by Dorian Paul
"Francine didn't deserve this. She didn't," Claire roared.
"Yes, you're absolutely correct. Her death is a tragedy. I'm so very sorry, Claire. Truly I am."
"Francine," she moaned.
She needed to realize Francine did not die in vain. "The canisters appear to be Tivaz TB."
"Francine," she repeated again, this time barely above a whisper.
And then a sharp crack startled him.
"Claire," he shouted.
"She's dropped the phone and left her office," Ian explained. "I'm following her, sir. On her way to the W.C."
"Give her some time Ian, but stay close by. Dr. Berger is dead."
David explained the circumstances of the takedown to Ian, one professional to another, so Claire's questions might be answered truthfully, should she ask. Then, because it was vital she know if Omar Messina had altered the TB from Tel Aviv to make it more lethal, he informed Ian of the steps he'd taken to expedite lab reports on the confiscated canisters. He was determined Claire appreciate they were still in this together, even if she couldn't see it at the moment. If he were in London he'd set things right between them. But he wasn't and, debriefs and flight schedules being what they were, he'd be lucky to get there by tomorrow morning.
***
She sat on the stool facing the mirror in the Ladies Room and wiped her eyes yet again. Francine was a hero, like Sandra before her. She would honor them by getting the job done, not crying. She tried to summon images of her dead colleagues but they escaped her. Alone, she and laid her head on the counter and wept. As tears soaked the sleeve of her sweater she silently recited the twenty amino acids found in proteins.
Glycine, alanine, valine, leucine, isoleucine, methionine, phenylalanine, tryptophan, proline. Don's in Dublin when I really need him. It isn't fair. But I asked him to go.
Serine, threonine, cysteine, tyrosine, asparagine, glutamine. I could go see Elizabeth. She's still my friend. No, she's in New York City.
Aspartic acid, glutamic acid, lysine, arginine, histidine. I could go home.
She pounded the Formica counter and shrieked out loud, "But Sherborne House isn't my home!"
A half-hour later she left the Ladies Room, somewhat under control. Ian nodded to her when she came out. They didn't speak. She wandered into Sandra's office, sat in her chair, and thought of her first day in this lab. Sandra gave her the brush off then and it irritated her she was given lab space only because Sandra had no other choice. Sandra needed funding for her lung cancer vaccine research and Claire's project was a source of grant money. Who would do Sandra's work now?
Not Francine, Sandra's best theoretical researcher, the one Sandra hoped the Board would give a thumbs up to after she was gone. That first day she'd seen Francine as little more than a hopeless church mouse who sat on the stool by the radiator and seconded everything her peculiar boss said. But after going through Sandra's death together and carrying out a career altering mini-trial in Paris, the bond she shared with Francine was impossible to duplicate.
She couldn't have known how short a time she'd share with these exceptional scientists who turned out to be her biggest allies and true friends. They willingly put their life's work on hold to help her find the keys to Tivaz TB, a decision that resulted in their deaths. Now what? She had to go on. Sandra and Francine would expect her to.
At last she was able to call Don and speak of the unspeakable event in Tel Aviv. Next she assembled her team in the smaller of the two conference rooms. They'd be crowded, but better they should feel the body heat of life than the coldness of death. Don was returning from Bio-Shamrock with a scientist experienced in nanotechnology and the use of dendrimers, but an immense amount of work lay ahead of them, and the outcome remained uncertain. Wednesday loomed closer than ever.
***
The room emptied, but she stayed seated in one of the beat-up synthetic leather conference chairs. Her sweater caught on the frayed armrest. She picked stuffing from the torn covering. God, these sorry chairs should've been tossed out years ago. The lab equipment might be first-rate but the furniture needed serious upgrading. She put her hands palms down on the conference table so she wouldn't scratch out every bit of stuffing on every chair in the room. And there were a lot of chairs.
She knew he still sat at the conference table, but he didn't speak and she didn't look at him. He was waiting. But she didn't have anything to say. No more words of solace or encouragement, no more brilliant ideas on where to go from here, no more stiff upper lip. No more nothing. In the end she was always alone. Why did she waste emotion imagining life could be different? Time she learned to be satisfied with crumbs of temporary connection. It's better than being alone.
