Risking the World

by Dorian Paul

  While the role of politics in Bobby's decision was indisputable, David suspected other factors at play. When he asked, Bobby answered evasively about leaning on U.S. connections in support of the E.U. Undoubtedly Bobby would use American clout to exploit every known contact in terrorist safe havens, but that he might have done from Langley. Not to mention his friend should have told him, prior to their arrival at MI6 headquarters, that he'd already scheduled a private meeting with James.

  He parted company with Bobby to uncharacteristic feelings of relief, which disturbed him. He was still musing on the change in their relationship, previously marked by unreserved trust, when James called him in. No sign of Bobby.

  "In your opinion," James asked from behind his tidy desk, "Did Brun's meeting foster cooperation amongst our allies?"

  "I believe so."

  "And Dr. Ashe had a degree of success with the vaccines?"

  "She did." Why the quiz? Surely James had discussed these matters with Bobby.

  James backed his furrowed leather chair away from his desk, crossed his legs, and settled in for a chat. "I understand you believe the Paris target may have had something to do with Varat."

  "I'm certain." As certain as he could be without proof.

  "You assume he chooses the targets rather than his sponsors? Such is not common practice."

  "Nonetheless, one must question why Paris? Why this specific school? I remain convinced Varat is linked to Lycée Rue Barthel in some way."

  James tamped his pipe on an immense octagonal ashtray. "Paris is a high value target similar to London and New York and the school may simply be a convenient target in a symbolic city. Or possibly his sponsors have ties to the Paris school themselves."

  "In either case, identifying future targets begins with Lycée Rue Barthel."

  "This is why Brun is looking into the Paris school records . . . as you requested."

  "Brun is concentrating on the profiles and connections of current students. I've directed additional U.K. analysts to determine if Varat attended Lycée Rue Barthel in the past, and to locate individuals who knew him then."

  "David, I supported you when Bobby queried the use of our resources on the Middle Eastern restaurant you received a postcard from, however . . ."

  The revelation of his friend's misgivings stung. Bobby might have voiced his reservations directly to him.

  James opened the scraping blade on his antique Laguiole pipe tool, and picked at charred tobacco in the pipe's bowl. "Granted, our hopes were initially raised when we learned the same caretaker service cleaned Sandra Cook's laboratory as well as the restaurant. But in the end, we came up empty. And now I must agree with Bobby. The French should manage the school investigation without interference from us."

  Twice? Bobby had stabbed him in the back twice? "Brun will not focus his efforts on missing school records. Of that I can assure you, James."

  "For now we shall let them do their job as they see fit. The incident occurred on French soil."

  "They cannot be relied upon."

  "On some things we may rely. Chief among them, the certainty of French resentment for our intrusion into their affairs."

  "Fine, our analysts can work independently of the French."

  "Lycée Rue Barthel is a sovereign French matter, David. I have reassigned the analysts to work in accordance with our remit, and seek evidence of external plots against the U.K."

  He flexed his fists. "I disagree, strongly."

  "Duly noted." James took his time refilling and lighting his pipe. "Bobby and I believe it is time you enlarged your thinking beyond Varat, and henceforward I require daily updates on your activities and requests."

  Bloody hell, James and Bobby presented a united front and he'd been put on a short leash. "If you and Bobby feel I can no longer be relied upon to effectively run this operation, I shall recuse myself."

  Unruffled, James puffed his pipe. "Wholly unnecessary. I have full confidence in your abilities."

  Full confidence my ass. You think I'm chasing my demons rather than the real villains. Only because he prided himself on professionalism did he open up to his superior, one intelligence officer to another. "There is no question but I want to get Varat . . . vengeance, revenge, call it what you will. Nevertheless, I fully appreciate Varat's death is not, nor ever has been, the primary goal of the mission."

  James scrutinized him as if looking inside his soul and taking his measure. "Excellent. Then we understand one another. Carry on."

