Lethal Dose

by Jeff Buick

  Yet the timing was all wrong. It was two days since she and Gordon had sat in the Palm Court lounge at the Jefferson Hotel looking at scientific data that proved Triaxcion had been responsible for Billy’s death. Two days-what were the chances? And Andrews had asked her to meet him at the upscale restaurant in the Jefferson. Again, what were the chances? Slim to none. She felt the panic begin to rise again. The clock on her desk read 11:20. Time to go. With shaking hands, she slipped her cell phone into her pocket and locked her office behind her. She felt like a Christian heading out to meet the lion.

  Bruce Andrews watched Jennifer Pearce cross the restaurant with the maitre d’. She looked composed, very businesslike. Her gait was normal, self-assured. She had changed since he saw her this morning, traded in the lab coat for a jacket that matched the pantsuit. She looked nice, he thought, for a dead woman.

  What had ever possessed her to link up with Gordon Buchanan? The man was belly-button lint, a complete nobody from the wilds of Montana. He should have stuck to cutting down trees and left the business of prescription drugs to those who knew what they were doing. Look at the damage he had caused. Kenga Bakcsi had to be removed because Buchanan had dragged her into the Triaxcion mess. And now Jennifer Pearce. Andrews had had a man watching them who followed the pair to the airport. According to his contact, there had been quite a hug at the airport. Pearce and Buchanan, toe to toe, nose to nose, staring into each other’s eyes like two puppy dogs in heat. Well, Gordon Buchanan was about to lose another person close to him.

  “Hello, Jennifer,” he said, rising from his chair as she arrived at the table. “Thanks for coming.”

  “It wasn’t a problem, Bruce. Minor adjustment to my schedule.”

  They ordered drinks and lunch, talked about trivial things for a while, then Andrews steered the conversation to work at the office. He listened intently as she detailed the new direction her group was moving with respect to the new molecule she had discovered. He asked the right questions and she gave the right answers. They ate their main course and Jennifer declined desert. He asked for the check and set his napkin on his plate.

  “That was excellent,” he said. “Did you enjoy your food?”

  “Very much. Thanks for the invite.”

  “It was time we got out together. A little one-on-one time. It’s difficult to make time these days. I think we’re all so busy that the little things get ignored.”

  She smiled. “That’s true.” His statement about little things triggered a sudden thought. “I noticed something at the office the other day. Something that didn’t seem right.”

  “What was that?” he asked, sipping on his coffee.

  “Some of our everyday expenses are being logged in under R amp;D. That would make them eligible for tax credits. I don’t know if Accounting is actually claiming the credits, but if they are there could be some backlash. I know the forensic auditors are watching for stuff like that in the wake of the Enron scandal.”

  He nodded. “We’ve been monitoring that, Jennifer. Some of the accounting practices from years back are still in place, and we’re trying to phase them out. It was common practice to shift some expenses into the R amp;D sector so the company could lever the maximum tax credits legally allowed. The remainder of unusable expense money is shifted back over from R amp;D once the limit is reached. It’s entirely legal, but as you say, in the aftermath of Enron, it’s better to be conservative.”

  He accepted the check from the waiter and slipped a Visa card in the leather folder without looking at the amount. “Veritas is a very important part of my life. Frezin and Marcon were instrumental in getting me to where I am, but they never had a part of my soul. Veritas does. I’ve given my entire being to make the company successful. And that’s not something you give up easily.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Jennifer agreed, wondering where this was going.

  “Do you think it’s important to stand up for what you think is right, Jennifer?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I think so too.” He leaned back in his chair, an easy smile on his face. “Veritas is the crown jewel in my working life. I can’t imagine what my life would be like without it. I go home at night and life is good, but everything is intrinsically linked back to the office. I don’t think I’d be happy, even living with wealth, if I didn’t have Veritas. Do you know what I mean?”

  She shrugged. “Not really. I like my job and I think it’s important, but I’ve already lived through one failed marriage. I don’t need another one.”

  “You’re getting married?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not. I just meant I’m not willing to sacrifice the rest of my life for the good of the company.”

  The smile was gone. “I am,” he said. There was a cold edge to his voice.

  She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get back. I’m due at White Oak in twenty minutes.”

  He pocketed the receipt for lunch and stood up. “You’ve been spending a bit of time at White Oak lately,” he said.

  “Half my research team is there,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “I like to stay in touch with them.”

  “Right. Half your research team.”

  She gave him a questioning look. “You structured it that way, Bruce.”

  “Yes, I did. You’re right. Sorry. Not thinking.”

  They walked out of the hotel into the September sunshine. A few popcorn clouds floated peacefully above the city, and the air was still. The valet brought her car around, and she tipped him generously.“Thanks again for lunch,” she said, then pulled away, leaving Andrews waiting for his vehicle. She reached into her bag and turned on her cell phone. She set it on the seat beside her as she navigated through the afternoon traffic toward the distant lab. Ten minutes into the drive, her phone rang. She checked the caller ID and heaved a sigh. It was Gordon.

