Risking the World

by Dorian Paul

  "Your father and I plan to administer everything for the foreseeable future."

  "Right. I understand." And quite honestly, he did as never before. For him inheriting meant responsibilities yet to come. For his parents it acknowledged their mortality.

  "Claire is a lovely young lady. You should bring her back another time."

  His mother's petition for a grandson, the next in line, was unambiguous. He recognized the need to tread lightly here, and offered no reply. Conveniently his phone squawked. The ensuing conversation saved him from more questions, but at a price so high it was an effort to remain calm. While it was unfortunate the visit had to be cut short, the certainty of the upcoming crisis was a massive tragedy.

  In search of Claire, he followed the sound of boisterous laughter inside the long gallery where she and his father stood side by side waving their arms at his line of ancestors, doubled over with glee. He couldn't recall ever laughing with his father, but he did remember riding his bike down this gallery as a boy. He'd gotten a fine beating for it. After that he saved his antics for out-of-doors, on horses, until the groom notified his father. He'd been grounded for a month. Little did his sire know that was the start of a covert life, a high-stakes game played by a seven-year-old intent on outwitting both the groom and his father.

  Now his father called out, "David, my boy, I was telling Claire the tale of your great, great, great grandfather playing a joke on Wellington during the Napoleonic wars."

  "I didn't believe him, until he pointed out the proof right here in this picture." Her finger hovered near the enormous oil painting. "Your father missed his calling. What a grand raconteur! Not even the Boston Irish can tell stories like this."

  His father, a raconteur? Had someone else's family taken up residence in Thorn Hall? No, he was seeing his father through Claire's eyes, a woman at ease with his father and having the time of her life. It fell to him to destroy the mood.

  "My apologies. But something's come up and Claire and I must leave."

  "Of course." She tensed with concern – for him. "I'm sorry, Andrew."

  "Not to worry, my dear. We shall find a time to complete the tour in the near future."

  Not bloody likely it would be anytime soon, he thought as Claire moved briskly to his side. His hand stole to the small of her back as he led her to his MG, and she sat quietly inside the confined space of his tiny sports car waiting for him to speak. He wished to protect her from the news, from what lay ahead, but knew she'd face it like she faced everything else . . . no holds barred. Still, he waited till they cleared the gates of Thorn Hall before he stopped the car and said, "I'm afraid I have bad news."

  She braced herself and he put one hand over hers. "There's been an accident at the lab."

  Chapter 19

  "Roscoe?" she asked, jerking her hand away and shoving a fistful of loose hair behind her shoulder.

  Who is Roscoe? "No. Sandra Cook."

  Her eyes widened. "Sandra?"

  "Right. James Warner rang me."

  "No, can't be. It must be a mistake. She's theoretical."

  He didn't grasp the significance of her remark, but he had confidence in the accuracy of his facts. "I'm sorry, Claire. Sandra Cook has been infected."

  She shook her head, still in denial. "You must be wrong. You're sure it's not Roscoe?"

  "It's Sandra, Claire. We'll soon be at the lab. Ian Barker has established a perimeter. Someone named Francine is handling quarantine."

  "Francie," she murmured, absorbing the news at last.

  He restarted the MG. She pulled his hand away from the steering wheel and entwined her icy fingers with his.

  "Not Sandra, please God, not Sandra. Not Francine. Not Roscoe. Not anybody," she whispered. "Please God, not anybody."

  ***

  "Dr. Berger tested the corridor and associated environs," Ian Barker told Claire as they headed into the Level 4 area. "No sign of contamination."

  She had to be absolutely sure the accident was confined. "The negative pressure seal is intact?"

  "Yes."

  "And only Dr. Berger's been inside the room since then?"

  Before Ian could answer, David interrupted. "How did the accident occur?"

  "You'd best ask Dr. Cook, Mr. Ruskin."

  "Bloody hell, man. You've had time enough to find out."

  "The only one she'll speak to is Dr. Berger," Ian answered.

  "Who is this Dr. Berger?"

