Risking the World

by Dorian Paul

  "Having you here means everything to me," she said when they were alone again. "Thanks for coming, Don."

  "No thanks needed. It's all hands on deck. The friggin' world's at risk." He downed his espresso in a single gulp. "Now, how can I help out?"

  "Take charge," she all but begged.

  His bushy eyebrows lifted at least an inch.

  "Yes, lead the team. They need you. I need you."

  He spun his empty cup in its saucer.

  "Assess our strengths and weaknesses, then reallocate resources as you see fit. Put me where you think I'll have the most impact."

  "I know the answer to that already."

  "Where?" she asked.

  "Here." He pointed at her chair. "Right where you are. In the group leader's seat."

  "You don't have to stroke my ego." He would've been chosen to spearhead the effort from the get-go if he hadn't been in the Congo. "You've got way more experience than me in leading development teams."

  He shook his head deliberately. "But I don't know Tivaz TB like you do. And I don't know the history of this team. Getting me up to speed would be a time waster."

  "I can get you up to speed really fast." She leapt from her chair and went to the file cabinet for her thickest folder. "I have a complete summary of our work to date along with a list of new ideas we're working on."

  "No, Claire. You're the best person for the job."

  She trusted his judgment but she sure didn't like his answer.

  "Now you tell me, kiddo, where can I help out the most?"

  Like Jesus on the cross she was ready to plead once more, 'Father, take this cup from me.' But she'd worked with Don long enough to know he'd refuse. He'd evaluated the available evidence, made up his mind, and wouldn't be swayed unless she presented convincing proof he was better suited to be team leader . . . and she'd run out of arguments.

  "I imagine Roscoe's a handful," he said.

  He was, but she'd found a way to work with him and couldn't risk Roscoe getting into a turf war with Don. "I've got him under control."

  "Something I never managed to do." He smiled at her. "Then find another role for me."

  "I think you'd be a big help in theoretical. Look in on what Francine Berger's doing."

  "Sandra Cook's right hand? Is there a problem there?"

  "No, just tons of data. She's analyzing the treatment results from the Lycée Rue Barthel."

  "Fifteen percent response rate, Claire. Remarkable under the circumstances."

  She swallowed the espresso dregs pooling in her cup and steeled herself to reveal the Paris mini-trial she and Francine swore to keep secret. Would he be disappointed in her? No, this was Don. Like his own mentor, Carl Fantoro, he valued the science above all else. And if she really wanted his help, she had to tell him the truth.

  "Actually, it may be higher than that."

  He didn't blink at her confession.

  She should've known. He'd read everything she sent, done the calculations, and figured it out.

  "Given your lead time, I assumed you were short of material," he said without missing a beat. "Even a bench-rat like Roscoe, working round the clock, couldn't churn out enough vaccine for that many kids."

  The crumpled faces of wailing children from her nightmares appeared before her, and she turned away.

  "Creating the dosage schedule must've been a difficult call, Claire."

  She forced herself to look him in the eyes. "The worst thing I ever lived through."

  "Worse than Ben?"

  Yes. "Ben's early death was unfair, but I could rail against God. With these kids, I played God."

  He reached for her hand and lightly patted it. "You had no choice if some of them were going to have a chance to live. I'm sure you were as fair as possible, under the circumstances."

  She exhaled and launched into the nitty-gritty science. "We stratified the infected children, and randomized each group to receive one of three vaccine doses, or –" Even now it was tough to give voice to what she'd done . . . injected some children with harmless, but useless, saline. Of course, he knew, so there was no need to say it out loud.

  "That was best. Did you determine an optimal dose?"

  "We think so, but there are confounding factors. Some of the high-dose children survived, but others didn't. Why?"

  "And you want Francine and me to analyze the data and find out."

  Exactly. She needed to know if the vaccines saved those children, or an innate response of their own. Why would some high-dose kids survive while others died? Were their immune responses not as developed as others their age, or did the vaccines fail them completely?

