by Daniel Kalla
Avril thought of the anonymous woman whom Yvette Pereau spotted leaving their barn. She wondered if the woman had come to inject Pereaus’ animals. “It is quite a theory, but do you have any evidence?”
Noah didn’t reply, but Elise said, “Only what we have described so far.”
“Hmmm, I see,” Avril said. “And the motive?”
“We don’t have one,” Elise said.
Avril pushed her notepad away from her. “Still, these are very serious accusations, and of course, I will make them my priority to investigate—”
“Louis Charron,” Noah snapped.
“Excuse me?”
“Dr. Louis Charron,” he said. “He shared our suspicion that the human cases might not be vCJD. And he was trying to phone me the night he died—an hour before he drove his car into a tree. Does that make any sense to you, Detective?”
“Ah, Dr. Charron.” Avril remembered the report of the neurologist who was so drunk he drove off a straight highway. Instinctively, she recognized his death was tied in, but her thoughts raced to come up with a cover story. “A tragic case. He was an important physician in Limoges.” She sighed again. “But, of course—”
“Of course, what?” Elise said.
“Wine and Dr. Charron.” Avril shook her head. “Actually, I think brandy was his Achilles’ heel. He should not have been driving at all after all the previous charges.”
“Charges?” Elise said.
“I believe it’s called ‘DUI’ in America?” Avril said. “Dr. Charron had been caught on at least four previous occasions drunk behind the wheel. If not for his reputation, and of course his lawyer, he would never have kept his license.” She sighed again for effect. “In the end, I do not believe we did him any favors.”
Elise looked over to Noah. He did not comment, but from the way his head hung slightly, Avril knew that she had succeeded in breaking some of his conviction.
Feeling every inch the fraud, she reached for her notepad again. “Thank you both so much for bringing this to our attention. It will, of course, be my priority now. I will see if I can find anyone matching the description of your truck driver.” She paused to pretend to read her own notes. “I will speak to Sylvie Manet and see if I can reach Georges Manet myself. And I will certainly follow up at the hotel on the break-in.”
“Thank you,” Elise said.
Avril rose from her seat. “I consider this matter very serious, but you will need to give me some time to follow up on all these many leads. Perhaps we can discuss this again in a few days?”
Noah stood up and met her handshake. He stared her in the eye. “We have some follow-up of our own to pursue.”
“Of course. Let us make sure we keep each other apprised.” But what Avril wanted to say was: Don’t get yourself killed, Doctor.
34
Limoges, France. January 20
The cloud cover had thickened while Noah and Elise were inside the Gendarmerie. They walked back out into an ominous flat gray light that made it seem as if dusk had decided to descend a few hours early. With his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the slushy sidewalk, Noah trudged away from the Gendarmerie confused, disappointed, and even more on edge than before the meeting. Despite her benign smile and intelligent eyes, Detective Avars had worn her skepticism like blush. Her doubt was contagious. Now Noah wondered how much his own imagination factored into his theories.
When they reached the car, Elise spoke up. “Noah, she took our concerns seriously. I am certain she will investigate.”
“Let’s hope,” he muttered. “In the meantime, I don’t think we can just stop and wait to see what she uncovers.”
“I agree. But do you not think we should stick to our areas of expertise, and let Detective Avars handle the police work?”
Elise walked over to the driver’s side while Noah reached for the door handle on the passenger’s side. He paused to look across the hood at her. “Tell me, Elise, where does our investigation end and the police work begin?”
“Well…the victims’ families and that ice sample…” Her words petered out.
“It’s not so cut and dried, is it?”
Elise climbed into the car without comment. Noah got in, too. As they pulled out of the parking spot, he said, “It could take days for the lab in Paris to run tests on that hunk of ice that Sylvie Manet gave us,” he said.
“What do you see as our next step?” she asked tersely.
“Georges Manet.”
“And until we reach him?”