  “Hi,” she said cheerfully. “How are things in Montana?”

  “Okay. I was in with my lawyer when you called. She was in Vancouver all day Monday. Today was the first chance I had to see her.” Gordon paused for a second. “I’ve been trying you every ten minutes for the last hour. Everything okay?”

  “I think so. I’m not sure. I just had lunch with Bruce Andrews. He kind of creeped me out.” “Why? What did he say?”

  “Just stuff about Veritas being everything to him, that he couldn’t imagine living without it. It was weird.”

  “I didn’t know you had a lunch date set with him.”

  “I didn’t. He showed up this morning and basically told me we were going to lunch.”

  “The timing is a little coincidental, don’t you think? We get the goods on Triaxcion and the next thing you know he’s asking you out to lunch. I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I. By the way, did you get the disk to your lawyer?”

  “Yes. She’s making copies and keeping one in the corporate safe. And she’s bringing in some science expert to untangle the mess of numbers on the disk. It’s Greek to both her and me.”

  “The evidence is there, Gordon. I’m positive of that.”

  “Okay,” he said. “You going to be all right?”

  “Honestly, Gordon, I don’t know. This whole lunch thing has me pretty upset. I’m scared.” She pulled into the parking lot at White Oak, found a spot, and killed the engine.

  “I can head down to Richmond if you want.”

  “What about the mill? You should be there to run it.”

  He laughed. “I’ve got a great staff here, Jennifer. They can run this place without me. I’m highly expendable.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d feel better if you were here. Maybe just for a few days, until this feeling I have disappears.”

  “What feeling?” he asked.

  “That I’m next on the list. That I’m going to die,” she said quietly.

  “I’m on my way to Richmond,” he said. “Be at home tonight. I’ll be there as quickly as possible.”

  She gripped the phone tightly. “Th
anks, Gordon.”

  42

  The four agency representatives were joined by Annette Jordan, a biologist from the Centers for Disease Control out of Atlanta, Georgia. An information dossier on the situation had been forwarded to Atlanta, and she was up to speed on the viral threat when she arrived for the Tuesday-afternoon meeting in Rothery’s office at DHS. Rothery made the introductions and turned first to Jim Allenby.

  “How’s the situation in Boston?” he asked.

  “Ugly,” the FBI man said. “We moved one hundred and eighty-five agents into the Boston area within twelve hours of our last meeting. They’ve been swamped by the sheer number of people the infected victims were in contact with. They’ve implemented a limited quarantine, where the low-risk segment of the population is under self-monitored house arrest. The vast majority of people have been extremely cooperative. They’re asking a lot of questions and we’re being vague, but so far the lid is still on the can of worms.”

  “How many confirmed cases?” Rothery asked.

  “Nine,” Allenby responded. “And it looks like we’ve got the threat contained. This outbreak, at least.”

  “Nine people are either dead or going to die,” Rothery said disgustedly. “Craig, any word since Saturday on the fate of the Mossad team in Cairo?”

  “We got confirmation about 0900 this morning. There were six team members, all killed in action.”

  “Christ, the White House is going to be in a frenzy over that one,” Rothery said. “What kind of spin can you put on Israeli troops attacking an Egyptian target at the request of the American CIA? It doesn’t get much uglier.” He turned to Tony Warner. “How are things going with the pharmaceutical companies?”

  The NSA man glanced down at a sheet in front of him. “To date, we’ve got sixteen medium-to-large research companies onside. I’ve personally spoken with a number of their CEOs, and they all told me it’ll take some time for them to assemble teams with the expertise and tools to work on our problem.”

  “How much time?” Rothery asked.

  “Three to four days. I spoke to most of them yesterday or today, so they should be up to speed by Friday or Saturday. Miss Jordan is going to put together a package for each company.”

  “What’s in the package, Annette?” Rothery asked.

  “Everything that the autopsy specialists in Fort Detrick have on the virus will be included, as will the case files from Austin, San Diego, Miami, and Boston. The physical properties of the virus, its molecular structure, and everything we have on its external membrane will be in there as well. Given that amount of information, these private-sector scientists should be able to hit the ground with their feet moving.”

  “And you’ll be working with us from now on to keep those lines of communication open?”

  “Yes. I’m yours until this is over.”

  “Excellent,” Rothery said. He rose from his chair and slowly paced the room. “Now comes the tough part. As you all know, I’ve called a press conference for this afternoon at three o’clock.” He checked his watch. “That’s in twenty minutes. I will speak first, but I want each of you directly behind me, on camera and ready to handle the questions that will inevitably come. This crisis cannot be contained any longer. The public must be told what is happening. Now, that said, we’re going to temper things a bit. The word ‘Ebola’ is strictly off-limits. If a journalist uses the word, look at them like they’ve got two heads. Don’t get sucked into a game of semantics with the press, because you’ll lose. Even if you hold your own here, they’ll twist things when they report them. Don’t let them steer you toward any word that even resembles ‘Ebola’or ‘the plague.’