  "You've got robust data?" Don asked. "Blood samples, antibody titers?"

  "Yes, everything we could think of. We even added parameters on the fly. It was all so rushed, not like research. It was –"

  "Life or death. You did the right thing, Claire."

  He had no idea how much those words meant to her.

  "What can you tell me about Francine Berger?"

  "She's a first-rate scientist. She was there when Sandra died, and in Paris."

  "I hear a 'but' in your voice."

  "British Intelligence has cautioned me to be careful around her."

  "Why?"

  "One branch of her family's involved with right wing Israeli extremists."

  "Do you trust her?"

  "I do. But she's distracted. I think it's because the Board is in the throes of deciding who'll head this lab now that Sandra's gone."

  "Francine's in the running?"

  "She's worked all her life to inherit this lab."

  "Then let's hope the Board's wise enough to give her what she deserves. Anything else I need to know?"

  With Don's curious mind he'd know soon enough everything else going on in this lab, so she shook her head, 'No.'

  "Then I'll look for Francine Berger. I've got a challenge ahead of me." His face lit up with a grin that made every obstacle seem surmountable. "I'm going to prove myself the best member of your team."

  "Better than Roscoe?" she teased.

  "What's a development team without a little competition?"

  She was still smiling when he left her office and, even though she'd lost the battle to put him in charge, she felt incredibly reassured by his presence. And she and Francine were no longer alone with their secret. Don would help Francine, freeing her to concentrate on their future challenge – coming up with a strategy for directly killing Tivaz TB. She planned to split her own time between cramming on nanotechnology and studying Sandra Cook's research files. Somewhere at sometime, Sandra made a comment that Claire thought held a clue.

  What was it?

  Chapter 32

  Bobby watched dry leaves swirl on cracked tiles while idle young men crowded into the courtyard after classes. It was the end of November, but the Moroccan sun was warm and he was boiling mad to be cooling his heels in this wretched university waiting to meet the Dean. They were in Tetouan, a stone's throw from the Mediterranean, and a boat ride from here to the southern coasts of Spain and France, the preferred route for young Moroccans seeking illegal entry to the E.U. Aziz Bouchta claimed to have a lead on how one of those boats ferried Tivaz TB into France, but he was being coy and David was letting him get away with it.

  "I gotta tell you I don't like it, pal. Clock's ticking."

  "You know the standard protocol as well as I."

  David's frosty attitude made him even hotter. "Ain't nothin' standard about our situation."

  "They play the game their way. We save time in the long run by getting their cooperation."

  Maybe so, but he wasn't gonna concede. "Bouchta should've coughed up his info in Casa. Think you were wrong to let him drag us here."

  David glared at him like an iceman ready with a pick. "Look, we discovered Omar Messina's identity through Bouchta, but only courtesy of the Governor. Now it is the Dean's turn."

  "Yeah, and meanwhile we're losing time, pal."

&nbs
p; At last Bouchta emerged from one of the buildings and glided across the courtyard, stopping to chat up a bearded professor in saggy gray pants that must've belonged to somebody's brother. Bobby made a point of looking at his watch. David ignored him. So far the trip hadn't been easy . . . or friendly.

  "We will learn something important at this university," Bouchta exclaimed when he finally left the Prof behind and reached them. "They know of the route taken by Tivaz TB."

  "Yeah? Would've been a helluva lot better to get it before Paris."

  Bouchta stuck his hands prayer-like in front of his heart. "Of course, Mr. Keane, but we are friends and do our best for you."

  God he was in a foul mood, and taking it out on Bouchta when it was really David who was bugging the hell out of him.

  "Undoubtedly Moroccans are as shocked by the Paris attack as the rest of the world, and wish to help." David knew just how to stroke Bouchta's ego. "That may be why your informant chose to come forward at this time."

