by Dorian Paul
"You thinking what I am, pal?"
He certainly was. Claire's team in London theorized the nanomolecules recovered from Paris were most likely brought into the country in a pressurized canister, rather than assembled on site in France. It would be just like Varat, the epicure, to slip a canister of weaponized Tivaz TB inside a case of wine and ship it anywhere in the world.
"Most of the wine is exported from Marseille," Brun informed them.
Varat's plan was both ingenious and simple. Innocuous looking cases of wine were trucked down the coast to the port city, where they were stacked in huge steel containers and hoisted into the cargo holds of waiting ships. Hundreds of cases of wine passed through the docks every day, and E.U. and U.S. customs officials would see nothing amiss. But some of those cases would likely include a canister or more of Tivaz TB that someone somewhere would be waiting for.
Bobby grimaced. "Great. How do we find out which cases had the Tivaz TB? Like looking for a needle in a haystack. Take a miracle to crack this."
"A miracle? Non. Hard work," Brun corrected. "And not only your data searches and prized high tech scans. For this, old-fashioned police work is required . . . to knock on doors and speak to everyone. In Paris and here in the Languedoc."
"Yeah, but it's not gonna be easy." Bobby tapped his watch. "Or quick."
"We do whatever it takes," David emphasized to Bobby and Brun. "We are all aware of the time factor."
"Don't look at me, pal. Just saying we don't know how many canisters Varat brought to France in this boat."
Brun shrugged in Gallic fashion, as if there were no situation the French could not handle. He didn't share Brun's confidence, but hoped for once the man was correct. "We seek until we find one whose hands are dirty," Brun said. "And then do what we must to find out what he knows."
Bobby eyed Brun hastily before he looked away.
Like many in the intelligence community, he and Bobby were privy to rumors regarding French use of water-boarding to break the back of the Algerian resistance. Neither was the least surprised by Brun's bravado, but given the international fracas over U.S. procedures at Guantanamo, David was more than a little pleased that Burn refrained from detailing interrogation methods, and Bobby seemed positively relieved to be kept in the dark.
However they did it, he hoped the French uncovered precisely how many canisters were in play. Earlier the Dean's cousin related that Varat – who else could it be – carried an aluminum briefcase with him. The other three men had a single medium-sized duffel bag between them, which could possibly hold as many as a dozen containers.
"In our favor is the complexity of the weaponization process. They cannot mass-produce Tivaz TB rapidly. That should limit the number of canisters," he told Bobby and Brun.
"Yeah, but one thing we do know is they got more than enough to do serious damage."
***
Most scientists organized their research papers by publication date or author, but when Claire accessed Sandra's lung cancer directory she found the articles grouped under intriguing titles that got at specific concepts. 'Starve the Little Buggers' contained studies designed to show what happened if you restricted blood flow to lung tumors. 'Pick the Lock' detailed work on monoclonal antibodies designed specifically for the patient's own tumor. And then there was 'Rip Out Its Guts' whose lead article Sandra had highlighted in yellow. It was an animal study entitled, "The Use of Vitamin Vectors to Deliver Cis-Platinum Within Tumor Cells."
Eureka! What had been half-remembered now came clear: as Sandra lay dying she'd told Claire and Francine, "You can't play games with this bug, girls. Go inside and rip out its guts." Too excited to wait till the article printed out, she started to read the study online and before she was halfway through knew this provided the clue she needed.
She stared at the backs of her hands poised above the keyboard. A human hand was composed of millions of cells working in harmony unless something went awry. When that happened, like with cancer, the body needed help to destroy the deviant cells. Cytotoxic drugs like cis-platinum could kill cancer cells, but they killed healthy cells too. The challenge was to deliver cis-platinum directly into cancer cells without hurting healthy cells. These researchers did it by attaching the cancer drug to vitamins. The cancer cells sucked up the vitamins to fuel their out-of-control reproduction, and in the process cis-platinum entered the cells. Once inside, cis-platinum ripped out the guts of the cancer cells without damaging the normal cells.