“If we reach him,” he said. “You saw his last e-mail to his sister. We don’t know what condition he is in.” He looked out the window. “We need to find out more about where he was and what he was working on.”
“Where do we begin?” Elise said distantly.
“Speak to his colleagues.” Noah stared out at the city’s streets, which had become depressingly familiar to him. “He is a researcher. He must be affiliated with a university.”
Her shoulders rose and fell. “Maybe.”
He turned and viewed her classic profile, catching another whiff of her citrus perfume. An image of their passionate kiss with the promise of more floated to mind, but he shook it off. “We also need to speak to someone close to Dr. Charron. Somebody who knows what he was looking into before he died.”
She frowned. “Surely that falls into Detective Avars’s area of expertise?”
“His car accident, maybe. Regardless of how he died, he was trying to reach me shortly before his crash. I want to know why.”
Elise opened her mouth as if to speak, but closed it without remarking.
They drove the rest of the way to the hotel in silence. As they passed through the lobby, someone called out: “Elise! Noah! Bonjour.”
Noah recognized Jean Nantal’s voice before he turned to see his mentor approaching from across the room. At his side, Javier Montalva y Casas strode with the confidence of a man who considered himself the most important person in the vicinity. They all shook hands, but Noah did not return either man’s smile, annoyed at Montalva’s unannounced presence.
“Is it too early for a drink?” Montalva asked with a wink, squeezing every drop of Mediterranean charm out of the gesture.
“I think I might stick with water today,” Elise said with a half-smile to Noah.
They headed to the hotel bar and claimed the same corner table where Elise and Noah had shared moments of drunken intimacy the evening before. Jean and Montalva ordered red wines, Noah a Fischer, and Elise a bottle of sparkling water.
They exchanged small talk—carried mainly by Montalva and without any contribution from Noah—while waiting for their drinks. After they arrived, the minister said, “I understand the two of you continue to make brilliant progress in your investigation.”
Elise seesawed her head from side to side. “With progress come complications.”
Montalva toasted them with his glass. “Still, establishing that the three victims knew one another was very impressive detective work.”
Noah had a sip of his beer. The lager tasted cool on his lips, but his stomach responded with queasiness, an aftershock of his recent hangover.
With a paternal smile, Jean looked from Elise to Noah. “Perhaps we could ask you to bring us up to date?”
Elise glanced at Noah, who nodded his approval. She efficiently recapped their findings of the past three days, including the recurring issue of the water, their visit to the Gendarmerie Limoges, and Noah’s hypothesis that the human cases were not directly related to the bovine outbreak.
Montalva’s reaction was unexpectedly subdued, and Noah was filled with the dark suspicion that Elise had already privately briefed her boss on all of it. “So am I correct in assuming that the detective was not swayed by your conspiracy theory?” Montalva asked.
Ignoring the minister, Noah turned to Jean. “Did you know that Louis Charron had a habit of drinking and driving?” he asked.
Jean’s face creased with surp
rise. “Louis? Mais non! Are you certain?”
“The police are,” Noah said. “And right before he got blind drunk and drove off a highway, he called me.”
Montalva leaned in closer.
The skin tightened further around Jean’s eyes. “What was he calling you about?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Noah said. “I never received the call, and he didn’t leave a message. But don’t you think that’s a big coincidence?”
Montalva relaxed in his seat. “Noah, you seem unwilling to accept that coincidences do happen.”
Noah put his beer down on the coaster and turned the bottle slowly until the label faced him. “Minister, I am just not willing to assume that every unexplained loose end is merely coincidence.”
“Well said.” Montalva nodded, unfazed. He reached for his wineglass. “Let me see if I understand your issues here. You have a wandering bookmark, a skittish farmer, two German sedans, the connection to the Manet family, and a hunk of Arctic ice?”
Noah bit back a sneer and reached for his beer. He could not deny, though, that despite the man’s condescension, Montalva had summarized the bulk of the evidence.
