by Dorian Paul
And another. And another. And soon it won't metabolize, respiratory depression will set in, and you'll die the mistress of your own fate.
In the end, she remained with Francine and stayed in the background, offering quiet support while Francine gave the injections. Dim light and bulky headgear couldn't mask the tears streaming down Francine's cheeks by the time Sandra asked for what they all knew was the final dose, and Francine's gloved hands held Sandra's long after she exhaled her final breath.
Together they prepared Sandra's body for incineration.
"I'll phone her brother, Claire. He lives in Australia."
"What will you tell him?"
"When this first happened, we told him she had pneumonia. He'll believe she took a turn for the worse and died."
"He may want to see the body."
"He knows she's to be cremated. I'll volunteer to arrange a memorial service when he arrives."
She knew it was the best course of action, nonetheless it felt inappropriate. Sandra's bravery should be celebrated, not hidden.
"Claire, it's what Sandra wanted. There's no need to frighten the world."
Yet. Pray God no one else would have to watch a loved one die from Tivaz TB, as Francine had. "Ian and I can give you a ride home."
"It's a short walk."
"But it's the middle of the night."
"No matter."
"You can stay with me. You shouldn't be alone, Francine."
"I have a lodger. Visiting lecturer from Tel Aviv."
Tel Aviv. David warned her to be careful around Francine because of her connections to Israeli extremists. But this devastated woman couldn't possibly have been behind Sandra's accident. Francine loved her mentor too much to condemn her to death by Tivaz TB. Didn't she?
Chapter 23
Alerted by Ian's call, David waited up for her. This was a major turning point. Varat was on their turf, in their face, and there but for fortune Claire would be dead, not Sandra.
"I'm so sorry, Claire." Her eyes were red-rimmed and vacant. "Do you want to talk?"
"I don't know what to say."
"Come sit with me, then." He led her to the small sofa in his upstairs study, poured them both a brandy, and sat beside her. She took the snifter and sipped. At a loss, he put his arm around her shoulders in a show of support. She slumped into him and her fragility, something he'd never seen before, was truly troubling. "You did the best you could."
"I failed her."
"It's not your fault."
"Who else's but mine?"
"I've made errors that cost the lives of others." Kurdistan sprang from the box he'd put under lock and key the day Jeremy died, and he struggled to cram it back inside and shut the lid. "Such mistakes are difficult to live with."
"Does the guilt ever go away?"
In his case, to be perfectly honest, no. But for her sake, he hoped it lessened over time. "One learns to live with it."
Absently, she began to rub his thigh as though scrubbing a stain. "My parents, my husband Ben, now Sandra . . . death stalks me. I'm the absolute wrong person to be in charge of solving Tivaz TB."
"No, your courage and brains are exactly what's needed."
"I don't know if I can do it in time . . . and maybe not at all. I'm afraid the ball's in your court to stop Varat."
His chest tightened. "It's going to take both of us." She continued to rub his thigh, her strokes smoother and less scouring while silence stretched between them. The longer this went on the more her touch excited an erection he fought to tame. He did his best to shift positions so she would not notice. Empathy was required, yet he found this to be the most complicated sort of intimacy, and not his strong suit. "Another brandy?"
"No thank you. I appreciate your understanding. I needed not to be alone."
"Do you want me to stay with you tonight?" If she said yes, he'd discover some stratagem to keep himself in line.
"I'm okay now. I'm going to take a shower and try to relax enough to sleep. Thank you again. The human touch helped."
He walked her to her rooms and embraced her. She held him tightly in return and when she let go, brushed a kiss across his lips. "Thank you, David."
She went inside the Duchess suite, the very spot where he was conceived, and left him wanting. He turned toward his own rooms, but once there he heard her crying though the connecting door between their suites, sobbing so loud the shower's running water and a closed door could not drown out her pain.
He went to her. Initially she didn't perceive his presence. Her back was to him, her body splayed, arms slightly raised in supplication, fists slamming the shower tiles, railing against fate. Her injured arm bared a dozen shades of bruise. She turned and saw him, but didn't start. Instead, she opened the glass door.
He stripped and stepped into her arms, where her sobs cleansed them both. Afterwards he dried and brushed her hair, watching it turn from thick russet coils into soft ginger gold highlights. They climbed into her bed, wordless, and she cocooned herself within his embrace. She needed compassion, not sex, and he was pleased by his restraint. He simply held her and hoped she could sleep. Unlikely he would with her in his grasp . . . but untouchable.
"David?" she whispered. "Make love to me."
"Sorry?"
"Come inside me. Make love to me."
It was the absolute wrong thing to do. She'd hate him for it later. He'd hate himself. "Darling, believe me when I say I want to." No point lying. "But I do not think this is the time." He could scarcely believe he was talking her out of precisely what he most desired, had been wanting since they met if he were truly honest. He must be insane.
"I need this from you," she half-whimpered. "Tonight."
They both did, but . . . "Claire, please try to think this through. I'm most willing to be here for you, to hold you, comfort you. If I make love to you, you may regret your decision afterwards."
For a moment she didn't speak and he held himself motionless. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that of you David . . . it was taking advantage of your kindness. And utterly stupid; a complete mistake."
