Running Dark

by Jamie Freveletti

  “Good idea. We have a contact there. Ahmed. Remember him? I’ll let him know to look for her, and I’ll send Roducci to meet her in Nairobi.”

  Giovanni Roducci was a disreputable Italian who ran around Europe pretending to be an entrepreneur distantly related to the Borgias. Roducci could produce fake documents, real weapons, and any number of vehicles on a moment’s notice. He fawned over Stromeyer. Whenever she called, they engaged in a spirited negotiation that usually ended with Roducci pretending bankruptcy and Stromeyer claiming she was robbed. Banner steered clear of these conversations. Roducci wore him out with his breezy gamesmanship.

  “Roducci can get her whatever she might need to analyze the vials. He’s a notorious gossip, so I’ll keep him out of it until I can determine what she may require.” Stromeyer headed toward the glass doors, trench coat in her hand.

  “Aren’t you going to yell at me about sending her?”

  Stromeyer turned back. She shook her head. “Seems to me like she took matters into her own hands. It’s not what I would have done if I were her, but she’s proven she can take care of herself.”

  “I doubt she has a Kenyan visa.”

  Stromeyer halted. She held the door while she stood halfway in, halfway out. Banner could almost see her mind whirring. Working out the details.

  “That’s not an insurmountable problem. I’ll get it arranged.”

  Banner followed her out of the conference room, his thoughts on the task ahead. The idea that a chemical weapon could soon be in the hands of pirates disturbed him, as did the fact that he had no idea of its composition.

  And that didn’t even take into consideration the ricin.

  18

  STARK ESCORTED EMMA THROUGH THE AIRPORT.

  “Come on. We won’t need to go through security,” he told her.

  Emma followed him to a private exit. Stark pushed open a metal door that led directly onto the tarmac. Jets lined up on both sides of them, glowing under the sodium lights. He walked toward a large, sleek number parked fifty feet away and proceeded up the ladder to the main door. The inside of the aircraft was plush but surprisingly compact. Each leather seat was the size of a commercial plane’s first-class seat, but there were only eight of them in two groups of four. Each grouping had a small coffee table in the center, and one had a tray with a laptop already up and running. Two men were in the cockpit, writing on clipboards. The first smiled when he saw Stark.

  “We’re all set. Flight should be a breeze. We’ll be there in time for your meeting. Strap in. We’ll leave in ten minutes.”

  Stark put his bags in an overhead compartment and shut it. He lowered himself into a nearby chair. Emma did the same. True to the pilot’s word, they were in the air within ten minutes in a smooth takeoff.

  Stark spent the first twenty minutes of the flight taking call after call on a hands-free unit. He talked to various Price executives, two organizers of the Comrades race, and to the main office in the States. He would hang up, and the phone would ring again immediately. After he was done with the calls, he turned to Emma.

  “Let’s talk about Cardovin.”

  Emma took a deep breath. She wouldn’t feel guilty about her findings, no matter how devastating they were. “You had some questions?”

  Stark grimaced. “I have so many I don’t know where to start. You said Cardovin does nothing to clear one’s blood of the plaque that can form on arteries, but are there any conditions the drug can treat?”

  Emma thought for a moment. She could see where he was heading, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to make any statements she couldn’t support.

  “Are you thinking of an off-label effect?”

  Stark nodded. “An off-label use would save us. We could still sell it, we wouldn’t need renewed FDA approval, and the drug would be beneficial to someone.”

  Emma ran the clinical test results through her head. She didn’t see how any of them would support off-label use.

  “I don’t think so. Most off-label benefits are noted anecdotally by the physicians who prescribe the drug for its approved use. I’m not aware of any for Cardovin.”

  “But what if there were a disease that it could affect?”

  To Emma it sounded as though Stark were grasping at straws. “Can I speak plainly?”

  He shrugged. “You were exceedingly frank back there in the lab. Why change now?”

  “Any off-label use you could find for Cardovin won’t fill a four-billion-dollar hole in your sales.”

