by Daniel Kalla
No, it can’t be. Her heart walloped against her breast-bone. We have been colleagues—friends—for almost twenty years! She swallowed back another mouthful of bile and her knees shook. She thought of the gun she carried in her handbag. “Simon, can you put a trace on those phones?” she asked, stalling. “It is so very important.”
He looked away and nodded.
Numb with the shock of his betrayal, Avril focused on getting to her gun. “Oh, and Simon, I came across two important e-mails that will help tie this all together.”
“Really?” Valmont grunted, still avoiding eye contact.
“Yes, I have printouts in my bag.” She pulled her handbag off her shoulder and reached for its zipper. “Look, you can see them now.”
“Put the purse down, Avril,” he said quietly.
“No, they’re right here—”
“Drop the damn purse!” he snapped.
Avril’s fingers froze on the zipper.
Valmont waved his cigarette over his shoulder. “Somewhere out there a man has you targeted in the crosshairs of his rifle. With any sudden move, he will shoot.”
She let the handbag slip out of her hand. It landed silently on the snow. “Simon…how?”
His chin dropped lower. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
She held out her hand. “Freddie considers you his uncle.”
“He shouldn’t be involved.”
The anger surged inside her. “But he is!” she cried.
“I’ve had a bad year at the track. And they offered very good money,” Valmont mumbled. “I was only supposed to be their eyes and ears at the Gendarmerie. Then that woman, Yvette Pereau, came to me with all her claims about the tampering at her barn.” He made another hacking noise. “And every mess I cleaned up led to a bigger one—”
“They are going to kill Frédéric!” Avril spat, half accusation and half plea. “You must stop them, Simon. You must!”
“You should have never gone to Amsterdam.” Valmont slowly looked up at Avril and met her stare. His eyes went glassy and his expression frosted over with determination. “We have to go now, Avril.”
47
Limoges, France. January 19
Martine DeGroot stared through the flat afternoon light at the monotonous countryside, made even more so by the blanket of snow covering it. In the backseat beside DeGroot, Yulia Radvogin tapped the mobile phone impatiently against her ear as she growled and snapped in Russian. She barely broke off long enough to breathe during the tirade. In the driver’s seat of the Mercedes E-series sedan, her bodyguard Viktor appeared scrunched in a seat that would have been roomy for most others. Radvogin’s other bodyguard, Myron, wasn’t present.
Radvogin clicked shut her cell phone. “Fucking lawyers!” she snarled in English. “You pay them a fortune only to hear them tell you nothing but no.”
DeGroot nodded, uninterested. “Where are we going, Yulia?”
“Not far,” Radvogin said.
Radvogin’s phone rang again and she answered it savagely. DeGroot turned back to the window, ignoring the impatient one-sided Russian conversation going on beside her.
They had driven another fifteen minutes without exchanging a word when Viktor suddenly pulled off onto a small side road. Only a few partially snow-covered tire tracks identified it as a road at all. At first, they drove past isolated farms, but after three or four minutes evergreens rose up on either side of the road, and soon the car was following a narrow path under a snowy canopy of firs and pines.
They came to a stop in a small clearing. Viktor climbed out and opened the door for his boss. DeGroot got out as well. She met Radvogin and Viktor on the other side of the car. “Where are we?” DeGroot asked calmly.
“I am told people come here to hike in the summer,” Radvogin said.
“Are we going for a hike?” DeGroot asked with a trace of amusement.
Radvogin stared hard at her. “What have you done, Martine?”
DeGroot did not try to play dumb. “We have tried to protect your investment.”
“By setting Claude Fontaine on fire?” Radvogin asked, though her tone and face showed little concern for the man’s fate.
“He was going to die anyway, Yulia.”
“From the prion?”
DeGroot nodded.
“That he picked up by drinking the water from Vishnov?”
“Yes,” DeGroot said. Even in the weak light, she could see that the older woman’s eyes had begun to smolder.
