by Dorian Paul
Streaks of bacterial colonies were already visible on the surface of the growth medium. She checked the clock – less than half an hour.
Impossible. This couldn't be TB!
She extracted a sample and began the staining process. When she focused the microscope, she observed the characteristics of TB's waxy cell wall. Somewhat irregular, yes, but she was rushing. Why? Because nothing she knew of, in nature or science, was capable of moving fast enough to outpace this demon microbe. She looked at Leila. Her wheezing breaths were shorter and more rapid than just a few minutes ago. What chance did the child stand, even with the aid of all available antibiotics, against such a consumptive foe?
Claire stayed by Leila's side, speaking to her softly, trying to keep her own tears from fogging her helmet, knowing that every labored breath carried Leila toward death. It didn't help to know she'd done everything she could to rescue Leila. She'd failed. All she could do now was control her voice so what the child heard wasn't sobs. And she could give Leila drugs to make her death as comfortable as possible. It wasn't much. Would she ever be able to look at a little girl again without feeling the shame of not saving Leila?
Dr. Black was waiting outside for her after Leila died. Defeated, she acknowledged, "The tuberculosis progressed unbelievably rapidly."
"Now you've seen for yourself. My TB strain is unlike any other. Perhaps you'll reconsider?"
Mute, Claire watched lab assistants, also dressed in Level 4 protection, carefully collapse the containment bubble and remove Leila from the room for incineration. She bowed her head in a silent prayer of respect for the life of Leila. "You deliberately infected her," she accused him once more. When she looked up she saw he was still waiting for her to answer.
"She became ill. What else matters?"
"She was just a child, for God's sake."
"Yes, her immune system had not fully developed."
His scientific recitation of facts made her cringe inside. "I can't believe –"
"Do not trouble yourself. The girl was an orphan. She will not be missed, and what did life hold for her?"
She squeezed her fists. Who was he to prejudge the possibilities available to a young girl without a family? She was the one who'd awakened decades earlier strapped in the back of a wrecked auto, her parents unable to answer the screams of their little girl.
"Take some time to think," Black said. "I can promise you limitless intellectual challenge."
His beady eyes gored her in a cheeky dare, and if she could've spit on him over her facemask she would have.
When Red took her to the decontamination room outside the lab she noticed he kept his distance. She took her time in the cleansing shower, despite having undergone a heavy-duty version of the procedure in Black's lab. No wonder Mr. Brown insisted everyone go through this process before seeing him. One thing for sure, the TB Dr. Black had bioengineered was as rapid and lethal as any of the hemorrhagic viruses like Ebola. How had he done it? Her dream had been to solve the mystery of the TB replication center, a scientific breakthrough that could eradicate the scourge of TB. But Black had found the secret ahead of her, and would use his discovery to kill, not cure.
By the time she emerged from the cold spray her nipples had hardened to sharp points. She ignored Red's leer when he lobbed a towel in her direction. Slowly she lifted her arms and took time to dry her hair even though it kept her in his sights longer. Her decision was made. She'd live in this world of men who hid their identities behind a palette of colors, and discover everything she could about the killer TB strain sheltered at Tivaz. Tuberculosis was the study of academic laboratories, not bioterrorism sleuths. When Black's strain was unleashed, the world would be unprepared to respond unless she found a way to get outside these walls and give them a heads-up. And, she would, damn it.
She smoothed her black silk dress over her hips with steady hands.
"Take me to Mr. Brown."
Chapter 2
David Ruskin entered the corner office he was soon to occupy. The dark red oriental carpet and view over the River Thames would be his shortly, along with the responsibilities. "Has Bobby called with a word of congratulations, then?"
"We shall see." James Warner, his boss and mentor, punched a button to bring the secure speakerphone to life. "Hello, Bobby. David has joined us."
"Hi ya, pal. Glad to catch you in the office. Thought you might be at your club for a game of racquetball."
"It's racquets, Bobby. The game that gave us squash."
"Yep, like cricket gave baseball to America."