  "Mr. Tiger, you are wise as well as daring." Bouchta swept his arm in a grand gesture toward a low building with cracked concrete walls. "The Dean will be ready for us now."

  About time they got this show on the road, but when they walked into the Dean's office it was empty. He paced over and read the spines on a row of books: Souls of Black Folks, Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, How to Win Friends and Influence People. He recognized them as the customary gift delivered by visiting academics as part of the State Department's so-called cultural exchange program, an effort to win hearts and minds. Nice thought. Too bad the books were still in their wrappers.

  A student carrying a tray of tea and sweets came in, followed by an officious man who had to be the Dean. Introductions were made and refreshments offered. He knew nothing was gonna happen till he accepted their hospitality, so he shoved a pastry in his mouth. Bouchta and David took their time selecting.

  "Mr. Keane has a Ph.D. in history from Stanford, in California," Bouchta announced to the Dean.

  If they didn't get through the preliminaries soon he was gonna explode.

  "I attended a conference in California on the teaching of languages," the Dean boasted. "At Berkeley, not far from your alma mater."

  "Our host is a well known linguist." Bouchta poured four glasses of the sickly sweet peppermint tea Moroccans forced on everybody. "He is famous for putting Amazigh language broadcasts on Moroccan TV."

  "Amazigh." David toasted with his tea glass. "To noble and free men."

  The Dean beamed and drank his tea. So did David and Bouchta. He followed suit and forced it down. Then he spoke up. Somebody had to tackle business. "Appreciate your having us, Dean, and I –"

  "Another pastry?" Bouchta interrupted, holding out the tray.

  David accepted one and nibbled. "Delicious. Almond paste? I believe the last time we had ones made from honey."

  "What a memory," Bouchta exclaimed, and the Dean offered to call for honey pastries.

  David smiled at their host. "Honey pastries are tempting but I have to consider my waistline."

  The Dean and Bouchta laughed like David was freakin' Jay Leno. That's it. He was taking over this meeting.

  But David beat him to the punch. "Your cordiality is only surpassed by your willingness to help us. I understand you have information we can use."

  Finally!

  "Only when the children died in Paris did we think there might be a connection," the Dean began.

  "Perhaps your information may help prevent future attacks," David said reassuringly.

  The Dean nodded. "Let us hope. My cousin's cousin is a fisherman in Al Hoceima. Sometimes, when the fishing is poor, he –"

  "He takes passengers on his boat," Bouchta finished, anxious to take some credit for whatever news was coming out.

  "Usually his passengers are poor boys," the Dean said. "In search of work."

  "Right. It is difficult for young men when there are so few opportunities for employment," David consoled, like he knew what it was like to pull yourself up by the bootstraps. Give me a break.

  "Yes, that is why my cousin's relation believes he is doing good by speaking."

  Two wrongs didn't make a right, but Bobby bit his tongue while David let it play out.

  "Not so long ago, one of these young men brought friends asking to ride in the cousin's boat. These men were not poor."

  "But your cousin took them aboard anyway?" David asked.

  Get to the point, pal.

  "He had no choice," the Dean answered while he studied the scraps of peppermint leaves in the disgusting tea Bobby swilled earlier. "These are not men you dare disappoint."

  "One of the men was handsome and well-dressed," Bouchta added, not to move things along, but to show how well informed he was. "His head was shaved, and there was a scar over his left eye."

  Bingo! David's cheek twitched. Now they were hot on the trail.

  "Your cousin's cousin is brave to come forward like this," David said, but Bobby knew he must be shitting in his pants, too.

  "Braver than brave," the Dean replied, slower than slow. "He has agreed to tell you all he remembers, and then take you on the exact journey he took these men."

  At last, a real lead. But it sucked because it meant more waiting around. Even worse, a boat trip. God he despised boats.