“Interesting,” Radvogin said softly. “I could swear that when we stood at the South Pole you promised me the water was safe.”
“It is, once it is sterilized with heat and ultraviolet radiation,” DeGroot stressed. “It’s the same for any water supply. You wouldn’t provide drinking water from a well or reservoir without carefully monitoring and treating the water. It could contain all kinds of potentially dangerous organisms.”
“Not prehistoric prions,” Radvogin snapped. “Besides, you told me the treatment was a precaution, not a necessity.”
“I know,” DeGroot said without backing down. “I thought it was best for your sake that you didn’t know all the…less wholesome…details.”
“I see,” Radvogin said, struggling to maintain control of her tone. “What else did you think it was best for me not to know?”
DeGroot shrugged. “There has been other fallout. Unavoidable, I am afraid.”
Radvogin began to pace, her boots cutting silently through a sheet of fresh snow. “Who else?” Her raised voice seemed to echo among the trees.
“To summarize?” DeGroot counted with her fingers. “A farmer’s wife. A nosy doctor from Limoges. A spinster from a nearby town. And a panicking farm manager.” She gazed off at the branches surrounding them. “Oh, and we are now about to take care of a police detective and her son.”
Radvogin snorted. “I give you carte blanche, and this is how you spend my money?”
“Money well spent, Yulia.” DeGroot nodded. “There are only a few others left to deal with, and then the path will be clear.”
Radvogin flicked her wrist in annoyance. “More?”
“The main problem is a doctor from the WHO. Noah Haldane.”
Radvogin grimaced and her pace increased. “Haldane? The hero of that…ARCS epidemic? Him?”
“We have tried everything to dissuade him.” DeGroot sighed as if helpless to intervene. “But he will not let go of this.”
“And you don’t think anyone will notice?”
“Depends on how he dies, of course.”
“You have a plan, I take it?”
“Weather permitting.”
Radvogin blew out her lips in disgust. “I took you for many things, Martine, but never for a fool!” she scoffed.
“I know you’re upset, Yulia,” DeGroot said. “And I can’t blame you. We never expected to come across anything like this prion. And we had no idea—until it was far too late—that Georges was passing out raw lake water like it was wine. We have had to respond to each new incident immediately. At times, mercilessly. Think of it as damage control. Or even self-preservation.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Nonetheless, Vishnov is still a bottomless gold mine. In the end, this changes nothing.”
Radvogin stopped pacing and spun on her heel. “It changes everything!” she hissed. “I am already facing enormous political and legal pressure. The Antarctic Treaty Consultative Parties plan to take us to court in several countries. And the ATCP has the support of every environmental lobby group you can imagine.” She pointed a shaky finger at DeGroot. “Just wait until they find out that Radvogin Industries is marketing deadly water!”
“Yulia, listen to me,” DeGroot said urgently. “Not only is the finished product free of the prion, it has healing properties.”
“Ach. How do you know it is free of the prion?”
DeGroot rested a hand on her own chest. “Unlike Claude—who drank the water before it was treated—no one who has tasted th
e sterilized water has become ill.”
“Nonsense.” Radvogin shook her head vehemently. “Even if the water is safer now, someone will find out about what has happened. Believe me, Martine, you can hide only so much.”
“The bottled water is safe,” DeGroot said. “And once we take care of Haldane, and finish up our damage control, this will all be an unpleasant—but secret—footnote in the history of Radvogin Industries and the Lake.”
Radvogin smiled, but there was no reassurance or warmth in her expression. “I would like to believe you, Martine. I would. But you’ve spun a web so thick and wide that no broom can sweep it away.” Her tone hardened. “I will not let you bring down Radvogin Industries in scandal and destroy thirty years of my work.” A fleck of spittle flew from her lips. “I will not!”
“Think carefully, Yulia. Bottles of the Lake are arriving as we speak. If you stop it now, you will lose hundreds of millions of dollars.” DeGroot held up a hand. “Worse than that, you might actually draw suspicion to Vishnov by suddenly terminating production.”
