Risking the World

by Dorian Paul

  "Shall we begin with operations," James said. "Mr. Ruskin will update us on significant developments in Israel and Morocco."

  He encouraged Yaniv to brief the team since the Mossad had handled the takedown, and he wanted someone other than himself to emphasize that the facts left no doubt the apprehended Zionists acted outside of Francine's knowledge. He watched Claire's face across the table from him throughout, but she kept her eyes fixed on the Israeli intelligence officer on screen.

  Afterwards David reemphasized, "Dr. Berger's presence at the scene was entirely coincidental. There is no evidence linking her to the plot."

  Claire's pale countenance grew even more inscrutable at this public acknowledgement of Francine's innocence. She wore a fashionable black dress and jacket, probably from Elizabeth, but the color coupled with her demeanor said she was in mourning. God, he longed for forgiveness for whatever role she believed he'd played in Francine's death.

  He directed his next words to her in particular. "From what we can discern, Dr. Berger overheard a conversation about special fire extinguishers which would inflame Israeli parents with grief. Preliminary tests bear out the confiscated canisters contained Tivaz TB." Still she did not respond.

  But his German counterpart did. "They planned to deliver it in the guise of fire extinguishers?" his colleague asked in a thick accent. "Are we to assume this has become the preferred delivery method?"

  When Claire looked down, he answered for her. "Any number of devices can be used, as long as the bioweapon is stored under pressure. Possible delivery methods are limited only by the imagination of our enemy. Dr. Ashe can confirm this to be the case."

  At last she glanced up at the sound of her name but stared straight ahead, beyond him. "Correct. If we learn anything that alters our opinion, we'll communicate it promptly."

  He thought he might catch her eye when she finished, but no. He had little choice but to move on. "While we don't know the precise delivery mechanism for the next release of Tivaz TB, we do know how many canisters we're looking for – thanks to our friends in Morocco."

  Animated congratulations and nods ensued.

  He called on Aziz Bouchta to relay developments in Casablanca. Claire's tip about the man known as the Amazigh Trotskyite had led to his apprehension. He confessed to using nanotechnology to wrap Tivaz TB in a protective molecular shell for Omar Messina. Then with an expansive gesture Bouchta revealed the precise number of canisters the Amazigh Trotskyite prepared with weaponized Tivaz TB.

  "Seven."

  "The math is simple," David summarized. "One canister released in Paris, two taken into custody in Israel. That leaves us with as many as four potential attacks to avert before Wednesday."

  "There may be more than four canisters." Claire's declaration chilled the room.

  Aziz Bouchta protested. "I swear we've found the only scientist involved. He worked alone. He's telling the truth. I can provide the interrogation tapes –"

  "Not necessary," David interjected. No one in attendance wanted to know specifically what the Moroccans did to achieve the scientist's cooperation. "We do not doubt your information, Mr. Bouchta. Dr. Ashe, please elaborate."

  Again without meeting his eyes she said, "We haven't inspected the actual Israeli canisters, but the data suggest they're only storage vessels intended to transport the bioweapon. A scientist or bioengineer with the right know-how could divide the available material into more than one delivery device."

  Yaniv spoke up. "The men we captured allege they planned to use two fire extinguishers, which we have taken possession of."

  "That doesn't prevent another group from dividing the material they're given," Claire pointed out, and he had to agree with her. "And another possibility exists. Omar Messina might do his own dirty work."

  "But he cannot. The man who did the weaponization is under our control," Bouchta objected.

  "You took him into custody after he demonstrated the technique in front of Dr. Messina." Claire turned to the irksome man beside her who referred to David as her 'Government boyfriend.' "Dr. Smartz, would you please explain?" Claire instructed her colleague.

