The Lazarus Strain (31 page)

‘And like all anti-virals, that means at the very first sign of symptoms,’ said Steven. ‘And we both know the chances of that are practically zero. By the time people have actually decided they’ve got flu and sought help it’ll be too late.’

Macmillan looked equally dubious. ‘Either that or there will be a panic and people will demand the drug and take it when they haven’t even got the disease, which will be no use at all in preventing it and just use up stocks.’

Both men remained silent for a moment before Macmillan shook his head and changed the subject. He asked, ‘Any thoughts on who the false Leila Martin really was?’

‘I’m still thinking about it,’ replied Steven. ‘And before you remind me, I am aware that she’s still out there.’

The sun had come out and Steven walked by the Thames Embankment while he considered ‘Leila’s deception. She’d obviously had enough training in microbiology for her to be able to culture the virus safely and pass herself off as a visiting research fellow at the Crick Institute although, through pressure of work, she had had the perfect excuse to avoid too much contact with fellow scientists. The deadline for the vaccine had also helped her avoid facing any questions about its design where any shortcomings about her knowledge might have been exposed. He himself, to his embarrassment, had helped her negotiate her way through the safety screens of Auroragen.

The real Leila Martin had had a French father and a Moroccan mother and had been educated in France. His Leila had the right looks for such a mix and also the right accent . . . It was also similar to Ali Mansour’s background, thought Steven. Mansour was the son of an Iraqi father and a French mother . . . He was also a graduate in microbiology . . .

Steven pulled out his phone and called Mac Davidson at the Sci-Med lab.

‘Do you remember the DNA fingerprint tests I requested a while back on the staff of the Crick Institute?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Do you still have them?’

‘I don’t think we’ve got round to destroying them yet,’ said Davidson. ‘Why? There were no matches as I remember.’

‘I know but I’d like you to look at them again, particularly a comparison of the woman we believed to be Leila Martin and the DNA profile taken from the safe handle - the one that was subsequently shown to be Ali Mansour’s.’

‘I’ll get back to you.’

Two hours later an embarrassed Mac Davidson got back to Steven. ‘I’m not sure how we missed this,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it was because we were just looking for exact matches at the time but . . . there are certain corresponding features about the two profiles you asked to be re-examined.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Steven. ‘The two subjects concerned could be brother and sister.’

‘That’s about it,’ conceded Davidson. ‘Sorry.’

‘Thanks, Mac,’ said Steven. When it came to missing things, he didn’t feel up to calling the kettle black. He called Macmillan. ‘Leila was Ali Mansour’s sister,’ he said. ‘I take it you have details of Mansour’s family there?’

‘I’ll email them to you. Well done again!’

Fifteen minutes later, Steven was gazing at a photograph of his Leila on the screen of his laptop only she was in reality, Zainab Aline Mansour. She was eight years younger than the real Leila Martin but she had a degree in microbiology like her brother and had actually worked in the real Leila Martin’s lab in Washington at one time as a graduate student.

Steven called Macmillan back and gave him the details. ‘If she didn’t leave the country as Leila Martin,’ he said. ‘There’s a good chance she travelled under her own name of Zainab Aline Mansour. She may still be waiting for her brother to join her somewhere.’

‘I’ll let loose the dogs,’ said Macmillan.

‘Quite a family affair,’ murmured Steven. He wondered how many more Mansour families were out there with scores to settle.

Macmillan called just after seven in the evening to say that ‘Leila’ had been traced and detained by the French Police. She had been living in an apartment in Montrouge in Paris, having flown there directly from Heathrow on the day Steven had seen her off - travelling under her own name.

‘It seems you’ve worked out everything,’ said Macmillan.

‘
They
damned nearly worked out everything,’ said Steven. ‘We came
that
close to disaster.’

‘What was it my old Scots granny used to say?’ mused Macmillan. ‘
Nearly
never killed a man.’

‘A comfort,’ said Steven.

‘So what d’you think they’ll do next?’

‘Crystal ball time,’ sighed Steven. ‘One thing’s for sure: it’ll take time to set up another “spectacular” . . . On the other hand, they won’t want to lose face in the short term . . . They could go for a direct strike.’

‘A bomb?’

‘Probably. They might well sacrifice a few foot soldiers . . . mount a suicide attack on some building in the city . . . or the transport system . . .’

THE END