Radvogin stared at DeGroot for a long moment as if swayed by the argument, and then she broke into a soft chuckle. “Martine, you are so very good. And you do remind me of myself. Though you are more cold-blooded than I ever was.”
“Thank you.” DeGroot lowered her hand and cracked a smile of her own. “You have reconsidered, then?”
Radvogin stopped laughing. “I warned you several times about the cost of failure.”
“Yulia…”
Radvogin shook her head slowly. “As fond as I am of you, I cannot possibly shut down Vishnov and leave you alive.” She looked up at the sky. “God only knows how you might exact your revenge on me.”
“Don’t do this, Yulia.”
Radvogin turned to her tank of a bodyguard, who had stood off to the side, motionless, throughout the conversation. “Viktor, it’s time.”
He casually reached into his jacket and withdrew a long pistol with attached silencer. He aimed the weapon at DeGroot.
“Good-bye, Martine,” Radvogin said. “I did enjoy knowing you.”
DeGroot flashed a carefree smile at the older woman. “The feeling is mutual.”
Radvogin’s eyes widened in sudden realization, just as Viktor redirected the gun at her.
DeGroot glanced at Viktor, and she bit her lip in an intimate smile. “Viktor works for us now. Don’t you?”
Radvogin’s eyes darted to her bodyguard. “Viktor? You didn’t!” The color in her face drained. “And Myron? What have you done with him, Viktor?”
The giant’s face remained impassive. His aim held firm.
“Myron wouldn’t cooperate,” DeGroot said casually. “So we had to get rid of him.”
Radvogin looked to DeGroot, her eyes huge but her tone still authoritative. “How could you possibly explain my death, Martine? Who would continue to finance Vishnov?”
“I don’t need to worry about either if no one knows you’re gone.”
“Everyone will know!”
“Over the past few weeks, we have developed an expertise in making people disappear.” DeGroot ran her foot through the snow in front of her, erasing a footprint. “Besides, we have a little inside help at Radvogin Industries.”
“Inside help?” Radvogin snapped, panic seeping into her tone. “Who?”
“Your man Anatoly Beria,” DeGroot said matter-of-factly.
“He assures me that your absence will not be realized until we wish it so.”
“Anatoly? You seduced him, too?” Her words quivered with indignation. “Anatoly! Fucking lawyers!”
DeGroot looked over to Viktor with a solemn nod.
“Viktor, listen to me,” Radvogin pleaded. “The bitch is using you. Do not let her mislead you with her flesh. She sleeps with everyone…anyone. You cannot trust—”
“Viktor,” DeGroot cut her off.
Radvogin backpedaled in the snow, slipping and almost losing her balance, as she brought her hands up to her face. “Viktor, you must believe—” Her words were cut short by a muted thud from his gun.
The bullet ripped through Radvogin’s forehead and snapped her neck back. Mouth still agape, she crumpled to her knees and toppled over. Though the impact was entirely silent, the snow around her head turned red on contact, as if the ground itself were bleeding.
48
Champsac, France. January 21
Outside the car window, the snow fell almost as hard as hail, but Noah barely noticed. He studied the cell phone in his hand, hoping for a call from home. His homesickness had mushroomed since his conversation with Gwen, which stoked not only his eagerness to return but also his impatience. He had yet to hear back from Anna and Chloe. Though he desperately missed his daughter and Gwen, he wouldn’t have left France now even if Jean had offered him an out; not when he sensed they were finally closing in on the truth.
Noah looked over to Elise, who gripped the steering wheel tighter than ever. Even Duncan appeared unusually attentive to their surroundings. The threat hung heavier than ever. None of them bothered to hide how frequently they checked the mirrors or windows for a sign of a tail.
