by Dorian Paul
"So not likely the Moroccan brought in ground up bones this time."
"Nope. It's not where the money is these days. Soft tissue organs, that's what the Russian mafia is into now. Kidneys, livers, even your heart and lungs."
"But the courier claims nobody told him what he was bringing in."
"Sure, and he didn't ask . . . or look." The DEA Director winked. "Hey, if you were getting good money to carry in a liver, would you mess it up by playing around with the packaging?"
Bobby tried to picture a squishy human liver packed in dry ice, but the only liver he knew of came from a calf and got fried with onions and bacon. "Seems like a helluva lot of effort for one lousy organ."
"Not with waiting lists for livers a mile long. People with money pay anything to stay alive. And the CEO of this tissue bank knows that. He's filthy rich, and as dirty as they come. But we could never get anything on the SOB. Until now."
Then voices crackled over their earpieces and faint movement showed on the video feed in their van. The DEA planned to snatch the tissue bank executive as he left the building, and Bobby had no choice but to let them play it their way. He had no proof Tivaz TB was inside, so no way they'd let him call the shots. And as far as anybody knew the place wasn't equipped for Level 4 containment, and no one working there wore a pressurized suit. That was the good news. The bad news? Well, if Tivaz TB was inside, it was weaponized and could be shipped anywhere. So, once the DEA grabbed their man, the area would be cordoned off and his people would go in for a careful search.
"He's on the move."
The CEO came out, a prosperous-looking American businessman in a camel overcoat. Didn't look like a terrorist, but that didn't mean anything anymore. From the door to the prime spot where the CEO parked his Lexus was maybe ten paces. Those DEA folks didn't have much time. Bobby and his people would've swarmed by now. What the hell were they waiting for? He twitched, ready to hit the pavement himself. Then DEA guys with bulletproof vests and helmets materialized from the shadows.
Shit, the executive reached inside his coat. This wasn't going down the way Bobby hoped. The man got off a round at the DEA agents before they jumped him.
It was over as fast as a twister sucked up a house. The tissue bank boss was on the pavement and alive, but all Bobby could think about was the sick joke every cop knew. 'What's the difference between a criminal and a terrorist? The criminal puts his hands in the air when you catch him.' And the guy in the camel overcoat didn't.
Fuck. Only other possibility Bobby could picture was the CEO knew the Russian Mafia killed off their mistakes. How crazy was this? For once in his life, he came down on the side of the Russian mob.
Chapter 18
Late as it was, a light in the dressing room of the Duchess suite made David chance knocking on her door. He found her sitting at his mother's dressing table, which she'd commandeered into a makeshift desk. "You received my message that the Moroccan diplomatic pouch held a liver being smuggled into New York?"
"Yes. That was incredible, and lucky."
More than lucky and not to be counted on next time. She turned back to whatever she'd been working on when he arrived. He was disappointed. He noticed no hair contrivance imprisoned her thick, wavy hair and he simply wanted to be in her presence long enough to enjoy seeing her like this, but he couldn't stand there like an idiot. "Illegal organ trafficking is not uncommon, although the U.S. has a livelier and more profitable black market than most countries."
She looked up at his lame remark and tossed back an equally lame reply. "Better greed than terror."
"Right." He had no other news and why draw attention to the fact he lacked any leads. Considering the technical journals, notepads, and yellow magic markers strewn around her and the fact she too was burning the midnight oil, she could well be in the same desperate situation as he found himself. "I'll leave you to work."
Abruptly she shifted her chair around to face him and released a torrent of words. "I'm sorry to be rude. I thought being away from the lab might give me a fresh perspective, so I've set up shop here for the weekend. I need to realign my resources, change my plan of attack. There's so much I have to think about and I'm too exhausted to think straight."
He had no idea what to say but sought to be supportive. "I understand your dilemma. Sometimes everything seems a dead end. It must be a particularly challenging problem to keep you from the lab."
Her shoulders stiffened. "Is it a problem for you if I don't go to the lab? Elizabeth mentioned you'd be away tomorrow."
"Yes, I mean no, it's not a problem. I will be away tomorrow. I must call on my parents."
"Then I won't disturb you by working here, right?"
True, but her safety working alone in Sherborne House was a concern, and he'd have to set up a more robust detail. "I have a better idea. Perhaps you might accompany me to Thorn Hall tomorrow."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why? I have a lot of work to do. Besides, I understood from Elizabeth you've got family matters to take care of."
His cousin provided a fount of information that she had no business divulging to Claire. He shielded his irritation and opted for a more forthright approach. "Honestly, I prefer you not work here alone, Claire. Additional security would be required, but that can be managed. Nevertheless I thought perhaps instead you might consider accompanying me to Thorn Hall. It is a day trip. A few hours really. And I can set up a place for you to work there, if necessary."
She cocked her head. "That sounds like even more trouble for you."
True, but he also wanted her company. "Perhaps a change in routine might help you think more clearly?"
She sighed. "God knows I need all the help I can get."
"You'll come then?"
She gave him a curt nod. "All right."