Bloody hell. He was the one making a mistake. He kissed her like he meant it, as he wished to all along. Her lips, her cheeks, her throat, her breasts, her navel. He licked her thighs and spread her legs to kiss her there. She made no complaint, and he gave no quarter until she moaned his name. Then he entered her, consequences be damned. And had the climax of his life. They lay entwined and slept the sleep of the dead, having reaffirmed life.
He woke at first light, contented as never before. He studied her face, striking in rest, unmarred by stress and the ever-present intensity of her green eyes. She was a beautiful woman in repose, yet her live energy attracted him even more. He understood what this meant. But would the connection hold for her the way it had taken hold of him? He wanted to wake her to find out, but she hadn't slept in days. The oblivion of rest was what she needed, so he slipped from the Duchess suite, careful not to wake her.
Six o'clock. If he left now there'd be time to get in a practice session before his eight o'clock meeting with James. Exercise calmed him, and the second tournament round was coming up before long. His club was depending on him to keep the vaunted racquets trophy in their possession for another year.
***
The bed was empty. Had she been dreaming? Was Sandra still alive? Claire closed her eyes and tears spilled down her cheeks as she let the events of the last 24 hours run roughshod over her. By the time she opened her eyes again, she wasn't crying. The time for weeping had passed. She had to go on. The lab needed her. She needed the lab. And David, the less said about last night's interlude the better. She was mortified. It wasn't his fault. She asked for that which he gave her, physical release in the wake of her failure. Wanting anything more from him was a collision course with heartbreak she couldn't afford.
She washed, dressed, took a yogurt from the refrigerator, and left without having to face anyone. Outside, she found Ian waiting to take he
r back where she belonged. He met her in silent welcome, and protected her as she slid into the back seat of the sedan. At the lab, Francine was already at work, but kept her distance and made no attempt to interact. She supposed it was her way of dealing with Sandra's death, but it made Claire feel so alone. When Roscoe stopped by her office bearing two large lattes from High Street, his gesture actually consoled her. Until he spoke.
"Gruesome way to die, huh Claire?"
"Enough, Roscoe."
"Just want you to know we kept our eye on the ball while you were on the front lines with Sandra."
She couldn't ask anymore of him. "And how's it going? We need to ramp up the protein antigen vaccine as quickly as we can."
"Got a bit of a problem there," he said.
Suddenly she felt like Sisyphus, pushing the boulder uphill, only to have it tumble back down.
"There are some issues with stability. What about your boyfriend?"
She flushed. "Who are you talking about?"
Roscoe made like Frankenstein, and lurched around the room. "The muscular take-charge government guy who materializes out of thin air and looms around you. Is he having any luck finding Dr. Death?"
"Give me a break, Roscoe. And, no, they haven't found Omar Messina. Not yet."
"Too bad, 'cause we need more time, even if we skip some of the safety testing."
Roscoe was the last person she wanted flouting the rules. Not that she hadn't played 'God' already . . . and he knew it. "No short cuts. We do everything the E.U. requires."
Downcast, she wandered the corridors and talked to her team, hoping it would lift her spirits to hear their progress. But instead, each person gave condolences, which only compounded her feelings of failure for not being able to save Sandra. She had to stop taking personal blame for the DNA vaccine's incomplete success. They were working on all fronts as fast as they could. She'd taken Sandra's advice, Don's advice, Francine's advice, hell, even Roscoe's advice.
Played out, she returned to her office. Two messages: David and Elizabeth. She ignored them both and called Aunt Carrie.
"Honey, I'm so happy to hear from you," Aunt Carrie chirped.
Hooray. She'd made at least one correct decision today. "Me too. Are you still happy with the assisted living place?"
"We don't have crazies or ax murderers here," her aunt said with her customary offbeat wit. "I'm not unhappy, but I do miss Uncle Tom and you."
"Likewise. I don't think I'll be home for Thanksgiving this year. I'm sorry."
"I see."
Of course she didn't see. All Aunt Carrie knew was Claire was begging off on the one holiday they always spent together. "I want to come, but I can't."
Aunt Carrie's dependable optimism saved the day. "Maybe for Christmas?"
"Maybe. I hope so."
"Carl and Jackie want me to go to Chicago, but I'm too old to travel so far."
And I'm too young to feel sorry for myself. "Well, maybe they'll come to Boston, you never know."
Aunt Carrie laughed. "You're right, I'll ask them. I love you Claire. Better to see the glass half-full."
Good advice and she'd take it. She got to work and employed the encrypted e-mail service provided by MI6 to contact every approved researcher who wasn't on-site, listing all the ideas her team had floated thus far, and asking for suggestions. Surely someone somewhere could see a simple effective solution they could try the next time – because she was convinced there would be a next time. While sorting through her colleagues' replies she was interrupted by her phone, and when she saw it was Elizabeth, she answered.
"Darling, I'm having the most glorious time in Paris. Found the perfect designer."
She was truly glad somebody was having success. "You must be excited."
"I'm over the moon. She's exactly what I'm looking for. Edgy enough to catch the eye of the younger women, and a wonderful mix with my designs. With one or two more hip designers, I'll be set to wow New York."