  And he did, by hightailing it to his racquets club for the second match in the tournament finals. A two-hour respite smashing a small hard ball at a speed approaching 250 kilometers per hour was just the thing to clear his head, 'enlarge his thinking' on Varat as James challenged him. His offensive game was deemed unparalleled and his true chums would cheer him on, not tattle behind his back like Bobby.

  ***

  Elizabeth watched her friend's hand squeeze the airplane's armrest. Paris must have been awful for Claire and she could do with a breather. How could she help her friend?

  "Have you spoken to David since he returned to London?"

  "No."

  Hmm. "I spoke to him, and he told me Bobby Keane is in London. That means David and I know two Americans who shall spend their Thanksgiving away from home."

  "It's just another day, really."

  "Au contraire. I understand it is the American holiday. And so I thought Maggie might do up a turkey dinner for the four of us at Sherborne House."

  "I can't commit to that. I expect to be working nonstop from now on."

  "Darling, you must eat. Especially on Thanksgiving Day. The four of us will relax a bit."

  Claire looked skeptical. "I don't know. David and Bobby are really busy too."

  "Come now, they need food to keep those hard muscles in tip-top form." Oh dear, Claire didn't even smile at her lame joke. "A break from the pressure would be good for all of you."

  "It's nice of you to think about our Thanksgiving. But I'm just not sure, Elizabeth."

  "Right, well. If you can make it back to Sherborne House, drinks are at seven, dinner at eight."

  "You've already set this up with Maggie, haven't you?"

  "I took the liberty."

  Plus she'd told David it was Claire who hankered after a turkey dinner and Bobby that it was David's idea. She'd thought getting the two men to agree would be the tricky part, but Claire was proving the reluctant one, and now she had to wonder if she'd blundered by planning tomorrow evening's event. What precisely was the state of affairs between Claire and her cousin? They seemed to dance around one another like moths without ever drawing near enough to feel the heat of the flame. They were clearly attracted to one another, but Elizabeth feared they might squander the prospect for a relationship. Such opportunities were not to be missed. Jeremy's short life had taught her that. That was the only reason she was willing to take a chance on Bobby Keane, a man in David and Jeremy's line of work, who lived on the edge of danger.

  Definitely she was not having second thoughts about Bobby Keane and didn't regret engineering a way to see him again. But might it have been an error to jump headlong into playing Cupid for David and Claire?

  ***

  Claire asked to be dropped off at her lab, even though she wasn't ready to face her team. While a handful of the French children had been saved, too many others had died. And now her scientists were faced with designing an improved antidote. They would want to start with a discussion of what she'd observed in Paris and would ask what did and didn't work, seeking explanations with far greater insight than David's innocent questions the afternoon he first visited the French hospital. Her challenge was to find a means to convey what she and Francine had learned without revealing what they'd done, no easy feat.

  How she wished a stroke of insight emerged from the tragedy of Paris so she could lay out a clear plan for proceeding, but she had nothing original to offer. Still, they had to press on and she had to set the example. Weary,
but aware most solutions emerged from equal parts perspiration and inspiration she trudged toward her office where Roscoe, with an uncanny knack of appearing when least wanted, waited by her door.

  "Hey, Claire."

  He hugged her. She wanted to cut it short, but she was in his debt. Roscoe'd busted his butt to get her the maximum quantity of both vaccines in the shortest period of time. If any one saved those kids, he did. She gave him a quick squeeze before backing away.

  "Looked pretty grim on TV."

  "Beyond your worst nightmares."

  "The data on the survivors are interesting."

  "I hope they help us," she replied noncommittally. Even though Roscoe kept his mouth shut over First-in-Man with Sandra, she'd no intention of revealing the mini-trial to him. Throughout the Paris ordeal she communicated with him solely through e-mail, but now she had to survive her most astute collaborator's face-to-face questions. She tried to head him off at the pass. "The bottom line is pretty straightforward, Roscoe. Both our vaccines together didn't do the job and we need to come up with a new approach."