Odd for Bobby to start off with small talk. Even more peculiar to be openly agreeable. "I deem you haven't rung up to offer congratulations on my new position."
"Hey, you're not in charge yet. Meantime, I'm counting on you, Tiger, to help me out."
"My field days as Tiger are ended. Tiger's dead and buried, you know it as well as I."
"Hear me out, pal. A U.S. citizen's disappeared in Morocco. Top-flight microbiologist working there with a company gearing up to make vaccines –"
"A job for your embassy staff, not Tiger."
"Listen. She's important to us."
"Naturally. The lovely daughter of some Senator?"
"Yeah, you think so? Actually the lady's got squat for relations. She's significant because of who we think is holding her."
His cousin Jeremy's face materialized and the tight scar tissue that ran the length of David's right thigh burned. "Varat? You know his location?"
"Cool it, David. Here's what I've got. Aziz Bouchta, a local staff worker at our Moroccan embassy, is hearing rumors of a guy with a scar over his eye who's holed up with a bunch of scientists."
"Bloody hell, what's Varat doing in Morocco?"
"Since a microbiologist's missing, my hunch is he's running some kinda bioterror operation in the Atlas Mountains, and that place is more lawless than the tribal parts of Pakistan."
"The mission isn't about killing Varat," James cautioned him with a pointed look.
"Yep, can't go in with guns blazing, pal. Varat's been under the radar since our little dust up with him and the Kurds. Gotta believe this is a big deal."
David's mind raced through every weapon he'd use against Varat. He'd carry a damn arsenal, if he had to.
"Here's what I've got in mind. You go as Tiger, track Varat down and see who he's working for. Find out what they're up to, and then get the hell out of there. I'll have a team pick Varat up, unravel the network, and shut down whatever malarkey is going on."
James trained his eyes on him once more, as if to mark Bobby's right to set the operation's parameters, but David knew once he was in the field it would come down to him and Varat, with only one complication.
"And the woman?" he asked, curious who would answer first.
James fiddled with his pipe in silence. Perhaps he'd already moved on mentally to his next assignment as an ambassador, free of the daily life and death decisions that would become David's purview. For today James's role seemed to be principally to verify David was clear on the boundaries as far as Varat was concerned. How to handle the woman appeared to be Bobby's decision.
"Get her out," Bobby's voice finally rasped over the line. "That's if you can do it without compromising our ability to break this up. If these guys are cookin' up something bad, we're not talking a single life being at risk. We're talking mega folks unless we stop Varat."
Stop Varat. David sniffed the fragrance of revenge, but held back a smile. "Do you have information on how long he's been residing in the mountains?"
"Bouchta thinks three or four months. Maybe more."
Varat would never rough it so long without an immense payday. "When was the doctor taken?"
"Last week."
Then Varat must be having difficulties and his reputation would be on the line. Depending on who was behind this plot, his life as well. "Varat's sponsors must be pushing him to speed the process."
"Yep, I'm thinking the same thing."
"I need a credible cover, Bobby. Perhaps a carrot to dangle in front of him . . . another bioweapon, one he can't pass up."
"Bingo, pal. We'll work up some options."
"Something very deadly." To worm his way back into Varat's presence, he'd need to tempt the devil himself. "And hard to come by."
"I'm on it."
"Send me material on the woman."
He studied Claire Ashe's dossier while his driver conveyed him to Sherborne House. He began with her photograph. She was eye-catching but dared the camera to show that by pulling her hair back severely. Thirty-three years old and widowed, she was unlike the women he'd consorted with since his marriage to Sarah had ended. He preferred pretty young females wanting a fling before settling down with someone else or married women on the prowl for a brief dalliance. Yet this doctor's dark green eyes, which gleamed with an indomitable spirit, drew him in.
He flipped through the remaining pages and discovered the longest entry was Dr. Ashe's publications: an endless litany of incomprehensible scientific words, except for the abbreviation TB, which he recognized. Obviously, she spent much of her life at work and her spare time volunteering for medical aid missions. Just his luck . . . a brainy do-gooder who probably hadn't a clue about the real world. How would she react to the suave malice of someone like Varat?