"Take me to dinner tonight, Roscoe?"
"Yes," he answered, his voice as subdued as hers.
"My turn to surprise you, huh?"
"My turn to show you I can be whatever you want me to be, Claire."
"A bottle of wine. I think I'd like you to choose a bottle of wine for us."
"I will. Do you want me to choose the restaurant and order for you too?"
"Yes, I'd like that. I think you should make every decision for me tonight Roscoe."
"All of them, Claire?" he asked quietly.
"All, Roscoe."
Chapter 40
Elizabeth adored New York City as much as a kid in a candy shop. Never more so than when Bobby Keane turned up in town, even though she continued unsettled about getting involved with a man in his line of work. As yet she wasn't over Jeremy's death and a relationship with Bobby might prove a sad reminder of her loss. She fretted that the pleasure of sex with such an attractive man, however tempting, would be fleeting. Nonetheless she invited him to lunch, convincing herself that by treating him as thanks for his midtown Manhattan tip she could control the terms of their relationship. The area he'd suggested for a boutique was perfect and she thrilled to find a street level space nestled close to First Avenue in the 50s in a small commercial building flanked by lovely townhouses. A bakery had previously occupied what would become her New York shop and she swore a luscious hint of chocolate clung to the walls.
But not as luscious as Bobby Keane when she eyed him at a nearby French bistro. They ordered Manhattans, and she swirled in the pleasure of a good-looking man whose butterscotch blonde hair, laser blue eyes, and wide smile were electrifying.
She raised her cocktail. "To my new neighborhood."
"You found a storefront?"
"I have indeed. Not far from here. Precisely what I'm after."
He touched his glass to hers. "Very happy for you, Lizzie. And for me. It was destiny, just like our attraction. Wanna go to your hotel now or eat lunch first?" he teased.
Excitement coiled inside her and to be honest, her hotel appealed more. But when his phone buzzed and he excused himself she was relieved to have a moment to mull it over.
"I wanna apologize," he said when he returned. "I can't make this lunch too long."
Tension lines creased his brow and the mood was broken. No, she didn't want to be involved in his world. It would crush her in a heartbeat; still she tried for a light note. "Ah well, you said you were in New York for business. Such is life."
"Maybe for you, honey, but I hoped we wouldn't have to rush too much. Look, I've got a proposition."
She didn't want to hear it, did she? But he stared at her lips and such sexy attention was impossible to disregard.
"I've got lots going on, but listen Lizzie, how 'bout dinner tonight? Where is it you're staying?"
"St. Regis, East 55th."
"Know it. Meet you in the King Cole bar at eight?"
This was a man who wouldn't be denied. Truth to tell, she no longer wished to deny him. Hadn't she counseled Claire to take love wherever she could find it? They finished lunch quickly and she slid her American Express card inside the faux leather bill sleeve. She liked that he had no quarrel accepting her largesse.
And then he was gone . . . leaving behind t
he anticipation of spending a Saturday night in the Big Apple with him.
***
The agent from Homeland Security dropped Bobby off at his government-approved hotel. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time to finish up work things before heading over to the swank area of the St. Regis and seeing Lizzie.
He began his report on the afternoon he'd spent at Port Newark interviewing Santiago Khalil. The man was in charge of unloading the piers, where a pallet of wine was missing. Khalil'd worked the docks for only three years before being promoted to foreman, which was pretty fast to rise in a place as complicated as the Port. You had to ask yourself why put such a young kid in charge, even if he had smarts and zeal? Or maybe just because he had smarts he was the perfect kinda guy. The kid had a helluva grasp of what was going on at the huge piers. And when he showed Khalil the shipping manifest the kid seemed as crazed over the missing wine as you could hope for, and seriously worried about losing his job. You could fake that though. Especially if he was used to being bought off to look the other way by the bottom feeders in the mafia, disgruntled union guys, you name it, who siphoned goods out of the Port Terminal to sell on the black market for an easy buck.