Could she adapt this approach to directly target Tivaz TB?
She'd yet to learn what precise genetic modifications Omar Messina made to create Tivaz TB. But she was reasonably confident she'd isolated the protein kinase he used as his messenger molecule to switch it into permanent reproduction mode. What if she used nanotechnology to link a bactericidal cell-killing drug with that specific protein kinase? Would Tivaz TB recognize and welcome the protein kinase through the TB cell wall while at the same time allowing entry of a bactericidal drug that would rip out its guts?
Why not?
Her heart beat so fast she had to take a deep breath. If she were right, a bactericidal nanomolecule might be just the thing to kill Tivaz TB. How sweet it would be to take the nanotechnology principles Omar Messina used to weaponize Tivaz TB and use them in turn to eradicate his bug. Nanotechnology. She wished she knew more about the techniques that would consume her waking hours for the foreseeable future. And since none of her current team, including Roscoe, was a nanotechnology specialist, she had to add expertise in that area.
***
Brun, Bobby, and David were still debating options for how to proceed when David's phone buzzed, the display revealing Claire's lab number. He turned his back and walked down the pier to seek anonymity among rough men tending small boats and nets after a day's fishing.
"Darling," he greeted her.
"David, sorry to interrupt you."
The thrill of hearing her voice summoned memories of Thanksgiving night and their extended lovemaking. "I've longed to hear from you."
"I feel so foolish."
"You are anything but foolish, darling."
"I should've told you sooner."
"No, I should have told you sooner." Endless speculation about when and how to declare his love evaporated now that she was ready to hear his declaration. The time was now. "Claire, after our night together –"
"David, listen. I just remembered something that might be significant."
And it obviously wasn't about 'them.' "What is it?"
"I've been studying nanotechnology, and realized I met somebody in Morocco who was into this sort of thing."
"Where? At the vaccine plant or Tivaz?"
"The plant. I went to check on an assay and the technician introduced me to a friend of his who'd been trained in nanotechnology."
He perched on a wooden piling, cradled the phone on his shoulder and keyed his handheld computer to access the list of vaccine plant employees Bouchta had provided earlier. "Start with the technician. His name?"
"Sounded something like Chew-ba or Jew-ba. I don't know his friend's name."
He scrolled down the list and there it was. "I have it. Juba. Quality control technician?"
"Yes."
"His friend, the nanotechnologist. Is there anything you recall about him?"
"Umm. He wore a braided cap, indoors, and everybody laughed at his nickname . . . the Amazing Trotskyite."
"Amazing? Are you sure?"
"I know it's weird. Never made sense to me either."
"Claire, might they have been saying Amazigh? As in, the Amazigh Trotskyite?"
She hesitated for a moment, and he could imagine her taming an escaped strand of her lovely hair behind her ear. "Maybe. I'm not sure. Why?"
"The Berbers of North Africa prefer to be called by their traditional name, Amazigh. And Omar Messina is Amazigh."
"Oh my God. I'm so, so sorry. I wish I remembered sooner."
"Apologies not necessary. You were ri
ght to phone the moment you recalled the exchange."
"David, good luck with your work. And . . ."
Beyond all reason, he hoped she'd return to their relationship. "And what, darling?"
"Be careful."
Well, it was better than nothing . . . a kind of declaration. And it would have to do for now since Claire's news brought a quick end to their quandary over next steps. Brun would stay in the Languedoc looking for leads on the men who came here by boat with Tivaz TB, Bouchta would search for Juba and his Amazigh friend in Morocco, and Bobby was flying back to the States to obtain FISA approval for a search of voice and text messages for clues to suspicious wine shipments. As for him, he'd return to London to coordinate the global search for Varat and assess development of the Tivaz TB antidote project by Claire and her group.
