by Dorian Paul
She and Francine knew an Ethics Committee would have argued long and hard against denying any of the children access to the vaccines. Yet there wasn't enough to give all the children a fair shot, and there certainly wasn't time for debate. Since the parents had signed informed consent for experimental therapy if it were available, they decided to risk their careers in hopes some children might be saved. It appeared they'd judged correctly. Some of the high dose children would live.
They vowed knowledge of their mini-trial would remain between them and, luckily, other medical personnel left them alone since they knew virtually nothing about Tivaz TB or the vaccines. But what gave her the right to stage a lottery to determine which parents would go home without their children?
She was no philosopher, but the concept of right and wrong plagued her. At one time in her life the words represented distinct moral opposites. Now they seemed arbitrary. She no longer knew if her actions today were right . . . or wrong.
All she knew was she'd never betray Francine, or their secret.
***
David slipped in unnoticed and saw her absorbed in a discussion with Francine Berger. Her entire body vibrated with purpose – until she saw him and braced herself.
"I didn't expect to see you here."
Not the warm greeting he hoped for, but she'd been under considerable stress and it was the first time they'd been face to face since the terror attack . . . or since becoming lovers. "I came to relate progress at my end. I understand you've had a degree of success."
She shoved a wisp of hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear. "Success?"
"They tell me some of the children are doing quite well on your vaccines and may live. You must be pleased." She looked more rattled than pleased. This could only be related to emotions over the children she'd failed to save. He took her hand. "You can't blame yourself for those who've died." She flinched like he'd singed her. "You did all you could, Claire. The rest is chance."
"It's not chance," she flared.
Her eyes darted left and right, up and down, anywhere but straight at him. And Francine didn't meet his eyes either. All she did was say to Claire, "I'll check on the analysis team, and add new parameters to the data stream so we have what we need when we get back to London."
On her way out Francine gestured to the columns of numbers on the paper she held, as if to punctuate the necessity of her errand. Still, she left behind a disquieting sense he'd interrupted them at a most inopportune time. Whatever they were discussing, his entrance made Claire fidget . . . and twist her wedding band. Could this disquiet have anything to do with becoming his lover? He took a chance. "I realize this may not be an appropriate time, but it is impossible to say when we might be private again. I want you to know what happened between us was extraordinary and I –"
She did not look at him when she interrupted him. "No need to apologize."
"I am not apologizing."
"It's better for us to forget what happened. We have to go on. And right now I have to get back to work."
"Claire, look at me. You are not listening. I'm trying to tell you it was fantastic between us."
She looked up then but only to stare at the huge clock on the wall. "David, not now."
Much as her indifference to his confession hurt him, she had a point. He'd bungled things again. Better to change course to the news he'd come to report.
"Bucky-balls . . . of course," she said. "That's how Omar Messina did it." Now her bright green eyes zeroed in on his. "Where are the samples?"
"The French are insisting on overall control of the material –"
"David, no, you can't let them. We need to study it."
"Right, I told them so and you'll be pleased they've agreed to provide you with a small sample."
She threw her arms around his neck with unbridled enthusiasm.
"It's being sent to your lab in London as we speak."
She kissed him like he'd given her a new lease on life. Maybe he had. But all the more pity her excitement had to do with Bucky's balls, not his. And yet he admired all facets of this fascinating woman. When the crisis passed he'd make a better case for the suitability of their relationship. Until then he'd remain focused on his mission, as no doubt she would.
Ian Barker accompanied him down to the basement garage. A blaring ambulance had delivered him to the hospital earlier, deftly skirting the TV vans with their coiled cables and blow-dried reporters. The French, inventive deceivers that they were, planned to take him out by the same method. But before he climbed into the rear, he asked Barker if he'd observed Dr. Berger doing anything untoward.
"I've kept my eyes open as you requested, sir, and I see no threat from Dr. Berger."
He wished he were as persuaded. News that Francine's lodger was one of the most politically active professors at Tel Aviv University troubled him. And although complex treachery would be required to involve right wing Israeli extremists in a terror plot, he didn't put it past Varat. "Keep on top of the situation. We take no chances."
Chapter 26
David's MI6 people ushered Bobby through the Grand Hotel lobby. Fancy place. Leave it to his pal to upgrade to first-rate accommodations. Not the sort of thing that generally crossed his budget-conscious mind, except for the Haybrooke in London. Then again, David could afford to pay for digs like this outta his own pocket whenever he felt like it.
He dumped his overnight bag just inside the suite and carried his communication gear down the wide hallway into the ritzy living room. Jesus, look at the lady in spike heels staring out the far windows. Did David have a girl in Paris, too? He cleared his throat and the petite female turned to him.
"Hello, I'm Elizabeth Carlisle."
British, not French. "Bobby Keane."
"David's American friend?" She tilted her chin and inspected him. "You went to Forbes Castle after he was hurt."
How'd she know that?
"He says I'm to stay put until he arrives. I'm famished but don't dare cross him."