  "Francine," she told him. "Sandra Cook's trusted colleague."

  "No one can be trusted. Take heed, both of you. This is an issue of national security."

  Ian unlocked the outer door to the Level 4 unit and David moved to be first through, but she grabbed him. "Your questions can wait."

  "Wait?" His eyes blazed. "If Varat's penetrated this facility, I need to know before the trail goes cold."

  "If Sandra Cook's been exposed to Tivaz TB, she needs to be treated. Immediately. Your interrogation –"

  "Debrief," he corrected.

  "Call it what you will." She'd experienced first hand the stress of answering the same questions over and over. "You're in my domain. I insist Sandra be treated as a patient first, and an intelligence asset later."

  She shouldered past him and through the double-thick glass saw Francine keeping vigil with Sandra. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she met the eyes of her unforeseen ally. "Sandra, I'm so sorry."

  "No use crying over spilt milk." Sandra gestured to her shattered face shield. "What's done is done."

  "How can I help?"

  "Ask those men to leave. Then suit up and come in so Francie and I can speak to you in private."

  "Claire, I cannot allow that," David hissed. "I must hear what she says."

  "You can debrief me afterwards. Francine, too."

  "That is not the same, as you are well aware."

  "I'm sorry, it'll have to do." She respected his need, but Sandra's was greater at the moment. "She has rights, as a patient, to speak in confidence to her doctor."

  "You are not a licensed physician. You are a research specialist."

  She threw her shoulders back. "I know more about Tivaz TB than any practicing physician alive. In my book that's qualification enough. Now, would you and Mr. Barker please grant us a few moments of privacy?"

  He relented with a curt nod, and she exhaled in relief as he followed Ian out the door. Then she suited up. As soon as she threw the safety airlock on the door, Sandra got right down to business. "Francie and I have been talking things over."

  "Good. I've been thinking about the safest way to establish quarantine as we move you to a hospital."

  "I don't intend to go to hospital. I'm staying here, in the lab."

  "Sandra, you need services only a hospital can offer."

  "Everything I need is upstairs in the primate laboratory." She cackled. "We can thank those animal rights folks after all, can't we Francie? They insisted on a state-of-the-art facility, and if it's good enough for chimpanzees it's good enough for Sandra Cook."

  The thought of Sandra fighting for her life, cocooned in a laboratory containment bubble like Leila, was more than she could bear. "You can't be serious?"

  "I'm dead serious. No sense exposing the general population. Much easier to establish quarantine if we confine me here."

  "But at the hospital –"

  "They'll administer antibiotics you know won't work. Claire, Francie's told me about the girl in Morocco."

  "But she was young, her immune system hadn't fully developed. You might respond better."

  Sandra shook her head. "I doubt it. I suffer from lupus."

  Lupus, SLE, systemic lupus erythematosus. An incurable autoimmune disease. "How severe?"

  "She's beyond systemic corticosteroids," Francie answered. "She's been taking methotrexate for some time."

  The news packed a wallop. Methotrexate was a heavy-duty cancer drug given to lupus patients after other treatments failed. It slowed the progression of lupus by suppressin
g the immune system, but that also made the patient more susceptible to infections.

  "My white cell count's lower than low," Sandra stated. "Don't be expecting a miracle response from this old bird."

  "We must try something."

  "I want to receive the DNA vaccine your team's developing."

  "But we only have a prototype."

  "Roscoe Smartz can scale up. Francie says he's a wizard."

  That was beside the point. "Sandra, we don't have E.U. approval to test in humans. Even if we submitted our First-In-Man application now, you said the review process is slow at best."

  "James Warner can expedite approval. He owes me a favor."

  "You need treatment without delay," she insisted.

  "I don't disagree. We'll start the vaccine as soon as I'm settled upstairs."

  She froze. "Before approval?"

  Sandra nodded. "As long as I stay in the animal lab, there's no need for the whole world to know. We already have a decent baseline because Francie drew blood once we realized I was exposed. And we've been working."

  Francie waved a sheaf of papers. "Here's a list of criteria we thought should be evaluated."

