by Daniel Kalla
Noah nodded. “Live for the moment.”
“Doubt we have anything else but.”
Noah swallowed away a pang of sorrow. “You’re going to be okay, huh?”
“Ah, shite, things are looking a lot rosier than they did in that dank basement in Lac Noir. Enough with the navel gazing.” He shifted his suitcase to leave, but before he took a step he said, “Listen, Noah, I don’t know what the hell is going on between you and Elise—”
“Nothing.”
“If you say so.” Duncan nodded. “I have to tell you, though, I always thought you and Gwen had a decent shot of making a go of it.”
Noah nodded. “I’m going home to find out if you’re right.”
“Good. Don’t let this job fuck that up. Remember, Haldane, you’re not irreplaceable.” The familiar wry smile creased his features. “The world can always find another crazed woodsman.”
Noah walked Duncan out the front door. The dawn skies were clear, but it was no warmer than the day before. They shook hands again, and Duncan headed off to the waiting taxi.
Noah headed back inside. He went to the restaurant and claimed his usual table in the far corner. Remembering his cholesterol, he ordered the fruit and cereal, forgoing one final crêpe with a tinge of regret. Without asking, the waiter handed him a copy of the International Herald Tribune. Noah opened it to discover that the story had somehow made it to press with a headline that read BOTTLED DEATH. The article was vague on details, but it was linked to a more comprehensive story that described the death of Vishnov “pioneer” Dr. Claude Fontaine, whose remains were found in a burned-out château in Switzerland. Drugs and alcohol had been implicated, but from Sylvie’s confession to the police Noah knew that his death was anything but accidental.
Elise arrived at the table. Though she was dressed elegantly in a black skirt, matching jacket, and stylish pumps, her eyes were puffy and downcast.
Noah lowered the paper. “Did you sleep at all?” he asked.
“You know.” She shrugged as she sat down beside him.
“Elise, I’m very sorry.”
She stared past him. “So you said last night.”
“I mean, about how things have worked out, you know, with…”
“It was my stupidity.” Elise picked up the menu in front of her. “How is your family?” she asked without looking up from it.
He told her about his conversation with Anna and Chloe.
Elise smiled distantly. “Little girls always miss their fathers.”
They shared forced small talk, Noah carrying the brunt of the conversation. He was thankful when her breakfast arrived and relieved him of the burden. Elise picked at her food with little interest while he downed his fourth cup of coffee. The server had just cleared the dishes when Jean Nantal and Javier Montalva appeared at the restaurant’s entrance. Noah caught Elise’s eye and she nodded once. The melancholy in her expression vanished, replaced with sudden purpose.
The E.U. minister wore another expensive-looking suit, but his walk lacked its usual swagger. Jean was his bubbly self again. He kissed Elise on both cheeks and hugged Noah warmly. Montalva shook Noah’s hand perfunctorily, and then kissed Elise on the cheeks.
“Wonderful work,” Jean gushed. “We owe you both a huge debt of gratitude for your efforts. The whole world does. Who knows how much senseless suffering you have saved us?”
“Yes,” Montalva echoed. “I am going to recommend the highest recognition the E.U. has to offer. For both of you.”
“And Detective Avars and her son?” Elise asked.
“Of course,” Montalva said with a sweep of his hand.
“I am told Mme. Avars’s surgery went well,” Jean said. “She is in stable condition now.”
“Good.” Noah nodded with genuine relief.
Jean and Montalva sat down in the two empty seats at the table. Both refused the menus and coffees the waiter came by to offer.
“Did you get to the bottles of the Lake in time?” Noah asked.
“We think so,” Jean said, though his voice showed a trace of uncertainty. “We still have to catalog the shipments, but there have been no reports of any reaching market. Even if a few did, we like to hope that the media coverage would alert potential buyers.”
“Besides,” Montalva added, “I understand the people involved were convinced that the purified water would be safe for consumption.”