Surprise gave way to pleasure at the thought of spending the day with her. And he knew her presence would divert his parents' attention away from him during the visit, another advantage. "Thank you for agreeing to come. It will be a help to me as well. And now I will excuse myself and leave you to your work."
"Wait. What time do I need to be ready tomorrow?"
"Nine."
She hesitated. What was his blunder now? "Too early?"
"No, I was wondering how I should dress. Are your parents casual or formal?"
No need to grope for an answer this time. Had he ever seen his father without a tie? "Strictly country formal." Strict. That described his father in every way.
She looked puzzled but asked nothing more, much to his relief. In any event, his thoughts weren't on how she'd dress tomorrow, but rather how he found himself thinking about undressing her tonight. He couldn't shake the memory of her half naked at the sink in Tivaz, where he watched her wash off Red's blood and wished he were the one doing it. Wholly inappropriate. He hoped it wasn't a mistake to take her to Thorn Hall. He hadn't brought a woman there since his marriage to Sarah ended, and his parents were sure to form their own conclusions. Fool. You can't have it both ways.
***
Saturday dawned partly sunny, which he chose to take as an invitation to pleasure, despite the fact he was visiting family. Why not spin out of London in his vintage racing green MG with a beautiful woman?
"No Jim?" she asked, and he noticed she carried only a small tote bag with a notebook.
"Not today. We're on our own. Worried about my driving?" he teased. "I'm trained in evasive maneuvers. But if you'd prefer to drive –"
"No thank you. I hate to drive, especially on the wrong side of the road."
A good thing since he didn't trust anyone with his prize MG. Nevertheless, as they left the city behind and entered London's green belt, he realized that should he ever be forced to ask another to take the wheel she'd be a decent bet from what he'd seen of her general capabilities thus far.
"David, what should I expect at Thorn Hall today?"
"It's imposing, if a bit rambling. Added onto over centuries. Extensive grounds, lots of trees, a lake."
>
"Not the house. Your parents."
Difficult to say, and yet he wanted to talk about it with her. "I haven't been what they hoped for in an heir. Rebelled against the title and its trappings. I wanted to make a go of it on my own."
"But you've been successful in your own right? Parents accept their children no matter what."
He wished he felt as much conviction on both counts. With Varat still at large, he felt anything but successful in his profession. As for his parents' acceptance, in all these years his father never once discussed his career with him. Such behavior fit with his family's disapproval of his marriage to Sarah, subsequent divorce, and failure to remarry and produce an heir. Jeremy's death and his role in it was simply the icing on the cake.
They lapsed into silence. He stole a glance at her. She'd dressed up for the excursion in forest green wool slacks topped by a green tweed jacket. Nice of Claire to make the effort, but the day was unlikely to meet anyone's expectations.
They entered Kent. The sun shimmered off dry leaves that blanketed the roadside, and the dusty fragrance evoked long-buried memories of childhood when he brought school chums to his country home. "We're on Thorn Hall property now," he told her in his best tour guide voice. "This small village and the fields you see are all part of the estate. Land and farm management is shared between my family and those who do the farming."
He sped down the tree-lined drive toward Thorn Hall, a light chalk-brown structure, classically Palladian. A book on English country estates once described it as "grand in proportion but perfect in scale, with small hills framing it from behind." As a boy he played down its grandeur because he didn't wish to put off friends he brought here. But, to be honest, he had always been proud of this place and its history. Now he tried to see the house through Claire's eyes and wondered if, as an American, she resented those to the manor born. If so, how might she react when confronted with his father's inborn autocratic ways? He drove round to the family entrance, where his parents sat on a bench outside the kitchen garden. He tensed, unsure what the day would bring. His parents approached and, true to form, his father wasted no time asserting control of the introductions.
"Welcome to Thorn Hall, Miss Ashe. I'm Andrew Ruskin, my wife is Dorothy." His father captured Claire's hand and dedicated his attention to her. Just as well. "Shall we go in for sherry before lunch?"
David kissed his mother and then turned away to fetch his communication equipment from the boot.
"Tools of the trade?" his father asked.
He couldn't tell if the remark was inquiring or scornful. He reminded himself of his pledge to give his father the benefit of the doubt, and took a deep breath. "Why don't the three of you go in while I get the remainder of my things?" Then he said for Claire's ears only, "Is there anything I can bring in for you?"
"No thanks. I worked all night."
***
Claire watched his parents exchange a look she could only call apprehensive. If her parents were alive and she arrived in the company of a man they didn't know, would this be how they'd react? Impossible to know. She smiled at the Ruskins and asked about the house. "Thorn Hall is beautiful. I'd love to hear its history, see the nooks and crannies, if there's time."
Andrew all but jumped for joy. "Are you serious, my dear? I must warn you I'm a frustrated historian who's known to go on at length."
"I really would love to hear about it, and maybe have a tour."
"You shall have the grand tour, once David and I have concluded our bit of business."
In the family living room, his father seated his mother with a formality that gave legendary British reserve a run for its money. In contrast, David seemed positively laid-back when he strode into the room and dumped his communication gear on a side table. His mother winced. His father filled four glasses from a decanter of sherry.