The thirty-kilometer ride from Limoges to Pierre Anou’s hometown of Champsac was supposed to last thirty minutes, but they had been driving through the blizzard for more than an hour and they still had ten kilometers to go. The all-wheel drive on Elise’s BMW gripped the road well. The real hazards were the other stranded cars that impeded or blocked their way. Perhaps the greatest threat, Noah thought glumly, was the German luxury sedans that could not be seen at all.
The cell phone vibrated in his hand. Glancing at the screen, Noah recognized the Limoges area code. The phone showed only one bar of reception; he knew the connection was going to be tenuous. “Noah Haldane,” he said.
“Dr. Haldane, I am Clarice Charron,” she said in heavily accented English that was difficult to understand through the earpiece’s choppy static.
“Oh, Mme. Charron, thanks for returning my call,” Noah said. “I was very sorry to hear about your husband.”
“D’accord,” she said.
“I work with the World Health Organization—”
“I know who you are,” she said. “Jean Nantal is an old friend of ours—of mine.”
“He speaks highly of you, madame.”
“Your message said you had some questions.”
Noah pressed his palm against his other ear to hear better. “Is there a good time to come see you?”
“Now is the best—” Her voice cut out.
“I don’t think we will be back in Limoges for several hours.”
“Why not speak over the phone?” Clarice asked.
“All right.” Though reluctant to conduct the interview over a cell phone—especially with such poor reception—he realized that the weather might prevent a face-to-face meeting any time soon. “I am working on the same mad cow outbreak that Dr. Charron originally diagnosed.”
There was no reply. Assuming she did not hear, Noah began to repeat the statement, but Clarice cut him off in midsentence. “Louis told me something was very wrong.”
“It is an awful illness—”
“That is not my meaning,” Clarice snapped. “My husband believed that the spread of the illness was not…how do you say?”
“Random?”
“Exactly so. He found a connection between the victims. Then he went to that farm—” Her voice cut out briefly. “He met someone—” She disappeared again for another moment. “A woman, he spoke—”
“You’re cutting in and out, Mme. Charron!” Noah squeezed the phone so hard against his ear that it hurt. “What farm? What woman?”
“The one from the news, Ferme d’Allaire.” Her voice was choppy. “I do not know who the woman was, but she sounded important.”
“Did he tell you what he found on that farm?” Noah asked.
“What?” she asked.
Noah repeated the question.
“He was going to tell
me when he came home that night.” She was quiet for a moment, but Noah knew it wasn’t a problem with the reception. “We were supposed to have our anniversary dinner. Louis never reached home.”
“He was on his way home for your anniversary dinner?” Noah repeated.
Duncan leaned between the seats. “The man was blind drunk before his anniversary dinner?” he whispered.
Noah shushed Duncan with a finger to his mouth.
“I don’t…” Clarice’s voice dissolved again. “Not a heavy drinker. He never…driving…”
“Mme. Charron, I am losing you.” Noah articulated each syllable carefully. “What about the other times the police pulled your husband over for drinking and driving?”
“What other times?” she cried.
“We were told your husband was charged at least three times before for driving drunk.”
“No! He never…” A pause. “Who told—” More static. “A lie—”
Noah waited but Clarice’s voice never broke through the low hum again. “Mme. Charron?” he prompted.
Nothing. Noah looked down at the phone’s screen and saw that the last of his reception bars was gone. The hair on his neck stood on end. He turned to the others urgently. “Do either of your cell phones get reception out here?”
Elise took a hand off the steering wheel to pick her phone out of the cup holder. She glanced at it and then shook her head. “Mine’s nothing but a high-tech paperweight now,” Duncan grunted.
That would add another concern for Duncan, who—judging by the number of times Noah had spotted his friend on the phone—was keeping very close tabs on his wife’s condition. Noah summarized his conversation with Charron’s widow for the others. “All I caught was snippets,” he said. “But I know she was trying to tell me that her husband never drove while drunk.”
Elise’s eyes darted in his direction without turning her head. “So Detective Avars lied about his criminal record,” she said in a hush.