  Stark stared out the window, saying nothing for a while.

  “Price can’t afford to lose billions in sales,” he said at last. “If the stock plummets, we’ll have to contract to conserve cash. Thousands will lose their jobs. Not to mention the loss to the shareholders. Price may never recover from the blow. It’s imperative that we find a use for Cardovin.”

  “Price is constantly in research and development for new drugs. Don’t you have some new products in the pipeline for approval that can pick up the slack?”

  Stark sighed. “We do, actually, but they’re still in the clinical-trial stage. It could be two, maybe three years before the FDA approves the next one. We’ll need operating cash in the interim. Cash that Cardovin would provide.”

  Emma saw his point. While she felt sorry for the loss of jobs, she saw no way to salvage the drug. If it didn’t work, it was unethical to pretend that it did. In fact, Emma wasn’t entirely certain that the prior sale of the drug wasn’t bordering on consumer fraud. Her results were in line with several other previous studies, yet Price’s marketing arm churned out glowing statistics regarding Cardovin’s efficacy. The marketing materials were careful to use terms like “in combination with other drugs” when discussing the results, but it still seemed to Emma like too much hype given the actual reports. She was glad she didn’t have to decide how to withdraw the drug. Price’s lawyers had that unenviable job. She stared out the window, feeling her eyelids becoming heavy. It had been a long, strange day. She stared into the darkness and struggled to stay awake. Stark reached out and pressed a button. The lights in the cabin dimmed.

  “Tell me again why you’re going to Nairobi?” His voice helped revive her. Emma hesitated. Stark caught her pause. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t wish to.”

  “Just on a business matter.”

  “It’s pretty sudden business.”

  “It’s for a company called Darkview. They tend to have sudden business.”

  “Ah, so it’s for Banner.”

  It was a statement. Emma was surprised he even knew the name.

  “How do you know about him?”

  “Wasn’t he the guy that rescued the Colombian hostages? He’s all over the news. Cooley’s committee is trying to bury him for blowing up the pipeline.”

  “That’s him,” Emma said.

  “You trust this man?”

  “With my life.”

  “Is he the only man you’d trust with your life?”

  “In addition to my father, there’s one other. His name is Cameron Sumner.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Stark gave her a searching look. She returned to gazing out the window. The low cabin lights and the hum of the engines calmed her. She stared at a reflective white area on the airplane’s wing. It reminded her of a song about the lines running along the freeway. She heard Stark shift in his seat.

  “You seem worried about him.”

  Emma sighed. “I am, but that’s not what I was thinking about.”

  “What are you thinking?” Stark’s voice came out of the gloom.

  Emma found the question surprising in its intimacy. At first she thought not to answer. But then decided she should. Something about being in the dark, heading toward a shared destination, made her feel less wary of him.

  “I’m thinking about the words to that song. About the white lines on the freeway.”

  “Joni Mitchell.”

  “It is hers, isn�
��t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you thinking?” Emma asked.

  Stark was silent a beat. “I’m thinking that no one has ever said that they’d trust their life to me.”

  They subsided into silence. Emma looked away from Stark. She thought everyone needed to have one person believe in them, depend on them, and, if the chips were down, trust them implicitly. That Stark didn’t have such a person in his life made him seem isolated despite his outward success.

  “Has anyone entrusted his life to you?” Stark said.

  Emma nodded in the darkness. “I’d like to think that Patrick, my late fiancé, would have. And Cameron Sumner did in Colombia.”

  “Late fiancé? Did he die?”

  Emma felt her throat constrict, as it always seemed to when someone asked her about Patrick.

  “Car accident. Over a year ago. He was hit by a drunken driver. I wasn’t with him when he died, but if I had been, I would have done everything in my power to save him.” She shook away the thought. Thinking too much of Patrick usually sent her down a road that she found too hard to step off.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And Cameron Sumner, was he right?” Stark’s voice pulled her out of her melancholy thoughts.

  “Right? What do you mean?”