  David had never seen this guy in anything other than a space suit or dress down lab clothes before, and admittedly the fellow appeared rather impressive in jacket and tie when he stood up to enlighten them all. "I never had direct experience with nanotechnology before this week when our Irish colleague showed me the technique." Smartz paused as if for effect. "Now I've established an assembly line to produce a bactericidal nanomolecule designed to kill Tivaz TB directly."

  "Do you believe Omar Messina is capable of weaponizing Tivaz TB on his own?" James asked, determined to get a definitive answer.

  The people on screen and present in the room held their collective breath.

  "If he's capable of figuring out the replication secret of TB and inserting it into a multi-drug resistant strain," Roscoe Smartz said, "Then it's a good bet he's able to weaponize it after a show and tell."

  This was bad news indeed.

  "Which means we can't rule out the possibility." Claire inclined her head toward Smartz, a bit too intimately for David's comfort. "Even if Omar Messina's not quite as good at the bench as our own Dr. Smartz, he's damn good."

  Bobby grunted. "Great. We don't know how much of this crap is out there – and we've got two days to find it."

  "Any progress on the import front?" David asked.

  "Still hunting down those missing cases of wine. The shipper checks out and the dock foreman seems clean, but we might've caught a break with an e-mail intercept. Something about Noir's package arriving. Noir, as in Dr. Black, Messina's code-name. So, could be something there and we're on it."

  "C'est possible this word refers only to Pinot Noir, our excellent French Red wine," Brun said dryly, loath to miss an opportunity to tout the French.

  "Why do you assume the TB has been sent to New York?" Yaniv demanded of Bobby. "Iran's paying for this. Why not divert all of it to Israel? Wipe out as many of us as they can."

  "You're not their only enemy, pal," Bobby shot back. "The hawks are circling in my government, waiting on something, anything, they can hang around Iran's neck that's gonna let them justify military action. If we come up empty on this wine shipment, we're in deep do-do."

  David broke in. "Iran's not the only player. The man they've hired has an ax of his own to grind."

  "Your Mr. Varat?" Brun interjected.

  "Right. I'm fully expecting Varat to release material in the U.K."

  "What's your proof?" Yaniv asked.

  "Messages that demonstrate he can pull something off in my own back yard."

  "Restaurant menus and a knife?" the German scoffed.

  Stated so baldly, he had to admit his contention sounded preposterous.

  "He plays games with you," Yaniv insisted. "While you search the U.K., Varat strikes elsewhere."

  He'd considered that, but every gut instinct told him Varat's personal motivations were central to the plot, even more so after he received the roster of Lycée Rue Barthel students from Brun last night, the one good turn he'd gotten from the Frenchman.

  "You still believe the next attack will be Wednesday because your friend Varat sent you an ancient dagger that carries Woden's nickname?" Yaniv challenged. "The men we captured knew neither the time nor place of the attacks. The release could have been for yesterday, today or weeks from now. Why not keep us guessing?"

  "Point taken," David conceded, although he completely disagreed and would continue his quest on his own.

  James nodded. "More concrete evidence is required before our Prime Minister would authorize closure of schools for Wednesday. I assume the rest of our colleagues agree."

  "Yep, the President's not gonna scare everybody shitless here unless we've got actionable intelligence and even then, not 'till we're down to the wire," Bobby added.

  While he understood their concerns, David wasn't ready to let it drop. "Should we not at least agree on a decision p
oint? When would be the latest for us to take a decision on closing the schools on Wednesday?"

  Don Strong spoke up. "Why stop at the schools? They could release it in a pediatric hospital in a large city. Or a cancer center. Or a big burn hospital. Anyplace where large groups of patients are immunocompromised. If widespread infection is the aim, those places are better targets."

  "Have you learned something new?" the representative from the European Medicines Agency asked. "Is Tivaz TB more contagious than we thought?"

  Claire responded. "Bugs evolve, and while we've known from the beginning Tivaz TB is vulnerable in the atmosphere, we've never fully evaluated its ability to spread person to person."

  Who would want to, other than Varat and Omar Messina?

