Past Lives (24 page)

'The pain has all but gone and I seem to have freedom of movement but whether it’s going to be good enough for surgery . . . well, that’s something I still have to find out. I’ll spend some time in the autopsy room when I get back and see how I get on with a knife in my hand.
Practice on the dead makes perfect on the living
, as an old professor at med school used to say.'

'What an absolutely awful thing to happen,' said Simone. ‘So this is how you came to be in Scotland in November?’

Macandrew nodded. ‘I had to get away. I needed something to take my mind off things so I thought I’d do what we Americans tend to do and come to Europe to trace my roots.’

Simone said, ‘And you got more than you bargained for.’

‘
And then some.’

They ate and spent the rest of the evening getting to know each other, telling each other about their backgrounds and how they came to enter medicine. A second bottle of wine came into play and the conversation moved on from talk of the academic systems in their respective countries to memories of student days and finally to childhood confessions as they became perfectly comfortable with each other.

Macandrew learned how Simone had once stolen her sister’s clothes while she was bathing naked in a pool near the family’s summer home in Provence. He owned up to once emptying large amounts of liquid soap into the fountain in the grounds of his school in Boston on prize-giving day.

As it grew late, the wine and the events of the day started to take its toll on both of them. Macandrew noticed Simone’s eyelids coming together. He said gently, ‘It’s been a long day: you’re tired.’

‘
Simone smiled and said sleepily, ‘Thank you for saving my life today.’

‘
Don’t mention it,’ replied Macandrew. ‘It’s a man thing.’

The morning was cold and damp and a fine drizzle settled on Simone's hair as they waited at the front door for the police car that was to take them up to the Seventh University of Paris. When it finally did arrive, they got in and sat in silence as they made painfully slow progress through the early morning traffic.

'Not very lovely, I'm afraid,' said Simone as they pulled up outside a concrete campus which was still scarred by graffiti from student protests of many years before. 'Nineteen sixty-eight.' said Simone in answer to Macandrew's unspoken question.

'Of course,’ said Macandrew after a moment’s thought. ‘The famous Paris student riots - the folks who were going to change the world. Wonder what became of them,' he said as he tried to decipher the messages living on in the fading spray-paint.

'They became doctors and lawyers and accountants like every other generation I suppose,' smiled Simone.

'And now, with something to lose,' said Macandrew, ‘they’re a bit more reticent with their demands for social justice.’

'Do I detect a certain cynicism there?' smiled Simone.

'People are people. Don't expect too much and you won't be disappointed. That’s my motto.'

‘
Definitely cynical.’

‘
I prefer realistic.’

They arrived at a tower block building with the number 43 on it. 'This is where I work,' said Simone. The police driver who had walking a few paces behind them took up station at the entrance while Simone and Macandrew went inside. Macandrew carried his travel bag over his shoulder. It was his intention to catch a flight back to Edinburgh in the afternoon.

‘
If you do find that your hands are all right for surgery . . .’ began Simone cautiously.

‘
Then I’d like nothing better than to collaborate with you,’ interrupted Macandrew.

Simone relaxed. ‘Good; maybe I should give you some brain sections to examine,' she said. 'You can study them along with the topographical sketches I can also give you. You might like to carry out some feasibility studies while you’re down in Pathology? You could pinpoint the relevant area of the brain in cadavers and maybe think about the best surgical approach?'

‘
I think I already have an idea how I might approach it but a lot depends on what has to be done to the cells to stimulate them.’

‘
I’m hoping that simply bathing them directly in the activator will be enough to trigger them back into production,’ said Simone. ‘That’s what happens in the test tube.’

‘
Then that should be possible with a minimum of invasive surgery - perhaps through the introduction of a flexible needle via the nasal route.’

‘
I’d like you to see my data,’ said Simone. She brought out a thick file of papers from her desk and thumbed through them before picking out a graph and sliding it over to Macandrew. She came and stood behind him to emphasise various points.

Macandrew was aware of her nearness and her perfume.

‘
This is where the protease was applied,’ said Simone. ‘You can see that production of
Theta
1 stops almost immediately.’

Macandrew saw the flattening of the curve until it became a plateau. ‘Certainly does.’

‘
And here is where I added back the activator.’ Simone pointed with the tip of her pen. Production of the enzyme starts again after a delay of only a few minutes.’

Macandrew followed the line which took a steep rise. ‘No doubt about that and it’s back to normal in . . . four, five, six . . . less than seven minutes. That’s really impressive.’

‘
Do you think so?’ said Simone, suddenly seeming vulnerable again and looking directly at him. ‘It would be so good to be able to do something for these people.’

‘
If this works as well
in vivo
, then you’ve done it,’ said Macandrew. ‘You’ve found a cure.’

‘
It’s still a big if,’ said Simone, turning away. She brought out a flat wooden box from a cupboard behind her desk and flicked open the lid. It contained rows of microscope slides. She ran her finger down the index on the lid and removed three, which she installed in a smaller cardboard box fitted with plastic guides to keep the slides apart. She sealed the box with tape. 'These are the brain sections I mentioned,' she said.

Macandrew slipped the box into his bag, checked his watch and got to his feet slowly. ‘Well, I guess I should be going,’ he said.

Simone sensed his awkwardness. ‘Maybe we should shake hands?’ she suggested mischievously.

‘
No,’ replied Macandrew.

Simone came towards him. ‘No, I don’t think so either.’

They kissed but were interrupted by the telephone. When Simone had finished taking the call the moment had passed. ‘Maybe I should give you a copy of John’s research notes?’ she said. ‘Just in case anything should happen . . .’