  “Their first reaction will be to assume the worst, and they’ll be looking at the sensationalistic aspect of the story. The first barrage of questions will be barbed and ugly. Sidestep these and the second round will be easier as they collect their thoughts and get back to asking more down-to-earth questions.

  “Jim, you take the point on Boston. Craig, you’ll answer anything that may come up about the recent raids, although I don’t think anyone will have made that connection yet. Tony, you and Annette handle technical questions about the virus. Keep it to things like replication and transcription, words the general public won’t be familiar with. Any questions?”

  His team shook their heads.

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  Rothery led the way to the meeting room on the main floor. It had been arranged to handle eighty members of the press, with a slightly raised platform at one end of the room. As the team entered, they all noticed that every chair was taken and many journalists and camera operators were lined up down the sides of the room. A hush fell over the room as the group moved into position and J. D. Rothery took the microphone.

  “Good afternoon, I’m J. D. Rothery, Under Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security. I head up the Science and Technology division of DHS. I have with me today a team of experts from the FBI, CIA, NSA, and the Centers for Disease Control who will be working with my agency in curtailing this situation. I’d like to introduce the team now.”

  The cameras were rolling and the microphones on as Rothery and his handpicked crew faced a terrified nation.

  43

  Creepy.

  That was the only word Jennifer could think of to describe her lunch with Bruce Andrews. The whole thing had been really creepy. She tried to wipe the memory from her mental chalkboard, but it refused to leave. She gave her RX-8 a bit more gas, pushing the sports car well over the posted limit. Maybe a little adrenaline rush would cure her. She veered off Monument Avenue, leaving the parade of statues and the wide street behind her. She cut onto Strawberry Street and slowed a bit, the road now narrower and bordered by trendy brick town houses.

  What had Bruce Andrews wanted? Certainly, she had given him nothing of any value-he couldn’t possibly know about her and Gordon from anything she had said over the meal. But maybe he already knew what she and Gordon were up to before he had insisted she accompany him to the Jefferson. Why that hotel? No, something was up and she didn’t feel safe. She was glad Gordon was flying in tonight.

  She turned off Strawberry onto Main Street, going with the flow of the traffic. The streetlamps were just coming on and the first diners of the evening were beginning to fill the myriad of restaurants lining the revitalized strip. It was getting busy for a Tuesday. She liked this part of Richmond-hell, she liked Richmond. The only thing she didn’t like was Bruce Andrews. Then something occurred to her that had not crossed her mind at lunch.

  She had spent an hour across the table from a murderer.

  A very real shiver shot up her spine and hit her brain stem. She shuddered from the impact. If what she and Gordon suspected was true, that the top brass at Veritas were killing people to keep their secrets intact, then that statement was an absolute truth. Her hands were shaking as she steered the Mazda off Main onto Plum Street. She found a parking spot almost in front of her unit and switched off the ignition.

  God, she was a mess.

  When she was a child, she had been miserable, but she had never feared for her life. Never. Not until now. She exited the car, locked it, and glanced up and down the street before slipping the key in the lock and opening her front door. She closed the door behind her and locked it.

  Safe.

  She let out a long, slow breath and turned to drop her purse on the chair next to the door. Something moved, fast, toward her. A figure. A man. His image registered for a split second, then he was on her, spinning her around and clamping his hand over her mouth. She sucked in air, tried to scream, but the hand was like a vise. And there was something else. Something she had smelled a thousand times before. But it wasn’t a smell that should be in her house. What was it? She tried to kick and hit her assailant, but she had no power in her arms and legs. Everything was going black. What was that smell? She felt herself slipping away, then she knew.

  Chloroform.

  The room went black.<
br />
  Why are the stars so clear?

  That was the first thought Jennifer Pearce had when she woke. Her second thought was Why am I in my car? I was at home. What happened? How did I get here? She tried to move, but her hands were fastened behind her back. Her feet were bound together as well. Her head started to clear from the chloroform and she began to piece the events back together. Entering her house, the man with his hand over her mouth, the familiar smell of chloroform. Then it hit her: She had been abducted and was now sitting in her car with her hands and feet bound. She looked about and saw some movement off to the side.

  It was a man, white with a chalky complexion. He had brown hair, just over his ears, and as he came close she could see that his eyes were light blue, almost translucent. He looked surprised to see her staring at him.

  “So you’re awake,” Evan Ziegler said. His voice was soft, nonthreatening.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. “Why are we here and why am I tied up?”

  He moved close to her and stared straight into her eyes. “Please don’t take this personally. I have nothing against you as a person. It’s a matter of survival, that’s all.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, her senses returning to her. She now saw that she was in the woods, surrounded by mountains and her car perched on the edge of a drop-off. And she was sitting behind the steering wheel.

  “My son’s survival,” he said. He was moving his hands about, but she couldn’t see what he was doing. Then the odor of chloroform hit her. He was getting ready to drug her again.