  "It didn't spread in Paris," Anton Brun reminded everyone.

  "Only because quarantine was promptly and effectively established," Claire continued. "Sacrifices were made. Parents wore protective suits when they held their babies for the last time."

  She bit her lips after those words. He knew how the children's deaths tormented her and wished he were by her side so he might give her support, but it was Don Strong who stepped in when she found it difficult to speak. "Remember, an alert nurse raised the alarm early that morning in Paris. What if those kids were infected late in the day and went home? Think of parents kissing them goodnight and going to work the next morning. Or the nanny who put a child to bed and then went to a crowded bar."

  The room fell silent until the European Medicines Agency person spoke up again. "We've re-issued bulletins reinforcing quarantine procedures. And we're expediting review of your group's bactericidal nanomolecule, the one Dr. Smartz referred to earlier."

  "Thank you," Claire said. "Just to let everyone know, we've requested approval to administer the nanomolecule in combination with the two vaccines used in Paris."

  "Are you're confident this new combination will work?" Brun asked.

  She didn't flinch under Brun's aggressive attitude and David's admiration for her deepened. "Unfortunately, there's no way to know for certain until we use the combination on an infected person."

  "She is correct," the European Medicine Agency's person concurred. "All we have authorized under the circumstances is limited safety testing in healthy volunteers. On that front, so far so good. But we'd like assurances the material to be used on patients is identical to what we've tested."

  "Dr. Smartz here. We're dedicating our London lab to nanomolecule production and have an in-house monitoring procedure. If we encounter variations between work stations, we'll set that material aside and ask for your guidance."

  "Any regulatory questions should be forwarded to Dr. Strong," Claire said. "He'll be in London to obtain necessary approvals. Dr. Smartz will also be in London, in charge of ramping up our lab. He has my complete confidence."

  For the first time since entering the room she looked directly at him. Why? Because she didn't have confidence in him.

  "I'm leaving for Morocco to assume Francine Berger's responsibilities," Claire informed the group. "I'll oversee production of our vaccines in the plant there."

  She still blamed him for Francine. And her obvious aversion to him smarted, even as he heard Bobby and others demanding to know when vaccine distribution would begin.

  James called the meeting to order. "Dr. Ashe and I have discussed this at length. In point of fact, there is not enough material to distribute worldwide in advance of Wednesday, but we are developing contingency plans to treat victims in the event of multiple simultaneous attacks."

  "What do you propose?" the German asked.

  "The U.K. will maintain supersonic military aircraft on standby in England and Morocco, to transfer material to attack locations as they become known." He paused. "We believe we can handle this, but would welcome assistance in fueling, etcetera."

  A chorus of volunteers came forward and a detailed schedule of checkpoints was hammered out before the videoconference ended.

  Now was his chance to speak to Claire before she left, but the moment she stood, her band of men, Don Strong, Roscoe Smartz, and Ian Barker formed a phalanx around her, as though determined to protect her from him. And Roscoe's hand hovered at the small of her back, not exactly touching her, but entirely too cozy. What the bloody hell was that all about?

  He muscled inside her inner circle, courtesy of Ian, the only one who gave him an opening. "I'd like to speak with you, Claire."

  She looked in his direction but at some imaginary point in the distance. "Yes, what is it?"

  "Privately Claire."

  She gave him a blank stare. "I'm sorry. Now isn't the best time. Maybe later."

  "Now is best for me." He hadn't meant to make it sound like an order. Or had he?

  "Give the woman a break," Roscoe raised his voice in reply. "When she's got time to talk to you she will. Not before."

  He wanted to smash the arrogant man's face. Don Strong stepped in front of David as though to block him. "Hey, everybody settle down. We're all stressed. Nobody's had much sleep."

  "Yeah, we were up most of last night," Roscoe said.

  The man's smarmy smile at Claire made his blood boil. "Varat was right," he snarled. "You need somebody like Red to keep you in line."