He keenly looked forward to seeing her. It was time to make an open declaration and tell her how much she meant to him, even if he had to do it in the midst of a science lab. But ten minutes after landing at Heathrow the next shoe dropped, and Jim pursued the sirens down Kings Road. As the Bentley carried him away from Claire, he rang her lab to make certain outer and inner perimeters had been established.
"I want the lab in complete lock down," he instructed Ian Barker. "No one is to enter or depart until I give leave."
"Sir, we need to deliver the vaccines –"
"We cannot hazard it at the moment. They may plan an ambush of the scientists en route to the site. Everyone stays in place until I verify the security situation in Chelsea, especially Dr. Ashe."
As they drew closer to the nursery school, the scene reminded him of drawings of the Bedlam madhouse he'd seen in history books. A panicked populace fled in one direction, desperate to put as much distance between themselves and Tivaz TB as possible, whilst at the same time frantic parents and the media rushed in the opposite direction. His heart called out if he'd had children inside he'd breach every barrier to hold them in his arms one last time, but his mind understood the need for order. No risks could be taken with quarantine or protocol. Zero tolerance.
He had to fight his way on foot to the command and control center, inching through throngs of official personnel until he had access to the lead MI5 man, who told him a medical team was in place. Since none of the children were showing symptoms, they were being kept within the building until the area could be cleared and the hospital prepared for every contingency.
"Have any of your people gone in to have a look around?"
"We are awaiting clearance from the medical staff."
The attack was on British soil, which meant a case could be made it was the remit of MI5 and not MI6. To avoid stepping on toes he phrased his request with circumspection, only to have his counterpart agree with alacrity. Of course they would grant access to a colleague with direct experience of the Paris investigation. And as David suited up, he had to admit he'd grown too familiar with the procedure, so much so he felt strangely normal making his way in a space suit inside another play school. Alas, approaching the teacher felt anything but routine.
"My name's David Ruskin, Mrs. Rafferty. You're doing a fine job with the children."
The middle-aged woman had a halo of red, curly hair. Like Claire, freckles spanned the bridge of her nose, just many more than Claire had. Her kind, no nonsense approach with the youngsters maintained calm while doctors in Hazmat uniforms examined them.
"Children are inquisitive by nature but they have short attention spans, Mr. Ruskin. I trust we can leave the building soon."
"Right. As soon as practicable." Poor woman had no idea what was coming next. Or did she, and was simply maintaining a brave front. In either case, God bless her. "Now, when did you first realize there was a problem?"
"The loud booms."
"Loud booms, ma'am?"
"Shots rang out," she explained.
"Boom, boom, boom," a cute Indian child of about four, with gorgeous copper skin and a mop of dark hair, shouted.
"You heard the shots too, lad? Show me where they came from."
The boy pointed to the floor, then the wall, then the ceiling, finally toward the door. Regrettably, not very much help.
"Mrs. Rafferty, from where do you think the shots arose?"
"I don't rightly know. The children were screaming and we could scarcely see for the fog."
"Fog?"
"I felt like I was smothering in a cloud, a mist really. That's when I rang the authorities."
"Right. Well done. If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Rafferty."
He called and asked for a volunteer from the engineers to suit up and join him. Together they began a building inspection from the bottom up. In the basement they spied a river of water. He'd never been explicitly instructed the suits were waterproof, so he instructed the engineer to wait while he waded in on his own, but the engineer followed directly behind him.
***
One by one Claire's team gravitated to the small TV in the lab's kitchen area where the chaos outside World's End Play School filled the screen. Each of them knew their time would be better spent in the lab than watching the unfolding drama, especially since they were no closer to saving these children than those in Paris. But their need to be together in this crisis kept them captive to the screen, even knowing they had nothing new to offer beyond the same two marginally successful vaccines used in Paris.
The final person to join their group was Ian Barker, his chalk-white face grim and hands jammed inside his pockets.
Claire asked him to step into her office so she could hear the news in private.
"How many kids?"
Distracted, he didn't answer. He must be listening to someone through his ear bud.
"What's happening Ian?"
"Very little to report."