Anyway, Homeland Security was digging under every rock and tree to find the missing wine, and with a little luck they'd succeed with or without the help of Santiago Khalil. Only question was would they be in time to stop Tivaz TB?
He put it all in the write-up to his bosses, including both his hopes and doubts, and hit send. Then he started in on today's e-mails. Had to, otherwise tomorrow was gonna be a killer, especially if tonight turned out like he planned. Lizzie was one hot ticket and he was as ready to get it on with her now as in London. He sort of figured she would've lost interest with all those earls and lords to squire her around at home, but she called him as soon as she got to New York. He patted his pocket, glad he'd stopped at a drug store for protection. He had a feeling he'd need it tonight and got hard thinking about how she kissed him in her apartment – that kiss felt a helluva lot more like 'hello Bobby' than 'goodbye Mr. Keane.'
He'd barely gotten into clearing his inbox when his cell rang. "Keane, what's up?"
"Your mother called," his assistant told him. "Said it's important and you should call her."
He rubbed his eyes and pushed away from his computer. "Anything else?"
"Nothing that isn't in your e-mails."
"Okay. I'm on the first shuttle tomorrow morning." Whatever happened tonight with Lizzie, he had to get back. "Schedule a ride for me to the office in time for the Tivaz TB videoconference."
He tried to refocus on his e-mails, gave up, and paced his postage-stamp room. He was in New York and should call his mother. But the last thing he wanted right now was to listen to more crap about 'poor' Johnny and how he had to help him. He already got beat up for him and put his DEA guy on the case. What more could he do?
He stripped, took a long shower, and tried to work out a new series of kinks in his neck. Shit, Mom and Johnny were the sum total of his family. If he could make time for Lizzie, couldn't he take a minute to call his mother?
"Bobby honey. You gotta help Johnny."
Did he know his mother or what?
"He says they're gonna kill him. I mean really kill him this time."
"When did ya talk to him?"
"Lunch time."
"Where was he?"
"His apartment. I told him, 'Johnny, you get your ass over here, now. They're not gonna kill you in front of your Mama."
"Mom, these guys don't give a shit about anybody's old lady." His DEA pal figured Johnny'd crossed the Russians, and they'd kill their own mother if she owed them. "Look, if he shows up, both of you get outta there. You gotta have a friend somewhere."
"Can't you send one of your men to go get him?"
"No can do, Mom. They're government employees. Don't work for me." He swore under his breath. "Why don't you try callin' Johnny again?"
"He won't answer. You gotta do something."
His laptop beeped, a signal it was going to sleep to save batteries, and a reminder of what he really should be doing.
"Bobby honey, Johnny should 'a been here by now."
If she thinks that 'Bobby honey' stuff works after all these years, she's nuts. No way. But he still let her bitch until his teeth ached from clenching his jaw. Shit. "Lemme see what I can do. I'll get back to you."
This time he had the brains to bribe the cab driver to wait and got out a few blocks early so he could case the neighborhood. Same junkers on the street, same scumbags on the corner but it felt almost too quiet and laid back. Maybe he was being paranoid 'cause he stuck out, dressed in a suit and heading into a cheap dive apartment building. Or maybe it was just that folks around here kept a low profile because being invisible to the cops was a full time occupation in Johnny's neighborhood.
He listened closely at Johnny's door while he took out a handkerchief before testing the knob. Johnny's door wasn't locked this time either. He stared at the door, so chipped he could see every coat of paint slapped on it over the years – red, green, yellow, white, and black. And as he did he remembered a detail from the FISA data mining report that might be a clue to tracing the missing wine shipment. But instead of phoning the analysts, he readied his gun, and in a single fluid motion opened the door in shooting stance, ready for anything.
Or nothing. A sixth sense told him nobody was home, but he didn't let down his guard. Possible Johnny was hiding . . . or one of the Russians. The place wasn't big. He checked out behind the sagging sofa, then in the kitchen where a half-drunk paper cup of cold coffee sat solo on the scratched counter. In the bathroom a giant water bug scuttled across the cracked tile. The fire escape was off the bedroom, and was probably his biggest risk. He jumped the corner and threw open the bedroom closet door to shield himself in case somebody took a shot from the fire escape. Total silence. He stepped into the room.