  "But it's weird, don't you think? Some kids made it and others didn't."

  "Francine's analyzing the data, but we can't wait for answers. Did MI6 get you the intact molecules from Paris?"

  "Yeah, your government guy got the stuff here pronto, and it's in tip-top shape."

  "What's your preliminary evaluation?"

  Once asked about his own work, he happily took to the stage, and dropped his prior line of questioning. "The key's in how they made the Bucky-ball shell. I can work it out."

  She certainly hoped so. And her role was to focus the team on the future . . . not the past. "What's the best approach for analyzing it?"

  "The main thing is we gotta go slow because we don't want to mess it up or trigger it to reproduce."

  "Exactly. I spoke to Don about that. He agrees we shouldn't alter it in any way to make it more difficult to for us to figure out how Messina weaponized it."

  "When's Don coming?"

  "Friday." His arrival couldn't come soon enough.

  "Cool."

  Liar. Roscoe loved being top dog . . . her go-to guy, and she'd have to make sure he still felt that way because he'd always been jealous of her relationship with Don. Men. She'd never understand them, even the ones that weren't as enigmatic as David . . . or as beautiful.

  David. Did it really make sense to share in Elizabeth's Thanksgiving dinner plans with him and Bobby? They were sprinting as fast as they could and still hadn't been able to catch up to Messina and Varat, let alone outpace them. But Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday, and Bobby Keane a fellow American. Maybe she should wait and see what tomorrow brought rather than decide right now she wouldn't take part in a meal with them. After all, she wasn't being asked to cook. And as Elizabeth was quick to point out, everyone had to eat.

  ***

  Sherborne House was empty when Claire got home that evening, but Maggie would've left food so she rummaged inside the refrigerator. There she spied tomorrow's turkey squatting next to a green mesh bag of Brussels sprouts and a bulbous butternut squash. Maybe Elizabeth's idea for a holiday meal was hare-brained, dumber still for her to take time out to enjoy it, and yet while she waited for her microwaved meal, she scanned the fixings for pumpkin and pecan pie Maggie'd lined up on the counter along with recipe cards.

  A British cook might need a recipe for pumpkin pie, but she didn't. Aunt Carrie always assigned her the baking of the Thanksgiving pies, and years passed before she discovered back-up pies were hidden in the basement in case of an emergency. But those store-bought pies were never used, and by age ten she baked without adult supervision. Pie making was her first encounter with the combination of precision and creativity that characterized her scientific career to date. She crossed her fingers those early skills wouldn't let her down in her battle against Tivaz TB.

  She took a few bites of Maggie's casserole. She should finish her meal. She needed to keep up her strength. Then she should go to bed since she hadn't slept in Paris. But longing swamped her. And who knew, getting in touch with her roots might spark an idea.

  She put down her fork, threw on one of Maggie's aprons, and went to work. Soon the pumpkin pie was baking in the oven, the pecan was on deck and she felt more tranquil than she had in days. Try weeks . . . or longer. She gave herself over to the simple task of rolling out the pastry crust for the second pie, placing it just so near the pie plate, and sliding it into final position.

  "Claire?"

  She jumped at his voice, but saved the pastry from tearing. "I didn't hear you come in."

  "You were engrossed."

  His brow was creased. What had she done? This was his house, his kitchen, and she'd taken it over. "David, I –"

  "Don't let me interrupt. Carry on."

  His voice wasn't exactly angry, but definitely out of sorts. And his hair was damp, curling around his collar. Moisture glossed his forehead. Did he have a fever? He'd been working nonstop too. "Are you feeling okay?"

  He grunted. "As okay as someone who's let down those counting on him."

  She shrank. Omar Messina – Dr. Black – had struck again . . . while she was making pies.

  Chapter 28

  "Another attack? Where?"