"I can take it. We did this in Paris together, remember." She felt the need to know the enormity of the crisis even if she didn't have a remedy. "How many children have been exposed?"
Ian's big hands trembled when he took them from his pockets. For Ian to crumple under pressure it must be really bad. "How many kids? Please tell me."
"Dr. Ashe, sorry." His voice cracked. "No one knows for certain."
Impossible. They know but aren't saying. "Tell me."
"I’d rather not."
Why was he holding back? "Has something happened to David?"
Chapter 34
"Not Mr. Ruskin," he stammered. "My little boy. He attends that play school."
"Ian, Ian." She took his cold shaking hands in hers, pulled him toward an empty chair, and spoke as calmly as she could. "Some children survive. You know that. You were in Paris with me."
He said aloud what she couldn't bear to speak. "But most of them died, Dr. Ashe. Especially the young ones. My boy's not yet two years old." In a whisper he added, "My wife, she's in the States at her sister's wedding."
"Let's go to the school now." He'd supported her in Paris, now she'd do the same for him. "Let's go, Ian. You and I."
"No," he stated bleakly without looking at her. "The lab is in lock down. Mr. Ruskin says you're not to come until he sends for you."
"We're going Ian."
"I can't take you."
"Then I'll go by myself." She grabbed her coat from its hook on the back of the door. "I must do what I can for –"
"Oliver."
"For Oliver." She threw her coat over her shoulders. "Isn't your job to be my shadow?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then come along. I'm going to see Oliver." Ian's eyes filled with thanks.
***
They arrived to the news that pipes in the building's old heating system, last updated after WWII, had burst. A steam explosion, not a terror attack, was the cause of today's incident. In the middle of the jubilation a miniature version of Claire's shadow leapt into his father's open arms.
"Oliver, say hello to my friend, Dr. Ashe. Papa works with her. She's a special lady."
And you're a lucky little boy, luckier than you know. She was thinking
less of how Oliver and his playmates had been spared Tivaz TB and more of how Ian joyfully hoisted his son onto his shoulders. Oliver grabbed for her hair, and when Ian tried to stop him she turned her head so the child could tug her ponytail. "Go ahead and yank it, honey."
His tiny hands pulled her into the father and son reunion, but she could only enter so far into their world. Ian hugged and held his child with profound intimacy, as did the other parents. And here she stood, part of and yet apart from them. She was neither some child's parent nor some parent's child. But she understood this was the meaning of family, loving someone so intensely you'd risk everything for their sake. Would she ever be blessed with such an opportunity?
A man called to Ian and he carried Oliver over to chat with his friend. She should stay with her bodyguard and not get him in trouble, but in the swirl of celebratory greetings she caught sight of David. His back was to her as he comforted a stylish woman and her little girl, so she approached slowly, waiting for them to finish. Not slowly enough as it turned out because when she got closer she became a reluctant witness to an exchange that immobilized her.
"Dearest, come home with me now. Bernard's in China. The children will be in bed early tonight and we'll have the whole of the evening to ourselves." The woman tilted her body toward David. "The whole night, if you wish," she said provocatively.
Blood drained from Claire's head to her thumping and aching heart.
David's reaction to the woman was hidden from her view, but she could see him pat the child's hair while the little girl pulled at his leg and he answered the woman with, "I'm enormously busy, Meg."
"But I've not seen you for too long," the woman declared with a moue. "I miss you, dearest."
She wanted to puke.
"Perhaps later Meg."
This couldn't get any worse. Wrong!
He kissed Meg on the forehead. "I'll ring you."
Wanting above all else not to be seen by him, she beat a fast retreat to Ian, interrupting his talk with his friend. "I must get back to the lab."
While Ian and Oliver chanted a nursery rhyme all the way to the car, she managed to put one foot in front of the other, and then held Oliver on her lap in the front seat. Minutes earlier she would've relished the chance to play make-believe with Ian's little boy. Now she was exhausted, tired of everyone and everything. "I don't think I'm good for much more today Ian."