“No one would be happier than me if you were right.” Montalva held out his free hand to Noah. “I am responsible for the well-being of the European agricultural community, and this crisis has decimated our sector.” He moved his hand to his chest. “If this outbreak has nothing to do with livestock or farming, my commission would benefit more than anyone.”
Noah stared at the man, searching for a hole in his logic. “You don’t believe that it is possible the human outbreak is not related to the bovine cases?” Noah asked.
“I would have.” Montalva studied his glass. “Except for the nine calves.”
Noah slammed the bottle back on the table. “What calves?”
Montalva offered an almost apologetic smile. “We only heard back from the Institut Pasteur this morning. Nine more calves that were rendered from Ferme d’Allaire have tested positive for the prion.”
Noah’s gaze darted over to Jean.
The Frenchman nodded. “It is true. None of them showed symptoms, Noah, but they were all incubating the prion in their nervous tissue.”
“This was one of your primary concerns, Noah. That the Allaire farm never had a case of its own. Now they do.” Montalva nodded sympathetically. “I would very much love for you to be right, but, my friend…” He reached out to him again. “If this disease is related to polar ice or water, how would so many cattle be infected on Ferme d’Allaire?”
“It would have to involve a large-scale cover-up,” Noah said.
“Ah, a cover-up,” Montalva echoed, raising his eyebrow slightly.
“Yes,” Noah murmured. “One that reached very high up.”
“Very high, indeed,” Montalva said with a hint of amusement.
Jean glanced at the Spaniard with slight annoyance. “I think it is premature to rule out any explanation at this point,” he said. “Perhaps we should discuss our next steps.”
Noah said nothing more as the others discussed the ongoing logistics of the investigation. Montalva concluded the discussions with more platitudes and a promise to reconnect soon. On their way out of the bar, Jean reached for Noah’s elbow and gently tugged him aside at the bottom of the steps. When Elise and Montalva were out of earshot, Jean said, “Noah, I owe you an apology.” He bowed his head slightly. “I had no right to bring Javier to our meeting without telling you beforehand.”
“No doubt the minister insisted,” Noah said.
Jean waved the excuse away. “That is irrelevant. Please accept my apology.”
“Accepted.” Noah showed his mentor a fleeting smile. He lowered his voice. “Jean, what do you make of all of this?”
Jean smoothed back his silver hair, considering the question. “It troubles me. On the one hand, there are too many anomalies compared to any other prion outbreak,” he said thoughtfully. “On the other, the explanations are almost too readily available.” He met Noah’s gaze and offered a reassuring smile. “But more important, I trust your judgment, Noah. If you have such deep concerns, then I know there is legitimacy to them.”
Noah was filled with a revived sense of purpose. “Despite the findings at Ferme d’Allaire, every ounce of my experience and intuition tells me that something else is going on here in Limousin.”
“Including a cover-up?”
Noah nodded and then glanced over his shoulder to ensure that they were still alone. “Jean, I’m not certain whom I can trust any more.”
“You mean Javier?” Jean asked calmly.
“Him…the locals…even Elise.” Noah sighed. “To be honest, I’m not even sure information hasn’t been leaking out through our channels.”
Jean’s shoulders drooped a fraction. “Within the WHO?” he said.
Noah nodded.
Jean was quiet for a few moments. “If that is how you feel,” he said slowly, “then perhaps we should discuss these matters only face to face, without leaving any electronic or paper records for the time being.”
Noah reached over and laid a hand on his mentor’s sagging shoulder. “Now I owe you an apology.”
Jean smiled and straightened to his usual bone-straight posture. “Nonsense. I have always tried to instill the importance of security and discretion in my staff. Until we know there is no leak on our side, then it is a sensible precaution.”
Noah pulled his hand away from Jean’s shoulder just as Elise came hurrying back toward them, holding her cell phone out to Noah. “It’s Maurice,” she said.
He brought the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Noah, bonjour!” Professor Maurice Hébert gushed. “Am I catching you at a difficult moment?”