Johnny's bedroom all right. Complete clutter, but not because somebody'd torn it up. Bobby and Johnny might be identical twins, but the tidy gene somehow got messed up and Bobby got the neat part. When they were kids, they fought over the few clothes they had to share. But when they were teenagers they went their own ways when it came to shoes. Bobby wore sneakers. Johnny fancied big-buck Italian loafers. How he afforded them Bobby didn't want to know, even back then.
He crossed to the far side of the bed and stared down. So, Johnny'd graduated to wingtips. Dark brown. Well, it went with their blonde coloring better than black, he supposed.
Was this what he'd look like dead? No, probably there'd be lots of blood with him, but he could see this was a professional job too. Once the jugular veins were compressed it was maybe a minute to unconsciousness, ten seconds if they closed off the carotid arteries. Well, at least it was quick and he was glad for Johnny's sake.
He sank onto the shag rug and bent closer to his brother. Johnny'd lost weight since the last time he saw him. His swollen face couldn't hide the fact he had the body of a scarecrow. Gently he turned over his brother's arm. Yep. Needle marks.
"Son of a bitch," he shouted. It didn't have to be this way. "Who my gonna butt heads with now? Who my gonna bully? Hate?"
Love?
He closed Johnny's eyes before he shut his own. Johnny was his other half. Hell, they were the same person when you came right down to it. But he needed to think he was different. He laughed out loud. Sure, he took the high road, Johnny the low. And probably both their lives were destined to end in violence. All he could hope was his end had some meaning. Was he bull-shitting himself?
He called the cops first, so somebody could come for Johnny. Then he called his guys in Newark with the data-mining clue he'd thought of earlier. Next he paid a visit to his mother. It was down to the two of them now and he wanted to give her the news in person. She'd be broken-up. Hell, wasn't he?
He did what he could to make his mother feel better, and only told her the details if she insisted. It was close to ten o'clock when
he left her place in Spanish Harlem. He was glad at least she was living with a Hispanic taxi driver who kept a roof over her head and didn't ask too many questions. Her neighborhood was full of life, but he wondered if she would be the next to be six feet under. Or maybe him? He supposed it depended on how he lived the rest of his life, but right now odds were he'd die alone and Mom would live to bury both her kids.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and the foil packet of condoms jabbed him. Lizzie. Their rendezvous. He should've called her.
Was it too late to go to the St. Regis? The worst she could do was tell him to take a hike, and if she didn't maybe they had some possibilities for the future.
"Lizzie, did I wake you?"
"Where are you?"
"Downstairs."
"At the King Cole bar? I waited until nine-thirty."
She didn't exactly recriminate, which was good, but she didn't encourage him either.
"I'm not accustomed to being stood up, Bobby."
"It's not like that."
"Would you care to explain?"
What could he say, my brother's dead and I don't wanna be alone? "Something came up, but I should've called."
"Right. You should have," she said.
"Can I come up anyway? What room are you in?"
"Bobby, not tonight."
"Yep. I know. I screwed up. But I could use some company. To talk a little, Lizzie. Just that."
She didn't answer.
Yeah, that said it all. He'd end up like Johnny. Alone. "Well, my own fault. Should've called."
"Room 1219."
"On my way."
Chapter 41
"Dr. Ashe and her team have arrived in the building," James announced at the scheduled start of the Sunday videoconference. "I judge it best we wait until they join us."
The intelligence officers and health authorities that waited around the world agreed Claire's participation was key, but none looked forward to her appearance more than David. They hadn't spoken since he relayed news of Francine Berger's unfortunate death, and he hoped today she'd give him some signal she accepted it for the accident it was. But her eyes held their own counsel when she marched into the London conference room flanked by Don Strong and Roscoe Smartz. The only glance that came his way was Ian Barker's as he swept the room with professional care and then assumed position behind Claire.