  "Our own clinical trial. We'll measure me from head to toe. I'm the perfect guinea pig for testing the efficacy of your DNA vaccine after a patient's been exposed."

  "What about antibiotics?"

  "Assessing the DNA vaccine as a single agent will be more useful. Anyway, from the antibiotic sensitivity data I've reviewed, there isn't a single drug that touches Tivaz TB. Your vaccine is the end of the road for me, Claire, and we both know it."

  Nevertheless . . . "If we do this, it'll be hard to keep secret."

  "At present this resides among we three," Francine said. "I haven't breathed a word to anyone, not even Roscoe."

  Roscoe. If she told him they were treating Sandra before receiving official sanction and Ethics Committee approval, she'd put his career on the line along with hers. And while Sandra knew the inherent risks of this experimental therapy, she'd be asking Roscoe to act in direct violation of every medical regulatory body in the civilized world. And if she didn't tell him and he found out, what then?

  The double steel locked door quaked beneath the hammer of David's fist. She couldn't hold him off much longer.

  Sandra pressed her case. "What more could a scientist wish for than to observe herself being experimented on. I mean that. What else is there for me?"

  And for me? Everybody I care about always dies. Don't die on me Sandra. Please don't.

  "I didn't ask for this, my dear. But it happened. Grant me the opportunity to be useful till the end," Sandra implored as the safety frame around the outer door shuddered beneath David's pounding. Would the hinges bend next?

  She left Sandra and Francine, decontaminated herself, and emerged to unlock the outer door and face David.

  "Claire, Ian's coordinating with the bioterrorism unit. All personnel are on alert."

  Could she persuade him to do as Sandra wished?

  "Transportation to a qualified hospital is being arranged," David stated. He meant business every bit as much as Sandra had moments earlier.

  "Tell them to stand down, David. Dr. Cook's remaining here."

  He glared. "You must be joking. She needs to be in hospital."

  Hearing practically the same words she'd said to Sandra gave her pause, but not enough to back down. "Not necessarily. This facility is expressly built to contain highly infectious microorganisms. The lab used for animal studies is better equipped than any infectious disease unit we could find. And –"

  "And what?"

  "And your group has already established security procedures and perimeters. Keeping her here will minimize the likelihood of mass panic. Hospital personnel always speculate. News of Tivaz TB will spread like wildfire."

  He ran his fingers through his hair. "You speak as if there is no room for discussion."

  "David, on this matter, there isn't."

  He opened and closed his fists before asking again, "Are you absolutely confident this environment is suitable?"

  This time she didn't hesitate. "Absolutely." When he still looked doubtful, she added, "Plus, you'll have access to her help in getting to the bottom of how the accident occurred." That turned the tide.

  "We shall need hers and everyone's help. Complete debriefs are required. No exceptions will be allowed. Do you understand, Claire? Everyone with access to the lab will be questioned."

  "Of course." Everyone but Roscoe Smartz. His time was spoken for.

  Chapter 20

  The Eurostar Express from London entered the Gare du Nord. An expectant buzz rose from passengers crowding the aisles, and Varat shared their excitement at arriving in the world's most beautiful city. He stretched out his legs in the comfort of his Premier Class seat and tilted the fedora over his brow. A rakish angle, nothing too extreme. He was a successful businessman in a fashionable double-breasted suit returning home to Paris . . . for one last time.

  He waited for the throng to clear and reflected on his victory at the London auction, where he paid less for the shamshir than expected. The exquisite sword was worthy of Rostam, hero of the great Persian epic Shahnameh. The wonderfully instructive poem was his Grandfather's favorite and he would be pleased to see the first-born son of his first-born acting according to the warrior code of the Pahlawan. But recreating Grandfather's weapon collection was only the opening act in Varat's plan to restore family honor, a plan now firmly back on track.