  Her icy glare prompted instant regret. But already her men had closed ranks and she stormed past him.

  Chapter 42

  The Cairo Museum didn't display Persian swords and armor, but Varat studied the artifacts because they celebrated one of mankind's earliest attempts to defeat death. He disagreed with the passivity of Egyptian methods, but appreciated the concept. Their dead Pharaoh was mummified for posterity, and his well-being in the after-life guaranteed by entombing him with play miniature men and women, who baked his bread, brewed his beer, caught his fish, and sawed his timber. Varat had no need to incorporate himself within this reverent tradition. In a few days he would achieve on his own what the Pharaohs required an entire nation to accomplish. Soon the family name Varat would be known to the world and granted immortality as permanent as the Pharaonic cartouche carved on granite obelisks.

  Yes, it was time to gather his grandfather's weapons, relics more sacred to a Pahlawan warrior than the bread of life. He left the museum for his suite at the Mena House Hotel, reclined on the luxuriously woven Egyptian cotton bedcover, and dialed his Swiss banker.

  "I wish to arrange a transfer for my articles now housed with you for safe-keeping."

  "Yes, sir. We have already acted on your orders."

  The words stabbed at his chest, rending the shroud of his silk shirt.

  "The last shipment left only an hour ago, sir."

  Varat recoiled from this second slash, and the plush comforter threatened to bury him. "And where did you send it?"

  "To the Wallace Collection in London, for curatorial assessment, as you instructed."

  The razor edge of Tiger's blade, wielded through this ignorant bank intermediary, cut again – this time to the quick.

  "We took the liberty of purchasing shipping insurance as a matter of prudence. However, you are under no obligation to compensate us because you did not specifically request –"

  "How did my instructions reach you?" He kicked viciously at the twisted bedcover to set his feet free.

  "A text message through your communication account, sir."

  "You verified my pass code?"

  "Of course. It is standard procedure."

  His chest spasmed and his torso writhed like a warrior in his final throes.

  "Is there a problem, sir?"

  Problem? He commanded his rigid lungs to voluntarily inhale and exhale, for a Pahlawan warrior never showed weakness or exposed pain – even on point of death.

  "Our ciphering system ensures complete privacy of pass codes. No one in our employ knows your code."

  No one but Tiger!

  He contemplated the great Pyramids towering beyond his hotel window. Three thousand years earlier their pinnacles sparked with etern
al gold, but desecrating looters had shorn and left them in tatters . . . even as Tiger denied him the consolation of Grandfather's collection.

  Tiger. He expected the scramasax from Christie's auction block would lead Tiger to the bank account that exposed the wire transfers from Iran, and set in motion the world's vengeance on those who destroyed his patrimony. He knew Tiger might also discover his grandfather's sword within that auction lot. But he never expected him to learn he'd been a student at Lycée Rue Barthel because he'd expunged those records more than a decade ago.

  But then, hadn't he always known Tiger to be a worthy enemy? To remove his grandfather's weapons collection from a Swiss vault using a pass code known only to him, one that combined his grandfather's birth date with his dormitory room number on the day his father and grandfather were executed, demonstrated a rare blend of instinct and ability. Tiger may have upped the ante today, but Varat would have the last laugh when the world convulsed over Tivaz TB.

  Alas, before the sky goddess Nut advanced Monday's blazing sun to the noon zenith, the electronic web brought Varat additional bad news. And by the time his trusted pilot lifted the nose of their chartered plane above the Nile's delta, he received confirmation three of his upcoming attacks had been foiled. Damn David Ruskin. The London failure infuriated him most. He'd warned his contacts an approach similar to the Paris school was risky, but they assured him exterminators were routinely called into ancient buildings in the heart of London because environmentally safe pesticides weren't reliable. No one would suspect the spray to contain Tivaz TB. They were disastrously wrong.

  But the other two thwarted attacks?