“They might have been convinced,” Noah snorted. “I sure as hell am not. Perhaps they lowered the risk slightly, but there is no known way to reliably sterilize prions.” He shook his head. “That’s what bothers me the most. Sylvie is a biologist. She must have known she was rolling the dice just to hit her jackpot.”
“Nothing blinds faster than greed,” Jean said.
“Too true,” Noah said, avoiding eye contact with anyone else at the table.
Elise looked over to Jean. “What about Lake Vishnov itself?” she asked.
“Production has been halted at the site,” Jean said. “An international team made up of Antarctic Treaty signatory members is flying in today to assume control of the operation. In all likelihood, the well into the lake will be destroyed and the site dismantled.”
“Good riddance,” Noah grunted.
“Incidentally,” Jean said, “we have learned that the operation was funded by a Moscow-based oil company by the name of Radvogin Industries.”
“The CEO, Yulia Radvogin, is missing,” Montalva said.
Noah shook his head. “She is not missing at all.”
Montalva frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“Because she is dead,” Elise said.
Montalva’s shoulders squared, and he glanced from Noah to Elise. “How do you know?”
“Sylvie Manet told the detectives who interrogated her,” Elise said.
“Oh, we had not heard,” Jean said.
Noah looked over his shoulder and nodded once, though no one was in sight. He turned back to the table. “There are a couple of other things you haven’t heard yet, Jean.”
Jean glanced quizzically at Montalva and then back to Noah.
Montalva’s eyes narrowed. “As the ranking E.U. official, I do not appreciate being left in the dark,” he said with a tense smile.
Noah continued without acknowledging the comment. “The whole time, I had this uncanny sense that the conspirators knew what we were up to. What our next steps would be.” He turned to Elise and touched the back of her hand. “I even suspected that Elise might have leaked the information.”
Elise looked at the others. “It turns out that I was the leak,” she said bluntly.
Montalva leaned forward until his elbows rested on the table. His expression was somewhere between bewilderment and wariness. “Elise? Is this true?”
She viewed the minister intently. “Do you not remember, Javier? You asked me to keep a very close watch on the situation. To report twice daily.”
“Of course I did.” Montalva pulled his elbows free of the table and sat up straighter. “This epidemic was an immense threat to the European economy. I had to know exactly what was going on.”
Noah leaned back and said nothing. Jean also watched in circumspect silence.
“Of course you needed to know, Javier,” Elise said. “But why did you need me to sabotage Noah’s investigation? For that matter, our own investigation?”
“Sabotage?” Montalva threw his hands up, his cheeks reddening. “When did I ask you to sabotage anything?”
“‘Listen, darling’”—she feigned a Spanish accent and flailed her hands in an exaggerated manner—“‘Dr. Haldane will stop at nothing to make a name for himself here. Do not let him make it off the backs of the European farmers. Keep the investigation focused on the Allaire farm, from where we know this has all come!’”
Montalva’s cheeks blazed a deeper red. The veins at his temples began to pulsate. “There is no need to twist my words, Elise,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Twist them?�
�� Elise said. “I know them by heart because you repeated them so often. Somehow, you convinced me I was right to undermine Noah’s investigation.”
Montalva shuffled in his seat. “Now, Elise.” He held out his hand to her in his familiar offer-of-escape-from-a-sinking-ship gesture. “I understand how hurt you must feel about what transpired between us, but there is no need—”
“Two and a half million euros,” Noah said quietly.
The comment froze Montalva in midsentence. His eyes darted over to Noah. “What are you talking about?” he growled.
“The consulting fee Sylvie Manet and her associates paid you.”
“What nonsense!” Montalva spat.
“It isn’t such a bad price for insurance, really. Two and a half million euros for you to ensure that the E.U. investigation would conclude that Philippe Manet, Benoît Gagnon, and Giselle Tremblay all died from BSE acquired during the outbreak at the Allaire farm.”
Jean’s jaw dropped. He turned to the Spaniard. “Javier, is this so?” he asked gravely.
Montalva jumped to his feet. “I don’t have to listen to such absurd unsubstantiated accusations!” he barked with unconcealed hatred.
