila could be lying injured inside after all.

Steven cursed the fact that he wasn’t driving his own car with all his bits and pieces in the boot. The Porsche didn’t have a torch in it. He angled the 911 so that the headlights lit up as much of the cottage as possible and started looking for the easiest way to gain access. The front door was solid oak and had been bolted from inside – he remembered Leila doing that at night. It would have to be a window. He moved down the left side of the building, testing each of the two windows on that side but both were tightly shut and snibbed – Leila did that too in an effort to keep out the cold. He rounded the corner at the back of the house, losing any help the Porsche lights could provide and stopped for a moment to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the inky blackness. He thought at first it was his imagination when he started to see two pencil-thin parallel lines of light in the ground but they persisted. They were very faint but definitely there. The bungalow had a cellar with a light on in it.

‘Leila!’ he cried, dropping to his knees, scraping at the dirt and trying to see down through one of the joints in what appeared to be an old glass brick skylight, which was largely overgrown with weeds and smeared with mud. ‘Leila, can you hear me?’

There was no answer.

Steven kept altering the angle of his position on the ground, trying desperately to find an area where the joint was wide enough for him to see through. He kept calling out Leila’s name but whenever he paused to listen there was just silence, apart from an owl screeching somewhere out in the surrounding forest. He was just about to give up when he found a place he could see through with one eye if he pressed his nose right up against the dirty glass. He could make out a black and white, tiled floor . . . and two legs lying on it . . . female legs. The upper part of the body was obscured. ‘Leila! Leila! Can you hear me?’

The legs didn’t move: there was no reply.

Filled with anguish, Steven pulled out his phone, finding that all his fingers were becoming thumbs in his hurry. ‘Jesus!’ he exploded when he saw that there was no signal. ‘Give me a break, will you!’