He rarely embraced the participation of other people in his operations. The best of plans were too often useless once real-time events kicked off, and he needed to be free to make instant decisions without consultation. When he sat in James' chair, he'd keep that foremost in mind and defend his people if they had to break with the script. As I should've done in Kurdistan. If he'd trusted his instincts then, Jeremy would be alive and Bobby wouldn't have had to risk his own life to save him.
The Bentley stopped outside the family townhouse in Portman Square, his acknowledged residence since his parents took up permanent occupancy at Thorn Hall in the country. He'd relocated here reluctantly, aware it signaled the first step in the inevitability of assuming family responsibilities, but today he took the stairs two at a time. Long practice made short work of packing his bag for this singular field assignment where he would reconnect with Varat. He was exhilarated, save for one thing. He picked up the phone.
"Elizabeth, darling, I must ask a favor."
"For you, anything."
"I need you to ring my parents. I can't make it on the weekend." She didn't respond, and he heard sounds of her successful Beauchamp Place shop in the background. "Elizabeth?"
"Don't ask me to do this. Your parents have been anticipating your visit. They've planned everything around you."
"Right, I'm sorry. But there's nothing for it."
"It's your father's birthday. He'll be so disappointed."
"I understand, but it can't be helped."
"David, really, I think you should speak to him."
"I have to be overseas. It's a matter of unfinished business."
"Kurdistan?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss details. But if I could, you wouldn't hesitate to do this for me."
"Then it does have to do with Jeremy."
He knew he could rely on his cousin to read between the lines that his mission had to do with her dead brother. "Thank you, Elizabeth."
"Be safe."
In the midst of double-checking his weapons cache he reflected how it had been easier to risk his life when estrangement, not tentative rapprochement with his family, had been the order of the day. Fifteen years ago he altered family dynamics when he chose his profession over inherited responsibilities. But those dynamics shifted once more when his younger cousin Jeremy followed him into harm's way, but not out. After that he convinced himself he should leave the field for a desk job in London and try to fuse the career he believed in and the role he'd been born to fill. Now he realized he was mistaken. Until he faced Varat and his own fatal errors in Kurdistan, he'd never be ready to move on.
A glance at his watch hurried him along so he wouldn't be late for the first round of racquets. He'd agreed to defend his club in the best two of three for the championship. It would be pure pleasure to slip on his whites and spend an hour in a confined four-walled court, slashing away at a small hard ball in close proximity to his opponent, forging victory out of split-second decisions with no time outs. Exactly what he needed before boarding the flight to Casa . . . and snaring Varat.
***
David had no difficulty identifying Bobby's local embassy staffer. Aziz Bouchta was dressed in a sports coat and open-necked shirt like a local businessman come to the airport to greet an associate. In fact, the man waved a small British flag. Fool. Unless he was in on letting someone else watch this pick-up.
"Your flight was agreeable?" Bouchta inquired.
"Indeed." Perfect, in fact. He'd slept like a baby after defending the club's title with a victory in round one. Pity he hadn't had time for the club celebration.
"Glad to hear it."
Aziz's round face radiated hospitality, but all David wanted was to get on the road.
"Let me take your bag."
He'd rather not advertise his stock of weapons to a stranger. "I can manage."
Aziz moved off through the polyglot crowd, drawing attention by sharing a nod, a grin, or a word with every person, whether their skin was light mocha or deepest ebony, their garments fine Italian suits or coarsely woven robes. "We are overrun," he apologized. "Morocco is not so much a country as it is the door through which Europe and Africa visit each other."
To be sure. It was the current gateway of choice for exporting suicide bombers from the Middle East to Spain, France, and Italy.
Aziz bestowed his wide smile on a ragamuffin who stood beside a battered Fiat and handed the boy a coin.
"You trust the lad?"
"I know the locals, but I'll start the car before you get in."