‘
Nothing’s going to happen, Simone,’ said Macandrew, taking her in his arms again. ‘The police will catch these men and the guard will remain with you until they do.’ Macandrew kissed her again and they hugged for a moment. 'I’ll call you as soon as I get back.’

‘
And the secret, Mac?’

‘
It’s safe with me.’

Macandrew told the gendarme on the door that Simone was still in her lab but that he would now be leaving. He walked up to the Seine to take a last look, very much aware that his European adventure was coming to an end. He would make arrangements for a flight back to the States as soon as he got back to Scotland. It was time to find out if he still had a career. The thought made him look down at his hands as gripped the top rail near the approach to Pont Neuf. He flexed his fingers in unison as a Bateau Mouche passed underneath with its recorded commentary for the tourists drifting across the water. They felt fine.

There was a queue at the checkin desk for the Edinburgh flight and it didn't seem to be moving. Macandrew could see that the fault lay with a couple at the front who had a problem with paperwork and were arguing loudly with the girl behind the desk. He adopted his grin and bear it philosophy - which he always brought with him to airports - but occasionally glanced back at the queue starting to stretch out behind him as the minutes ticked by.

He was aware of two men, some four places back in the line where one kept asking the other if he was feeling all right. He didn't give it much thought – lots of people were nervous at the thought of flying - but, as he was moving off after getting his boarding card, a commotion broke out. He turned to see that one of the men had collapsed on the floor and was being assisted by two members of ground staff. The man was helped to his feet and supported as he was led to a small room behind the checkin desks.

Macandrew hesitated, wondering if he should offer his services, but argued himself out of it. The airport must have its own medical people and the man had probably just fainted. A few seconds later however, the door of the room opened and an agitated young woman made an urgent appeal for a doctor.

'Can I help?' said Macandrew, returning to the desk.

An overweight man was lying on the floor holding his chest; His companion was bent anxiously over him. 'I think he's had another heart attack.'

The word ‘another’ prompted Macandrew to ask the ground staff to call an ambulance immediately. Heart attacks tended to have a finite number; a bit like cats’ lives though seldom stretching to nine: more a case of three strikes and you’re out. ‘Make sure that they have clear access when they arrive. Every second counts.'

'Oui, Monsieur.'

Macandrew was left alone with the two men. He knelt down beside the prostrate figure and immediately realised that all was not as it seemed. The patient’s eyes reflected no pain or distress at all. They were cold, alert and calculating.

‘
What the . . .’

Before he could say or do anything more, he felt a sharp needle jab in his thigh and a wave of dizziness sweep over him. He had a vague notion of being made to change places with the man on the floor before passing out.

Macandrew woke with a splitting headache and a burning sensation in his throat. Despite having been unconscious, he knew exactly what had happened. He had been drugged and abducted. The question was, by whom? And why? He tried getting up from the rickety bed he was lying on but found that his hands were tied behind his back. The creaking noises from the bed however, attracted attention from next door. The room door was unlocked and the fat ‘patient’ stood there, saying nothing but perspiring profusely. He had thick, moist lips and wore small round glasses that magnified his eyes out of all proportion to his face. Macandrew felt like a lab specimen being examined by an overweight schoolboy. The eyes blinked slowly and regularly like those of a frog on a rock but he still didn't say anything when Macandrew asked him where he was. A taller man - the other of the pair at the airport - joined him and Macandrew recognised him immediately as the man with the knife in the cathedral, the man later identified by the police as Vito Parvelli.

'What the hell’s going on?’ croaked Macandrew. ‘What do you want with me?'

'I think you know that,' said Parvelli. 'The woman has something we want and you are going to help us get it.'

'You’ve made some mistake,' said Macandrew, stalling for time. He felt groggy from the effects of the drug and had a splitting headache.

'No mistake,’ said Parvelli. You got in our way last time. Now you’re going to help us.’

Macandrew felt a shiver run down his spine as he realised that these two were probably the men who had tortured and murdered John Burnett. 'No way.’

The words sounded brave but only because he was trying the hide the fear he felt inside. He was thinking about the two hoods in Kansas and it was turning his insides to water. These two were even more frightening.

Parvelli dropped the telephone into Macandrew's lap and said with an air of finality, ‘Phone Dr Robin.'

'She hardly knows me.' said Macandrew. '

'Just do it.’

As if driven to pick away at some awful secret, Macandrew asked, 'And if I refuse?'

The fat man turned and said something to someone who was still in the outer room. A thin, gaunt man with sloping shoulders appeared in the doorway carrying what appeared to be a small toolbox. He looked at Macandrew dispassionately and made a lazy gesture with his right arm. Parvelli and the fat man pulled Macandrew upright and sat him down on a chair. They tied him to it tightly but secured only one of his legs, leaving the other to be stretched out in front of him while his shoe and sock was removed. His bare foot was placed on a small stool.

Sweat broke out on Macandrew's brow as he watched the man he thought might be Ignatius’s accomplice, Stroud, open the toolbox and bring out a soldering iron. Every muscle in his body tensed as Stroud knelt down beside his foot, untangling the cable and handing the plug to the fat man to plug into a wall socket. The smell of burning dust filled the air as the iron started to heat up.

'Call Dr Robin,’ said Parvelli.

Macandrew took the phone. Any added threat was entirely unnecessary. He couldn't be any more afraid. Parvelli told him what to say.

The fat man took a firm hold of his lower leg and pressed his heel down on the stool so that it was impossible to move his foot. Stroud licked his forefinger and held it briefly to the tip of the soldering iron. It hissed.

Macandrew dialled Simone's number and placed the receiver to his ear.