  "Good God, Claire. No."

  "What is it then?"

  "Nothing of real significance."

  How dare he unnerve her for no good reason? "You can't just let it drop like that. Tell me."

  He looked sheepish, eyes cast down, hands splayed on the counter. "I lost the second match for the racquets championship at my club."

  She was furious over the fright he'd given her, but maybe, just like her, he needed a break too.

  "Afterwards, I licked my wounds with a long steam and a sauna, and so you find me like this." He shoved his hands through his damp hair.

  She couldn't help laughing.

  He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I've one last chance to redeem myself. Best of three. I took the first round."

  "Still, you must be disappointed."

  He waved her off. "In the grand scheme of things, it ranks below inconsequential."

  But his lips were stretched in a taut thin line, so either the game meant more to him than he'd admit, or something else was up. "Is there anything you've learned about Tivaz TB that I should know?"

  "I wish I had."

  "Are you telling me everything? You seem tense."

  "Shall we simply say I had a bad day at the office, and leave it at that?" He looked away and she let the topic drop. "Now, what are you up to?"

  "I'm making pies for Thanksgiving."

  "May I assist?"

  "You cook?"

  "No, but I can follow instructions."

  Really? The David she knew was way more comfortable giving orders.

  "Try me."

  Honestly, she didn't want to. Before he came she'd been enjoying herself so much, but this was his kitchen after all. She threw him an apron, and before long the sight of him lurking around in Maggie's ill-fitting apron entertained her. They didn't talk much, or need to. While she checked on the pumpkin pie in the oven, he located a cooling rack without being asked. Together they inhabited the wonderful smells filling the kitchen.

  "Next we bake the pecan," she told him.

  "Excellent. Pecan pie is my favorite."

  She crimped the edges of the crust while he watched. "Okay, now I get it. Two pies seemed a bit much for four people."

  He chuckled. "Maggie. She knew Thanksgiving required pumpkin pie, but also that I would never be satisfied without pecan."

  "Then let's put your favorite in the oven. It's getting late."

  "And who began this project at such an advanced hour?" he teased.

  He held the oven door open so she could slide the pie in, his earlier scowl replaced with a smile. He was impossible to fathom. She stopped trying and stood up with a feeling of accomplishment – until she saw the mess in front of her.

>   His mind might be unreadable, but he could read hers and he jumped into the task of loading up the dishwasher, filling the sink with hot, soapy suds, and tossing her a dishtowel. Side-by-side they methodically worked their way through an endless stack of dirty bowls and gadgets. Their hands touched when he passed her a sifter or a rolling pin, and each contact became a caress reminding her how those hands kneaded her ass and squeezed her nipples the night she begged him to come inside her. Excited and humiliated, she reminded herself she meant nothing to him, even as she yearned to discover what another night in the bed of an expert lover might reveal.

  ***

  The pies were out of the oven and David watched Claire write a note to Maggie. Their work in the kitchen tonight was complete, but he was loath to bring their time together to a close, so he put away bowls and assorted cooking tools, timing his tasks to end just as she taped her note to the icebox.

  "Thank you for permitting me to help. We cooperate well together, do you not agree?"

  "Thanks for helping me," she answered, a more elusive reply than he might have wished.

  He tried again. "You appear to know your way about the kitchen."

  She left the kitchen and he followed her. "I always did Thanksgiving dinner with my Aunt Carrie." She paused at the stairs and turned to him. "She's alone this year."

  "Unfortunate so many sacrifices must be made. At the very least, you'll not spend the Thanksgiving holiday on your own."

  "When Elizabeth mentioned Thanksgiving dinner, I couldn't imagine sparing the time. But no matter what tomorrow brings, I'm glad I spent this evening baking pies."

  "And I am glad we spent it together."

  She gave him a half-smile, turned, and mounted the stairs to her rooms. He was close behind. When she arrived she touched her hand to the doorknob of the Duchess suite.