"The new job requires constant contact then, does it David?"
"I haven't begun James Warner's job yet." He spoke with icy politeness, eyes trained on the side table instead of his father. "There's an issue with my last assignment and I must be available."
An issue? I guess that's one way of putting it.
"I see." Andrew straightened his tie. "You're juggling more than one responsibility?"
David's response was to scowl.
C'mon, your father's only trying to show interest in your work. Say something. But all three Ruskins sipped sherry silently. She stepped into the void. "Mr. Ruskin, David says you're an experienced businessman. How do you find doing business with Americans?"
"You have a different view of manners than we English."
Would her attempt to smooth things over be rewarded by a lecture on legendary American rudeness?
"However, I rather like the candor of Americans," Andrew finished.
"Candor?"
"Yes, you informed me straight away of your interest in Thorn Hall." Only then did she notice Andrew's shrewd eyes were thanking her for moving the conversation away from himself and his son. "Now I can discuss my ancestral home without fear of boring you."
Later, when she was seated with the Ruskins at their mahogany dining table set with formal Wedgwood china, she continued her struggle to fathom the meaning of their strained family dynamics. It seemed as though the antique silver epergne filled with hothouse lilies in the center of the table was positioned to obscure their view of each other. Meanwhile she knew she'd give anything to share a single meal with her parents, and know them as more than a framed picture of two adults standing next to her as a child of five the Christmas before the car accident. But even though she sat with David's family on needle-point chairs probably worked by earlier generations of Ruskin females at a table whose leaves had been removed to promote conversation, she thought the chances of family intimacy was nil.
She was so wrong. Lunchtime conversation ranged from tales of his sister Anne's two children, about whom David asked lots of questions, to various aunts and uncles and cousins. Then his father discussed the family's properties, and David showed particular interest in Forbes Castle in Scotland. By meal's end the earlier family strain had diffused, and she realized how little she knew about families, and how much she longed to know.
***
"I appreciate the effort you made to come out," David's father said to him once they were alone in the study. "You must be busy these days. Negotiations or something of the sort?"
"Something of the sort," he equivocated. "I've only just returned from a trip with the man who'll be my U.S. counterpart when I assume the new position. Bobby Keane."
"The fellow who visited you in Scotland after you were so badly hurt?"
And Jeremy was killed. Say it, damn you.
"That was a difficult time for all of us in the family, David, but you showed resilience."
Only because Bobby stormed Forbes Castle, smashed his cache of Scotch, and beat him so hard he was forced to fight back.
"Was your trip with Mr. Keane related to your new responsibilities?"
"In a manner of speaking. We're closing out some old business."
"I see." His father paused, as was his habit. "Do you mind discussing your work?"
Mind?
"I steered clear of it when you first entered the service, not certain what you were at liberty to discuss. Afterwards it grew more awkward."
"Afterwards. You mean after Jeremy was killed?"
"I do not hold you responsible for his death. He admired you and announced his intent to join your profession even as a boy."
"And was I wrong not to stop him?"
"I never stopped you."
Not in so many words. "You merely disapproved."
"I regret if you believe I disapproved. Certainly I hoped to see you working with me on the family responsibilities." He paused again. "However, I always knew you had the wherewithal to succeed in whatever field you chose. You were a leader, even as a boy at school, and I'm not at all surprised they tapped you for Warner's position."
He stared
at his father, finding it hard to square this compliment with years of what he'd perceived as the man's censure. He should offer an olive branch. "Your work to maintain the family holdings intact is admirable."
"We should talk more." His father cleared his throat, and hesitated again.
Was he about to acknowledge this opening gambit at reconciliation? Discuss his cousin Jeremy's death outright?
"Yes?" David prompted.
"Nothing."
Nothing . . . he's going to keep his own counsel. Even during the years of his youthful rebellion his father never once commented on his behavior, wild as it was. Now he realized this inclination to hold things close to the vest invited misunderstanding. And that he shared this trait with his father.
His father stood up from the huge desk he used to play under as a child. "There are additional papers to sign. Shall I make the appointment with my solicitor?"
"I shall make the appointment myself in near future."
His father received the news with a curled lip, a raised eyebrow and a haughty nod, his way of setting expectations for his son. But instead of disdaining these patrician manners, David took the first step toward acceptance. Much remained for them to learn about one another.
***
They rejoined the ladies in the sitting room. After coffee, his father took Claire off for a walking history of the house, and he made a point of telling his mother, "I signed the initial papers and shall make an appointment soon with the solicitor."
"Thank you, dear."
"I'm fully aware of the implications."
"Of course. The estate will come to you in any event so it's only prudent to have the properties set up appropriately for taxes. We know your other responsibilities take precedence."
"They do, mother."
He looked out the window at the landscaped park in the near distance and the lake beyond before returning his attention to her, and hoped he would soon reconcile himself to his birthright. Today was a start. But to create a future here, he had to resolve his business with Varat . . . and put Jeremy's death behind him.