He wedged his bag between his legs as Aziz drove downtown, making a decent show of running a stair-step surveillance detection route through Casablanca. Nonetheless, David studied the swirl of chaotic traffic through his own side mirror all the way. By the time they reached the ocean-side mosque whose tall turret aimed a green laser east to Mecca, he was reasonably certain they hadn't been followed. "No tail."
"Of course not. I would be shamed to let down a man of your reputation, Mr. Tiger."
Reputation? Bobby and he disagreed over the value of sharing information with locals. He believed that trust meant different things in different cultures. It wasn't wise to take unnecessary risks, especially on this mission, but it was Bobby's operation, strictly speaking.
Aziz offered him a sack full of dates and honey-soaked pastries as they drove past piers that jutted into the sea, crowded with teeming open-air restaurants and dance halls. He pointed out high-walled sanctuaries erected by Saudi princes and told of the lavish parties in the private nightclubs behind those secret walls. But David didn't want a tour guide. "Tell me everything you know about the man with the scar."
"He was seen moving toward the mountains with some of my countrymen who we have been watching. Scientists holding respectable positions, but they are dissatisfied with the pace of change."
This information and what followed offered nothing new, so he pressed no further. It was up to him to walk into the mountains, find these men, and learn what they were up to. But first he had to get to Taroudannt, nearly four hundred kilometers to the south.
He forced himself to close his eyes until the rising sun made the pretense of napping impossible. Distant parapets grew closer until the tired Fiat squeezed through the city gates of Taroudannt.
"Place Talmoklate. Begin by speaking to the men in that café in front of us. They know everything that passes in the Marché Berbère."
"With the exception of where precisely to find Varat."
"If that were known, there would be no need for Tiger." Aziz tooted a warning at children walking in the dusty street, and the boys waved sticks while the girls lowered their shro
uded faces. "It upsets me to see the girls with their heads covered. This country is going backwards. Do you have children?"
"No." And more to the point, he had produced no heir, as Mother reminded him politely on a regular basis.
"I have two daughters. I want them to grow up here. But free. We must do what we can for them. We must act for the future."
Aziz might be acting for the future, but Tiger's motives lay in the past. Fate rarely allowed one to atone for prior mistakes but this time he'd settle the score with Varat. A life for a life. Bring it on, as Bobby would say before a skirmish.
The Fiat sputtered to a halt outside a small hotel. He was relieved to see both Moroccans and Westerners coming and going. Tiger could hide in plain sight.
"I know the Governor here," Aziz whispered like a conspirator. "I will visit him, and keep my eyes and ears open for news of you."
If only he had himself to think about he would have dismissed this fool who broadcast secrets, but Bobby planned on his own team shuttering Varat's operation. "Right. But be discreet."
A short time later Tiger doubled back toward the café, passing adobe dwellings where families spilled out onto low roofs to enjoy the good weather. He entered the freewheeling marketplace, packed with women wearing black gouna'a decorated with colorful yarns and husbands tending donkey carts filled with the week's harvest. The aroma of his favorite round compact yeast bread, delicately light despite its dense appearance, tempted him, but that would have to wait. As he neared the café, men predominated. They loitered, dark, mysterious strangers dressed in layers that might conceal anything from a live lamb to a dagger. He relaxed into their presence.
At last . . . the hunt for Varat commenced in the jungle of the familiar.
Chapter 3
Claire's days in Tivaz were regulated by the earth's orbit around the sun, and yet she felt completely out of synch with the laws of the universe. Every sunrise Red hauled her to the lab, where for the first time in her life she prayed not to solve the scientific problem in front of her. She wouldn't be the one to hand Dr. Black the knowledge he needed to weaponize his TB, but she had to make enough of a show of it to stay alive. At sunset Red would drag her back to her tiny cell, where she'd practice yoga to keep a lid on her anxiety and memorize what she'd discovered that day about Black's TB. She'd pieced together quite a bit about how he'd bioengineered the bacillus, but not enough yet to figure out how to stop him. With or without her she suspected he would get to the finish line, which meant she had to get a sample to scientists on the outside so they could analyze it.