  “To trust you with his life?”

  Emma nodded. “I think so.”

  She saw Stark turn his head toward her. “Would you do it again?”

  “You mean, would I save his life again?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “This is someone you love, then,” Stark said.

  Emma shook her head. “The man I love is dead.”

  He looked at her. “Maybe no one has ever entrusted their life to me, but thousands have entrusted their jobs, money, and health to me. I don’t want to let them down. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep Price afloat.”

  Emma said nothing. Personally, she didn’t equate saving someone’s job or money to saving that person’s life, but Stark’s loyalty to Price was admirable, if a little extreme. Emma doubted she’d ever fight so hard for a corporation, but to men like Stark perhaps the company was everything.

  They landed in Nairobi on an approach and touchdown that were as smooth as anything Emma had ever experienced. After a few minutes, the pilot emerged, looking tired. Stark conversed with him while his copilot opened the door.

  Emma stuck a hand out. “Thanks for the flight. My first on a private plane.”

  The copilot smiled. “Did you like it?”

  She smiled back at him. “I loved it. The only way to fly.”

  The copilot looked pleased.

  Stark didn’t join in the conversation. He gazed out the jet’s door with a preoccupied expression on his face. Emma turned to see what he was watching, and her heart dropped. Two stoic-looking men in uniform stared back at her, their expressions grim. A third man, not in uniform but in dark jeans, a black sweater, and dark gym shoes, also peered up at them. He had curly black hair that hit just below his collar, a ring in his left ear, and a BlackBerry phone in his hand. He flashed a huge smile at Emma.

  “Signorina Caldridge? It is I. Giovanni Roducci. Here to meet you!” Roducci spoke English with an Italian-laced accent and held his hands out in an expansive gesture.

  Stark moved up behind her. “The two in uniform are from immigration, but who’s the gigolo?”

  “He is Giovanni Roducci. Here to meet me,” Emma said. She gave Stark a warning look. “Please try to be cordial.”

  “Why?”

  “Something tells me I’m going to need his help.”

  “Okay. But a bit of advice: Don’t trust this man with your life.”

  19

  THE CIGARETTE BOAT REMAINED SILENT. SUMNER STRAINED TO see through the darkness. He would have killed for some night-vision goggles. As it was, he tried to empty his mind of any thoughts and focus on his sense of hearing. He directed his eyes toward where he’d last heard the engine and was rewarded by the metallic clang of steel hitting steel. Definitely not a sound heard in nature. He attempted to see movement in the dark, but there was none. He waited. In order to heft the gun, the pirates were going to have to reveal their position with more noise. When they did, he’d shoot in that direction. Block sidled up behind him.

  “Any idea where they are?” Block whispered.

  “Directly in front and a little to the left of me.”

  “Close enough to shoot?”

  “Impossible to say. They could be out of range.”

  Clutch moved to Sumner’s left. “How’d you get that gun on board? It’s illegal.” Clutch spoke in normal tones. Block shushed him.

  “Keep your voice down.” Block sounded irritated. “Why the hell do you care if it’s illegal? That gun just might be the thing that keeps us alive.”

  “I care because I’m in charge of security. It’s my neck if the authorities decide that I was negligent.” Clutch’s voice held a surly note.

  Clutch had been lax. Sumner had simply carried the gun on board in its case affixed with a decal inscribed with the name of a famous fishing-rod manufacturer along with the words “fishing gear.” Neither Clutch nor anyone else had bothered to inspect the luggage. In fact, Sumner was surprised at the lack of security on the ship. It was well stocked with life rafts, vests, flare guns, and the other accoutrements needed should the ship flounder and sink, but other than the LRAD it was completely unprepared for an attack of a hostile nature. Given the waters it cruised, Sumner found this lack of preparedness puzzling.

  “So we broke one rule.” Block’s tone was dismissive.