“No,” Noah said, too impatient for pleasantries. “Do you have the results?”
“Of course,” Hébert said. “In all the bovine brains from Limousin infected with BSE, the levels of phosphorylated tau protein are markedly elevated. It is just as we expected.”
Not “we”! Noah’s temples thudded and his left hand formed a fist. “Maurice, the phosphorylated tau protein levels weren’t elevated in the brains of the human victims supposedly infected by the same prion.”
“Is that so?” Hébert said, his tone suddenly concerned. “How do you explain the discrepancy?”
“I can’t. Listen, Maurice, say that I wanted to inoculate an animal with the BSE prion.”
“Why would you want to do so?” Hébert said in a hoarse voice.
Noah ignored the question. “Hypothetically, could it be done?”
“More than hypothetically. I have done it myself in the laboratory.”
Noah’s fist tightened. “How would I go about doing it?”
“How quickly would you want to see symptoms in the animal?”
“As soon as possible,” Noah said. “In weeks or less, if possible.”
“Then you would have to take the highest concentration of prion—ideally from the brain tissue of a fresh BSE victim—and inject it directly into the cerebral system of a subject.”
“So I would have to inject the prion through the cow’s skull?”
“No, no, no. You could inject it into the thecal sac at the base of the cow’s neck that communicates directly with the brain. It is easy. The animals do not even require sedation.”
Noah felt the acid creep up the back of his throat as he envisioned the procedure. “So all it would take is a sample of BSE and a quick stab with a long needle?” he said, almost to himself.
“Exactly so,” Hébert said. “Though surely, you would need a good reason to do it.”
“I can think of one, Maurice,” Noah said in just above a whisper.
35
Lac Noir, France. January 20
Driving erratically, Avril accelerated on the open stretches of highway and then abruptly slowed, sometimes screeching her brakes after each bend or turn, hoping to unmask her tail. With her thoughts racing as fast as h
er car, at one point she glimpsed a black sedan, possibly a Mercedes, in her side mirror. But the car turned off long before Lac Noir.
The highway grew deserted, and Avril’s thoughts drifted back to her last interview. The tall woman from the E.U. appeared to accept Avril’s deflections and denials, but Dr. Haldane was a different matter. She might have shaken his certainty, but she had not weakened his resolve. She recognized the glint of determination in his eyes; it was a feeling she knew well from personal experience.
Avril was aware that discouraging this doctor would take time. She prayed that Frédéric’s abductors would also see that. If so, Haldane’s tenacity might help save Frédéric’s life. As soon as the investigators departed Limousin, satisfied with the manufactured explanation for the outbreak, Avril suspected that her son would be killed. And so would she. She needed to ground Haldane and Renard in the province and keep them invested long enough for her to find Frédéric.
“Don’t screw with us.” Those words were as clear in her brain as the sky above. She had deleted the e-mail from her hard drive, but she could not shake the mental image of her son holding up the sign, a gun to his head. And his expression still sent shivers up her spine. She had seen the same look on the faces of suspects before they tried to flee or go for their guns. It was the look of someone with nothing to lose. “Please, Frédéric, do not try anything rash,” she murmured. “Let me sort this out.”
She turned off the highway onto the road leading into Lac Noir. Steering through the town, she checked the address written on her notepad. She found the street and spotted the location, though the house was concealed by trees on the sprawling property.
She hesitated before climbing out of the car. I am only doing what they asked of me, she reassured herself. She remembered her own words to Frédéric’s abductors: “I need at least to appear to follow up on their information.” Of course, if by going through the motions she managed to unravel the conspiracy, then she would possess the ultimate bargaining chip for her son’s life.
Sylvie Manet met her at the door to the house. Avril had never before seen the lean woman with the captivating brown eyes and androgynous features; she would have remembered that striking face. For her part, Sylvie Manet did not appear surprised in the least by Avril’s unannounced visit or, like many others meeting the detective for the first time, the color of her skin.