  Yes, he'd accomplished much on his trip to London, including confirmation of how much David Ruskin shared with the elitist French schoolboys who taunted him when the school kept Varat on as a charity case. After visiting the Wallace Collection to view the magnificent swords the Marquess of Hertford collected, he'd instructed the cabbie to drive through nearby Portman Square. There he inspected Tiger's family townhouse, whose ornate front door displayed a heraldic crest symbolic of his enemy's noble heritage. Varat's ancestors would be proud when he killed such a worthy opponent. And he would. Claire Ashe may have escaped the death he planned for her, but when he faced Tiger his own hand would control the blade.

  He left the station and ignored the taxi queue to stroll down wide boulevards where he rubbed shoulders with the splendid Parisians ignorant of the death he carried in his sleek aluminum briefcase.

  Why did he choose Paris to announce Tivaz TB to the world? Was it because a passing woman's perfume reminded him of the sweet cologne his French headmaster wore when telling him of his father's execution? Or the aroma of fresh baguettes that brought back memories of the shop where he read newspapers detailing the revolution that overthrew the Shah? Or perhaps the damp stones he trod upon that even now evoked the musty smell of his dormitory room?

  He walked north, all the way to Seine-St.-Denis, a working-class Paris neighborhood crammed with impoverished immigrants from North Africa.

  "Varat," Hakim greeted him. "Welcome to my home."

  Home? Peeling paint, chilly Gallic air leaking through drafty casements, heating pipes silent instead of clanking with steam . . . this was the brilliant engineer's residence.

  "You have something for me?" Hakim asked.

  From his expensive briefcase he pulled a spray can of room deodorizer.

  "So commonplace," Hakim said.

  And so deadly.

  "The canister permits survival for up to two weeks?"

  "Yes. The contents are under pressure," Varat assured him.

  "I have a suitable mask and equipment." Hakim rolled the can between his palms, as if admiring its realistic appearance. "Temperature requirements?"

  "Cool," which shouldn't be a problem in this apartment. At least the money would help Hakim temporarily.

  "Survival time after dispersal?"

  "Perhaps forty-eight hours, maybe less."

  Hakim placed the canister on a shelf above his janitor's uniform. How sad that a highly educated Algerian couldn't overcome French discrimination. But as
he remembered too well, that had always been true. Ironic that this time death would come to them at the hands of one whose uniform rendered him invisible to privileged eyes.

  He put his arm around Hakim's shoulders. "Shall we dine?"

  Varat chose a restaurant that was unobtrusive, but excellent, and walked into the fragrance of fresh made tarte tatin. For others Paris was the city of light, but for him it would always be one of smells.

  Paris . . . could he do this to her?

  Chapter 21

  "Take a look at the schematic," David said of the diagram he and Bobby were viewing over a secure server during their daily teleconference.

  "All I see's spaghetti."

  "The bits in blue show how the lab equipment is ventilated. See the exhaust pipe leading from the incubator. My cursor is directly over the frozen valve."

  "Yeah, so a valve got stuck and pressure built up. Dr. Cook opens the incubator and wham – something pops and hits her mask. Could 'a just been an industrial accident."

  "Perhaps, but might the valve have been tampered with?"

  "Sure, pal, but ya gotta know which valve controls the incubator."

  "Right, but see how the valve is designed for easy access?"

  "Yeah, but c'mon, if somebody did it on purpose they'd have to be a freakin' engineer."

  "Only a pair of pliers is required to tighten the valve beyond its limits, Bobby."

  "Okay, okay. But whoever did it had to know the lab inside-out." Bobby paused, but only briefly. "That points to somebody like Francine Berger."

  "Among others, but we continue to examine her background thoroughly." He heard the shuffle of papers on Bobby's end.

  "Looking at Berger's file, those cousins of hers seem like folks with extreme views. Even the Israelis can't keep their settlers in line all the time"

  "True, but at present Dr. Berger appears unconnected to her relatives' activities and Claire says Francine's devoted to Sandra. A motivation is lacking."

  "Yeah, but she's next on tap to take over the lab after Sandra Cook, isn't she? Power's motivation enough, pal."

  "Right, I considered that, but the woman is so distraught over Dr. Cook's condition."