Noah smiled. “In fact, Sylvie Manet substantiated these facts for us. No doubt the forensic auditors have already found the money trail.”
Montalva spun, poised to flee, but Inspector Esmond Cabot and two uniformed gendarmes trooped toward the table from the restaurant’s entrance. Two other policemen suddenly emerged from the kitchen door.
Eyes bulging and face crimson, Montalva turned back to Elise. “Clearly, this is a gigantic misunderstanding,” he croaked.
Elise rose slowly to her feet. She glared at him for a long moment and then, suddenly, she slapped him across the cheek with a sharp crack. Montalva recoiled from the contact. His face contorted in pain and surprise. Without another word, Elise spun on her heel and strode past the policemen and out of the restaurant.
Noah hurried after her. When he caught up to her in the lobby, she was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “Elise,” he said.
She cleared her throat and looked down in embarrassment. “I feel like a fool, Noah.”
“Montalva fooled everyone,” Noah said.
She shook her head. “Not you.”
“I didn’t know him like you did,” he said. “I had no reason to trust him…or to want to believe him.”
Elise looked up at Noah. “I should have never have let my personal feelings intrude on my work.”
“Sometimes, you can’t avoid it.” Noah broke into a grin and winked. “That was a hell of a slap you laid on him. I was impressed. A tad jealous, even.”
She laughed. “It did feel good.”
“You going to be okay?”
“In a few days.” Her eyes were dry, and her smile genuine. “Time for both of us to go home, I think.”
Noah reached out and wrapped her in his arms. He held her close for a moment, then kissed her cheek lightly and let her go. He turned for the elevator without another word.
Inside the room, Noah threw his clothes into a bag. As he put on his coat, he felt the back of the notebook press into his hip, and he pulled it out of his jacket pocket. For a moment, he considered tossing it into the garbage but, more out of superstition than nostalgia, he tucked it into the outside compartment of his suitcase.
Noah powered up his laptop and saw that new e-mails had arrived. He scanned the list but opened only the reply from Gwen, which was as short as his original message: “I love a good yarn. Consider the evening yours. Welcome home. I love you, too.”
Noah turned off the laptop and slipped it into his case. A fulfilling sense of closure warmed him.
It was over. And he was heading home to the people he loved.
He could not have asked for anything more.
By Daniel Kalla
from Tom Doherty Associates
Blood Lies
Cold Plague
Pandemic
Rage Therapy
Resistance
Acknowledgments
I am so grateful for the support of my friends, colleagues, and family members who read my books from early manuscript to finished product and always provide useful feedback along with tons of encouragement. I have mentioned many of them before, but too often I’ve forgotten to name someone important. This time I’m going to play it safe and thank them en masse. I would have no books without them.
I do have to single out a few people for their specific contributions. Dave Allard opened my eyes to the existence of Antarctic lakes and thus inspired this novel. Dr. Marc Romney, a top-notch microbiologist, gave me a crash course in the science of prions. Nancy Stairs and Dal Schindell scoured the manuscript with keen eyes, jumping on any inconsistencies. And I am hugely indebted to the amazing Kit Schindell, a friend and freelance editor ([email protected]), whose insights and suggestions always improve my stories.
I rely heavily on the guidance and wisdom of my agent, Henry Morrison. I would also like to acknowledge my terrific foreign rights agent, Danny Baror. And I am fortunate to have found a home in New York at Tor and Forge Books. My thanks go to Tom Doherty, Linda Quinton, Patty Garcia, Paul Stevens, and John Morrone, who give my books the chance to shine. My wonderful editor, Natalia Aponte, is the best advocate, partner, and friend an author could hope for inside the publishing world.
I would be lost without the love and inspiration of my parents, brothers, in-laws, and extended family. And, of course, my daughters, Chelsea and Ashley, and my wife, Cheryl, make life complete for me.
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
COLD PLAGUE
Copyright © 2008 by Daniel Kalla
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-0028-1
First Mass Market Edition: November 2008