"Yep, he doesn't take well to being crossed."
She laughed and her mischievous brown eyes shimmered. "Precisely."
"You gotta know him pretty well, then."
"Since we were born."
Relatives? He studied her features, looking for a resemblance between this pint-sized beauty and his lanky friend, and his staring prompted a remark.
"Like my hair Mr. Keane?" She swept painted nails across her brow to tame a few strands of her stylish honey-colored hair. "Or is it my outfit?"
"Both. But gimme the lowdown on exactly who you are."
She touched a finger to her lip before using it to accentuate her words. "A fashion designer. A businesswoman. Divorced."
"And exactly how do you know David?"
"I'm his cousin." She gave him an impish smile. "Have you additional questions?"
He did. Was she Jeremy's sister? Her last name was different, but she could 'a kept her ex-husband's. Anyway, even if she weren't Jeremy's sister, best not to discuss Kurdistan with any relative of David's. "No, ma'am." But what was she doing in this hotel suite in the middle of a terrorist crisis in Paris?
"Then you may answer one of mine." Her face turned serious. "Tell me what's taking place with this unspeakable attack. You must know or you wouldn't be here."
If he did he wouldn't be cooling his heels while waiting for details to evolve. "David says the TV's got it pretty much right."
"The media? How unusual. I'm trying to ascertain if I should return to London or remain in Paris."
"Travel's a mess. Lots of folks getting outta Dodge."
"Right, Mr. Keane." She sat on the couch, crossed a pair of spectacular legs, and revealed a tantalizing peek of thigh. "And you're not about to disclose further details. Most definitely you're David's colleague."
"When he gets here you're free to grill him."
"I've a better suggestion."
Shit, here it comes, she's gonna ask about Jeremy.
"Sha
ll we order room service?" She picked up a stiff leather menu from the marble-topped coffee table, and glanced in his direction with a raised eyebrow.
What the hell? A French meal on David's tab beat a discussion with Elizabeth of how he'd dragged two of her relatives, one dead and one seriously injured, out of Kurdistan. "Go for it. You choose the food, and while you're at it, I'm gonna find an empty room and make a few calls."
Global Intel buzzed. Brun shut off every exit out of France, but the Algerian janitor either slipped the net, or, as a bunch of E.U. folks thought, Hakim sat tight right under their noses. Everybody was waiting for the next shoe to drop, and Brun had set up a meeting for tomorrow morning. How typical. Once you're hit, you think you're the one who's gonna get hit again, and soon, but it rarely works that way. Still maybe he'd get enough info at Brun's meeting tomorrow to figure out the best place for him to go next.
Elizabeth knocked to say the food was there and soon he found himself pouring a French white wine for a gorgeous woman in a Paris hotel suite. Too bad she probably was Jeremy's sister. The more he eyed her, the more he saw the resemblance, and the less likely he'd act on exactly what he'd really like to do with this chick in a hotel room. Instead, he asked what she was doing in Paris.
"Pursuing tony designers. I happened upon one yesterday for a new shop I plan to open in New York."
"Where in New York?"
"I've not determined yet. First the designers. Next the location."
"High end fashion?"
"Mais oui, monsieur. Whatever else is there?"
The lady was a pistol. "Check out the area around the U.N. Lots of foreigners. Lots of money."
"You know New York?"
"Grew up there." Not in a classy place like midtown Manhattan, but he wasn't about to tell her that. "And my work takes me to the U.N. from time to time."
"Much obliged. I shall look into it."
He didn't run into women like Elizabeth every day, and pretty much steered clear if he did. Not that he held anything against people born with advantages, but his comfort level with their kind was just about zero. Except for David. Maybe that's because theirs was a down and dirty business to begin with. No way of knowing. What he did know was how strange it felt sitting with Elizabeth in a foreign hotel room, feeling on top of the world, in the middle of a terrorist attack. Weird and wonderful . . . until David barged in.
Elizabeth jumped up, kissed her cousin. "Darling, how are you?"
"I have seen better days." David looked at the room service table, set for two. "Thank you for relocating, Elizabeth. I see you've settled in."
"Your friend Bobby and I were just getting acquainted."
David's cheek twitched under his five o'clock shadow. "Were you?"
"But he's as tight lipped as you. I assume Claire is in Paris." When David didn't answer, Elizabeth continued, "It only makes sense. She's a microbiologist working in a secret lab on a hush-hush project and this is a biological terror attack."
"Elizabeth, the fewer details you know, the better."
"Not if people I care for are at risk. Don't keep me in the dark. What about Claire?" Elizabeth demanded. "Is she all right?"
"I visited her briefly at hospital. She is working on the problem." David ran his hands through his hair, a sign of stress Bobby recognized. "I'm not certain we shall see her here in the suite."
"Can she do anything for the children?"
"She has brought experimental treatments. Some children are responding, but by no means all."
Elizabeth winced.
"Forgive me, Elizabeth, but I must speak with Bobby privately."
"Before you run off I want you to know I plan to stay in Paris until I complete my business."