  ***

  David braced against the cockpit of the rickety vessel and permitted himself an instant of satisfaction. Playing the politeness game at the university had been necessary but he'd laid it on a little thick and was lucky it did not backfire. In this part of the world, today's friend was tomorrow's enemy, and the Dean might have shied away from exposing his relative at any moment. But he'd won on two counts, because by the time the Dean revealed his news, Bobby's frustration was in overdrive, his body pumping out adrenaline. And now even the weather cooperated. Prevailing Westerlies stirred whitecaps on the Mediterranean's chilly surface and the choppy ride brought the desired results. Bobby was heaving his guts over the railing.

  If he'd executed his racquets strategy half as well at the club a few days earlier, he'd have won the tournament hands down instead of being tied at one-all.

  When Bobby stood up he looked green and his lips were specked with vomit. Excellent. David went to the rail, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and offered it. "Best be presentable when Anton Brun meets us in France."

  Bobby licked the corners of his lips and wiped his mouth. "Thanks, pal."

  "Am I?"

  "Are you what?"

  "Your pal?"

  Before Bobby answered he had to bend over the railing once more, and his nausea was still apparent as he swiped his mouth with the handkerchief again. "You're my best friend. Why're you asking?"

  "You give me cause to wonder."

  "C'mon, you're just pissed because I talked to James."

  "I am upset you went behind my back."

  "Hey, maybe we can discuss this another time."

  "Now is best." Once they reached France Bobby would recover sufficiently to prevaricate. "If you believed me wrong to check out the London restaurant, or ask for additional resources to interview Varat's classmates –"

  "We don't know Varat was ever a student at Lycée Rue Barthel."

  He knew it in his soul, but that wasn't the point. "Why not tell me to my face?"

  "Because James is my counterpart in your group," Bobby quibbled.

  "Do not hide behind reporting relationships. You skirted the rules in Kurdistan, and afterwards when you came to Scotland to thrash me."

  "You needed that. You were wallowing in self-pity."

  "Nevertheless, and because of that, I believed I could trust you to be honest with me. If you thought I was off the mark, why not tell me? Why go to James?"

  Bobby faced him but still hung on the rail to steady himself. "Because there's more on the line here than the two of us, more than getting even with Varat."

  "Getting even with Varat has not clouded my judgment."

  "Ar
e you sure, pal? I wanna believe that but we ain't got much time and the stakes are too high for you to make this personal."

  "But it is personal for Varat."

  "What's your proof?"

  "None whatsoever. But you know as well as I that Varat is no terrorist. Politics mean naught to him."

  "Then why kill all those kids?"

  "As yet I do not know, but I intend to find out. And when I do, we shall know precisely how to stop him."

  "Are you really that confident?"

  "More confident than I am of our friendship."

  "David –"

  "Enough, Bobby. Let us move on." He reached into his coat pocket and extracted a blister pack. "Dramamine?"

  "Could've used those suckers before we got on the boat."

  No doubt. "There's bottled water in the cockpit if you can swallow."

  "Shit. Is this what it feels like when your best friend lets you twist in the wind?"

  Precisely, and he was satisfied he'd made his point.

  "Now, if you're done torturing me, I've got a bone to pick with you about Lizzie."

  David fumed inside. "My cousin is none of your business."

  "I'm making her my business. She's got no security guard at her place. And I checked with James. He says you vetoed it."

  "She refused, and made it abundantly clear she wouldn't tolerate it."

  "Since when has something like that stopped you?"

  "You're not part of my family and its myriad complications."

  "Yeah, well these are complicated times. And if you're right 'bout this being personal for Varat, what better way for him to stick it to you than messing with Jeremy's sister?"

  Chapter 33

  "We call this the wine lake of Europe." Anton Brun spread his arms in a wide arc, and David studied the vineyards blanketing the Languedoc hillsides. There were dozens of growers in this region who produced inexpensive wine. They employed North African labor to hold down costs, workers who often crossed the Mediterranean as he and Bobby had, without papers.