Read Online Scorpion's Advance by Ken McClure - Free Book Online
Authors: Ken McClure
Tags: Scotland
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hand to reorient himself to the reasons for his visit.
Just before nine he heard laboured breathing coming from the stairs and turned to face the door. After what seemed to be an age the figure of an elderly man appeared in the entrance, obviously struggling for breath after the climb. He patted his chest as if in explanation for the delay before he spoke.
'Good morning. I am Jacob Strauss.'
Anderson ushered Strauss over to the chair he had been occupying and the old man sat down gratefully; he began to use his Panama hat as a fan and continued until he had sufficiently recovered to speak. He nodded to the stairs and said, 'To you some steps, to me . . . the Eiger.'
Anderson smiled. So that was Jacob Strauss, a name which had appeared regularly throughout his student years in lectures and textbooks. Not at all what he had expected, Strauss seemed to be a rather benevolent old gentleman, the sort you would find on park benches on summer afternoons, patting dogs and lifting their hats to passing mothers with prams.
Strauss outlined plans for the day. 'First, the damned paperwork . . . ' He made a gesture of annoyance with his hat. 'Then I show you my lab and we talk, yes?'
'Fine,' said Anderson.
Strauss's car, a very dusty Mercedes, was waved to a halt at the entrance to the university by an armed guard. Anderson thought that the guard seemed old and fat, but the gun he was carrying looked real enough. Strauss got out and approached the man who, in turn, saluted him. They had a short conversation in Hebrew, which Anderson guessed was about him, then he was asked to get out and his flight bag was searched.
'I hope you will forgive the impoliteness,' said Strauss as they drove on through the gates.
'Of course.'
Strauss listed the various buildings on the campus as they passed by on their way up a tree-lined avenue. They stopped at the administration building and spent half an hour on the 'damned paperwork' before proceeding to the medical school which turned out to be a multi-storey tower block.
The elevator rose silently and swiftly to the sixth floor where Strauss had his laboratory and where they were met by a number of people wearing lab coats. He was introduced to everyone, although there seemed little hope of him remembering all, or indeed any, of the phonetically strange names.
'You already know Dr Cohen,' said Strauss.
'Yes, indeed.'
Cohen nodded curtly but did not smile.
Lastly, Anderson was introduced to a woman in her late twenties.
'And this is my right hand,' said Strauss, smiling broadly and putting his arm round the woman's shoulders. 'May I present my research assistant, Myra Freedman.'
Anderson shook hands with her and thought the wide smile genuine enough.
'It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor,' said the woman.
Anderson was surprised at her American accent for, of all the people he had met so far, Myra Freedman would have been the one he would have picked out as looking typically Israeli. She was small and sallow-skinned with dark, curly hair that licked along her forehead and tumbled down on to her shoulders. She wore gold on both wrists and round her neck.
'You are an American?' said Anderson, betraying his surprise.
The wide mouth laughed, revealing well-cared-for teeth. 'Chicago,' said Myra. The telephone rang in Strauss's office and he excused himself, leaving Anderson and Myra alone.
'So what's an American doing here?' Anderson asked.
'I'm not an American any more,' insisted Myra with mock firmness.' As of two years ago I'm an Israeli. Sam and I thought it was time.'
The name rang a bell for Anderson. 'Sam Freedman? Not the research biochemist?'
The woman smiled. ‘The same.'
Anderson had started to say, 'But why should . . .' when he stopped himself. He was too late. Myra Freedman completed his question.
'Why should a top flight researcher like Sam give up everything and come to a backwater like Israel?'
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude.'
'Don't apologize, and don't think
Just before nine he heard laboured breathing coming from the stairs and turned to face the door. After what seemed to be an age the figure of an elderly man appeared in the entrance, obviously struggling for breath after the climb. He patted his chest as if in explanation for the delay before he spoke.
'Good morning. I am Jacob Strauss.'
Anderson ushered Strauss over to the chair he had been occupying and the old man sat down gratefully; he began to use his Panama hat as a fan and continued until he had sufficiently recovered to speak. He nodded to the stairs and said, 'To you some steps, to me . . . the Eiger.'
Anderson smiled. So that was Jacob Strauss, a name which had appeared regularly throughout his student years in lectures and textbooks. Not at all what he had expected, Strauss seemed to be a rather benevolent old gentleman, the sort you would find on park benches on summer afternoons, patting dogs and lifting their hats to passing mothers with prams.
Strauss outlined plans for the day. 'First, the damned paperwork . . . ' He made a gesture of annoyance with his hat. 'Then I show you my lab and we talk, yes?'
'Fine,' said Anderson.
Strauss's car, a very dusty Mercedes, was waved to a halt at the entrance to the university by an armed guard. Anderson thought that the guard seemed old and fat, but the gun he was carrying looked real enough. Strauss got out and approached the man who, in turn, saluted him. They had a short conversation in Hebrew, which Anderson guessed was about him, then he was asked to get out and his flight bag was searched.
'I hope you will forgive the impoliteness,' said Strauss as they drove on through the gates.
'Of course.'
Strauss listed the various buildings on the campus as they passed by on their way up a tree-lined avenue. They stopped at the administration building and spent half an hour on the 'damned paperwork' before proceeding to the medical school which turned out to be a multi-storey tower block.
The elevator rose silently and swiftly to the sixth floor where Strauss had his laboratory and where they were met by a number of people wearing lab coats. He was introduced to everyone, although there seemed little hope of him remembering all, or indeed any, of the phonetically strange names.
'You already know Dr Cohen,' said Strauss.
'Yes, indeed.'
Cohen nodded curtly but did not smile.
Lastly, Anderson was introduced to a woman in her late twenties.
'And this is my right hand,' said Strauss, smiling broadly and putting his arm round the woman's shoulders. 'May I present my research assistant, Myra Freedman.'
Anderson shook hands with her and thought the wide smile genuine enough.
'It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor,' said the woman.
Anderson was surprised at her American accent for, of all the people he had met so far, Myra Freedman would have been the one he would have picked out as looking typically Israeli. She was small and sallow-skinned with dark, curly hair that licked along her forehead and tumbled down on to her shoulders. She wore gold on both wrists and round her neck.
'You are an American?' said Anderson, betraying his surprise.
The wide mouth laughed, revealing well-cared-for teeth. 'Chicago,' said Myra. The telephone rang in Strauss's office and he excused himself, leaving Anderson and Myra alone.
'So what's an American doing here?' Anderson asked.
'I'm not an American any more,' insisted Myra with mock firmness.' As of two years ago I'm an Israeli. Sam and I thought it was time.'
The name rang a bell for Anderson. 'Sam Freedman? Not the research biochemist?'
The woman smiled. ‘The same.'
Anderson had started to say, 'But why should . . .' when he stopped himself. He was too late. Myra Freedman completed his question.
'Why should a top flight researcher like Sam give up everything and come to a backwater like Israel?'
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude.'
'Don't apologize, and don't think
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