Entering Elizabeth's world, poles apart from the rigorous science problems she faced, was a breath of fresh air. But before she could pepper her friend with more questions about Paris, Elizabeth changed the subject.
"How was your trip to Thorn Hall?"
So much had happened since then, and so little could be revealed. "We had a nice lunch but had to cut the visit short."
"Oh dear. The parents must have been apoplectic. Is everything all right?"
Will anything ever be all right again? "Something came up at the lab that needed my immediate attention."
"And it's resolved?"
If failure and death are a resolution. "We're back to work."
"Very good. And that cousin of mine. Is he treating you well?"
She tensed. If only she could speak frankly to Elizabeth about last night's disaster when she asked David to make love to her. But how could she explain just how considerate he had been? "He's very kind, but we're both busy with work at the moment."
Part Three:
And So It Begins
"Coming together is a beginning, staying together is progress, and working together is success."
– Henry Ford
Chapter 24
David rang Claire at her lab. She failed to return his calls yesterday, was in bed when he arrived home last night, and left Sherborne House before dawn. Perhaps she was avoiding him, but his wish to tell her how much their night together meant to him no longer mattered in light of today's events. If she didn't pick up immediately, he'd have Ian Barker locate her. This time she answered.
"Claire, the first attack appears to have been launched."
"Where?"
"Paris. A nursery school."
"Oh my God. How many kids? Has quarantine been set up?"
"Yes to quarantine. I do not know how many children, but all have been relocated to a first responder's hospital. Details remain sketchy." He paused. "There's always the possibility this isn't Tivaz TB.
"You don't believe that any more than I do," she snapped.
Only a fool would. "Prepare whatever vaccine material you've produced. My people are arranging at least two waves of transportation. Ian Barker will coordinate. I am leaving for Paris immediately."
"David, Elizabeth's in Paris."
Elizabeth? Impossible. "What is she doing there?"
"A business trip."
The last time a relative had been caught in harm's way with him, it was her brother Jeremy. He made himself concentrate on next steps after finishing his conversation with Claire. Otherwise he'd scream his anguish aloud. He took a deep breath and rang Elizabeth's mobile. He'd do whatever it took to keep her safe from Varat, even rip off her fancy clothes and put her in one of Claire's special suits to keep from sacrificing another member of his family to that bastard.
***
His French counterpart, Anton Brun, met him at the airport. The man never impressed him so he was relieved to learn the French were following the E.U. bioterror response rules. The prominent grammar and secondary schools attached to the nursery school went into immediate lockdown and quarantine after the outbreak. So far only the nursery school children had been infected, which was consistent with Claire's prediction that a Tivaz TB attack, even one employing a weaponized form, could be confined to the initial burst if proper precautions were followed. Still, he was pleased Elizabeth was now in his suite at the Grand Hotel under the supervision of his people. Even should Claire be correct that infection was likely to be limited, that didn't mean widespread panic wouldn't ensue. And that could be worst of all. No, worst of all would be more attacks before he could stop Varat or Claire could find an antidote.
"What leads have you?" he asked Brun.
The small, officious middle-aged man stiffened. "We are checking every possibility."
There wasn't time for being defensive. "Give me the details."
"The backgrounds of school employees, the parents and families of the students, deliveries for the last 24 hours, all are being investigated."
&nb
sp; A start, but not nearly sufficient. "What about flight manifests, hotel records, suspicious movements or activities within known terror cells, inquiries among immigrant communities, hospital deaths of unknown origin?" Bodies floating down the Seine, for God's sake, and every other possibility neither of us can imagine.
"All my people are deployed. This is a French problem, and the French will solve it, Ruskin."
"Cut the crap," David replied, hearing Bobby's voice in his head. "This is an international problem and we shall work together. Bobby Keane is en route."
Brun sniffed. "As are my E.U. partners."
The man must be completely terrified to convene his own bickering pack. As well he should be. The person responsible for this plot had no scruples.
But why did Varat start with Paris?
He confirmed with Brun that the special suits had arrived, and requested a police escort to the school site. He wanted to accompany the technicians inside. Their single-minded focus on microbes might make them miss a valuable clue . . . about Varat.
***
"Mr. Ruskin is on his way to the school where the children were taken ill," Ian told Claire as a police van carved a path down wide avenues lined with fin de siècle facades. "He'll apprise you the moment he learns anything."
Mr. Ruskin. David. She'd survived her shame over what she'd asked of him the night Sandra died and if she spoke to him she'd tell him to be careful. But he knew what he was up against. The Parisians didn't. Yet their faces bore the stamp of the crisis flooding the news, and they understood the heinous attack on French children was their own 9/11. How would Paris, a city spared destruction through two world wars, handle a bioterrorism strike on its young?
Sirens wailed all the way to the stone and glass hospital whose polished exterior might well turn into a mausoleum for the preschoolers inside. She tried to stop thinking like that.
"Dr. Ashe, we are desperate," the hospital's chief of staff told her curbside. "The infection is proceeding so rapidly. I have seen Ebola in Africa, but –"