"I'd prefer you return to London."
"If I stay in Paris, there may be something I can do for Claire. Anyway,” she said with a glance his way, “travel will be a nightmare."
"I can expedite your travel," David said, giving them both the evil eye.
"If you can expedite my travel, then I'll go on to Madrid."
"London," David insisted.
"Paris," she countered.
David caved. "Then Paris if you promise to return to London afterwards."
"All right then. You two have your pow-wow and I'll wait up in the event Claire arrives."
He led David into the bedroom he'd used earlier, closed the door, and remarked, "She's Jeremy's sister."
"Right, and I'll not have her gallivanting around Europe. I want her where I can keep my eyes on her."
"Understood. Don't want déjà vu all over again."
"Right. And what I revealed to her the press knows already."
"Gotcha. Now tell me what they don't know."
"Tivaz TB is weaponized. Molecules made through a process my technical people call nanotechnology were found on classroom furnishings, in the lavatory, and in the cloakroom. Best guess, a coating of these man-made molecules shield Tivaz TB and allow it to survive longer in the atmosphere than normal."
"How'd our missing Algerian janitor deliver this stuff?"
"We believe he sprayed it in the school last night."
"Sprayed?"
"Our working theory is a spray can of the sort used to disinfect the school."
"So fucking easy to deliver."
"Correct. Liquid under pressure. The possibilities are endless. Cleaning supplies, deodorant, hairspray, cooking spray, spray paint, perfume."
"We're in deep shit, pal."
"Right. And consider the breadth of potential targets."
"Let's not, pal."
But David didn't stop. "Claire says anyone possessing a weak immune system is a target, not just babies in nappies. Pensioners, cancer patients, burn victims, and so on."
"Yeah, but you gotta hand it to Varat. Kids are an inspired strategy. Frightens the be-Jesus outta the public."
"The only plus in our favor is it appears a single target was hit today."
"Not much of a favor. If we get hit one school at a time, without warning, you got mass hysteria."
"I have no intention of allowing that to occur."
"Good thing, pal, cause imagine closing every day care center in the world."
"Before that happens, we'll find the source and destroy what's in circulation already."
"You better have a damn good plan, else the global economy's gonna grind to a halt."
"I believe there's a link between Varat and this school, Lycée Rue Barthel."
"Gimme the evidence."
"About ten years ago a flood destroyed the bulk of the school records at approximately the time Varat got into big league arms dealing."
"You gotta do better than that. What else?"
"Varat's spent a good deal of his life in France."
"And in lots of other places, pal."
"Think about his lifestyle. The French food, the expensive trinkets, the attention to fashion. Varat is completely faux French."
"Gotcha, but I still don't think it makes a lot of sense to look backwards. Ain't got a ton of time, and the question is where's he now, and where's he gonna hit us next?"
"No, the question is why Varat is doing this."
"For money, like he always does."
"If money were his motivation, selling traditional arms would be an easier route. Why suddenly become involved with bioterrorism?"
"Who cares why? Your job is to figure out what Varat's got planned so we can stop him."
"The only way to stop him is to climb inside his head. Brun's assured me he'll track down and interview students from the missing years. But I'm requesting James provide additional analysts."
"D' you think that's smart? The French are fussy about these kinds of things, and it could be a waste of time we ain't got."
"If you've other suggestions, put them on the table, Bobby."
He didn't. "Okay, we work it on all fronts." Hell, he'd agreed to the crazy couscous restaurant stakeout in London even though he told James he thought David w
as grabbing at straws. "But don't go overboard. Keep a lid on the vengeance element. Revenge is many things, but one thing it ain't is good judgment, pal, and it won't bring Jeremy back."
David glared at him, his lips a thin livid line.
Bobby's phone rang, and he was glad when David left the room . . . until he saw the number on his caller ID.
"Mom, I told you not to use this number 'cept for an emergency."
"Bobby honey, it's an emergency." She was wheezing from too many cigarettes and too much booze. "I need you."
Yeah, sure. You need money . . . again. "What's up?"
"It's Johnny."
Great. Just what he wanted to hear in the middle of a full-blown terror attack – a news bulletin on his useless twin.
"Drug dealers are after him."
So what else is knew. If you play with fire, you're gonna get burned.
"You gotta help Johnny."
He always helped . . . which is why she always asked.
"Bobby honey, you gotta help him."
Nope, not this time. He had bigger problems to deal with. "Sorry, Mom, no can do. I'm not in the States."
"But when you get back?"
Maybe, but who knew when that was gonna be.
Chapter 27
It was time for David to return to London. Coordinating the search operation for Varat out of a field office, no matter how sophisticated, had its limits. He wished Claire could come with him, but she deferred her departure to further evaluate the toddlers who survived Tivaz TB. As to Elizabeth, he agreed to her remaining behind to finalize her business dealings, but only after Claire assured him the initial outbreak was contained. And so it was Bobby who accompanied him home from Paris, his avowed justification to show U.S. unity with the E.U. from London.