  “Not one rule—lots of rules. Running dark like this is also against the law.” Now Clutch sounded belligerent. Sumner thought his concern for proper procedure was too little too late, and ridiculous under the circumstances. He could only assume that the man’s ever-present anger made it impossible for him to cooperate with anyone.

  “Me, I’d like to live, thank you very much. The rules be damned,” Block said.

  Sumner heard another unusual clatter somewhere out in the darkness. “Hear that?”

  “I did,” Block said.

  “Forty-five degrees to the left.”

  A whooshing came from that angle. Like the fizzing of a bottle rocket spiraling up. Sumner traced its progress with his ears, not his eyes, although there was a small light trail created by the lit fuse. His heart picked up a faster rhythm.

  “What the hell is that? A grenade?” Block’s voice was strained.

  “Too quiet,” Sumner said. “And it sounds like it’s moving upward, not toward us.” He put his rifle to his shoulder and tensed, waiting for the explosion. The blast came with a beautiful fireworks display. White bits of light shot heavenward, then tumbled down in an umbrella shape, brightening the sky all around. In the resulting glow, Sumner made out the shape of the cigarette boat as well as those of its occupants. There were four. They were just gray silhouettes in the distance, perhaps too far to be hit. Sumner aimed and fired anyway.

  The rifle shot cracked through the night. He heard a yell, and then the air filled with the roar of an engine. The walkie-talkie on Sumner’s belt crackled.

  “Heard that.” It was Wainwright. “I’ve got enough power for half an hour. Use it now?”

  “Go,” Sumner said.

  The ship shuddered with the vibration of the huge turbines coming to life. The electricity flickered back on, bathing the entire deck with light. Clutch cursed from his position to Sumner’s left.

  “We can’t see them, but we might as well have targets on our chests,” he said. Sumner felt completely exposed. He hunched lower behind the railing.

  Block appeared at his right. “See anything?”

  Sumner didn’t bother to respond. Instead he aimed again at the pirates’ last location. He concentrated on listening. They were moving closer. He targeted only blackness but fired anyway. He heard a yel
l, which gave him a great deal of satisfaction. He most likely hadn’t hit anyone, but they knew he was there.

  “You’re keeping them on their toes,” Block said.

  The Kaiser Franz started to move. Below Sumner came the swish of rushing water as the boat cut through it.

  “Cover your ears.” Wainwright’s voice came from the walkie-talkies and echoed on the deck. The LRAD blasted.

  “He get them?” It was Clutch.

  Sumner shook his head. “Have no idea. They’ve got to be moving. Probably zigzagging to avoid us. See anything?”

  “Not a thing,” Clutch said. “And it’s worse with the deck lights on. They’re killing my night vision.” He pulled his transmitter off his belt. “Douse the lights!”

  “We’ve got a spotlight,” Wainwright said. “We’ll use the LRAD on them as long as we can see them.”

  The cruise ship picked up speed. Now Sumner could hear the pirates as they opened the throttle on their boat. The spotlight danced around the water, searching. Sumner still couldn’t see them, but he heard them just out of the searchlight’s range. Whoever was manning the acoustic weapon had heard the pirate boat as well. It bellowed again at the exact moment the floodlight caught them. The decibels bounced off the pirate ship.

  “That was good,” Block said. His words were swallowed by the boom of a grenade being fired.

  Sumner flung himself back against the wall, away from the railing. He threw down the rifle and curled into a ball, protecting his head with his arms and presenting his back to the ocean. The grenade shot over his head, high. He heard it hit something before it exploded. This hit was close. So close that Sumner felt the heat and the pulsing wave of air that came after. Bits of shrapnel peppered the water. Thank God they’re such piss-poor shots, Sumner thought. Had they even a modicum of skill, the deck would have been blown to pieces.

  “That one sheared off the satellite dish. There goes our contact to the outside world,” said Wainwright’s voice through Clutch’s receiver.

  Sumner was bathed in sweat. He wiped his hands on his pants before retrieving his gun, then returned to the railing. The deck lights blinked off, plunging them into darkness once again. Even the searchlight was gone.